What Happened Was
Here is a fact: at sixteen, I watched my father take our pictures off the walls and clothes from their drawers as he packed up my brother and sister and took them away from our home in Jamaica. He took them away from Kingston, from our mother’s rosebushes and hibiscus, and put them on a plane headed to some place called Texas. Here is another fact: I did not go with them.
How did that make me feel? Well.
The school counselor clears his throat. Sunlight slants in through the latticed stone wall. We’re sitting in my upper sixth homeroom, just him and me amid fifteen desks in neat rows—save two, that he’s turned, facing off. I am sitting with my back to the chalkboard as he takes a sip of water. Overhead, the fan swirls slowly, slowly.
Do you know why you’re here? he says. He won’t look at me.
I am here because at 2pm, in home economics, I was instructed to pour the pudding batter into the cast iron pan, then gently place the pan on top of the warming stove. At 2:03pm, I heaved the cast iron above my head and brought it down on my classmate’s back.
No.
I am here because twenty-three years ago my mother went to Hampton, so I did too.
Hampton School for Girls. The island’s premier institution for the best and brightest. My mother was bright, brighter than the stars shining luminous over things that happen in the dark. I thought by coming here, I could learn her shine.
Tamika, the counselor says, yuh hearin’ me? Outside, I hear the slap-slap of rubber against concrete—a netball approaching center court.
Tell me the facts of the story, he says.
A whistle sounds. Outside our window, the girls in P.E. scream. I wipe batter off my arm and onto my tongue.
We were in the bathroom, in the left stall with the door locked and our backpacks by the toilet. My practice bib poked out of the front zipper. I’m the captain of our netball team. She, the lead of the choir. We looked at each other as our blue tunics heaved with our slow breaths.
The counselor snaps his fingers. He’s getting annoyed. I am to be evaluated. I am to tell the truth.
Here is a truth: of all my siblings, I am the one who looks most like my mother. I have her broad nose and small eyes, high cheeks and flared ears. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he chose me. My sister looks more like him.
What’s that about your mother?
Hmm?
What did you say? the counselor says.
A whistle sounds in two quick pip-pips. My sister thinks I stayed behind because of our mother. Shrugging, I’ve let her.
We were in the bathroom, the choir leader and me, but we were meant to be at lunch. I stared at her neck, wanting to rest my cheek on the soft curve of her throat and feel the vibrations of her voice ringing clean. I tugged her ear and poked her stomach. She squeezed my arm and pinched my knee. We couldn’t hear our classmates as they lunched on the lawn. We couldn’t hear the soft squeak of new Clarks approaching on the tile bathroom floor.
That’s not what happened. I am a good girl, a smart girl. I am my mother’s daughter. My mother was captain of her sixth form netball team. My mother was the most exquisite being I’ve ever known.
The counselor’s standing over me now. He’s looking at my forehead but not quite at me. I bet he thinks I’m damned, damned, damned.
When I was twelve, I woke up one night to see my father standing over me. It was late, no whoosh of churning traffic, just the owls hooting and tree frogs chirping through the hot expanse of night. He was looking, hands poised. I glanced at the other bed and saw my sister asleep. She was so young, mouth open as she snored, so annoying and still her own.
We weren’t in the bathroom. We were on the lawn. Our whole class, we were skipping and holding hands and singing “Ring Around the Rosie” like we were back in grade two.
We were in home economics. The girl with the Clarks, she pointed at me and said ———.
The class gasped as she stood up then said ———. The choir leader watched but said nothing. Her eyes went wide but her lovely throat made no sound.
Earlier, in the bathroom, she gasped as I took her hand and shoved her fingers into my mouth.
The counselor rubs the bridge of his nose. Uncapping his water bottle, he takes another sip. Please, he says.
Please, I said, running my tongue over her thumb. She froze a moment, her knuckles against my teeth. Sucking harder, I begged her again. She dug her nails into the moist pink of my gums. Just before the bang on our stall’s door, she licked my ear, then said, Call me Daddy.
No. This is a good school, a Christian school. The counselor taps his pen. Chile, he says, yuh know how much trouble yuh in? Jus’ help yuhself an’ tell mi what really happen.
What happened: when I was twelve, a monster came into our room. It had three arms and six heads and a belly the size of a bathtub. It writhed up to me and my sister, its shadow darker than death. It slithered in the space between our beds, mouths open and hands hungry, so I squeaked—a quick yip, short and crisp so my sister would not stir. I watched my sister as it ate. I fastened my gaze on the rumple of sheets inside her small fist until I was unfeeling, turned airy and took flight, cloaking my sister with all of me.
After some time, I looked at the monster. Are you done? I said. And it took my sister away.
Christina Cooke (@christina.j.cooke), named a “Writer to Watch” by CBC Books and Shondaland, is the author of Broughtupsy (Catapult)—named a best book of 2024 by Elle and Debutiful as well as recommended reading by The Atlantic, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan UK, LitHub, Electric Literature, Vogue, and more. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Caribbean Writer, Prairie Schooner, Epiphany, Apogee, Electric Literature, and elsewhere. A MacDowell fellow and Journey Prize winner, she holds an MA from the University of New Brunswick, an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and has been named the inaugural Poets & Writers Fellow at Vermont Studio Center. Christina was born in Jamaica and is now a Canadian citizen who lives and writes in New York City.