Between Madison and Palmetto Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Changes

  In the year and a half since he had died, Margaret thought of her father less and less. Before, he had been like his real self hovering over her, making her remember him every single day; now he was just a small shadow that followed her. All of a sudden she would look to the side or behind her and catch a glimpse of him. When this happened, her throat swelled up. She would feel the tears before they came to the surface. But she was crying for him less and less these days. Ms. Dell had said that was a good sign. Margaret disagreed. It was just a sign that there were other things in her life to cry about....

  “What works best here is the slice-of-life portrait of Margaret and Maizon’s friendship: close, sometimes uneasy or prickly, but ultimately affirming.”

  —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  PUFFIN NOVELS BY JACQUELINE WOODSON

  Between Madison and Palmetto

  If You Come Softly

  Last Summer with Maizon

  Maizon at Blue Hill

  Miracle’s Boys

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers,

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in the United States of America by Delacorte Press, 1993

  Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002

  Copyright © Jacqueline Woodson, 1993 All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Woodson, Jacqueline.

  Between Madison & Palmetto / Jacqueline Woodson.—1st G. P. Putnam’s Sons ed.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: Maizon at Blue Hill.

  Summary: When Margaret’s best friend Maizon returns from boarding school and

  joins her in the eighth grade, they try to resume their friendship while dealing with

  personal problems and watching their Brooklyn neighborhood undergo changes.

  [1. Friendship—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction.

  3. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.]

  I. Title: Between Madison and Palmetto. II. Title.

  PZ7.W868 Be 2002 [Fic]—dc20 2001041741

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17512-5

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my family

  1

  Rain came the day after Christmas—hard, cold drops that lasted into the night, tapering to a drizzle by next morning—only to start up a crazy torrent again toward the end of the day.

  By New Year’s Eve, the rain had turned to snow. It started out melting the moment it hit the ground, then little by little began to stick, first in patches, then building into heavy white puffs of hills up and down Madison Street.

  Margaret stared out of Ms. Dell’s window. Behind her, the New Year’s party was in full blast. She must have suffered through a hundred Happy New Year kisses. Now it was a little after midnight.

  “May old acquaintance be forgot!” Maizon sang at the top of her lungs, coming up behind Margaret and handing her a glass of sparkling cider. Maizon raised her own glass into the air.

  “And never brought to Rome,” Margaret chimed in. They clinked glasses, then gulped the cider and giggled.

  They had dressed alike for the party. Margaret pulled at the collar of the black crushed-velvet dress and picked some lint from the black tights she and Maizon had bought to go with the dresses.

  “I want to go upstairs and put on something more comfortable,” Margaret said. She had lived five floors up from Ms. Dell for a long time now, but still it was hard to get used to the idea of climbing all those stairs and traipsing back down again for the sake of an outfit.

  “No way, José,” Maizon said. “Then I’ll have to go home and change.” She lived down the street from Margaret in one of the most beautiful brownstones on the block. “I’m not about to go all the way home. Not with the party going strong.”

  Before the party, Margaret’s baby broher, Li‘l Jay, had cried when he saw Maizon’s and Margaret’s outfits. “This!” he insisted, yanking his black sweatsuit from the dresser drawer. Margaret’s mother had scowled at the outfit but gave Li’l Jay his way.

  “Somebody die?” Ms. Dell teased as she walked past the trio with a plate of tiny sandwiches. Dressed in a black skirt and jacket with a string of pearls around her neck, she looked younger than fifty.

  “What’s your prediction, Ms. Dell?” Maizon asked, moving in front of her.

  “Prediction for what?” Ms. Dell said too innocently, raising her eyebrows. Ms. Dell was clairvoyant. Although both Margaret and Maizon had coveted her gift of sight, they had discovered that Ms. Dell had passed her gift on to Li‘l Jay. Each time the phone rang, Li’l Jay would shout out the name of the person on the other end before anyone answered it. He could tell who was walking up the block without looking out the window. Li‘l Jay knew what Margaret was doing even when they were in different parts of the house. It was starting to drive her a little crazy.

  “The future,” Maizon said. “What’s going to happen this year? Is everybody going to get rich?”

  “We already are rich. Rich in family and friends.” Ms. Dell took a sandwich from the tray and stuffed it into Maizon’s mouth. Margaret giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “I predict this year will have three hundred and sixtyfive days in it.” Ms. Dell laughed, pushing Maizon out of the way.

  “Some things never change,” Maizon said, after Ms. Dell had gone. She eyed Li‘l Jay. “What a waste. A perfectly good gift of clairvoyance and he gets it.”

  Li‘l Jay laughed and hugged Maizon’s leg.

  “This kid barely talks. What good is being clairvoyant if you can’t communicate?”

  “He talks enough,” Margaret said. “He’s discovered the art of tattling on me in five words or less.”

  “Not me.” Li‘l Jay giggled.

  “Yes you, li‘l brother.”

  “Happy Year!!” Li‘l Jay yelled.

  Margaret’s mother walked in with Hattie, Ms. Dell’s daughter.

  “Hi, Mama,” Margaret yelled, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Hi, Mrs. Tory,” Maizon said. She nodded to Hattie, who winked at both of them.

  Last summer Hattie had decided to go back to school to study nursing. Now, at twenty-one, she was already working at a hospital three days a week as part of her training. Margaret couldn’t wait until the day when she walked into a doctor’s office and it was Hattie who pressed the tongue depressor down her throat. Hattie with her soft warm hands and sad brown eyes. A long time ago, when Hattie was a lot younger, her baby died at birth. Margaret f
igured this was the reason Hattie was back in school now, learning how to save other people’s lives.

  “We’re finally going to have original art in the house,” Hattie said.

  Mrs. Tory hammered a nail into the wall above the kitchen table. “I think this is a nice spot.”

  “Perfect,” Hattie said.

  “Perfect for what?” Maizon asked, moving closer to the table.

  Mrs. Tory took a picture from brown wrapping. It was a small painting, about the size of a notebook.

  “That’s your painting, Mama,” Margaret said, moving closer to get a better look. The painting was what Mama had called an abstract. There were lots of oranges and reds and blues moving over the canvas in a way that made Margaret think of a rainbow melting into the night. When she looked closer, she could read the writing at the corner. Rainbow Melting, it said in thin black letters. Beside the title Mrs. Tory had signed her name: Linda Vicky Tory.

  “You named it what I told you it reminded me of,” Margaret whispered. Mrs. Tory smiled and nodded. She had braided her hair and woven the braids into a crown around her head. The style made her look younger, more lively. She looks so beautiful tonight, Margaret thought, reaching out and hugging her. “Happy New Year, Mama.”

  Behind them, Margaret could hear Maizon humming “Auld Lang Syne” off-key, the way they both sang and hummed.

  “Hug me,” Li‘l Jay demanded. Mama reached down and joined him in the circle.

  “Real art,” Hattie was saying. “Ump. Ump. Ump.”

  “This is getting corny,” Maizon said. “I’m going to find my grandma.”

  2

  Maizon found Grandma sitting on the couch talking to Bo. What could they have to talkabout? Maizon thought. Bo had been at the same elementary school with her and Margaret. Then, in sixth grade, Maizon had gone off to Blue Hill, a boarding school where she had gotten a scholarship. She only stayed a few months, but while she was gone, Bo and Margaret hung out together a lot. Maizon knew Margaret had a crush the size of the hole in the ozone layer on Bo, but when Maizon asked her about it, Margaret made believe she couldn’t care less. Now she and Margaret were both in the seventh grade at Pace Academy, a private school. Since Bo still lived in the neighborhood, they’d ended up hanging with him more than they ever had before.

  “Yo, Bo,” Maizon said, taking a seat beside her grandmother on the couch.

  “Hey, Maiz.” Bo smiled. “Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year,” Maizon said. She could definitely understand what Margaret saw in Bo. There was a time when even she had thought he was cute. He had smooth dark skin and the high cheekbones that made girls act silly whenever he smiled. But she had grown out of the giggly phase. When she and Bo talked now, it was about serious stuff like the Knicks’ coach or Magic Johnson’s HIV diagnosis or the changes in the neighborhood. She didn’t get butterflies anymore like she had once a long time ago. It was as if she had grown used to Bo now and could see him as he was—a possible friend, an equal. Somebody who had some smart things to say and who liked a good slam-dunk every now and then. Once, she and Bo had even gone one-on-one on the basketball court. Bo creamed her. But afterward he spent a good hour showing her how to do lay-ups and hook shots. While they were playing, a crowd of girls had started milling around the court. Maizon knew it wasn’t because they were interested in basketball—they were interested in Bo. One girl even stopped Maizon on her way out of the park. “How do you get him to pay attention to you like that?” the girl had asked. “He’s so cute.” Maizon looked at the girl for a moment. She was about Maizon’s age but she was wearing lipstick and eyeliner and had about eight holes pierced into one ear. Then Maizon shrugged. “I don’t do anything special. I’m just—just myself.” The girl looked puzzled. Maizon felt a little sorry for her.

  Now Bo pulled his chair closer to the couch and, excusing himself, leaned over Grandma to speak to Maizon. The music was loud. Behind them, people were dancing. Every now and then someone blew into a noisemaker and shouted, “Happy New Year!”

  “I was just telling your grandma about Baldwin Prep.”

  Grandma smiled, rubbing Maizon’s leg. “It sounds like a good school.”

  Maizon nodded. She and Margaret had walked twelve blocks out of their way more than once to pass Baldwin Prep—the all-black, all-boy school Bo was attending now. Baldwin Prep was a school for kids who hadn’t done well academically in the regular school system. SELF-ESTEEM, SELF-AWARENESS, SELF-LOVE was engraved in block letters on the front of the school building. It was the first all-black boys’ school in the city.

  “I can’t believe there could be this many fine brothers in one place,” Maizon had said as she and Margaret walked slowly past the high fence enclosing the school-yard. It had been a day when Pace Academy students were dismissed early because of parent-teacher conferences. Margaret and Maizon had bolted off the school bus and made it to Baldwin Prep just as lunch was ending. “Bummer,” Maizon said, as she and Margaret watched the backs of the dozens of boys heading back into the red-brick building. “We missed them.”

  “We squashed Stuyvesant seventy-eight to thirty-six right before Christmas.” Bo smiled now, looking off as though he were remembering the game. “Felt a little sorry for them,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody should lose that badly.”

  Grandma smiled, but Maizon threw her head back and laughed. She could almost picture Baldwin Prep, looking like the Harlem Globetrotters—the basketball team so good, they’re not even allowed to play professionally—running circles around Stuyvesant.

  Grandma leaned over to kiss Maizon, then stood up slowly. “Think I’m going to head home, Maizon. Are you spending the night at Margaret’s?”

  “Can I?”

  Grandma nodded. “If it’s okay with Mrs. Tory. I’ll check with her on my way out.”

  “Be careful on the ice, Grandma.”

  “Good night, Bo. Nice talking to you.”

  “You, too, Mrs. Singh.”

  Maizon scooted over to Grandma’s place on the couch.

  “I have a question, Maiz ...” Bo began.

  “Shoot.”

  “If your grandma is your mom’s mother, how come you two have the same last name?”

  “After my mama died and my dad left, Grandma officially adopted me. I was a baby.”

  Bo shrugged. “Makes sense to me. Another question.”

  “Get them answered while you can.”

  “What’s it like to grow up without a pops? I mean, I think about it because I know a lot of kids who don’t have a dad. But I can’t picture what it would be like to not have my dad in the picture. There’d be an empty chair in the kitchen. My parents’ bedroom would always seem half empty. And forget about my life. It would just seem like I was floating from one place to another. I mean, my dad is always there for me. We shoot hoops together, take walks, see movies, talk about girls ...” Bo shook his head. “I don’t even like to think about what it would be like without him.”

  Maizon thought for a moment. “I don’t have any of that stuff to compare it to. He was never in the picture. You can’t miss something that was never there, right?”

  “What was never there?” Margaret asked, walking up and taking a place beside Maizon on the couch. They linked arms.

  “My father,” Maizon said, and saw how Margaret’s face seemed to drop, a microslice of an inch that only a close friend would notice. It had been a year and a half since Margaret’s father died of a heart attack. Maizon realized how the emptiness Bo talked about seemed to encircle Margaret’s life, even though Margaret tried to hide it. There was a sadness about her that had never been there before.

  They were all silent for an awkward moment.

  Impulsively, Maizon leaned over and kissed Margaret on the cheek. She wanted to be Margaret’s closest friend in the world. She wanted Margaret to belong only to her. Something kept gnawing at her, though, telling her this might not happen. Still, she didn’t stop hoping.

  “So w
hat’s up at Pace?” Bo asked, breaking the silence.

  “Lotsa lotsa things. I wrote a play, so of course Margaret is directing.”

  “And Caroline is starring,” Margaret added.

  Bo raised an eyebrow. “That white girl from Palmetto Street?”

  They nodded.

  Bo rolled his eyes.

  “What do you have against her?” Maizon asked.

  Bo raised both hands and shrugged. “Same thing I have against all of them.”

  “That’s racist, Bo—” Margaret began.

  “Gimme a break, Margaret. You mean to tell me you don’t see what’s happening to this neighborhood?”

  Margaret leaned back against the couch. “Yeah, I see. New buildings going up. The street cleaner coming around more. What’s wrong with that? We need the streets cleaned.”

  “Ah Margaret, c‘mon. It’s because of white people”—Bo looked over at Maizon—“like your friend Caroline.”

  “Well, what has she personally done to you?” Maizon asked.

  “Man!” Bo leaned forward, as though he could make them understand by moving closer. “I’m almost six feet tall.”

  Maizon raised her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  “I’m black.”

  Margaret smiled. “No kidding?”

  “I’m a man.”

  “A teenager,” Maizon corrected. “You’re thirteen.”

  Bo shook his head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you get me on a dark street with your Caroline or your Caroline’s mom, and if they don’t run like Pete to cross the street, my name’s not Bo Douglas.”

  Margaret and Maizon were silent.

  “If it wasn’t for Baldwin Prep teaching me that it’s okay to walk through this world a black male,” Bo continued, “I’d probably be feeling kind of low.”

  “We don’t get taught that stuff and we feel okay,” Margaret said.

  “Just okay?” Bo smirked. “Who wants to feel okay? I want to feel great about who I am.”