P.S. Be Eleven by Rita Williams-Garcia

gold pants.
    Before you knew it, Sammy Davis Jr. had joined heron the stage and the two joked around with each other. We couldn’t hear the jokes, but even if we could, I knew the two performers were not the surprise we waited for. I liked Diana Ross and the Supremes. I liked Sammy Davis Jr. in his sharp black suits, tap-dancing and singing all cool with his hair slick and shiny. If it were the afternoon on The Mike Douglas Show , my sisters and I would have been glued to the TV screen, shouting, “Black infinity!” because black folks were on TV for more than a minute. But it was late into the night and I had pulled my sisters out of bed on a spy mission that wasn’t worth a whipping. I had put my trust in Lucy when I should have known better. After all, Lucy wasn’t my best, best friend. Frieda Banks was.
    I turned the sound up just a little and we moved closer to the screen. We could hear Diana Ross telling Sammy Davis Jr. something about five Jacksons and the lead singer, whose name was Michael. That was the last sane and clear thought I had before I saw at least a hundred bright lightbulbs and five boys onstage singing that new Sly and the Family Stone song. Our television screen didn’t seem big enough for all those Jacksons. Afros bopping, arms swinging, and feet stepping and spinning in sync. And they wore wide bell-bottoms like crazy! The voices in the back were smooth and together. And the little boy singer let out his lungs like James Brown andJackie Wilson rolled into one.
    Our mouths opened to scream, but we were on a spy mission. Vonetta and I covered our mouths with our hands. Fern stuffed the bottom of her nightie in her mouth. And we shook and silently screamed.
    Then the Jackson boys had gone from singing the Sly and the Family Stone song to singing a slower song. A love song about remembering.
    The camera kept showing the youngest boy, but he wasn’t the one I watched. I felt myself tremble every time they showed the tallest Jackson brother. And I swore—and I didn’t swear—if Big Ma was whipping my legs with her lightning strap, I wouldn’t have felt a lick. I could only feel my heart beating and my eyes tearing every time they showed him on the screen. He had to be the oldest. And tall. So tall.
    Every time the youngest one sang, “Can you remember?” Fern whispered, “Surely do!” We didn’t bother to shush her.
    The camera kept putting Michael up on the screen and that made Fern happy. Vonetta too. But I was happy to get a glimpse of the oldest one and wished he sang the love song. As tall as he was, he danced smooth. Better than all of his little brothers put together.
    Then a commercial came on and we all squeezed one another and bit our hands to keep from screaming. Wehad to sit through the other performers, but finally it was time for the five brothers to return, and Diana Ross introduced them: The Jackson Five.
    The youngest one started things off, telling us they had an album coming out, and then the piano rolled hard and the guitars twanged electric and loud and that little boy was begging his girlfriend to come back while his brothers “ooh-hoo-hooed” and Vonetta, Fern, and I screamed and danced with the Jackson Five.
    Then Big Ma woke up.
    â€œGo to bed! Y’all better get in your beds. Now.”
    We stopped dancing but we couldn’t stop watching. We were frozen by fear of the strap and frozen by the Jackson Five and the most electric song ever played, sung, or danced to. We didn’t know what to do.
    â€œWhere’s my strap?” Big Ma said. “Delphine, get me my strap!”
    I managed to say, “Can we see the rest, Big Ma? Can we see it?”
    â€œPlease, Big Ma.”
    â€œWe gotta, gotta see it!”
    â€œDo you know what time it is?” Big Ma asked, searching for the clock. “It’s nighttime. There’s nothing on TV for children this time of