P.S. Be Eleven by Rita Williams-Garcia Page B

shouted at us: THE JACKSON FIVE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN . And underneath those words: DECEMBER . The inside of the Wildcat became a cage of screaming and seat-jumping until we finally heard Pa shouting, “All right! All right back there!” Miss Marva Hendrix laughed and laughed.
    I screamed for Jackie, whose real name was Sigmund, and I screamed for Tito, who had the best eyebrows and always looked cool and tough. Vonetta screamed for Jermaine, who was kind of good looking, and she screamed for Marlon, whom she claimed was the best dancer. The only Jackson Fern screamed for was Michael. Every chance we got, we’d stand in the record department of Korvettes and study every inch of their album cover.
    â€œPapa, can we go to Madison Square Garden in December?” I asked.
    â€œTo see the Jackson Five?”
    â€œWe want to see the Jackson Five.”
    We sealed our wishes together singing, “Pleeeease.”
    â€œThe Jackson who?” Pa asked. “Sounds like a Mississippi chain gang.”
    Vonetta asked, “What’s a chain gang?”
    â€œThey make chains,” Fern answered, sounding every bit like me.
    The two got to arguing about chain gangs, which I think Pa intended all along. I wouldn’t let go of our wishes. If we learned anything from our summer with the Black Panthers, we learned to be clear about what we wanted, and to be willing to do what was necessary to get it.
    â€œThey are not a prison chain gang.” I threw in the prison part to answer Vonetta’s question and for solidarity. I needed my sisters to be united with me and to stay focused. “The Jackson Five is the best singing group in the world.”
    â€œIn the universe,” Vonetta added.
    â€œAnd the Milky Way.”
    â€œJackson Five?” Pa said. “Never heard of them. Can’t sing better than Sam Cooke. Or the Temptations.”
    â€œAnd what about Smokey Robinson and the Miracles?” Miss Hendrix said. “Oh. And Marvin Gaye.”
    I said, “The Jackson Five are better than all of those singers and groups put together.”
    â€œTheir Afros are bigger,” Vonetta said.
    â€œAnd they have Michael,” Fern said. “He’s better than best.”
    â€œHe is not,” I said.
    â€œJermaine is the best,” Vonetta said.
    â€œJackie is the best looking,” I said, “and then Tito.”
    â€œNot hardly,” Vonetta said. “Jermaine is. And Marlon is the best dancer. Like I am.”
    And before we knew it, our solidarity had fallen apart.For the rest of the ride to Central Park, we did nothing but argue about the Jackson Five until Fern began to sing “Can You Remember” and Vonetta and I joined her. Pa and Miss Hendrix talked amongst themselves.
    We bought ginger ale and a bucket of fried chicken and we headed over to Central Park with a blanket. Big Ma wouldn’t have seen the point in an outing like this. Especially buying store-fried chicken. But there we were, spending a lazy Saturday afternoon with our father, eating chicken I didn’t have to cut, clean, and fry. I could put up with his lady friend tagging along.
    â€œPapa,” I said as calmly as I could, “we want to see the Jackson Five.”
    â€œAt Madison Square Garden.”
    â€œIn December.”
    All together we sang, “Pleeease.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Pa said. “Madison Square Garden. New York City. Mobs of screaming teenagers. I don’t know.”
    This was a time that called for Uncle Darnell. He’d know who the Jackson Five were, and he was grown enough to take us to the Garden. Instead of Uncle Darnell coming to our rescue, Miss Hendrix said, “What if I took them?”
    Vonetta and Fern began to shriek and Pa covered his ears. As much as I wanted to see Jackie and Tito in person, I refused to shriek. I didn’t want anything from Pa’s lady friend.
    â€œHow much could the tickets cost,