After the unfortunate events during the shooting of the 1984 pepsi commercial Michael befriends an unlikely girl in the hospital. And there starts the beginning of their very tumultuous journey.
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January 28, 1984
"We go through this every weekend Zaria," mom rolled her eyes at me as I slowly pulled on the ugly all-white tennis shoes. "This was the agreement. Either this or you can go across the street to Mrs. Patterson's and help her for six hours out of the week."
Mrs. Patterson was an elderly, and newly widowed, black woman who lived down the street from us. And because I had gotten into a little trouble at school last semester my mom believed the best way to punish me was to either force me to volunteer at the hospital or help Mrs. Patterson out. Luckily she'd done me the courtesy of giving me a choice.
"I've been doing this for a month now. I've been more than punished." I retorted, standing up from my bed and walked toward my bedroom door where she stood in her navy blue scrubs-arms folded.
"Now I just think you're getting a kick out of it mother," I added on pitifully, folding my arms too as I walked passed her, hearing her laugh.
The ride to the hospital was long considering Los Angeles' evening traffic and since I was forced to leave the walkman that my dad bought for my eighteenth birthday, along with the new Isley Brother's cassette tape, my only company was my mother.
"Did you decide what you wanted to do after you graduate?" She glanced at me and sighed. I guess my folded arms and mug-like expression hit a nerve. "Zaria no one told you to disrespect the teacher and principle at your school just because you thought you could. Actions come with consequences sometimes good but in your case bad."
"The teacher was racist," I rolled my eyes, keeping them forward. "I said what everyone else was too afraid to say."
"Yes that my be true but..." she glanced at me one more time. "But some things just don't need to be said."
And so we left it at that. That and the fact that going up against my mother was a losing battle and though I could go toe-to-toe with anyone it was not about to be her. I'd like to see my graduation day, not the gates of Heaven.
The hospital, just like yesterday, was a complete mess and havoc. Being that Michael Jackson himself had been brought in earlier in the day to be treated for burns he'd acquired during a Pepsi commercial shooting gone wrong. Getting through, without being slammed or harassed by officers who seemingly wanted you to verify your identity by showing them your original birth certificate, took time and patience that I lacked.
Paparazzi with flashing cameras, screaming girls, women, and men made it hard to make it from the front of the parking lot to the sliding doors of the hospitals front entrance. My mother held onto my arm tightly so I didn't get lost in the crowd that seemed to swallow us whole the closer we got to the front.
