Black Boy Joy

by Black Boy Joy (retail) (epub)

  “Oh,” Will says. “Uh, cool, bro.”

  Wait, did Mia just roll her eyes? Was that eye roll aimed at me? Or was it aimed at me but about Will, like Can you believe this guy is making me give him my number, gross.

  “I heard there was a dance in a couple of weeks,” Will says. “You going?”

  “Of course we’re going,” I jump in, knowing he’s not asking me.

  Mia nods. “Probably.”

  “Cool,” Will says.

  “Cool,” Mia says.

  The three of us just stand there a moment, saying nothing.

  And then I hear the one sound that means my time is up:

  The roar of the crowd as the announcer calls out the basketball team one by one. In less than ninety seconds I’m supposed to be cartwheeling across that hardwood. Technically, I should’ve already been out there fifteen minutes ago for warm-ups. The crowd loved my warm-up routine. I was responsible for getting everyone hype. Without me, who was going to send the entire student body into a wild frenzy? Who was gonna come tearing through the paper banner held tight by the cheerleaders on either side, before sliding to my knees in a dramatic flourish, before playing a killer chord on air guitar? That always made Mia laugh, my air guitar. Honestly, that’s one of the main reasons why I do it.

  “My head,” I say, breaking the silence.

  “Huh?” Will says.

  I motion toward the big furry head in his hands. “I’m gonna need my head. I got a show to put on. They won’t start without me.”

  “Oh, right,” Will says, handing it over. His face scrunches. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you supposed to be?”

  And this makes me laugh—because duh, clearly this guy isn’t the sharpest pencil in the pencil box. “I’m a pickle.”

  “Oh, well, that’s quite a pickle, isn’t it,” Will says, grinning, except he’s looking at Mia.

  “Dill with it,” Mia retorts.

  And they’re cracking up and I’m trying to think of another pickle joke, but it’s harder than you might think. The announcer’s voice crackles over the locker room speaker. “And now, everyone’s favorite mascot…”

  “That’s me,” I say, nodding. I throw Will my best smile—the one that says I’m onto you but also I’m not at all worried, bud. “I’m kind of a big dill.”

  “What?” both Mia and Will say simultaneously.

  Okay, maybe I’m a little worried.

  * * *

  Mia looks up at me with a pink nose and I laugh, tap my nose. It’s a Mia-Jay tradition—after every game we slide into a booth at Kate’s Diner for fries and milkshakes—chocolate for her, strawberry for me.

  “There’s shake all over my face, isn’t there?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Not all over.”

  I wet a napkin in my untouched glass of water and pass it to her. I watch her as she wipes her face. “You can’t take me anywhere,” she says, laughing at herself.

  “I’d take you anywhere,” I hear myself say.

  She looks up at me, her formerly pink nose pinched together. “What did you say?”

  Did I really just say that out loud? I shake my head with the same velocity as a dog after an unwanted bath. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  She studies me, then nods and goes back to staring at her lap. More specifically at the thing in her lap, which she now holds up for me to see. “Why hasn’t he texted me yet?”

  So that’s why she’s being so weird. Why on the drive here with Jules and two of her friends—me and Mia in the backseat as usual with me voluntarily taking the middle seat because it makes Mia carsick—she’d kept waking up her phone screen and then sighing as if it was somehow disappointing her. She wanted him to text her. She was thinking about him. Somehow even when he wasn’t here, he was still here—which is maybe worse than him physically being here.

  And I don’t know why I answer her like this—I mean, if I thought about it, I could probably tell you why, but I don’t want to think about it because honestly I’m not proud of what I tell her—

  “Guy like that, he probably gets numbers from girls all the time.” And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I double down on my rudeness with: “It probably wasn’t that big of a deal to him, meeting us.” And yeah, even though I say us, we both know I mean you.

  And I expect her to fire back at me, to put me in my place, but instead her face droops a little and she says nothing, and I feel awful because the last thing I want is for her to be hurt…not by this Will guy, but definitely not by me. My mouth’s open to apologize when her phone buzzes. She taps the notification excitedly, and then her face lights up.

  “He texted me,” she says. “It’s him!”

  I force a smile. “Oh, cool,” I say, trying to make my voice as casual as possible. “What did he say?”

  She grins and holds out her phone screen to me.

  WILL: Hey

  “What should I say back?”

  “Hey?”

  “Ohmigod, Mia, duh.” She nods enthusiastically. “You’re so smart, Jay. Thanks.”

  And I want to say obviously not as smart as you think but instead I just watch her fingers find the letters…H…e…y. She pauses, glances up, chewing on her lip the way she does when she’s really thinking hard about something. I see the lightbulb pop on above her head as she giggles and taps another word to go with her Hey—

  You.

  * * *

  “Sooo, you think it’s weird if I ask him to the dance?” she asks me four days later, plopping her tray onto the cafeteria table next to my bag lunch.

  I consider asking who but I’m over that game now. Besides, for the past ninety-six hours, it’s like Will’s the only subject she’s interested in.

  Not only that, she wanted to ask him to the dance.

  Not just that, it’s our first real dance.

  And although we hadn’t exactly discussed it, I assumed we’d go together. The way we always did things.

  “I don’t know,” I answer her. I realize I’m saying that a lot these few days—I don’t know.

  Do you think Will likes hot or cold cereal?

  I don’t know.

  Do you think Will was really cool at his last school, too?

  I don’t know.

  And then the weirdest, most unexpected thing happens—my normally confident best friend doubts herself. “He probably already has a date. I mean, even if he doesn’t why would he wanna go with me when he could go with anyone he wanted? I heard Sarah Mitchell and Jasmine Sawyer talking about how cute the new guy is.”

  “Oh,” I say, because I’m unsure what else to say. Because suddenly it’s like I’m talking to an alien who I’ve only just met.

  “Oh?” she parrots. “Did you hear what I said, Jay? Sarah Mitchell and Jasmine Sawyer. They’re the hottest two girls in seventh grade.”

  “They’re okay, I guess.”

  “Okay you guess?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Shut up. You said you’d walk on hot coals for Jasmine.”

  A simple game we play. Hot Coals. Basically, someone says something like Wow, Jasmine Sawyer is super cute. And then the other person says, Okay, but hot coals? Meaning, would you walk over a bed of hot coals to get with her? Weird, I know. Obviously, it’s an exaggeration—a way to ask How much are you willing to do for this person or thing? The game started after we watched a documentary in social studies about rituals. Apparently, hot-coal walking is all the rage in a few places around the world.

  “Maybe I take it back,” I say.

  But Mia doesn’t believe me. “Why would you take it back? You’ve had like a secret crush on her since third grade.”

  I nod. “Things change.”

  “What things?” she asks.

  “Feelings,” I say, surprising myself. And the word j
ust hangs between us, both of us embarrassed by my response but also neither of us sure why or what to do about it.

  Which is why I open my big mouth and say the dumbest thing I think I’ve ever said.

  * * *

  “Wait, let me get this straight,” Jules says when I explain the situation. “You told Mia, the girl that you like, that you’d help her get with this Will guy?”

  I shake my head, hold up my hands like whoa, whoa. “First of all, Mia and I are best friends, that’s it. Secondly, I’m helping her the same way she’d help me. You know, because we’re…”

  “Best friends, got it,” Jules says, laughing. “Well, good luck with that plan, lil bro. But I still think it might be easier if you just told Mia…”

  Her voice trails off.

  At the worst possible time. Because I had the sense that whatever came next was the singular most important piece of advice anyone would ever give me. And I didn’t just want it. I was desperate for it. I needed it. I need it.

  Except my sister doesn’t seem to have the same urgency. “It might be easier if I told Mia what?”

  “Never mind,” Jules says, already headed upstairs for her room. “It’s none of my business.”

  “But it is,” I call up to her. “I’m making it your business. Consider it your business.” But it’s too late, her bedroom door already closing behind her.

  Which, typical. Siblings always wanna be in your business when you don’t want them to be—so quick to give you their opinion on everything when it’s the last thing you want—but then when you finally invite them in, when you ask them for their take, they’re all No, no, I’d hate to butt in.

  Like, make up your mind, you know? Is consistency too much to ask for?

  * * *

  I’m in fourth period study hall when the opportunity I’ve been dreading presents itself.

  Mia’s in art during this period, meaning I usually get a library pass and bury myself in a book recommendation from Ms. Bennett or Mr. Evecheck, the two coolest librarians ever. It’s the only time Mia and I aren’t together, mainly because I’m about as artistic as a brick.

  But the library is closed for an eighth-grade presentation, so I have to sit in regular study hall. That’s when I hear—

  “Yeah, so, I don’t know how to choose, you know?” says a voice from outside that I recognize. I crane my neck from my chair to see if it really is who I think it is. “I mean, Jasmine and Sarah are both pretty hot. How do I even decide?” Yep, it’s him all right—Will Banks in gym shorts and a white T-shirt, standing in the grass talking to our gym teacher, Mr. Kowalski, while the rest of his gym class kick a soccer ball up and down the pitch. Why Will was getting advice from our prehistoric gym teacher, I don’t even know.

  “I feel like this is something you should ask someone your own age,” our gym teacher says. “But I wouldn’t decide based on who’s hotter.”

  Will shrugs. “It’s not just that.”

  But Mr. Kowalski is lifting his whistle to his lips. “Okay, change sides,” he calls out.

  I raise my hand for a bathroom pass. It’s not hard sneaking out the back door and around to the other side of the school—which is kind of worrisome how easy it is, but that’s a different topic for a different day.

  “Hey, Will,” I say, motioning for him to come over to the sideline where I wait. He waves and then jogs over.

  “Sup, bro,” he says, smiling.

  “Mia,” I blurt.

  His eyebrows raise. “What?”

  “Forget Jasmine Sawyer and Sarah Mitchell, okay? You should take Mia. Mia Landry. She’s your best option.”

  He frowns and for a moment I feel the pang of failure. He scratches his head, rubs his chin. “But don’t you have a thing for Mia?”

  Out of all the possible replies he could’ve given, this one I am least prepared for. “Huh? What? Me? And Mia? Ha-ha. No way. Ha-ha. Nope. We’re just…ha…friends.”

  He tilts his chin like he’s debating whether or not he believes me. Or maybe he’s just wondering why I’m suddenly stuttering and drooling all over myself.

  He shrugs. “Well, I do think Mia’s cool. You think she’d go with me?”

  My head nods. It feels like I’ve floated out of my body and I’m watching myself make weird choices that are definitely not in my own best interests. I could easily squash any shot of Mia and Will going to the dance together right now. Easily. Nope, no chance, I was joking. She hates you. Definitely take Sarah.

  “Just ask her, Will,” I say. “Just ask.”

  And I don’t know why I helped Will. I guess it’s less about helping him and more about helping Mia. And those feelings, those reasons, are way easier to figure out.

  * * *

  Mom and Dad make a big production about it, even though they both promised not to—

  “Humor us,” Mom says. “It’s your first dance.”

  “Maybe my last dance, if I have to do a photo shoot every time,” I grumble as Dad snaps yet another candid shot; this time of me rubbing that area just below my nose so that it probably looks like I’ve only just finished picking it. Ugh. I can see the Instagram caption now: Our son digging in his nose for the last time before his first dance #TheTimeFliesBy #OurBabyIsn’tABaby #He’llAlwaysBeOurBabyBeQuietAndMindYourOwnBusinessThanks #We’reNotCryingYou’reCrying.

  “Oh hush, son,” Dad says. He only calls me son when he gives me one-word instructions, like hush, or sit, or lawnmower.

  Jules fixes my tie. Licks her finger, then tries to put that same gross wet finger onto my face. Naturally, I jerk away from her.

  “You have something in the corner of your eye,” Jules says.

  I rub my own eye. “Next time just say that,” I say, extracting a piece of fuzz. “Also, I don’t see why you thought saliva was necessary for fuzz removal.”

  Thirty minutes later, the three of them wave excitedly at me from the car as I walk to the door and press the doorbell. My heart is pounding in my chest in ways it’s never pounded. Pounding so hard I nearly turn back and yell across the yard, over at the driveway where Mom’s minivan awaits to escort us to the dance, Hey, can seventh graders have heart attacks? But then the door flies open.

  “You look great, Jay,” she says.

  My mouth is suddenly dry and cottony but somehow I manage to choke out the words “Thanks. You do, too, Jasmine.”

  * * *

  Jasmine puts on a ginormous pair of neon green sunglasses and I plop a big purple wig onto my head and the photographer keeps saying, “Lean in closer, guys, closer,” until our cheeks are basically touching—we’re standing in front of a fake tropical island backdrop with a giant orange fake sun in the top corner, which is appropriate because I wonder if Jasmine feels the heat radiating from my face, if she can see the steam wafting from it the way you sometimes see clouds of smoke float up from the sewer grilles in the street.

  As I’m handing the photographer the twenty-dollar bill Mom slipped me, I notice Will in line and for a moment I’m afraid and angry and sad, all at once. How could he come without her? How could he take a picture without her? How could he even—

  But then I hear a familiar laugh and Will takes a few steps to his right and now I see everything—I see Mia, standing there, grinning in her brilliant blue dress, a pale yellow flower pinned near her right shoulder. I’m debating if I should go over and say hello when Jasmine hands me our photo. We’re smiling. We look happy.

  “You thirsty?” I ask her.

  We grab punch and it takes all of my concentration to not pour it all over us as I lift the ladle from the bowl and tilt it toward our clear plastic cups. My hand is shaking because of course my body is turning against me, wants to see me embarrass myself, and I wait for Jasmine to laugh but she just steadies my hand with hers and beams at me.

  “Are you nervous?” she ask
s me. But she doesn’t say it like an accusation. More like a secret we’re sharing.

  Still, I consider lying because I don’t want her to think I’m a loser, because I don’t want her to think I don’t know how to be at a dance with someone I think is pretty cool, but instead I nod. “A little.”

  “Me too. A little,” she says. “Good thing we already got our first hug out the way.”

  I scrunch my face, confused. We’ve already hugged? How had I missed this? She pulls up a picture on her phone. It’s at one of our games; it’s me, dressed as mascot Dillon Pickle sandwiched—pun intended—between a dozen students. And who’s cheesing beside me with her arm wrapped around my fuzzy green shoulders? Yep, Jasmine.

  “So, see,” Jasmine says. “We’ve already got the scary stuff outta the way.”

  And then she takes my hand and leads me through a sea of kids onto the dance floor, just in time for the latest dance craze everyone’s doing online. Naturally, I don’t know how to do it. My shoulders are too stiff. My rhythm too nonexistent.

  “Watch,” Jasmine says. “It seems hard but it’s really just three steps.”

  And I watch her and I try to follow but somehow I keep turning it into seventeen steps. Even still, I can’t lie—I’m having fun.

  So, of course, a slow song comes on next. “This is easier,” Jasmine says, winking. “It’s just two steps.”

  And I’m not great at it but also, I’m not the worst. And I realize how good Jasmine smells. And how her eyes get so big when she’s excited and how her nose wiggles when we’re teasing each other. “I’m glad you asked me,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my best friend, dancing with her date, her back to me as they move in a slow steady circle. And for a moment, I think we’re gonna miss each other again, that by the time Mia’s facing my way I’ll be turned the other way, Jasmine aimed at her instead.