The Black Kids

by Christina Hammonds Reed

  I walk over to where Morgan floats, close to the pool’s edge.

  “I never knew your dad could sing like that,” I say.

  Morgan peers at me over Jo’s sunglasses. “We’re a family of many talents.”

  “Apparently.”

  I think of how easily Morgan hit the Parkers’ tires last night. I’m afraid to ask her where she even learned to do a thing like that. “What were you and Michael talking about?” I say.

  “A Tribe Called Quest,” she says. “He was asking if I liked them. Then I was like, ‘Why didn’t you ask me if I liked R.E.M. or Nirvana or whatever? Is it ’cause I’m black?’ and he got silent and awkward, and then I started laughing.”

  “But do you?”

  “Hell yeah.” She swirls her hand in the water around her. “But I also like R.E.M. and Nirvana. He was too easy to fuck with.”

  And we both laugh so hard that Morgan belly laughs herself right out the floatie and into the pool.

  “Ashley, come on!” Kimberly yells over to me.

  “You smoke with them?” Morgan says.

  I shrug. “Sometimes.”

  “Just be careful. You think they’ll have your back if y’all get caught?”

  She lets the question hang in the air.

  “I guess I should get over there,” I say.

  “Yeah… good luck with that.” Morgan wipes her curls away from her face and rests her freckled elbows on the concrete.

  * * *

  On the lawn, Kimberly stabs Michael with the boutonniere pin, and a tiny pearl of blood erupts. She wipes it away with her finger and licks it like a teenage vampire.

  “Ouch!” Michael says as she does it again.

  Kimberly continues to prove herself untrustworthy around pointy things, so instead I take over.

  “Here, I’ll do it,” I say.

  I pin the cornflower-blue flowers onto his suit for him. For a minute, the two of us belong to each other, until Trevor throws his arm around Michael’s shoulder.

  We line up according to height. Lucia, my mother, and my father snap photos so that one day, years from now, we can look back and laugh at the heft of our dresses and the bright of our eyeshadow. First is Heather, then Michael and Kimberly. Courtney and Rusty line up next to me and Trevor. Trevor wraps his arms a little too comfortably around my lower waist, and my father stares him down until he moves his hands up a bit higher.

  “Say cheese!” Lucia yells, and we smile.

  My mother starts to tear up.

  Before we get into the car, Lucia squeezes me tight.

  “Don’t have sex, mija,” she whispers, and laughs.

  On the car ride over, Trevor blabs about meditation and Cobain. I glance at Michael and Kimberly in the back seat. Every so often, they both drink out of a flask that Kimberly keeps in her pink satin purse. She rests her head on Michael’s shoulder, which is entirely unlike her. Normally she’d be too concerned with messing up her hair to do a thing like that, but tonight, she’s punch-drunk on love and vodka. Michael catches me looking at them in the mirror. I look away and stare at PCH as it unwinds, dangerous, before us.

  * * *

  When we first walk in, past the hotel lobby to the grand ballroom, Kris Kross is telling us to “Jump! Jump!”

  Kimberly screams, “I love this song!” and does. For a moment, all I can see are blond curls and pink-and-purple taffeta.

  The hotel is all marble and ornate columns. Old, rich Italians sit like sun-drenched leather on a velvet couch in the lobby. We shriek and rush past them to Heather and Courtney, even though we saw them not twenty minutes ago.

  Heather and Courtney hug us and drag us by our wrists to the girls’ bathroom, where I watch as they do E and pass around a bedazzled flask of vodka.

  A woman wrapped in a mink stole, with wrinkles so deep you want to stick your fingers in, her gray strands in an elaborate updo, emerges from her bathroom stall. Courtney scrambles to hide the vodka behind the poof of her dress, but the lady definitely sees it. We think she’s going to chastise us or drag us to our elders to face punishment, but instead she washes her hands and gives us a knowing wink in the mirror.

  “Have fun, my pets!” She laughs and totters out the door.

  I don’t do drugs. Not the real ones, anyway. My friends all do, but if there’s one thing my father has taught me, it’s that black people do not get a pass with these things.

  Last year, my cousin Reggie went to jail. Reggie’s kind of a superior asshole; like at Thanksgiving the rest of us will be talking about some shit like Coming to America and he’ll start in trying to compare grades and SAT scores while we’re eating boring Great-Auntie Delilah’s amazing mac and cheese. I think that’s him trying to make his mom pay attention, though. Sometimes the right numbers are better than the right words when you’re trying to get your parents to love you. Mostly he’s a good kid. Anyway, he got caught with coke at some party the police busted in the Palisades. My aunt Carol is a judge and she pulled some strings to get her son out, but my father made it clear he will do no such thing.

  “If you get arrested trying to keep up with the white kids, I will not bail you out. I will not pull any strings, you hear?”

  I sip from Kimberly’s flask and let the alcohol burn down my throat. That’ll have to be enough for me.

  Soon, I’ll be the only one who isn’t rolling.

  * * *

  Trevor holds me by the elbow, which is an awkward place to hold somebody, but it’s better than holding hands, which I don’t want to do. Trevor is actually a very considerate date. He holds doors and walks slowly to make sure I can keep up in my heels. He only talks a little bit about things I don’t give a shit about.

  Michael and Kimberly hold hands. She keeps kissing Michael’s cheek. His parents have paid for a hotel suite for us tonight. Everybody knows what that means. Kimberly thinks something major is going to happen, something that will cement things and seal the distance between USC and Rutgers and keep them together forever, but she doesn’t even know about Michael’s finding his dad’s near-lifeless body, or the fact that his mother gets drunk before ten every morning. I’ve held both their hands. I know where Michael’s fingertips are guitar calloused, where the weird mole is on Kimberly’s index finger. I’ve held both their secrets.

  I’m not sure that I’m jealous, exactly, but maybe I am kinda sad. Even after all these years together, I’m not sure either of them really knows the other. Plus, Kimberly thinks something magical is about to happen, when as of last week Michael didn’t even know how to properly fondle a boob.

  We stand in line to get our pictures taken by a professional before our faces melt and we stink of questionable decisions. The photographer corrals each group and poses the girls with their right hands on their hips, heads tilted to the left, one leg ever so slightly extended forward. The boys are adjusted into and out of varying stages of doofy.

  When the photographer gets to us, he starts to snap at me, “Where’s your date?”

  He repeats it again with increasing frustration. I’m confused until I realize that he thinks Heather is with Trevor and I’m the odd one out. I point at Trevor.

  “Oh…,” he says, and moves over to Heather to physically adjust her.

  * * *

  They aren’t allowing LaShawn into prom, on account of his suspension. Several of the chaperones stand around him and the other black kids like confused security guards.

  “C’mon, it’s prom,” Tarrell says.

  “You guys can go in,” somebody’s dad says. The sleeves of his once-crisp white shirt are already rolled up, and the sweat pools at his temples and under his armpits. “LaShawn’s the only one who’s been suspended.”

  Candace, Tarrell, Julia, and Fat Albert link arms with LaShawn, and the chaperone exhales a big-ass sigh, like Why did I agree to do this?

  Wigger Dustin looks over from where he’s doing the worm, or attempting to, anyway. His right eye is still swollen, a faded purple-maroon blend like the
eyeshadow on a tacky off-brand doll.

  A bunch of kids look in the direction of the black kids trying to see what the commotion is about. The entire dance floor presses in closer to them, like we’re one big moving ear.

  “I just wanna dance with my friends,” LaShawn says quietly.

  The chaperones look at each other, unsure of what to do.

  “Let him in!” somebody screams over the music from the bowels of the dance floor.

  Then another person joins in: “Let them in!”

  The entire dance floor begins to rumble above the music like the roar of the bleachers during a game. The dance floor boos and jeers like Principal Jeffries and our adults are our rivals from across town.

  Principal Jeffries looks ill at ease in a dress, like even though her dress is flowy, it’s somehow more constricting. Her dress flats look like those old-lady mall shoes with the extra old-lady cushioning. She ushers Dustin and LaShawn off to the side.

  After a lengthy discussion, closely monitored by a bunch of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds, Principal Jeffries decides to let LaShawn in.

  Fat Albert raises up LaShawn’s arms in victory, and everybody on the dance floor loses their shit like he’s scored the winning point in a championship game.

  Schadenfreude. We learned it in English class: taking pleasure in others’ misfortune. Now that LaShawn has fallen from being the golden boy, now that he’s begging to be let into prom when last year he was prom king, our school has rallied around him once more. It’s like they say: Everybody loves a comeback.

  * * *

  We do the Humpty Hump, then we drink punch, sip from Kimberly’s flask, and mate the two in our mouths before we bob our heads and jump up and down while the Beastie Boys tell us about girls. We boo when the DJ puts on “Ice Ice Baby” and then dance to it anyway. With each sip, our bodies get more fluid, our vodka-soaked hands find their way to one another’s shoulders and hips and butts. At one point, Courtney and Heather straight-up slap each other’s asses to the music.

  Mr. Holmes dances with Ms. Garcia. Trevor tells me somebody once saw them making out in the parking lot late one night after school. Mr. Holmes is a surprisingly good dancer; maybe he got that from being around all those black folks in Watts. Although I’m black, I live in a house full of black people, and I can’t dance, so maybe not.

  Heather, Trevor, and I start dancing in a circle. Then they start to dance up on each other, the E in full effect. I wish I were on what they’re on. It’s hard for me to let go.

  Courtney and Rusty dance tentatively, an arm’s length between them, the way people dance when they don’t quite know each other’s bodies yet.

  Michael and Kimberly clumsily hump to “It Takes Two” together. Every so often, when he’s not looking, she’ll beam over at the rest of us and offer a thumbs-up, like every air thrust is a prelude to something more.

  LaShawn and the other black kids dance in a circle together. A piece of me wants to join them, to raise my palms into the air and yell “Awwww yeah!” when “O.P.P.” comes on, even though I’m only kind of down with O.P.P.

  The DJ switches over to slow jams, the lights go down a little, and half of us find our way toward one another, while the other half awkwardly scurries to the punch bowl.

  Trevor places his hands on my hips and guides me in a one-two to Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road.” We collectively decide that this DJ is on crack, because everybody knows this is an end-of-the-dance song and we’re not even halfway through the night.

  “ ‘Although we’ve come to the end of the road, still I can’t let go,’ ” our classmates shout at the ceiling.

  I know the song’s romantic or whatever, but I’m thinking about Lucia. About how she and Jose are off on their date somewhere. They’re learning all about each other, and maybe by now she likes him even more. Maybe she’s leaning in close to him and sharing noodles like in Lady and the Tramp and shit. Maybe she’s planning for her life without us, without me. Why should Jo and I be the only ones to grow up and move on?

  When Heather, Kimberly, and Courtney run off to go “powder their noses” with Georgia Franklin and Molly Schmitt, Michael cuts in on Trevor and asks, “May I have this dance?”

  Trevor and Michael say something to each other, and then Trevor walks away.

  He whispers something into my hair.

  “What?” I can’t hear him over the music.

  “I’m sorry,” he says as we dance under a gilded chandelier.

  “For what?” I say.

  “I don’t know. I’m just sorry. It feels like we should be here together. You and me.” He places his cheek closer to mine, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath, through his skin.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “That just means I’m telling the truth.” He laughs. He pauses, and then his face grows drunk serious; you can almost see the boozy light bulb go off above his head. “I’m gonna tell Kimberly the truth. I’ll tell her now, okay?”

  “Michael, don’t.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  What do I want? To be understood. To be happy. For my sister to not be so sad. For my parents to not be so stressed, for them to get along. For Lucia to not leave me. To be loved. Real love that feels like feathers, like flight. Right now, I feel like I’m sinking.

  “Please just let me be the one to tell her.” I start to panic. “It should come from me.”

  Before he can respond, Courtney, Kimberly, and Heather return.

  “Hey, bitches!” Heather wraps her arms around Trevor’s neck, and the two of them fake romantically dance with each other, but honestly it seems pretty real to me. They look into each other’s eyes, and the way they look at each other makes me sad that there’s only a few more weeks to go before Trevor heads off to New York and Heather is in Ohio at Oberlin. Then there will be hundreds of songs between them instead of just their own pride.

  “May I have my boyfriend back, Ashley?” Kimberly says.

  We let go.

  * * *

  I will tell Kimberly everything when the night is done after the lights go bright and we all stumble toward our hotel rooms or after-parties or limos, before she and Michael make it up to their suite and she gives him even more of herself than she already has. It’s not that I think she should avoid having sex itself; just not with him, not if she’s only doing it to keep him hers. Keep that part of yourself yours for just a little bit longer, I want to tell her. My first friend. I’ll come clean. But for now, I’ll get punch.

  At the punch bowl, LaShawn and Candace survey our peers.

  “Hey, Cricket,” he says. He places the ladle into the bowl and carefully pours into a red plastic cup before passing it over to me.

  I extend my hand to Candace. “I’m Ashley.”

  She laughs. “Girl, I know who you are.”

  “Groove Is in the Heart” comes on, and Candace says, “That’s my jam right there! C’mon.”

  “Be there in a minute,” LaShawn says while Candace shrugs her shoulders and shimmy-shakes away.

  “I’m glad they let you in,” I say.

  LaShawn shrugs. “I wasn’t gonna come, but my mama told me I paid for my ticket same as everyone else, and I got a right to be here. Plus, between the tux and the flowers and everything, that shit wasn’t cheap, and she work too damn hard to waste her money like that, she said. So… yeah.”

  He laughs and it’s defiant, but also, there’s a bit of sadness underneath.

  “I’m happy you’re here.”

  “You look really nice, Ashley.” He blushes, then stutters, “I mean, you always do, but you look…”

  “Nicer?”

  “Right.”

  “You look nicer too,” I say.

  We both wait for the other to speak.

  “Did you know female dragonflies fake their own deaths to get away from unwanted advances?” he blurts out. “Brian and I watched this documentary last night.…”

  “So what you’re saying is
, I should fake my death to get away from guys’ advances?”

  “Only the unwanted ones,” he says.

  We both stand there, frozen still and blushing.

  “Well… I guess I should go find my friends.” I turn, take a few steps, and then the dance floor eats me right up.

  * * *

  I wander through the crowd looking for Courtney, Kimberly, and Heather. I’m surprised to see that even weirdo Steve Ruggles is at prom. With his hickey arms covered by tux sleeves, he almost looks normal. His date is kind of cute, even. I’m pretty certain she doesn’t go to our school. Nobody cute who goes to our school would go out with Steve Ruggles.

  “Hey, Steve, do you know where Kimberly and Heather and them are?”

  “You know my name?”

  “We’ve been in the same classes for six years.”

  “Eight.”

  “Right. Have you seen them?”

  “This is my girlfriend, Becky.”

  “Nice to meet you, Becky.”

  Her hands are very cold and very small, and her eyes are reptilian, but in a pretty way. She must be a very strange girl herself to love a boy who kisses himself for entertainment. But I guess love works in strange ways. There’s someone for everyone, as Grandma Opal used to say.

  “Check outside.” He shrugs. So I do.

  The party has spilled out to the hotel pool, which the prom committee has decorated with tasteful little tea lights. When it gets too hot inside, I walk to the double doors and out into the night air.

  This is a mistake.

  * * *

  Michael and Kimberly sit by the water talking. I’m paralyzed; too afraid to stay outside, too afraid to go back in. The decision is made for me when I turn to retreat and Kimberly yells across the pool, “Don’t you dare move, Ashley!”