“I’m sorry we’re not close,” I say. “I wish we were closer.”
“It’s not your fault,” Morgan says. “It’s just family history.”
“How did our grandmother die?” I ask Morgan. “Nobody’s ever told me that part.”
So she does.
My father’s mother killed herself on a Sunday several years after I was born. The day before, Uncle Ronnie and the family had been over to dinner. Morgan said that, according to her sister, Tanya, my grandmother hadn’t seemed that different. She’d made Uncle Ronnie’s favorite dinner—lamb chops with a peach glaze, black-eyed peas, and broccoli. She’d yelled at Tanya to eat her broccoli. She seemed happy enough; the store was struggling, but wasn’t it always? When they were getting ready to leave, she begged them to stay a bit later, Morgan remembers. Ronnie and the girls wanted to stay, but Auntie Eudora reminded him that the girls had to sing in church the next morning. Morgan remembers them arguing over it in the car on the way home. Eudora was defensive. Hadn’t Grandma Shirley always been the push and pull of a wave? Ronnie was a grown man now. Time to think of his life, his happiness, his family. Besides, where was my father in all of this? We had the money to deal with this sort of thing, and we never came around. Why did Ronnie and Eudora always have to be the ones to deal with her? The next day my grandmother tidied up her entire house, put on her finest outfit, and pinned her hair into a chignon with her favorite hairpin. Then she shot herself with one of my late grandfather’s old pistols.
Anyhow, as Morgan tells it, Ronnie kinda blamed my dad and my dad kinda blamed Ronnie, and that’s how we fell apart.
I think of Jo, and how she seems to go back and forth like a seismograph, extreme in kinda the exact way everybody describes Grandma Shirley.
“We gotta be careful, you know,” Morgan whispers, and taps on her head. “It might be in us, too.”
* * *
Later, after our grown-ups have fallen asleep, Jo finally crawls into bed with Morgan and me, and the three of us gleam together under the moonlight.
“She kicks,” I warn Morgan.
“Good thing she’s next to you.”
We laugh, and eventually the room goes quiet except for the faint howl of a coyote outside, followed a few seconds later by a whole chorus of them.
“Jo?” Morgan cuts through the silence.
“Yeah?”
“We’re here. We’re alive, and we got each other. We keep surviving. That’s not nothing, right?” Morgan whispers.
“Not nothing,” Jo whispers back.
CHAPTER 21
THE FIRES ARE out, but the city’s suffering from third-degree burns, pink and raw and bubbled and exposed, which I guess is kinda exactly where I am with Kimberly and my friends.
On the outside of my locker, Kimberly has written WHORE in big black Sharpie. On the inside of my locker, Kimberly has written SLUT in red Sharpie—like it wasn’t enough to write one or the other; she had to write both for emphasis. And in two different colors at that. Pictures I’d taped up of the four of us through the years have been torn into emphatically small pieces. An egg has been cracked over my textbooks, the pieces of shell left on either side of my calculus book. The whole thing already smells rotten, which I guess she means as a metaphor for our friendship. Kimberly’s always had a flair for the dramatic.
Courtney appears at the locker next to mine. She rests her hand on my shoulder.
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you now.” She sighs.
“Yeah. I figured.”
“What Kimberly did wasn’t right.…”
I use a napkin from my backpack to try to clean the egg off my calculus textbook.
“God, that smells.” Courtney leans against the locker. She holds the book while I pick up the little bits of shell.
“So, Heather and Trevor hooked up.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. But they’re both trying to say it was the drugs. Everybody knows it wasn’t the drugs.”
She takes a pocket pack of Kleenex from her bag and passes several to me to use on my locker.
“Here. And did you hear I made prom queen?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah. It was cool… I got to wear one of those stupid tiaras and the sash and everything. Except I had to dance with Anuj, and he was so sweaty. Omigod, Ash, there were, like, buckets and buckets of sweat. Anyway… Kimberly kept venting about you and yelling at Michael. Heather and I had to keep calming her down, and she didn’t even once say congratulations to me. The entire time, I kept thinking how nice it was to have something of my own, you know?”
“I get it,” I say. And I do.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Courtney leans in closer. “I’m happy we’re going to different schools. So much of my life has been in Kimberly’s shadow. Soon I’m gonna get to be my own person and see what that feels like.”
The bell rings, and Kimberly walks past. She and Courtney have homeroom together.
“Skank,” Kimberly hisses under her breath at me. “You coming, Courtney?”
Courtney squeezes my hand twice before she joins her.
* * *
In physics, Mr. Holmes is happy as hell, which makes me wonder if he and Ms. Garcia hooked up on prom night. But then I get the image of the two of them slapping their middle-aged bodies against each other, which is gross and very distracting, so I miss what he’s talking about when he calls my name to ask a question.
“What?”
“Fifteen kilograms!” Trevor yells from across the room. Michael’s not in his usual seat next to him.
“I believe I asked Ms. Bennett the question. But yes, Trevor. Thank you for your contribution.”
“Are you okay?” Mr. Holmes asks me as I’m packing up my stuff to go to the next class.
“It’s been a shitty week,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “Things will get better, though. A change is gonna come, right?”
He smiles and squeezes my shoulder. He means well. He’s a very kind man, I think. I hope he did get some on prom night.
Outside the classroom, Trevor waits for me atop his skateboard. He moves from side to side like a pendulum, his hair flopping this way and that.
“I’m sorry about your dad’s car,” I say.
“My parents are gonna call your parents today. I tried to cover for you, but they were gonna make me pay for it with my own money.”
“I’m really sorry, Trevor.”
“Don’t worry about me. I had a great night.”
“So I heard.”
“I swear, people got some big-ass mouths at this school. It’s too small,” Trevor says. He keeps rolling his skateboard from side to side. “Michael’s an idiot.”
“Where is he?” I try to ask nonchalantly.
Trevor shrugs. “Fuck him.”
“That’s what got me into trouble in the first place,” I say, and fake laugh.
“Don’t do that. Whatever that is. That’s not you,” Trevor says, and places his hand on my shoulder.
* * *
Rumors have a funny way of taking on a life of their own. First I was the one starting one, and now I’m on the receiving end. Rumors are stories we tell one another at other people’s expense. This is what I have to keep reminding myself. It’s a story; it’s not me. I’m not that story. That’s just a little bit of poetic justice.
LaShawn was a thief, a looter, a thug, and now I’m a slut, a whore, a man-stealer.
I slept with Trevor.
I slept with Michael.
I slept with both of them at the same time.
I slept with Lana Haskins.
I left prom to sleep with LaShawn.
I slept with the entire basketball team, and the football team, too. But not the lacrosse team.
I slept with the water polo team, but not the basketball team.
I hear the whispers in class, the hallways, the bathroom; they follow me around like shadows that get larger or smaller depending on who�
��s shining the light on them.
As always, Kimberly is the sun.
* * *
At lunch, I look for Lana. I walk around the back of the school, hoping to find her among the strange girls who blow dandelions across the field, or the boys who hide under the bleachers. The back of the school, with its half-burnt grass and white lines, is where the invisible kids eat.
Steve Ruggles sits in the sun with a bunch of boys I swear I’ve never seen before.
“Have you seen Lana Haskins?” I ask.
“You really should keep better track of your friends.” Steve bites into a sandwich.
“Aren’t you the black girl who got pushed into the pool?” one of his pasty friends asks.
“You must be thinking of another black girl,” I say, and head back to the quad.
The chubby girl Kimberly named Jabba sits by herself, eating and reading Dune, which is a nerd book. She’s only a sophomore, but she’s unmistakable.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She shrugs and moves her backpack off the table so I have somewhere to place my food. She returns to reading her book, and we eat together in silence for several minutes. Her face is framed by a pretty bob that swishes with the slightest movement. Her Tupperware is full of these itty-bitty pork sausages, fried rice, and slices of tomato. Filipino food, I think. Probably homemade. Jabba’s Filipina, so that would make sense.
“That looks good,” I say.
She shrugs.
I try again. “What’s your name?”
“Jabba,” she says.
Jesus, how messed up do things have to be for you to refer to yourself by the name others use to tear you down? Unless she’s reclaiming it, like nigga, but not.
Jabba is bigger than any other girl in school, and even the adults. I understand wanting to shrink yourself until you’re almost nothing; I’ve been there. Especially when everybody else looks one way and you look another.
“I mean, like, your real name.…”
“Does it matter?” she says. “You won’t remember it. But you’ll remember Jabba.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Do you know the ‘The Little Mermaid’?”
“The cartoon?”
“The real one. In the real one with the original ending, she cuts off her tongue to be with that dude, but then he doesn’t choose her. And her heart’s broken and shit, and she becomes sea foam and dies. But not really, ’cause then she becomes this, like, air particle who has to do good deeds to get a soul or whatever.”
“That’s dark.”
“That’s what happens when you don’t want to be what you are,” Jabba says. “I’m Jabba.”
“I’m Ashley,” I say.
“I know who you are.” She returns to reading.
I sit there trying to think of something to say. It occurs to me that I’ve always had the security of eating lunch with girls I’ve known since I was a little kid. I’ve never had to really socialize with anybody else if I didn’t want to. I’ve never even considered the act of eating alone. Jabba doesn’t seem eager for my company either. She seems content.
“So you’re into sci-fi? Do you like Ray Bradbury?”
“Shhh,” she says.
LaShawn taps me on the shoulder. “Cricket! I was wondering where you were.”
“Hey!” My voice is too eager. Too high. Too girlish. Too something.
“Hi, LaShawn!” Jabba brightens at the sight of him.
“Blessing! Watup, girl?”
Yes, this is Jabba’s name. The first week of school it was, “Hey, bless you!” Then Kimberly said, “Blessing? More like curse. That poor girl looks like Jabba the Hutt.”
“Which part you at?” LaShawn says to Jabba.
“Paul’s just become the Kwisatz Haderach.”
“Shit’s about to go down!”
“Don’t spoil anything!”
“Girl, you know I wouldn’t spoil it for you!” He turns to me. “You wanna come eat with us?”
I should stay with Jabba. It’s not fair of me to invade her lunch space and then leave as soon as I get a weird story and a better offer.
“Okay,” I say to LaShawn.
“You wanna come with?” I say to Jabba.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“See you in the library?” LaShawn says to Jabba.
She reaches up to fist-bump him, giggles when their knuckles touch, and then goes back to her book.
I walk with LaShawn over to the black kids. This is my first time by this ledge, with all of them at once. The kids who were out during the riots have returned. I’m introduced to them formally so that the black kids now have names.
There is Mildred and Lil Ray Ray and Nigerian Candace and Richard, who doesn’t go by Ricky or Rick or Rich, he tells me without prompting. Richard’s mom is now out of work because the place where she worked burned down.
Fat Albert’s real name is Percy, but his middle name actually is Albert.
There is Coke-bottle-body Tisha and Guillaume, who is Haitian. Guillaume’s family used to own a shop, and now they own a pile of rubble.
Margie is so light she could probably pass if she straightened her hair and were so inclined.
Jason is mostly nondescript, save for his crooked glasses. He apparently lives not too far from me and has seen me around with my parents or Lucia, even if I haven’t seen him.
Winnie is very soft-spoken and meek, and in a great bit of irony was apparently named after Winnie Mandela.
Q introduces himself as Q and doesn’t elaborate, so I don’t actually know what his name is or much else about him.
Tarrell and Julia are cousins who are, like, super into church and Jesus or whatever, but they’re nice and they cuss a little, so they can’t be that preachy, right?
Jo always says, “Black folks love them some Jesus.”
“Our church youth group is organizing a bunch of us to go help clean up,” Julia says. “You wanna come with? You don’t gotta be religious or nothing.”
“Sure!” I say, and mean it.
Brian isn’t black at all, but they seem to love him like one of their own. Our own, I guess. As far as rich white boys go, he’s respectfully down. Down enough that they call him nigga. Down enough that he knows not to call them that back.
I sit with the black kids on the ledge and wonder why I never made this short journey across the quad before. Nobody here seems to care about the rumors, or even acknowledge them. I want to ask them if they’ve ever heard of Greenwood, of what happened to my grandmother and her family, if any of their families carry those same scars. But, like, there’s no easy way to casually incorporate a massacre into a conversation with new friends.
“So, has LaShawn told you about how we used to call you Lisa Turtle?” Fat Albert says between bites.
LaShawn blushes. “Why you bringing that up now?”
“Like from the kids’ show?” I say.
“Girl, don’t go acting like you ain’t familiar with Saved by the Bell.” Fat Albert carries his weight around like it’s a joke he’s made, or keeps making.
“How am I Lisa Turtle?” I ask.
“Leave her alone,” LaShawn says.
“So, like, Lisa, right? We never see her with the black kids. Just like Slater doesn’t hang with Latinos, he just goes around calling everybody ‘Mama.’ ”
“Lisa grew up with all of them, so maybe that’s just who she’s most comfortable with,” I say.
“Or maybe they didn’t have no black folks in Bayside,” Julia says.
“Look in the background. They got black folks.”
“Percy, I’ma need you to watch 20/20 or CNN or, like, some adult shit,” LaShawn says.
“For reals. Why y’all going in on a kids’ show?” Tarrell says.
“Kids’ shit is important. It’s, like, shaping the future or whatever,” Fat Albert says, and takes another bite.
“You’re not no Lisa Turtle,” LaShawn says, and pats my knee.
&nb
sp; Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Fat Albert raising his eyebrows at Tarrell and Julia, and LaShawn quickly removes his hand.
“So, LaShawn finally got you over here,” White Brian says in a singsong.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” LaShawn says, but White Brian winks at him.
* * *
I run into Heather at my defaced locker.
“Missed you at lunch.” She’s got this nervous energy, fidgety and shit like she doesn’t know what to do with her limbs. I haven’t seen her act this awkward since junior high.
“Yeah… well… you know,” I say, and nod at my locker.
“Right…” Heather traces the outline of the scribbled S with her fingertips. “Nobody calls boys sluts,” she says. “At least, not in the same way.”
“No,” I say.
“ ‘Woman is the nigger of the world.’ ” Heather sighs.
“Niggers are the nigger of the world,” I say. “And stop saying ‘nigger.’ It’s not cool.”
* * *
LaShawn’s mother wears pink scrubs and chunky orthopedic shoes. Her dark hair is slicked back in a greasy bun instead of one of the loud wigs she usually wears to LaShawn’s games. She looks worn, like she’s come off a long shift spent on her feet. She and Principal Jeffries stand in the middle of the office, a bulletin of stars beaming down on them. I pull open the heavy glass door and stand inside, but I don’t dare step any farther.
“It was a bad judgment call to have him come into the office based on student rumors,” Principal Jeffries says. “You’re absolutely right about that. You have every right to be angry, Ms. Johnson.”
“I’m not just angry,” she says, “I’m hurt. It hurts that you would do this to my baby boy after everything he’s done for this school. That this is how he’s going to remember his last few weeks of high school. How people are gonna remember him. Can’t you understand how much that hurts me as his mother?”
The Black Kids Page 24