Love Is a Revolution

by Renée Watson

  “Be out in a minute,” he calls out.

  “See, I told you there are good deals here.”

  Tye laughs and opens his door. “What do you think of this?” He pretends to be a model—he doesn’t have to try hard. He is wearing a navy shirt, and even though it is simple, I tell him he should definitely get it. It looks good on him. Everything looks good on him.

  We take a shortcut down the housewares section to get to the cashier. At the end of the aisle, I see a row of frames of different sizes. They all look antique, golden treasures waiting to hold a memory. “These would be perfect for the photo legacy project,” Tye says.

  I keep walking because it is not happening and I do not need to buy any frames.

  “Did you hear me, Nala? Hold up.”

  I stop, turn around.

  Tye has one of the frames in his hand. “Look at this. Only two dollars. We should get some.”

  I walk over to him, look through the shelf, picking a few up that look so precious, so one-of-a-kind. There are five that I love, and Tye says, “You have to get them.”

  I stand there. Tell him, Nala. Tell him.

  I can’t. I just can’t. He is too excited and he is too into me and I am too into him and I can’t tell the person who hates liars that I’ve been lying and I can’t tell the person whose father always cancels plans that there is no plan. I can’t ruin it all, ruin us.

  So we shop for frames, and we leave the Goodwill in Harlem and go to another Goodwill because Tye says, “The one on the Upper West Side might have vintage frames too. Let’s just get as many as we can today.”

  And when we leave that Goodwill, we go to one more, and then Tye takes me to a party supply store that he swears has the best prices and we buy decorations for a room we will not adorn and we buy plates and cups for the refreshments no one will eat or drink.

  Maybe I can get Sharon to change her mind. Maybe.

  We head back uptown. It is too hot to take the train, so we get on the bus. The whole ride to Harlem, I am thinking, What if Sharon doesn’t change her mind? What will I do with all these frames and decorations and plates?

  We get off the bus, head home. The totes are heavy, and I can’t figure out if it’s more comfortable to carry mine on my shoulder or in my hands. I keep switching back and forth, and then Tye takes the bag out of my hand and says, “I got it.” He carries all the bags, except the one with my clothes. He even brings them upstairs to my room once we are at my house. “Let me know when you want to do round two. We’re going to need more frames.”

  We.

  “Okay, I’ll let you know,” I tell him. I whisper a prayer that somehow Sharon has a change of heart.

  Before Tye leaves, he stops and says, “Don’t make any plans for this Thursday evening.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “I’m taking you on a date. No Inspire Harlem talk, no Sugar Hill Open Studio talk.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Tye kisses me on my cheek. “It’s a surprise.”

  18

  For the next two days, I follow Aunt Ebony’s advice and try to work on my essay. Even though I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to study, I know eventually I’m going to have to do this, so I might as well get started. I try to come up with a topic for my personal essay, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing. I feel like I wasted two days just staring at my notebook of lists, staring at my laptop, typing over and over: I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write.

  Since I couldn’t write anything, I spent time looking over my notes. Our guidance counselor said CUNY schools are a great option and that I should look into one of them. So that’s how I spend the last hours of my two-day break from Tye. Making lists of schools I might want to go to, right here in New York. Thinking about college makes me wonder what Tye’s plan is. We’ve never talked about where he wants to go, what he wants to be. I’m kind of afraid to ask him. Maybe it’s better to hold on to this summer, to let these days exist without any talk of leaving each other, of not being together.

  Thursday is here, and it’s brought butterflies with it. No matter how much time I spend with Tye, I am still nervous and excited when I know I am about to see him. He sent a text asking me to meet him on 135th at the C subway station. As we go underground I ask, “Where are you taking me? Can I at least get a hint?”

  “We’re going to Brooklyn.”

  “Brooklyn?”

  Tye steps aside so I can go through the turnstile. “You have something against Brooklyn?”

  “The C all the way to Brooklyn?” I ask.

  “The longer we get to spend time together.” Tye can be a little corny sometimes, but I love it. We get to the platform and wait for the train. Tye pulls me in to him, then runs his fingers through my braids.

  The train pulls into the station. We get on, find seats, and bump and jerk our way downtown. There is the usual subway commotion going on: a person asking for change, someone singing for change, three break-dancers spinning for change. People move about trying to find a seat, trying to make it out of the sliding door before it closes, a toddler mimicking the ding of the closing doors every single time, the man nodding off then jumping up in terror thinking he missed his stop.

  Tye doesn’t seem to notice any of it. His eyes are on me, and he is talking with me as if no one else is around. “I, uh, I got you something. It’s not like a big deal or anything, it’s just a little something I picked up the other day.” Tye sounds nervous, and now my heart is fluttering and my hands are sweating. “Here.” He goes into his backpack and takes out a slender rectangular box. So right away I know it’s not jewelry—I mean, not that I thought it was or anything. I’m just saying I definitely know it’s not. The box isn’t wrapped in wrapping paper, but it’s not obvious what it is.

  “Can I open it now?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. It’s not a big deal at all.”

  Tye doesn’t know that I have never received a gift from a guy except my grandpa and Uncle Randy. Oh, and a valentine from a boy named Coby in the fourth grade. And in one month, I am now getting my second gift from my boyfriend. Um, this is kind of a big deal. I open the box, and the first thing I see is a shiny silver circle. I pull it up out of the box and realize that shiny silver circle is the top to a sleek, black water bottle.

  “It’s double walled, stainless steel. You can use it for hot or cold beverages.”

  I want to say something, but no words are coming.

  Tye continues, “It’s been rated as the best water bottle for the past three years. It has a leak-free top and it doesn’t sweat and it’ll keep the temperature of the beverage—or any liquid, actually, like soup or something—for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Tye stops talking, waiting for me to say something.

  Then, he adds, “I notice that you’re always buying bottled water at the bodega, so I thought I’d get you one of these.”

  I can’t even fake a thank-you. I just, I can’t. First a book of quotes and now a water bottle.

  “Are you, are you okay? Is the color wrong—I know it’s black, but I figured black would—”

  “I don’t care that it’s black, Tye.” I say this sharp and with so much attitude the woman across from us looks at us in shock, like I startled her. I lower my voice. “I—well, first of all, thank you. But—”

  “But? Who says but when saying thank you to a gift from their boyfriend?” Now Tye is raising his voice a little, and we are officially having our first argument. Over. A. Water. Bottle. Let it go, Nala, I tell myself. And I do. I let it go until Tye says, “You don’t look happy.”

  “Why would I be happy about my boyfriend chastising me about not drinking out of a reusable water bottle? I mean, I don’t know—we’re on a date. Who knew double walled, stainless steel was so romantic?”

  Tye scoots away from me. Not a lot, but enough for me to notice that he moved, that the energy between us shifted. “I thought you’d appreciate that I was thinkin
g of you.” Tye sounds so sincere when he says this that all the irritation in me dissolves and I feel so selfish for being ungrateful.

  I look the water bottle over, read the little square tag that’s wrapped around the top. “Thank you,” I say. “And you’re right. I don’t have one of these.”

  Tye still looks like a sad puppy, so I add, “And I like the color black, so yeah, thanks.”

  We ride the rest of the way in an awkward silence. I wonder what Tye is thinking about. I am daydreaming of things I wish Tye had given me.

  GIFT IDEAS FOR YOUR NEW GIRLFRIEND

  1.Flowers. I know, I know. Total cliché, right? But I actually really do like flowers. And I don’t need a dozen roses, just a simple bouquet of something to brighten up my day. Something that says, these are lovely and so are you.

  2.A handwritten note. The more personal the better, but as I’ve discovered, the right quote can go a long way, so even if it’s a poem or song lyrics that aren’t original—as long as they’re heartfelt, I’m okay with that.

  3.A framed photo of the two of us. Tye and I have 1.7 million selfies of our summer outings. It would be nice to see at least one of them off a screen.

  4.Time. Giving time is the most valuable gift. I don’t really need Tye to give me something tangible. Spending the summer together is the gift I didn’t know I wanted, needed.

  High Street is announced over the intercom as the next stop. “This is us,” Tye says. He stands and wobbles to the door. I wait for the train to stop. The humidity greets us as soon as we get off the subway. It is sticky and hot underground, and there are too many smells clashing with one another to make out what any of them are. But the closer I walk to Tye, the more I smell his cologne. We climb the stairs, me a little out of breath, but I don’t ask him to stop. I keep up, follow his lead.

  “I never come to this part of Brooklyn,” I admit. “It’s quieter over here, feels less crowded and busy.” I say this hoping it is a peace offering, hoping we’re not still in our funk.

  “I’m taking you to Brooklyn Bridge Park. The whole month of July they’re showing movies here every Thursday evening,” Tye tells me. “There’s only two more screenings, and I thought you’d like tonight’s flick. Thought it would be cool to watch a movie with a view. Got a blanket and some snacks in my bag. Hope this is an okay plan.”

  “This is perfect,” I say.

  We walk through DUMBO, making our way to the park. The annoyance and irritation between us is gone. Tye takes my hand, and when we turn the corner I can barely focus on anything else but the majestic view of the Manhattan Bridge. I can tell that we’re getting closer to the park because there are more people. We have to walk single file, me behind Tye, to get down the block. Once we enter the park, we are side by side again holding hands, and then I see the Brooklyn Bridge and downtown Manhattan looking close enough to touch. The East River splashes against the oversized stones, and now that we’re at the water, it feels a little cooler. We walk around, and after taking it all in we claim a spot and put the blanket down. “How’d I do?” Tye asks.

  “I’m loving everything about tonight,” I tell him.

  The sun is yawning its way into night. The movie will start once it’s dark, so we eat and watch the city lights shimmer on the river water. As dusk settles, more and more families, couples, and groups find a spot on the lawn. Now that we aren’t arguing anymore, I take my phone out and take photos of the Brooklyn Bridge, then a few shots of the crowd that is forming on the grass and steps of the park. We take a few selfies, and then Tye grabs my phone and starts taking candids of me. “Tye!” I reach for it, but he is not giving it up. “Why can’t I take pictures of you?” He takes a few more. Then shows them to me. “See, you’re beautiful,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “And so are you.”

  “Beautiful? Don’t you mean handsome?”

  “Nope. You. Are. Beautiful,” I tell him. “Beauty is not just a word for girls, you know.” I rub my hand against his face, trace his eyebrows, ease my hand to his head and draw random shapes with the tips of my fingers all the way to the nape of his neck.

  Tye lies back, his face looking at the changing sky. We lounge together, taking in the view, taking in each other. Then, Tye sits up, says, “I forgot to ask—how are things going with the photo legacy project? When are we going to get the rest of the frames?”

  I tell him half of the truth. “Sharon, my, um, boss—she won’t let it happen. I’m not going to be able to do it.” When I say this, part of me is relieved. And then, I realize that I can just end the whole lie right now without ever letting Tye know it was a lie. “I think I’m just going to step down, end the Open Studio, and stop working there,” I tell Tye. “Maybe I’ll join Inspire Harlem.”

  I have been thinking about getting involved in something for real. I can do without Toya, but as long as Tye, Imani, and Sadie are there, I think I could manage.

  He sits up. “You can’t quit. You can’t just give up.”

  I hear applause and realize the movie is starting. “We can talk about this later,” I whisper.

  “You can’t quit, Nala. Don’t take no for an answer. If it’s something the residents want, something you feel passionate about, you have to fight for it.” Tye is always so confident, so sure.

  “Can we please just talk about this later?” I ask. The couple next to us hushes us, and the woman in front of me turns around and rolls her eyes. A little girl whines to her father about not being able to hear, and we are hushed again.

  Tye lowers his voice but keeps talking, “Nala, seriously. We can’t call ourselves activists or community organizers if we don’t do the work.”

  I don’t call myself an activist or community organizer. “Tye, please! Can we let it go for now? We’re on a date, aren’t we? Why can’t we just enjoy the movie? Somehow you manage to make everything a social justice moment—”

  “What is your problem? All I’m trying to do is encourage you to do the thing you say you love so much.” Tye is loud-whispering, which is just as annoying as if he were yelling.

  “Can we please just watch the movie? That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Why are you so grumpy all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not grumpy. I just want to have fun with my boyfriend. I don’t want to talk about volunteering at my grandmother’s residence. And I definitely don’t want to discuss what Consumer Reports has to say about the best water bottle on the market.”

  Tye rubs his head, exhales a deep breath, and looks at the screen. We watch the movie, but we don’t watch it together, not like a couple watches a movie. There is no hand holding, no joining in on the laughter, no grabbing each other if something scary happens.

  Just when I am relaxing and getting into the movie, letting the argument go, Tye leans over to me and says, “If you don’t want the water bottle, just give it back.”

  “It’s not about if I want the water bottle, Tye!”

  “Well, what is it about?”

  I get up, take the water bottle out of my bag, and throw it on the blanket. “It’s about me not wanting to feel like you want to change me, or make me into someone I’m not. These gifts aren’t about me, they’re about you—it irritates you that I buy bottled water, so you—”

  “Excuse me, uh, we’re trying to watch the movie,” a woman whispers.

  I feel so much shame for making a scene. I walk away, tiptoeing across the tiny patches of grass not covered by sheets and blankets. I am not crying but I want to. I walk outside the park, cross the street. Once I am across the street, I turn around thinking Tye is behind me, thinking now we can talk without bothering people. But when I turn around, Tye is not there.

  19

  8 TEXT MESSAGES I ALMOST SEND TO TYE

  1.I wasn’t really upset. April Fools . . . ​even though it’s not April. #JulyIsTheNewApril #JustKidding #AndTheOscarGoesTo

  2.Tye, please call me. Please let’s talk.

  3.I’m not sure how this became my
fault. I asked if we could talk about it later, and you kept pushing it. At the park you had so much to say, but now you’re giving me the silent treatment?! Really?!

  4.Are we just arguing, or does this mean we’ve broken up?

  5.I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.

  6.Tye, I’m not who you think I am, and I can’t keep pretending.

  7.Here’s something you don’t know about me: I’ve been lying to you.

  8.I’m sorry.

  Tye didn’t text or call me last night, not even to see if I made it home. I haven’t heard from him today either. I try to distract myself, keep my mind off him. Uncle Randy always says, when you’re feeling bad about your circumstances you should do something kind for someone. So, I decide to get out of the house, do something kind for JT.

  I am at Grandma’s, standing at the front desk with an ice cream sundae in my hand. “Can you tell me what apartment JT Dixon is in?” I ask. I realized on my way over here that I’ve never been to JT’s apartment. He’s always sitting out in the lounge. I have no idea where he lives.

  “Isn’t June Robertson your grandmother?” Ms. Sharon asks.

  “Yes, I am here to see her too, but first I need to drop this off at JT’s.” I am sneaking this treat to him. If Grandma finds out that I’m giving him ice cream, I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.

  Ms. Sharon doesn’t even look at me when she says, “I’m not allowed to share personal information about residents.”

  And I get it. It’s probably not safe to just let random strangers know where residents live, but I am not random. She knows who I am, and if I was going to hurt JT, would I be announcing myself and bringing him dessert?

  “Why don’t you ask your grandmother where he lives?” Sharon says, and then the phone rings, so she picks it up and that’s that, until I see Ms. Louise, who waves me down the hallway and motions for me to come to her.