Original Love

by J. J. Murray

  I guess this means our little walk is over, but I don’t want it to end just yet. A boy is looking at my face, at me. This is something I could get used to. “You got anything to drink in there?”

  “Um, yeah. I could get you a soda.”

  Get me a soda? “You aren’t going to invite me in?” Mama said the folks in this neighborhood might be racist and not to expect too much. Here’s proof.

  Candace would say that, and she’s probably still saying it. I don’t know if anyone in that neighborhood ever properly welcomed them or even accepted them. Besides me, I guess.

  “Uh, my father isn’t feeling too well.”

  “Uh-huh.” I don’t believe him for a second. I’m okay to talk to, but not to let into your house? Now that’s really rude.

  “Uh, he’s probably asleep.”

  “Right.” Mama was right. This is a racist neighborhood. “Are you going to get me a Coke or what?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  I expect to wait at least half an hour, but Peter’s back in a flash, still with that smile on his face. I wipe off the top of the can—you never can be too careful—and I catch Peter staring at my belly button.

  “What are you looking at, Peter?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  I smile. This boy is very interested in me. “You’re looking at my stomach, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  So maybe he has a thing for faces and belly buttons. “I’ll bet you have an ‘outie’ with all sorts of green stuff inside it.”

  “I have an inny, too.”

  “Prove it.”

  And right there in Peter’s driveway, I get a long look at his belly button. Not much to see, no green stuff, no lint, just freckles. “Dag, boy, do you have freckles like that all over?” Join them all together and he’d be my color.

  “Some of them aren’t freckles. They’re moles, like this one.” He touches this black spot just beneath his nose.

  Though it’s nasty looking, I just have to touch it. It doesn’t feel too nasty, but Peter jumps. “Does it hurt?”

  “N-n-no.”

  Dag, there must be something in the water in this neighborhood. Every boy I talk to stutters. “Are you cold?”

  “Your finger is.”

  Oh, yeah. “Sorry. You have moles like that all over your body?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because they’re nasty.” I finish my Coke and hand it to him. “Thanks for the Coke.”

  He smiles. “You’re welcome.”

  He has nice manners, too. I smile. “See you around, Peter.”

  “Yeah.” He smiles, and I have to look down at the ground again. “See you around…E.”

  On the way home, I feel kind of funny. I have made friends with a white boy, looked at his belly button and freckles, and I even touched his nasty mole. And he didn’t run away or flinch. I should have taken longer to drink that Coke. He was genuinely interested in me. He wasn’t like the others. His eyes were wide open, not eyes wide-but-shut like those other boys. They saw a black girl, and Peter saw a girl. And his freckles were, well, kind of cute, mainly, I guess, because I don’t have any. They make him unique.

  I think I’m going to like him.

  And I suspect that Henry will like her version of this scene better than mine. Hmm. Maybe she can write the whole thing using what I’ve already written as a guide. Her voice has always been so much more interesting than mine. I scroll down to the next section:

  I really like art class, and not just because Peter’s in the class. Mr. Nearing, while a little weird, realizes that I have talent. Peter only smiles, and Mama and Aunt Wee Wee just say “Ooh, that’s so pretty!” and slap my latest drawings and paintings on the fridge. Mr. Nearing lets me know why it’s so good, and since he’s a real artist, that means so much more to me.

  But when Peter draws me that day in Hecksher Park, I get all sorts of butterflies inside. I had drawn myself before, but no one else had ever drawn me. And he draws me so pretty I don’t know what to do or say, so I get mean. I don’t mean to get mean, but my butterflies have a way of making me angry.

  “Where’s my face?”

  “I wanted to save the best for last.”

  I sigh, but not because I’m mad. My face is the “best”? I have never thought that about my face my entire life. Oh sure, my daddy used to say I was the most beautiful girl in the world, but daddies are supposed to say that sort of thing, and Mama only tells me not to get ugly with her.

  “Besides,” Peter says, “you drew that self-portrait in your note, and you might have said that I copied it.”

  “I wouldn’t have said that.” And I wouldn’t have. I’m just curious what he really thinks I look like.

  “What if I made you too dark? You’d be mad.”

  “I am dark. Black is beautiful.”

  And then Peter nods, only it isn’t a nod like “I agree with you.” It’s a nod like “I really really really agree with you.” It’s the kind of nod Mama makes when she really really really means something, and if I don’t pay attention, I’ll be in for it.

  “What are you nodding for, Peter? You aren’t black.”

  “I nodded cuz…cuz you’re beautiful.”

  I don’t remember too much after that. No one had ever drawn me beautiful, and no one had ever said I was beautiful, and the next thing I know I’m on the bus holding Peter’s hand, getting off the bus still holding Peter’s hand, and sneaking into my own house to my bedroom—still holding Peter’s hand. I don’t want to let go of the boy who thinks I’m beautiful and means it with serious nods.

  “It’s a little messy,” I say as I sit on the bed.

  It’s really a lot messy, but that’s how I like it. I don’t like the looks of a made bed, books all lined up on a bookshelf, clothes safely hidden in a drawer. Straight lines and sharp angles aren’t creative. Anyone can do them with a ruler or a protractor. I believe that life is much more beautiful if you let it be a little sloppy.

  I smooth out my bedspread a little. “Take your coat off and stay a while.”

  Peter doesn’t move. Maybe he’s stunned that my room is so messy. Knowing him, his room has all straight lines and angles without a single soft line. No wonder most of his drawings look like the work of an architect.

  It is so true. I am so linear, so defined, so straight-edged…so much like my father. And it shows in my writing, too. I guess I build a story more than weave a tale.

  “Sit with me, Peter.” Why is he covering his legs with his coat? It isn’t that cold in here. “Throw your coat anywhere.”

  When he tosses his coat onto the floor, I finally see the reason. He has a bulge in his pants! Gross! And now he’s putting his hands in his pockets? Grosser! Why do boys do such nasty things? And why does he have to do it in my bedroom? Grossest!

  I’m surprised that she wrote about this. I guess we won’t be keeping this a secret from the world.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Um, you have a lot of records and books.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  He’s got to be kidding. “No books?”

  “I mean, yes, I have books. But no records.”

  No wonder he can’t dance a lick. How can you dance without music? “Why?”

  “I don’t have a record player.”

  What kind of boy doesn’t at least listen to music? “You should get one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about a radio?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You should get a radio.”

  “I will.”

  I had forgotten about that radio, a little transistor with an earphone. I once listened to a live concert by Sly and the Family Stone in Central Park on that. Ebony was the music in my life, the soft edges in my life, the art in my life. I didn’t need a record player or a radio—all I needed was Ebony.

  After some small talk about my books, I ask, “What do you think about me and you here in this room, alone?
”

  He starts to get up. “I think I ought to be getting home. The Captain—”

  I yank him back to the bed. “He can wait.” He is so afraid of his daddy that it almost scares me. I’m afraid of my mama, too, but I’m not that afraid. I mean, his daddy brought him into the world, right? Why be afraid of the man who helped create you? “I want to tell you something, and then I want to show you something.”

  “Why be afraid of the man who helped create you?” I whisper. I wish I could answer that. I was afraid of my daddy as a child, and I’m still afraid of my daddy as an adult. Is that what is keeping me awake all night? Why can’t I just let that man go? Maybe I need therapy.

  Did he just groan? I look down at his pants. It’s getting bigger! Is he in any pain? I better tell him about my dream so he’ll laugh and that thing will go away. “I had a dream about you last night, and in my dream, you were much taller than me.” Which is crazy, since we’re the same height now. “We were on the beach, and I was wearing a long shell necklace and a silky orange and purple dress, so you know it was a dream.” It had to be a dream because I never wear dresses except to church. “You wore this teal blue shirt and tan shorts, and your hair made you look kind of like Elvis.” Which is kind of funny, since Peter’s hair is so short now! Maybe I want him to have longer hair or something. “And there we were standing on some beach while waves splashed our feet and the sun went down, and you know what you said to me?”

  “What?”

  “You said I had pretty feet.” I check out his bulge, and it’s going away. Good. “Except that you’ve never seen my feet, Peter.” I take off my Adidas and socks and show him my toes. “Are they really pretty?”

  “Yes.”

  “They look like Tootsie Rolls.”

  “I like Tootsie Rolls.”

  I don’t. They’re nasty. “I want to see your feet now.”

  Then we start wrestling, and though I know I could take him, I let him put me on my back. And then, well, I can’t resist asking, “Are you going to kiss me, Peter?” That’s when I feel the bulge growing against me, and it doesn’t feel too bad. “You need directions? My lips are down here.” He still won’t kiss me. “Come here, come on, Peter, no one’s looking. I’ll help you. Close your eyes.”

  “C-c-can’t I keep them open?”

  Did I stutter then? I’ll bet I did. I was so scared.

  I don’t even know if you’re supposed to keep them open. In the movies, they always seem to close their eyes first. “Sure. I’ll keep mine open, too.” And then I pucker up for my very first kiss.

  His lips are a little chapped, but it’s a nice, soft kiss that lasts so long, and the entire time, he’s staring into my eyes. That’s when I feel a little something stirring inside me where his bulge brushes against me so gently. When he’s finished, the butterflies return and start zigzagging around my whole body from my thighs to my eyes.

  I push him off me. “That wasn’t just a kiss. You have to go. Mama will be home soon.”

  He looks so sad, and I feel sad, too. I want him to kiss me again! These butterflies are killing me! My heart must be full of them!

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  He still looks so sad, so I hug him, pressing my hips as far into his as I dare.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he whispers, and he starts to dance a little, only it’s not like any dance I’ve ever seen. I look down at his bulge and see it moving!

  And I thought I only said “Oh, Jesus” in my head. I actually said it out loud. And I danced? Yeah, I guess I would have. Maybe this is too embarrassing to me for the general public to read about.

  “Oh my God! Did you just…”

  He nods. “I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t!”

  “What did it feel like?”

  “Can I tell you later?”

  No. I want to know what I just made you do! “Does it hurt?”

  “No. It felt good.”

  I made him feel good, just by hugging him? “Has that ever happened to you before?”

  “No.”

  “Cool.” And it is. I made him so happy that he, um, did that right here in my bedroom. I feel so special! But when I see the wet spot on his pants, I back off. Why is it so messy? Oh, wait. Messy is good. I can deal with messy. “All that came out?”

  “Can I go now?”

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  As I watch him running kind of funny with his books banging against his pants, I feel so powerful. I made him do that. I, Ebony Mills, who has just held hands with a boy, who has just let a boy into my room, who has just kissed a boy, who has just made a boy feel good… I made him do that. Maybe there’s something to all that Black Power stuff Mama’s been telling me about after all.

  I guess when it comes right down to it, the bottom line is this: Women would most likely buy our book, so a woman should tell the tale. I feel a little sad about it, but it makes sense. Our story will have to be told from her point of view whether I like it or not.

  I shut down Ebony’s computer and return to her room, the faint scents of olive wood from the bed and vanilla from the candles in the air. I crack a window and hear, also faintly, the roll of the surf.

  Then I finally faint on the bed.

  And dream a familiar dream…

  I’m on the Argo during a storm, waves as high as the Twin Towers all around me, the mainsail whipping back and forth, the helm spinning like the steering wheel on the S.S. Minnow from Gilligan’s Island, and I’m wearing my navy pea coat from when I was young, a pair of Chuck Taylors peeking out below, brackish water covering the deck and splashing up my legs. A huge wave arcs over the boat, and just before it hits the Argo, I see a light go on in the cabin and I dive through the cabin door. When I look up, I see the Captain smiling down at me, a tangle of knotty ropes in his hands.

  “Some storm,” he says, squinting his bad eye and pulling at the rope.

  “Yes, Captain.” I try to stand, but can’t because of the water spilling in from behind me pinning me down.

  “Better get back up there then, take us on home.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Somehow I manage to climb back out into the void and grab the wheel, rain stinging my cheeks, that mainsail cracking like a whip, most of the other lines dancing in the wind like flailing linguine, monstrous waves crashing into each other high above me, almost as if I’m in a cave of angry water.

  “Could be worse,” the Captain says, suddenly beside me, his hands still working those knots. “How’d you get us into this mess in the first place, Pete? Weren’t you following the charts?”

  “I, uh, I don’t know, Captain, I just—”

  “And when are you going to learn to sail, Pete? When are you going to learn how to properly sail a boat?”

  The helm shudders out of my grip, spinning and spinning faster and faster. “I’m trying, Captain!”

  He touches my arm. “Well, don’t try so hard. Let the boat go where it wants to go, Pete. It’ll get us there. It’s seen more days at sea than you…”

  Though it wasn’t a nightmare, I still wake up in a sweat. How long have I been asleep? I look out the window and see the last, rosy remains of the sunset. I’ve been asleep almost ten hours? But my dream was short, or was it? I must have been on a really long boat ride. Ebony and Destiny have to be back by now.

  I tumble out of bed and slip down the back stairs to the kitchen, where Ebony and Destiny are eating take-out salads from Wendy’s.

  “Sleep well?” Ebony asks.

  “I slept.” But not well. My daddy’s words—Let the boat go where it wants to go, Pete—are still ringing in my ears. “How’d the audition go, Destiny?”

  Destiny doesn’t look up, so I know it went badly. She pokes at a tomato wedge. “I wasn’t black enough, Daddy. They wanted a black, black woman to play the role of the waitress.” She drops her plastic fork and pushes her tray away. “They didn’t want talent. They wanted a black face to play a subservient role. I even dragged Mama in to show the
m how black I really was, but they weren’t interested.” She looks up at me. “I guess I’m too exotic for them or something. See why I think I take after you the most?”

  I massage her shoulder. “There will be plenty of other auditions, Destiny, but did you really want to play a waitress?”

  “I wanted to play something. If I could just get one, small role, I know I’d go places. Maybe you could buy me a tanning bed?”

  “Why?”

  “So I can get blacker.”

  I look at Ebony. “Is she kidding?”

  “Yes, Peter,” Ebony laughs. “Go on, girl, tell him.”

  Destiny jumps straight up out of her chair, my hand flying off her shoulder. “I got a part, Daddy!”

  “You did?” Why don’t the women in this family ever just tell anything to me straight? Why do they have to dramatize everything so much?

  Destiny nods. “You want to know how I got their attention?”

  “I hope it was your acting ability.” Which has fooled me once again.

  She shakes her head. “No, Daddy. I had a tray in my hand, you know, and all I had to do was cross the set to a table, put down some glasses, say, ‘Enjoy your meal,’ and leave.”

  “You better sit down and eat, Peter,” Ebony says, pulling another salad out of a Wendy’s bag and sliding it to me. “This story keeps getting longer and longer.”

  I sit and open the top of my salad, and Ebony peels and dumps a packet of French dressing on top.

  “So there I was, with a tray of glasses full to the top with water, and I had them balanced pretty well, but on my third step across the set—BAM! My foot hit the leg of a chair, and I started falling forward till I hit the floor hard. But you know what? I didn’t drop the tray or the glasses.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. They stayed upright on the tray, and most of the water stayed in the glasses. Isn’t that amazing? So then I dusted myself off, delivered those glasses, delivered that line, and then walked back across the set.” She blinks. “Then every person in that studio started laughing. They thought I was hilarious!”