The Long Ride

by Marina Budhos

  “Thanks, Carlaina. We’re just going to hang for a while.”

  As we troop past, she gives Francesca and me a wary, stern look, and I’m flooded with shame.

  If this were any other time, I’d probably admire this place. White fluffy couches, blue-and-white porcelain lamps. But I’m seesawing with nervousness. Especially when I realize that everyone here is older than us—ninth grade. Francesca perches on the sofa edge next to Evan, smiling, one ankle bouncing.

  Andy limps back into the room, holding a bag of ice, and plops down next to me. “Seven minutes in heaven!” he declares.

  “But there’s only two of us,” I say, faltering.

  “That’s okay.” He’s already scrambling to find a bottle that he places on the rug.

  The first spin is Tres and me. He looks just as embarrassed as I feel, a weak smile wobbling on his mouth. We get up and stand opposite each other in the hall. My arms are rigid at my sides. I don’t want to do this. He gives me a hug and I pull back, quick. Inside is a sickening sensation, like I’m dropping too fast in an elevator. He seems relieved that it’s over.

  We spin the bottle a few more times, but every time, it stops on one of the boys, so they guffaw and yell. At one point Andy bumps into Francesca, and then he thrusts his arm out. “See?” Andy points out. “With my tan, we’re almost the same.”

  “That’s what’s nice about halfies,” Evan says.

  “Exotic, yeah.”

  Francesca laughs but I wonder when we’re going to leave, when the bottle spins once more and lands on Evan and Francesca. “Figures!” Andy groans. They give each other knowing smiles. Her cheeks go pink.

  “Just seven, remember!”

  “Hah!” Evan laughs.

  They scurry off to another room. It seems forever that they’re gone, though it’s probably just a few minutes, the rest of us smiling nervously or fiddling with the bottle until Michael and Tres go over to the TV and switch on a football game. Andy slides closer to me, his bag of ice forgotten. “You’re pretty.”

  I just sit with my fingers tensed between my knees. “Hey, beautiful,” John had said to me. What am I doing here? I can’t believe Francesca left me like this.

  “You don’t think you’re pretty?”

  “I never really thought about it.” Heat pinpricks my face. I jump up, furious. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Down the hall.”

  I march down a hall covered in a busy rose wallpaper until I find the bathroom. I sit on the toilet lid waiting for the tears to spill. They don’t. I stare at the pictures of sailboats. I wash my hands, but then I’m embarrassed about wiping them on the perfect towels embroidered with big fat letters.

  When I get back into the living room, Francesca is sitting on the floor, her face flushed. Evan has joined the other boys, over by the TV.

  “I gotta go,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Why?”

  “Now.” She can tell how angry I am. “How are we getting back, anyway?”

  * * *

  * * *

  We call from the phone in the kitchen, and my parents are surprisingly easygoing when they hear neither of Francesca’s parents are available and we have to take the subway and bus. I guess because I’m in a good neighborhood and with Francesca. When we settle down in our subway seats, she asks me, “Why did you do that? Make us leave?”

  My chest burns. “It was getting late.”

  “Isn’t Evan cute?”

  “Yeah, but—” I hesitate. “Those weren’t nice things he said. About being a halfie.”

  “Oh, come on, Jamila. He was just kidding.”

  But I don’t think he was. Francesca looks smaller. Her frizzy hair has come out of its barrettes. Her full lips seem mashed up, bruised.

  “You need to be careful.”

  “You’re just jealous because I have a boyfriend.”

  I feel as if there’s a fish bone stuck in my throat, I’m so angry. Is he your boyfriend? I want to ask. Because I noticed he didn’t hold hands with her on the street. None of the other coffee shop girls were there. And he kissed her behind closed doors. It was just a game.

  We don’t talk for most of the subway ride, our legs jiggling next to each other, then on to the bus and walking the few blocks home. After my anger wears off, I’m hurt. It’s as if I don’t know Francesca anymore.

  Just as we reach Francesca’s gate, I say quietly, “You know, I do have a boyfriend.”

  She looks surprised. “Really?”

  “We talk on the phone,” I say. “Almost every night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She sounds hurt. “It’s so unfair. You and Josie know everything about each other.”

  “Not really,” I say softly.

  “Why haven’t I seen him?”

  I don’t know how to answer. Why is it okay that my parents let me go all the way on the subway and bus to Manhattan and I can’t even stay after school? “I’m going to his place to hang out soon.”

  “Cool.” She seems genuinely excited. I feel bad for how angry I was before. She’s just trying to fit in, like me, in a school that has no place for us. And it is worse for her. She really is on her own there among those girls and boys. She’s more outside than we are.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back at home I get it into my head: I have to see John after school. It’s dumb just to talk on the phone. No wonder Francesca was surprised. So I plan it out: After dinner I hand my mother the sheet about the research paper. Then I explain that I need to spend a few afternoons at the main library in Jamaica. Instead I’ll go home with John. My mother squints as she reads the mimeograph.

  “Don’t you have any friends you can go with? Like Jill?”

  “She’s not in my class.”

  “No one else?”

  “No.”

  My mother sighs. “Okay,” she says. “But you get on that bus before it’s dark.”

  Two days later, when I’m going to John’s, I can’t concentrate in class. I doodle all over my notebook, swirling the word John until it’s covered in loops so no one can make fun of me. I try to catch sight of myself in a window reflection, noticing my secret smile. In dance class I’m so dreamy I find myself on the wrong side of the room from everyone else. “Miss Clarke, care to join us?” Mr. Sloan calls. Johanna glares at me, hands on her hips. We’re starting on a new dance for a special assembly in the spring, and she leads.

  Finally it’s the end of the day and I’m bolting down the front steps. The kids from my neighborhood are streaming the other way.

  “Where are you going?” Lucy calls.

  “To a friend’s house.”

  “Do you have a note?”

  “Yes.” I squirm because it’s for the Jamaica Library. “Sort of.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Not take the bus.”

  “Watch me.”

  And then I saunter off, giddy, to John at the corner. He’s wearing a white shirt and a cardigan with leather buttons. He looks like a miniature Dad.

  We walk down the street, and more kids melt away, shouting, weaving between cars. It’s a funny feeling: I don’t stick out here the same way I do in my neighborhood.

  Most of the houses are smaller and some have a concrete space in front, no grass. Pairs of high-top sneakers twist from the telephone wires. We pass a fried chicken place and a liquor store with a grate covering its windows so you can barely see the bottles inside.

  At one house, a group of girls sits on the stoop. Two younger girls are jumping rope, making a flick-flick sound on the pavement. The older girls flap down cards on the steps.

  “Hey, John,” they call.

  We pause, me stiff. I recognize a few of Tanisha’s friends. “You hanging ove
r here today?” one girl asks me.

  “I am.”

  She gives me the once-over. “How come you live over in that other neighborhood?”

  I shrug. “My parents like it.”

  “Let her go, man,” John says. “She’s okay.”

  The girl waves her hand. “We just kidding.”

  They return to their card game. We stop in a corner store for SweeTarts. The shopkeeper greets John and asks after John’s brother, Ronald, how he’s doing in the army. “We’re praying he’s staying safe,” the man says. I love everything about this place: the light streaking down through the windows, the man slipping an extra packet of gum into John’s hand. And then outside, a few more people wave from steps as we walk. Even with those girls and their questions poking me, I feel good. Here, with these faces that look like me, I can move like I belong.

  * * *

  * * *

  John’s house is a robin’s egg blue, with a tidy yard in the front, rimmed by a metal fence. They have a grate over their door too, with two locks. Once inside, we’re in a small, dark living room; all the furniture is sheathed in plastic. The curtains are drawn and there are porcelain horses gleaming on a shelf, along with pictures of John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr., and Ronald in a uniform, and John when he was young, missing his two front teeth. A Bible sits on a table, a pair of half-glasses resting on top. I flinch. My mom is an atheist and my dad told me he had enough religion growing up, so he was done with it. Josie goes to church; even Francesca dresses up for holidays and attends services. It’s just another way my family makes it harder for me.

  An elderly woman patters down the stairs. A green smock dress drapes around her thin bones. She moves lightly into the room, like a dancer.

  “Hey, Nana.” John puts his book bag on the dining table.

  “You know better than to put that there. And you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “This is Jamila Clarke.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I say.

  She smiles. “You like ginger cookies?”

  When I nod, she goes to the cupboard, shakes some out of a plastic tub, and sets them on a plate for us. “I’m going to listen to my radio show. Nobody listens to radio anymore but I do.” She wags her finger at John. “You go out, you make sure you lock the door. Lady down the street—they walked right into her place and took her knitting bag. What they going to do with that?”

  “I don’t know, Nana.”

  “Boys losing all sense of who they are.”

  And then she goes upstairs. John has a wide grin. “Nana has a lot of opinions.”

  We stare at each other, suddenly awkward. I feel a hot rush in my throat. After all these nights talking on the phone, what do we do? He leads me to the couch, his hand as moist as mine. We lean toward each other and try kissing for a while. It’s better than giving Tres a hug, but not much more. The couch is slippery and hard, for one. And I can’t get rid of the swampy feeling in my stomach. I lied to my parents. I’m not supposed to be here, even if his grandmother did give us ginger cookies.

  But it’s like I’ve passed a test: I’ve kissed my boyfriend in his house. It’s a relief when we go outside on his front stoop. We sit together, knees touching, as he calls out to different kids or grown-ups that pass by. The sun starts tipping behind the buildings. The sky is aluminum gray. I can see another clump of sneakers, twisting on shoelaces.

  “Jamila, best you get going soon,” his grandmother calls from inside the house.

  “Yes, ma’am.” John sits up on the step, hands folded on his lap.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say too.

  “First you come out back and help me.”

  We go through the clapping screen door to the back, where there are flourishing rows of spindly plants—tomatoes in V-shaped stands and squashes plumping under their frilly leaves. Nana wanders in the rows and I help her snap off beans. “These are the last of the season,” she explains, and drops them in a wrinkled paper bag, which she hands to me. “I grow them and everyone on this block says they better than what you get at Key Food.”

  “They are, Nana,” John says.

  I nod, smiling.

  We sit on the back concrete steps, in the waning light, as his nana talks more. Since I never met my grandma Rashida, it’s like I’m sitting next to her, with her ashy legs, her proud garden. I want to linger a little longer but Nana says, “Don’t want it to be late when you get on the bus. Not around here. John, you stay with her until she gets on the bus, you understand?”

  * * *

  * * *

  When I walk in the door, my mom is furious, clinking down silverware and glasses and plates—usually my job. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. The bus was late.”

  “Late? Is that all you have to say?”

  “I told you! I couldn’t help it!”

  “Didn’t I tell you to come right home after the library?”

  “I said I was sorry already! Will you get off my back?”

  My mother tips back, surprised. I’m the good kid. I’m not Karim. But something about strolling down strange streets, holding hands, has given me a new strength. I’m a girl who gets on an evening bus. A girl with a boyfriend and secrets.

  As I head upstairs, my mother asks, “How was your research?”

  Her eyes are trailing up my legs. My mom’s no dummy. She knows when I’m lying. “Okay.”

  “It’s a big library. I hope you found what you needed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, I was out of my mind with worry.”

  I pivot and stare down at her through the banister. “Why do you have to make such a big deal? Why is it so bad for me to hang there? It’s just a place. I think you’re prejudiced too! Just like all the people you complain about!”

  My mother sets both her hands on her waist. “Is that right? Your father works twice as hard as every other engineer at his job so we can live in this neighborhood. This is where we want to raise you. The rent costs a fortune, do you know that?”

  Shaking, I march up the stairs and bang my door shut.

  I hate them. I hate that they fill me with all their grown-up problems.

  I think of all the voices calling to us as we sat on John’s stoop, his grandmother bending in the garden. Even after I hear my father come home, I stay in my room. And when it’s time to come down to eat, I take out the wrinkled bag of beans. It smells of fresh earth and a touch of lavender, Nana’s scent. I crunch down, relish the fresh taste. Then I tuck it away in the back of my desk drawer and go downstairs.

  Fourth period. I’m turning a corner when Tanisha strides toward me. “I saw you yesterday!” I can see her mouth open, but this time, before she has a chance to taunt me, I put up the flats of my hands and push, hard, against her shoulders. Her eyes pop open, showing her spiky lashes. Even as I do it, I’m surprised at how small and compact she is. She stumbles backward into a wall, shocked. It takes a moment for her to gather herself. Then she wipes her mouth and lunges toward me. My bag strap is tugged off my shoulder, my hair yanked. The air blurs as we let a few slaps fly.

  “Oooh!” someone cries.

  “Fight!”

  The next thing I know, I’m being dragged away by strong hands. Mrs. Johnson pulls us down the hall and deposits us in two seats in her office. She slams her door shut with a kick of her high heel.

  “Can you explain what is going on?”

  My heart is skipping so fast I can’t even breathe. “You’ve got to fight her,” Darren had told me. I thought I did what was needed. But the words stay stuck. Outside an announcement drones, the sound muffled. Behind the frosted glass the shapes of secretaries move back and forth. I’d give anything to be out there.

  “We’ll stay here for as long as it takes. You girls need to
work it out.”

  Tanisha’s head lifts. “You always hanging with John!”

  I finger the strap on my bag. “So?”

  “Why John have to go with a white girl?”

  “I’m not white,” I say in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t know what you are.” She adds, “You with all the white kids.”

  Mrs. Johnson makes a bridge of her hands. “Tanisha, why does it matter?”

  She doesn’t answer. I can see her lip quiver, a shiny welling-up in her eyes.

  “Jamila, do you have anything to say? If I understand correctly, you initiated the physical altercation.”

  I shake my head.

  Finally, Tanisha speaks. “Maybe you not white, but you all come here and think you’re better than us.”

  “That’s not true.” But somehow her words make my face burn. Is she right? Didn’t our teachers at our old school always say we were special and smart?

  Mrs. Johnson’s face softens. “You girls probably have more in common than you realize.”

  Neither of us say anything.

  “All right. We’re done. I’ll be contacting your parents.”

  I step into a loud, clanging world—lockers slamming, bells sounding out. My knees are shaky. I have nowhere to hide, nowhere to fit. Later, on the bus, as I make my way down the aisle, I feel all the other girls’ eyes press on me. I can see what some think: I’ve gone over to the other side.

  But then Josie is there, pressing my hand. “It’ll be okay,” she whispers.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Suspended?” my father asks. “How can that be?”

  “It’s just a day.”

  “Suspended?” he repeats. He can’t believe that word, fixed to me. We’re in the living room, my dad on the couch, my mom with her elbows on the arms of the rocking chair, and me twisting in the center of the rug.

  “The assistant principal said you’ve also been giving your social studies teacher some mouth.”