The Long Ride

by Marina Budhos

  The loudest boy, Patrick, introduces himself and the others—Ryan, Joe, Bobby. They all mumble their hellos. Just kids. Francesca gives our names too.

  “We seen you around,” Patrick continues. “You especially.” His eyes light on Francesca. She does look glamorous in her glossy boots.

  “Really?” She giggles.

  “Yeah. You live over there?” He’s nodding toward the Cedar Gardens apartments.

  “They do. I’m in the house on the corner.”

  “Oh yeah. Your old man have that convertible?”

  “Yes!”

  The other guys exchange looks. “That’s some car,” one of them remarks, but the way they say it makes me feel wobbly. As if it’s an insult that her father would own such a nice car.

  We chat a little more—one of them works at Patty’s on the weekends. They go to the Catholic school, which is why we don’t know them. They share Almond Joys and Reese’s, and Ryan offers me his denim jacket when he sees I’m shivering. I wear it draped around my shoulders. It smells like boy sweat.

  They tell us about all the pranks they usually do—twisting the swings up in the playground, shaving cream battles. Once they even threw a brick through a garage window. I look at Josie. That’s not a prank.

  “You wanna come up on the roof?” Patrick asks, pointing toward the apartment house at the end of the block.

  “What’s up there?” Francesca has her hips leaned up against a car, ankles crossed, as if this happened all the time.

  “Eggs.” He laughs, pointing to a shopping bag at his feet. “Already got ours.”

  “How do you get inside?”

  “Friend of ours took care of it.”

  In the dark, I can see the whites of their eyes shine. This is a neighborhood I’ve never been to. My parents shrink away from these streets, scold me to avoid them. Once, Karim got beat up by a group of boys when he went to play on their handball courts and that was that. “No need looking for trouble,” my father explained.

  But here they are inviting us, as if it’s nothing. As if we’re already teenagers.

  We all begin walking toward the apartment house. When I turn to Josie, I see she hasn’t moved. “What’s the matter?” I call out.

  “I’m not going.” In her long, old-fashioned skirt and scarf, she looks like a character from Little House on the Prairie.

  “Come on, Josie!” Francesca is happy.

  “I can’t.”

  “She is such a baby,” Francesca mutters.

  My heart turns like a burning rod in my chest.

  “You’re coming, right?” Francesca asks me.

  I want so badly to go with Francesca, to finally feel that we are moving to something new. Wasn’t this what this year was supposed to be about? But when I see Josie, with her soft face, I worry. It might never be the same between us again. She might never forgive me for choosing these boys.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Just for a few minutes. She can’t go by herself. It’ll be fun.”

  “I can’t.”

  She looks so stubborn. Can’t she just bend a little?

  “I’m going home.”

  “Aww, come on,” Patrick calls.

  “Josie!” I say.

  Too late. She’s already gone into the shadows.

  * * *

  * * *

  We go down the block, and duck into an alley on the side of the apartment building. Sure enough, a brick props open the metal door. We all press inside, muffling our laughter as we scramble past a boiler room, through another door, and then up an unlit stairwell. Three steep flights, until the last is a ladder leading to a door in the ceiling. Patrick goes first, using his big shoulder to push open the hatch door.

  On the roof, Queens becomes a twinkling blanket, gray-pink haze softening the edges of the houses. The avenues are melting strands, cars moving like lit beads. I can even see Manhattan in the distance, the swoop of bridges strung across the river. Everyone scatters and oohs and aahs. A wisp of sadness brushes through me; I wonder if I can see all the way to John’s neighborhood.

  “Where you girls go to school?”

  “I’m at Aldrich,” Francesca says.

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the city.”

  “Ooh. Fancy.” Patrick smirks. “Your old man must have money.” Francesca giggles. Now he’s looking at me. “You?”

  “JHS 241.”

  “The school a few blocks away?”

  I hesitate. “No, it’s in South Jamaica.”

  “Whoa. That’s where the black kids go—”

  I flinch. It’s as if we’ve just fallen back on an electric fence. Singed.

  “Hey, don’t say that, stupid,” a boy says. “Her dad—”

  And mine, I want to say. My chest aches. I want to get out of here.

  “Don’t listen to him, man,” Bobby puts in. “He’s not prejudiced.”

  “Seriously,” Patrick insists. “Is that safe? No way my folks would let my sister down there.”

  This is what darkness does. It hides who we are so we hear things we never did before. I see Francesca shrug the talk off. How many other things has she shrugged off, at her school too, with Evan? Is this what it’s going to be, more and more, now that we’re stepping outside Cedar Gardens?

  Patrick begins reaching into the shopping bag, pulling out eggs. We can see the goblin shapes floating down below—capes and shiny astronaut costumes, glow-in-the-dark jack-o’-lanterns that merrily bob. A few eggs arc down. The shapes break apart, shrieking.

  “Your turn!”

  We hesitate. Patrick moves behind Francesca and embraces her, coaxing an egg into her palm. “Come on, you can do it.” She leans her head into his chest, lets him guide her elbow out and over the ledge. A crack and another splatter. Someone curses. The boys laugh. The eggs go flying, more and more, though by now the goblin shapes know to shift to the other side of the street.

  I’m losing track. The boys are tossing and whooping it up. I can’t tell who is who. And where is Francesca? My eyes swerve around. Did others come up through the half door? I hear girls’ voices, gruff as the boys, and they’re dressed in the same way—faded jeans, navy hoods, denim jackets. They talk about girls and boys I don’t know.

  I really want to leave. Shrugging off the jacket, I set it on the ledge and search the wavering dark for Francesca. I can just make out two figures in a corner. Francesca? Then she’s turning and running toward me. I can see how scared she is. I grab her arm.

  As we’re shifting toward the door, I hear someone ask, “You get far?”

  “You know how they are.”

  They.

  I yank her away. Then all I can hear is the clatter of our footsteps down the metal rails.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back at Francesca’s, we sit in her darkened living room, just the two of us. I want to yell at her, but she looks terrible, like a tossed-around doll. Occasionally the doorbell sounds. Teenage voices, kids we no longer want to join.

  When she stops shaking, we go upstairs. I find her mom’s Avon bubble bath, she runs a bath and undresses, leaving her turtleneck and miniskirt and tights in a pile on the floor. She seems small and fragile in the bubbles. After, she puts on a flannel nightgown. Its frilly yoke makes her look young, as if it’s last year again.

  “Will you stay with me?” she whispers. She’s already on her quilt, knees up, heels tucked under.

  “Yes.”

  I call my parents and then lie down beside her, slide an arm around her. She’s all bones and shivering tiredness.

  I hold on, as if we’re one.

  The next day wind and rain are whipping the leaves. No outside recess. I’m still shaken and sad from last night. Josie had been quiet on the bus but I didn’t press her. I wind u
p with Darren across from me at the table in the library. I’m trying to get ahead on my Spanish homework, but he keeps tapping my wrist with his eraser. “How was Halloween?”

  I wince. “Okay. Josie went home early. We hung out and…” I stop.

  “Will you do me a favor?” he whispers.

  “I can try.”

  He inches his chair closer. “Tell me this: Why doesn’t Josie want to go with me?”

  “I told you already. She doesn’t go with boys.”

  “Why?”

  “She just doesn’t.” I add, “She goes to church.” I feel a pang, remembering her in her long skirt last night, walking away from us.

  He makes a sucking noise with his teeth, mashes up his paper into a ball. “She can just give me a chance.”

  “I bet she’d give you more of a chance if you didn’t get into fights.”

  He sits up, outraged. “I don’t start it!”

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t.” But he sags in his chair.

  We sit there, as if we’re old friends. I think about how hard it is for all of us. The other girls over on the other side. Lucy proclaiming things. And maybe Tanisha was right. We do think we’re better than the kids who live in this neighborhood. Isn’t that what the adults have always been telling us? But what about the time Tanisha’s wrist lifted up from her paper, her portrait blooming into view? I could never do that.

  I can’t stop thinking about art class and what happened to the colors. It’s a lot like me and Josie and Francesca. The way we’re seen depends on where we are. In our own neighborhood, we’re just the same trio that everyone knows, three tan and brown girls who melt into each other. But here at JHS 241, Josie goes over to Angela and those other girls on the handball courts. At her private school, Francesca is the fast halfie girl with real curves who gets kissed in a room.

  And me?

  On Halloween night I wanted to transform into someone older. Those boys’ words singed. But I just hid in the dark and let their insults cover me. A hot shame sweeps through me. What am I? I just blend, depending on where I am. Playing it safe.

  Then I notice Darren is eyeing my pile, noticing my novel. “What’s that about?”

  “It’s called The Pearl.”

  “You read the whole book?”

  “Of course!”

  He shakes his head. “What’s it about?”

  When I start to explain the story, he gets really intense. I see a kind of hunger in his eyes. I realize: What I think of as being pushy is just that Darren wants to know, a lot. He’s hungry. Not just for pizza and fries. For other stuff too. To find out what’s in my book. Why Josie won’t go out with him.

  “Here,” I say, and push it toward him. “Take mine.”

  At first he makes a face, as if the book smells. But then he fingers the cover and starts to leaf through the pages. His body goes still. He reads for the rest of the period.

  * * *

  * * *

  After school I’m surprised to find Josie waiting for me on the front steps. That doesn’t happen too much these days. “Sorry about leaving last night,” she says.

  “It’s okay. You did the right thing.”

  “You want to come home with me?”

  Joy surges through me. “Yes!”

  Just like the old days: Mrs. Rivera greeting me, as if I’m a long-lost relative. “Josie, where’ve you been hiding your friend?” she asks. I savor that word, friend. “Remember when you used to dance and do your boots song?”

  “Mom,” Josie groans now. “You’re embarrassing her!”

  Mrs. Rivera gives a little tug on one of Josie’s pigtails. “I embarrass you all the time these days, don’t I?”

  Suddenly, I miss everything about Josie: her mom, teasing us, standing in the kitchen in her housedress, her close-cropped hair. Her soft Jamaican accent that somehow chides too. I miss Josie’s room: the picture of her and her brother, Manuel, on a beach in Puerto Rico when they went to visit her dad’s family; and her huge dollhouse, built by Mr. Rivera in his spare time. Saturdays we’d snip fabric scraps for the curtains or use Mrs. Rivera’s batter and make tiny pancakes for the doll family’s breakfast. And then swallow them down laughing.

  We slide down to the floor and begin rearranging the miniature rooms, whispering vignettes with her family of dolls. It’s like touching a soft part in me I forgot. A groove between us, old and familiar. Though we could never talk about that on the bus or in school. We put on a few records—first The Partridge Family, a show we sometimes watch together. Then Sly and the Family Stone, which Josie borrowed from her brother and makes us feel older.

  As we’re singing along, her mother calls up to us, “Time to start on homework. Jamila, you’re more than welcome to work here.”

  The table is inviting: a waxy cloth with bright fruit designs, two slabs of fresh cake, the molasses taste melting in our mouths. A pitcher of punch tinkles with ice.

  To my surprise, Mrs. Rivera sets out two math textbooks: Josie’s, which is green, and a red one like mine, from the SP program. “Every night Josie does double homework. We’re having Josie keep up with what you do,” Mrs. Rivera says. She adds, “We can thank you for that.”

  “Me?” My voice is a squeak.

  “Josie mentioned how you noticed the difference in your textbooks.”

  I look at her. “You told me you didn’t care about that!”

  Josie blushes. “I know. But you were right.” She wrinkles her nose and bites into her cake. “I am so sick of math!”

  “Too bad,” Mrs. Rivera says, but she’s smiling.

  I’m flooded with happiness, and amazed at the doubled-up textbooks: It reminds me of how Mr. Rivera got into Cedar Gardens, calling and showing up at the rental office, persisting until they gave in. Now I can see why Josie has such a quiet, dogged strength. Strong isn’t about mouthing off. Or picking a fight. It’s about knowing how to make a space for herself, in her own way.

  * * *

  * * *

  That night after dinner, I drag the phone into my room and call John. “What’s up?” He’s happy to hear from me. Especially since I work for Mrs. Johnson three lunchtimes a week and we don’t see each other as much.

  I take a breath. But today it hit me. All that piping up in Mrs. Markowitz’s class isn’t really me. The tough girl. I’m not supposed to copy Karim. He makes me anxious, as if it’s my job to keep up. Part of me doesn’t want to do that. I like slowing things down. Being with Josie and still playing dolls or talking with John on the phone and not kissing. I want to go back and forth. I don’t want to wind up like Francesca, frightened and curled up in a flannel nightgown. I want to be big in a different way, my own way.

  “I know how to get Josie into SP,” I say.

  He laughs. “Miss Fix-It.”

  “You bet.” And I laugh too.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Mrs. Johnson?”

  “Yes?”

  I’m standing in her office, with a stack of flyers warm with new ink. I step closer to her desk. “My friend Josie. She was always in the gifted classes with us. She just—she didn’t do too good on the test.”

  “Well on the test,” she corrects me.

  I flush. All the words are jamming up in my head. “Yeah. But she’s really smart. It’s just she needs to take her time with things. And there’s my friend Darren, he’s—”

  “Slow down, slow down,” she says with a laugh. Today her outfit is all green: crinkly green jacket, pleated pale green skirt, and olive flats so she isn’t so scarily tall. “I know Darren. Too well, I’m afraid.”

  “He’s really smart too.”

  “Smart-mouthed, you mean?” Though her voice is stern, I can see her eyebrows lift with mischief.

  “Can I show you something?”
>
  It feels funny, leading a grown-up. But something has come over me, a quiet, steady part of me I got from Josie. I take her down the corridor to the supply room, which she has to unlock with her jangling keys. “See how they get this one?” I ask, running a finger down the spine of a biology textbook. “And we get another?”

  She nods.

  “How will they ever catch up?”

  “Maybe they won’t.”

  “That isn’t fair!”

  “No,” she says. “A lot of things aren’t fair.”

  I set my hands on my hips. “I think they need another chance.”

  “The testing is out of our hands, Jamila. It’s citywide.”

  “But we took it so long ago! What if they’ve changed? Or what if it was a bad day? What if someone was hungry?”

  “True—”

  “Like with Darren. He lives in some attic somewhere; I bet he doesn’t have any place to study. Maybe you could make some kind of place.”

  Mrs. Johnson goes still.

  “Kids could study together. Kind of buddy up.”

  “I like that! I can put out a sign, Study Club!”

  “No signs. That’s kind of embarrassing. Nothing…” I hesitate.

  “Go ahead. Speak your mind.”

  “Dumb. Or too…corny. Everyone will make fun of it and won’t go.”

  She laughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

  “Just some quiet place. You could even make it a kind of secret. You have to be invited. And they could work together. Help each other. So…” I pause. “They can see each other different. See themselves different.”

  “See themselves differently.” Mrs. Johnson’s head angles to the side. She looks at me a long time, until my forehead starts to sweat. Maybe she’s going to scold me, or tell me again that I’m over the line. But then I see her tight smile.

  “You may be a toughie with fire, Jamila,” she murmurs. “But you’ve got heart.”

  All through the rest of November and into December, I watch Josie and Darren work together, side by side. We use a little room in the library with a big round table that takes up most of the space. Mrs. Johnson warns “No funny stuff” from Darren—meaning no joshing around, no distractions. I think he was so shocked and grateful that he was allowed to be in a room with Josie for a solid fifty-two minutes that he would have laid down on the carpet and recited fractions the entire time. Every few nights I give the report about Josie and Darren over the phone to Francesca, how they’re getting along and how Josie’s pushed far ahead in math. “I knew you’d figure something out!” she says.