The Long Ride

by Marina Budhos

  “Oh, darling,” he says. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s hurt.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know. I said…stupid things to him.”

  He leans back on the bench and considers this.

  “You lose your temper?”

  I nod.

  “This whole business was hard on everyone. Those two good boys…” He pats my knee. “You see that cliff there?”

  I look over at a rise of ground, north of us.

  “Not far away from here is a place called Lamont Earth Observatory. Did you know I came all the way from Barbados to work for a professor who is part of that place?”

  “No.”

  “This man and the men he worked with came up with something new for geology. They call it plate tectonics.”

  “Daddy! What’s that got to do—”

  “Hush.” He pats the seat. “It’s a theory that underneath all this rock and land and rivers that we see, there are plates. That’s what everything rests on. Now, these plates have continued to drift for millions of years. Every time a plate bangs up and smashes against another, we get an earthquake. Or sometimes we get something like the Himalayas. That’s just a piece of Africa that broke off and smashed into Asia.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “That’s what everyone said. When these scientists proposed their theory, everyone said no.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Over time, people began to change how they saw things. Just three years ago, my professor published an article. Even though people had been talking about plate tectonics for decades, the scientific community finally accepted it. They realized it explained so much. Not just the little things going on in one region. But all over. My little island, that’s where the Caribbean and Atlantic plates collided.

  “Even these cliffs right here. When the earth was made up of just one continent and began to pull apart, hot magma thrust up here and then cooled.” He laughs. “This theory is a kind of revolution.”

  I swing my foot. Interesting, but I have no idea why he’s telling me this.

  “Sometimes we get so caught up in the little things that are happening to us, maybe we don’t understand there’s something bigger at play. Bigger forces.”

  “Like my school?”

  “They use a lot of big words. Integration. Social change. Justice. We’re asking you kids to take on all these big things that we adults can’t get right.” He sighs. “We’re just people. Stones, pebbles. Caught up in something bigger.”

  “Like tectonics.”

  “Yes. But not just the actual forces shifting around us.” He taps the side of his head. “It’s our capacity to see it. To allow ourselves a new way of seeing. That’s the real revolution. How we see and think so we can look at something anew.”

  It takes a while for my father’s words to settle. I can imagine him as a boy, hiking the jagged rocks of his island. Daddy reminds me of my art teacher, making us see differently. What they both say makes a kind of sense.

  “Weren’t you scared?” I ask.

  “When?”

  “When you met Mom’s parents? Grandpa Joe?”

  “Darling, there were so many other things I was scared of. Leaving my village. I had never been on an airplane before! And when I landed here, I didn’t know if they could understand me! I asked where the lift was and they gave me a look like I was mad.

  “When it came time to face your mother’s family—” He shrugs. “After supper, your mother wanted to take a walk. Show me the ice-cream shop and her elementary school. So we did.” He chuckles. “And we held hands, like we always do. I can’t tell you the number of stares. One man, he slowed down his car and he said, ‘You don’t do that! That’s against the law!’ ”

  “How can you laugh about it?” I cry.

  “What was I supposed to do? Throw a rock? Whatever I would say would not change that man’s mind. What I could do was live my life with my wife. Believe things change in the long run.”

  “In social studies I learned about a court case.”

  “Glad to hear you’re learning something in that school.”

  “I heard that it was illegal for you and Mom to marry in a bunch of states. Until 1967!”

  He nods. “That’s true.”

  “But that’s like, five years ago!”

  “I know.”

  I pause. “Am I illegal?”

  He grins. “No, darling. You are the future.”

  We go silent. It’s peaceful here, a wall of solid carved rock below us, a rusty barge slowly plying the water. I can imagine the icebergs carving the slow-moving river in front of us. Seeing this way—the deeper and longer structure of the world—I understand why my father stays so calm.

  “I can’t be brave like you,” I say in a quiet voice.

  “You are brave, Jamila. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “I’m not!” And then I sob.

  Daddy hugs me tight. I bury my face in his shoulder, keep crying. For all that crossing over, day after day. That bus. The exhausting things me and Josie and Francesca put up with. The weird questions in kindergarten. Eyes gliding over us at the lunch table. The shame I feel around John, knowing that having a white mother has spared me in ways he’s not.

  We aren’t heroes. We’re us, in between.

  I wipe my face on my sleeve.

  “You know,” he says, draping his arm around the back of the bench, “it’s a lot easier to be on one side or the other. It’s harder to be in the middle. People don’t like the middle. That’s the bravest thing of all.”

  In May everything speeds up at school. I throw myself into electing Johanna. If Josie can mouth off to Darren, I can do the same for Johanna, in a good way. During lunchtime I drop flyers on people’s laps. Vote for Johanna, they say. She Gets Things Done! Lucy rolls her eyes. The twins, Lonnie and Ronnie, ask all kinds of questions, like “Can’t we dissect something more than fetal pigs?” and “What about new warming lamps and a greenhouse?”

  “She’s just a student,” I say. “I don’t think she can do anything about that.”

  And I finally do a research project for Mrs. Markowitz, for real. While my mom shops on Jamaica Avenue on a Saturday, I go to the local history room at the library and pull out old metal flats, poring over city maps and pamphlets. I decide to write about the trolley line that ran all the way from the north to the south of the borough, down to the Rockaways, where people dipped their feet in the coarse sand, or ate ice cream under striped awnings. There were tracks and routes connecting us in some way. Not splitting us up. I even make a funny cartoon about it, with a girl sitting cross-legged on the trolley roof, waving.

  When I give Mrs. Markowitz my report, she brightens. “I’ve got something for you.”

  She slides open her drawer and hands me my Objective-Subjective notebook. Seeing the cartoons of her and the little angry comments beneath, it feels familiar, but also, from so long ago. I’m annoyed at that girl who wrote this. She was angry and that was all.

  The third week in May, after everybody votes, Mrs. Johnson calls me and Johanna into her office. She points to a board where she’s tallied the results. Johanna has won—by a lot.

  For the first time, I see Johanna lose her cool. She drops her bag, jumps and squeals. She even bends down to kiss my cheek.

  “Is that a thank-you?” I ask.

  “It sure is!”

  After the election, Johanna is even more conceited, sailing down the hall, waving to other kids as if she’s in some motorcade. I don’t mind as much as before. She kind of deserves it, and who didn’t think Johanna would go far in life? Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and discover she’s running the school.

  I wish the long ride would get easier. But every time we’re on that bus, something scrapes me inside. Especially if I spot J
ohn in the yard. And then one afternoon I am dawdling on the steps with Johanna when he comes right up to me.

  “Where you get those?” he asks, pointing to my new sneakers. Josie and Francesca and Jill have written on the white rubber part, their inky letters curling around the edges.

  “Jamaica Avenue.”

  “They’re cool.”

  “Thanks.”

  We look at each other. The place in my heart is too tender for words.

  “See you,” he finally says, and walks off, with a bashful wave.

  Johanna shifts closer. “Don’t worry. He’s not going with anyone.” She adds, “Not even Tanisha.”

  I swallow. “Who cares.”

  Johanna says, “No, really. He’s a good guy.”

  “I guess.”

  Inside, I think: He’s just John, with the sweet smile. Not a boy who is mine.

  * * *

  * * *

  In June the principal announces we’re having a seventh grade Moving On ceremony, where they’ll give out awards. No one understands why seventh graders need a ceremony. We sit in the sweat-slick seats, twisting and fanning ourselves with programs, listening to Mr. Stotter talk about what a great experiment we are and to keep fighting the good fight. Tanisha wins the best art award, and when she takes it from Mrs. Johnson she stops, blinking as if she’s going to cry. Ronnie and Lonnie share the science award, of course; their faces wrinkle into smiles.

  It’s time for our dance number—Johanna is supposed to lead in the very front, the rest of us in formation in the back. Then I notice Johanna in a corner of the stage wing. She’s leaning over and breathing hard. I go over. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m scared.” She takes a gulp of air. “I didn’t know I’d be scared.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. She’s trembling. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “You’ll do great.”

  She gives me a weak smile. “It’s just Mr. Sloan. All of them. They put so much pressure on me.”

  “We’re right behind you. Just look over.”

  The lights dim. We scurry onto the stage and the theme song to Mission: Impossible starts to play. Johanna thrusts her arms high, though every now and then she glances at me. I nod. I even sway into the music, do a decent sashay. When the curtains sweep shut, I rush over and put my arms around her. I feel Johanna’s sweat and trembling, how small and big she is too.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next day, I get why we had our ceremony.

  I’m working in Mrs. Johnson’s office when she hands me a mimeograph. “Make enough for all the kids,” she says, her voice tight.

  “All?”

  “Yes.”

  I begin to read.

  Dear Parents,

  I wish to inform you that the district plan to send students to JHS 241 has been discontinued. I know this may be a disappointment for some and that many of you may worry that the disruption will affect the continuity of your child’s education. Please know that all efforts are being made to make this as smooth a transition as possible. The junior high that our bused students were originally zoned for is being refurbished this summer to welcome them back.

  This year at JHS 241 has been one of enormous change and educational innovation. Our staff has done an outstanding job. It has been my honor to serve your children and see how they have grown and progressed. The friendships that were forged and the life lessons learned within these walls will stay with our students forever.

  Yours,

  James Stotter

  Principal

  I blink, stunned, the purple-blue print swims before me. I’m not even sure why I’m upset. We get to go back to a school in our neighborhood. No more long bus rides, no more hours scooped out of my day. But finally everything is a little bit better. Darren. Johanna. The study club. It’s not perfect, but I’ve found a way to be on both sides somehow. I think: John. I’ll never walk down his block with him in the June sun, as if it’s no big deal.

  I hear Mrs. Johnson behind me. She clears her throat. “I guess I won’t be seeing you after this June,” she says gently.

  I nod, my face hot. “Why did they give up so fast?”

  “These plans are hard to pull off. And not everyone was on board.” She adds, “I will be keeping an eye on you, though.”

  “But I’ll be at a different school! Far away!”

  “I have my ways.” She sets her hand on my shoulder. I lean toward her a moment, grateful. For the first time, I feel as if an adult here is talking to me, just me, and not as someone to live up to big lofty words and ideas that are so hard to reach.

  “Go on,” she whispers. “Let’s get those letters done.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At dinner that night my mother explains that she’s learned that, because of the complaints, protests, and the petition, a decision was made by the district that the new school “was not benefiting the children.”

  Karim scowls as he cuts into his meat. But he doesn’t say much.

  The next day, everyone is buzzing about the news. At lunch Darren uses his lunch tray to point at me and Josie. “No more stuck-up girls. What am I going to do without you bossing me around?”

  “I don’t know!” I laugh.

  He makes a face. “Guess I still got Johanna telling me what to do.”

  I find Ronnie and Lonnie and Jill sitting in glum silence, picking at their food. Josie looks upset.

  “I told you it wouldn’t last,” Lucy declares. “The busing plan was a bad idea.”

  Josie and I glance at each other. Then I lean toward the center of the table. “Says who?” I ask.

  Lucy reddens. “Just about everybody!”

  “And who’s everybody?”

  “My parents and all the other parents and—” She waves her hand at our table, over the whole lunchroom. “Them too!”

  I wince at them. But that word, like a lot of words, I have to swallow, and move on. Don’t let the little things hurt. But the heat boils up inside, and I get up and stand over Lucy, fists at my sides.

  “Jamila—” Josie warns.

  “You know what?” I say. “You’re wrong. Maybe this didn’t work out, but you…”

  “Yes?” she taunts. She’s waiting for me to curse or say something bad.

  “You’re not the future!”

  Lucy’s mouth opens and shuts. “I don’t even know what that means!”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s the point.”

  And I walk away.

  * * *

  * * *

  The last day, after I’ve emptied my locker, I come upon Miss Griffith taking down posters outside the gym. “Hey, hon, you okay?”

  “It’s so unreal.”

  “I know.” She shakes her head, her big hoop earrings swinging against her neck. “Dreams are unreal.”

  Then she gives me one of her hugs, only this time she takes a little bit longer, so her smoky-sweet scent lingers.

  We all tumble down the steps into the blazing sunlight, talking and arguing. Nobody wants the time to really end. Then I see John striding toward me. That old butterfly feeling flutters inside.

  “So maybe we can visit,” he says.

  My face lights up. “Yes! We can go to Jamaica Avenue. My mom says—”

  “John!”

  It’s Tanisha. She grins at me. “Y’all back together again?”

  We look at each other.

  “Don’t know,” we say at the same time.

  Then we laugh. Belly laughs, like when we used to talk on the phone.

  The bus driver presses on the horn.

  “Up and at ’em, ladies and gentlemen!” Mrs. Johnson yells.

  We straggle into the hot bus, groaning under our heavy backpacks, all the extra papers and projects st
uffed under our arms.

  The bus grinds away. We watch the building grow smaller. I can make out Darren, trying out handsprings for a bunch of other kids. I can hear Jill sniffling behind me. She’s lost the twins, her best friends. And me and Josie are returning to our own neighborhood, bad and good. And then I’m crying, more than I ever thought I would, as we turn a corner and the school disappears.

  We agree to wear halter tops, all three of us, though our moms make us put on cardigans. “It’s air-conditioned in the bus,” Josie’s mother says, but that’s not the real reason. We know she doesn’t want us showing off too much skin.

  We pick up Francesca last. It’s different in her house: now the parquet floor is stripped of rugs, fewer pretty vases and lamps. And her mother is up early, making breakfast for Francesca. She’s different—blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, no makeup. She looks both younger and older.

  “You guys want eggs?” she asks. Francesca says her mom started a new job in the city—working at a modeling agency, on the office side. On weekends Francesca crawls into her mom’s bed and they sleep in and then make breakfast. Francesca sees her dad in the city on Sundays.

  “Sure.”

  We sit down, dipping our buttery toast in the egg yolks. We all agree that Francesca’s mom makes better eggs than at Patty’s, though we miss the comic books.

  “Francesca, you have enough money for today?” Mrs. George asks.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “And you’ll call once you get there?”

  “I said I would!”

  “Good.” She smiles and kisses the top of Francesca’s hair. Francesca leans against her mother, their arms draped around each other. They look almost like sisters.

  Then we’re out the door, walking through Cedar Gardens. Kids are playing Red Light, Green Light in a courtyard, thumping balls over in the playground. A cluster of boys do wheelies down the road. They seem so young, free.

  We stand at the corner, waiting. When the city bus comes roaring up, we drop our tokens in, listen to them twirl down the chute. An old lady with a shopping cart eyes us and smiles. “You going far?”