I pedal quickly down my street, cross Burton Boulevard after looking both ways, then coast down Ewing Street, where everything in town happens. The air always smells like salt here, but it’s stronger now that I’m closer to the beach. I have to get off my bike after a while and walk it next to me because the sidewalk is too cluttered with tourists to ride. And the street is too cluttered with cars waiting for the tourists who spill out from the sidewalk to mosey along.
Coleman Creamery is in the perfect spot on Ewing Street, sandwiched between Rosa’s Tacos and the surf shop. Three of my favorite places. I lock up my bike on the side of the building since all the racks out front are full. Once the summer’s over, my bike will probably be the only one here.
Instead of a bell, the creamery makes a mooing sound when you walk in. I used to think it was funny when I was little. Dad or Elliott would let me push open the door, and I’d squeal each time as if it were my first visit. It’s so embarrassing now to have a cow sound off every time you open the door. I keep my head down as I walk to the counter.
Laramie Mason is sitting on the stool in front of the cash register, legs swinging back and forth as she licks at her cookies-and-cream-filled waffle cone. I think her legs are at least three times longer than when we finished sixth grade, and that was only a couple of months ago. I don’t understand how she’s getting taller while everything about me is staying the same.
“Hey.” I slide onto the seat next to her. The stools are the old-fashioned kind with red glitter vinyl seats that swivel around.
“Hey!” She bumps me with her shoulder. “I tried to wait for you, but he was almost out of cookies and cream and I was totally craving it today. I had to act fast.”
“It’s okay,” I say, looking behind the counter.
Laramie’s big brother, Leif, is scooping up ice cream. Laramie and her brother are the ones with hippie names, but she’s always teasing me about my family being the real hippies. I guess because we don’t eat meat, and we only use all-natural cleaning products and soap from local companies, and Dad has a compost bin in the backyard. And I don’t think that makes us any more hippie than a lot of people in California, but…
Before I was born, Dad and Elliott lived on an artists commune. They lived and made art with dozens of other painters and sculptors and illustrators. Then Elliott went back to school so he could be a professor, and Dad decided to open an art gallery. The commune is where they met. It’s also where they met my surrogate mother, Denise.
Leif rings up some customers and checks to make sure no one else is waiting. Then he walks over to me with a smile that shows off his perfect white teeth. Laramie complains that everybody thinks Leif is so cute, but it’s a fact. He’s sixteen, and he looks like what people think of when they think of California boys. He is tanned and has floppy golden hair and big, sparkling blue eyes.
“How’s it going, Alberta?” He gives me a high five, even though I think I’m getting too old for high fives from him. Or maybe it’s annoying because I don’t think boys his age high-five girls they think are pretty. “What can I get for you?”
“It’s going good. Can I get a scoop of butter pecan?”
“Got a new flavor in this week,” Leif says. “Key lime pie. Want to try it?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. Just the usual, please.”
“Butter pecan in a sugar cone. Got it,” he says, saluting me.
I’ve always liked Leif because he’s a surfer, like me. He’s on the Ewing Beach High surf team, and sometimes I’ll go with Laramie and her mom to watch his contests. We don’t have a surf team in middle school, but as soon as I get to high school in two years, I’m trying out.
Leif carefully hands me the cone with a small square napkin wrapped around the bottom. “On the house,” he says. He always says that, even though he knows Laramie and I wouldn’t be up here so often if the ice cream weren’t free.
“Thank you.” I smile at him. When he goes to the other end of the counter to help a customer, I turn to Laramie. “A new family is moving into the bed and breakfast.”
“No way.” She takes the first bite of her waffle cone with a hearty crunch. “Someone’s finally moving into the Harris Inn?”
“Yeah, and my dad says they have a daughter our age. They just moved in today. Finally, we’ll have someone our age on my street.”
“Well, technically, you have Nicolette.”
“Nicolette is the worst person I know.”
Laramie laughs. “Come on, Alberta. The worst?”
I stare at her. “Give me one good reason I should like Nicolette McKee.”
“I don’t know. She was just up here, with her brother and nanny. I saw them outside and she said hey.”
“So just because she said hi to you, she’s nice?”
Laramie sighs. “I didn’t say that. I just… She’s not the worst person I know.”
Ugh. I hate when Laramie gets like this. Like she’s forgotten all the terrible things Nicolette has said to me over the years. I wouldn’t forget if someone had said those things to her.
“Well, the new neighbors are black,” I say, getting back to what we’re supposed to be talking about. I don’t want to think about Nicolette.
“Nice,” Laramie says.
Nice? I take a bite of butter pecan and roll the cool cream around in my mouth until it melts on my tongue. I feel like she should be saying more than nice, but I guess I don’t know exactly what I want her to say.
“I think it’s really nice. There definitely aren’t any black people on my street. There are barely any at school.”
“What about Rashawn? And Noah?” Laramie says. She’s counting them off on her fingers, which makes me feel weird.
“You forgot about Deanna,” I say after a few moments.
“Oh. Right. And she’s going into ninth grade.”
“Exactly. She doesn’t even go to our school anymore. Even if she was there, four people isn’t a lot. I’m the only black kid in our grade.”
Laramie looks down at her cone, nodding slowly. “I guess I never thought about it. You’re just you. You’re Alberta. You blend in. I don’t really think about you being black.”
I get that same tight feeling in my stomach, like when she was counting names on her fingers. I want to say that yes, I am Alberta, but part of being Alberta is being black. And I don’t blend in here in Ewing Beach.
That is something else I know for a fact.
But Laramie is my best friend. I don’t think she meant anything by it, and I don’t want to start a fight. She’s been kind of mopey lately.
I change the subject. I ask her what she’s wearing on the first day of school so I won’t accidentally say something that makes me sound as annoyed as I am.
SKINFOLK
WHEN I GET HOME, ELLIOTT IS SITTING ON THE couch with his legs stretched long in front of him. His eyes are closed.
“Hey, Al,” he says when the front door clicks shut. He doesn’t open his eyes.
I sink down next to him. “What if I was someone breaking into the house?”
“First of all, the crime rate in Ewing Beach doesn’t support that theory.” He leans over to kiss me hello. Eyes still closed. “Second, if you were breaking in, you’d quickly find we have nothing worth taking except all that gorgeous artwork. And third, our taste is too abstract for your typical burglar.” He collapses against the couch cushions and sighs as if that explanation exhausted him. “Where ya been?”
“Ice cream and then the surf shop with Laramie.” I think she only suggested the surf shop after our weird conversation in the creamery. We didn’t talk about it anymore, but I’m pretty sure she could tell it was bugging me.
“Sounds like a nice afternoon.” He opens one eye to peer at me. “Want to know what I did today?”
“Yes, please.” I slide off my flip-flops and bring my knees up to my chin.
“Well, I had a discussion with a student that got rather… heated.” Both his eyes are open now.
He sighs. “I appreciate the passion, but it’s a bit early in the semester for all that.”
“What were you so heated about?”
“Kehinde Wiley.” Elliott’s mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “Let’s just say only one of us recognizes the man’s brilliance. How was the last day of surf camp?”
“Fine.” I pause because I feel Elliott’s eyes on me. He looks at me long and hard, the way he always does when he knows I’m not being truthful. “It was fine, but I hate that it’s over.”
Anything feels possible when I’m in the ocean, paddling out to catch a wave. I’ve felt that way ever since my first surfing lesson. I can’t wait to compete, but even if I wasn’t that good, I think I’d still love it.
“There’s always next summer,” Elliott says. “And the one after that, and the one after that…”
“Or there’s still time for me to enter the contest at the festival in Pismo Beach.…”
Elliott shakes his head. “Are you having a birthday between now and then that I don’t know about?”
“But I’ll be thirteen six months after the contest. Can’t you make an exception?”
“Al, I know you’d live in the ocean if you could, but a rule is a rule. Six months will be here before you know it.”
I frown. So will the contest they won’t let me compete in.
“Well…” I pause as if Nicolette will jump out from behind the couch to question what I’m saying. “Irene said I was the best surfer in camp.”
Elliott gives me a fist bump. “I always knew I liked Irene. Great job, Al.”
“Great enough to enter the contest?”
“You can still go surfing, even if camp is over,” he says. “Just no competing. We could head down to the beach on Sunday, if you want. Kick off the school year right and all that.”
I shrug, even though I really just want to stomp off and pout about the fact that I have to wait a whole year to start competing. But I’m pretty sure that won’t convince him I’m mature enough. “Maybe. I’m going down on Saturday for the camp party with Laramie.”
He nudges my shoulder with his. “All right. How about some pizza to celebrate you being the best?”
I give Elliott a grudging smile, but it turns into a real one after a few seconds. He may not get why I want to compete so badly, but he does get why it’s important that I’m one of the best surfers in Ewing Beach.
The pizza comes just before Dad gets home. When I’m cleaning up after dinner, my eyes land on the glass cake stand sitting a few feet down. It’s empty now, but we go to Ewing Street Bakery on the weekends and fill it with all kinds of pastries and doughnuts.
That gives me an idea.
“What if we bring the new neighbors something?”
Dad and Elliott look up from the table where they’re reading on Dad’s phone. Elliott’s eyebrows are scrunched together behind his glasses.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like a cake… or a pie… or… I don’t know. Something that says welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, nodding. “I can pick up something after work tomorrow at the bakery. What about cookies?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Store-bought cookies aren’t very special.”
“What about bakery-bought?”
I shake my head.
Elliott laughs. “Since when? You don’t seem to have a problem with them any other time.”
“I know, but… what if we made something instead?” My eyes slide to Dad.
Because the truth is, I’ve never made a cake or a pie or… anything, really. Elliott knows that. And he’s no help in the kitchen except making sure we keep it organized and sparkling clean. Dad is my only hope here.
He looks at me, scratching under his chin like he’s thinking. His eyes sweep around the kitchen, landing on the bunch of bananas sitting on the counter. We got them at the farmers market last Saturday, but nobody has eaten any yet. They’re spotted with brown marks that are starting to turn black.
“How about banana bread?” he suggests.
“Good idea, Kadeem,” Elliott says. “Who doesn’t like banana bread?”
I nod my approval, too. Mostly because I don’t know how to make anything, but I do like banana bread. I’d be happy if a new neighbor brought us some.
“Sounds like a plan,” Dad says, but he’s distracted. He’s already staring back down at his phone again. I wonder what they’re looking at. They don’t really like us using our phones at the table, even after we’ve eaten.
“Can we bake it tonight?” I prod him. Suddenly all I can think about is making banana bread. Or learning how to make it.
“Sure, as long as the kitchen is cleaned up before bed.”
Elliott looks pleased.
“Deal,” I say.
I only have a few more days to sleep in until school starts, but I get up early the next morning to have breakfast with my dads. Today’s the day we’re meeting the new neighbors.
Dad doesn’t go into the gallery until later. Usually not until it’s been open at least a couple of hours. He has people to take care of things, so sometimes he doesn’t show up until after lunch. But he always gets up early to have breakfast with Elliott before Elliott drives to San Luis Obispo for work. It’s about twenty minutes up the Central Coast from Ewing Beach.
“Well, you’re up early,” Dad says, running a hand over the top of my dreadlocks.
I’ve already poured a bowl of cereal and almond milk. Elliott is making coffee in the French press, wearing his professor clothes: a dark button-down shirt, dress shoes, and khaki pants. I couldn’t believe it when I first saw pictures of him and Dad from the commune. There’s one of Elliott standing in a field wearing a pair of bright red overalls with a black plastic rose in the front pocket.
“Don’t you think we should go meet the neighbors this morning? They might be busy in the afternoon.” I shovel a spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth.
Dad peers at the banana bread. We wrapped it up in plastic last night after it cooled. “Mmm-mmm-mmm, this sure would be good with a cup of coffee,” he says.
“Dad.”
“I kid, Alberta. But we’ll wrap it up nice for them before we take it over. Make it look like more of a gift.”
I don’t know how he’s planning to do that, but Dad is good at making things look fancy and nice, so I just nod.
Elliott sits down with a plate of avocado toast. “You two seem awfully invested in these new neighbors. Do you know something about them that I don’t? Are they superheroes? A family of mind readers?”
“They’re black,” I say. And I think that should be enough of an explanation, but Elliott still looks confused.
“Just because they’re black doesn’t mean they’re going to be our new best friends,” he says slowly. “We don’t know anything about them.”
“But…” I don’t want to have another weird conversation about being black. Not that it would be the same as when I was talking to Laramie, but sometimes Elliott and Dad disagree when they talk about race. I always feel like I have to choose sides, even though I thought we were all on the same team.
“Go on, Al,” Elliott encourages.
“Well, when we go to parties and bonfires, you and Dad always go up to the black people first. Sometimes you spend almost the whole night talking to them. Or if you see black people you don’t even know when we’re downtown, you nod at them. Like you’re already friends. Isn’t this sort of like that?”
“Huh.” Elliott drinks his coffee. “I see what you mean. But I don’t want you putting expectations on people. We might have more in common with, say, the McKees than the new neighbors.”
I make a face into my cereal. Bad example. We have absolutely nothing in common with the McKees and Elliott knows it.
Dad comes up behind him and slides a hand onto his shoulder. “I think what your dear father is trying to say is that all our skinfolk ain’t kinfolk.”
“What?”
Elliot
t’s hand reaches up to meet Dad’s and squeezes. “Yes, exactly. Just because we’re black and the new neighbors are black doesn’t mean we have the same values or interests.”
“But,” Dad adds, “it’s always a good idea to reach out to your skinfolk. Especially when they’re new in the community. And especially when there are barely any of us here in the first place.”
Elliott frowns a little. “Well, there are more of us now than there ever have been. It could always be worse.”
“All of us combined are less than 0.5 percent of the population,” Dad says, looking at him. “We can still count the number of families on two hands. Yes, it could be worse, but not much.”
Dad and Elliott don’t look angry when they argue. They never raise their voices—at least not around me—but they don’t hide that they’re disagreeing. “Nothing wrong with a little healthy discourse,” Elliott always says, and Dad always says that just means he likes to argue. But he usually smiles or hugs him or kisses him by his ear when he says that. And Elliott always smiles and hugs and kisses him back.
“Okay, okay.” Elliott holds up his hands like he’s been defeated. “I expect a full report on our new best friends at dinner tonight.”
I slurp up the last of my cereal. After I rinse and put my bowl in the dishwasher, Dad pours more coffee in his mug and says, “Want to help me wrap up this loaf?”
We carefully unpeel the plastic and set the bread on a piece of waxed paper. My father trims one end of the paper with kitchen shears, making a sharp, straight line the whole way down. Then I help him neatly fold the sides over, and we wrap the loaf in another sheet of waxed paper and tie it with a piece of twine from the spool in the kitchen junk drawer.
“Perfect,” he says, admiring our work.
It does look really good. I hope the new neighbors like it.
The Only Black Girls in Town Page 2