Normally I’d ride my bike, but Ms. Whitman offered to drive us both since she has to fill out paperwork for Edie, so I ride with them. Dad looked relieved that it’s one less thing he has to worry about, since Denise will be here soon and he’s still trying to get her room ready.
The B&B is total chaos when I walk over to wait. The front door is cracked, so I peek my head in. The same NPR show my dad listens to every morning is playing loudly in the front room. “Hello?” I call out over the radio voices when I don’t see anyone.
A loud series of crashes comes echoing out from the kitchen.
“Alberta, is that you?” Ms. Whitman replies over the noise. It sounds like an entire cabinet of dishes just fell to the floor. “We’ll be ready in two minutes! Do you want some water? Orange juice?”
“No, thank you.… Do you need some help?”
“Oh, I’m just fine, honey. Be right there!”
From upstairs, Edie yells down, “Mom, have you seen my black jeans?”
“You just had them on yesterday!” Ms. Whitman yells back.
“No, my other jeans!” Edie cries.
Five minutes later, I’m sitting in the back seat of Ms. Whitman’s car while she verbally checks off all the things that should be in Edie’s bag (tablet, pencils, pens, her new notebook, lunch money). Edie answers with a glazed doughnut stuffed in her mouth. Every time her mother stops at a red light and looks away, she picks up Ms. Whitman’s travel mug and takes the tiniest sip of coffee.
Ewing Beach Middle School isn’t as big as the elementary, with its sprawling front lawn and play area for recess. And it doesn’t have a view of the beach, like the high school. But it’s set up on a hill so you have to take dozens of steps or a long semicircle ramp to get to the top. I think it looks majestic, sitting up on the hill like that. Almost like a castle at the top of a mountain. Except it’s not mysterious like a big stone castle, since the foyer is an atrium made of glass that lets you see everything. And there’s certainly no royalty here.
“You girls go on in and I’ll figure out where to park and meet you inside,” Ms. Whitman says as she gets to the front of the drop-off line.
Edie chews and swallows the last of her doughnut as we walk up the front path toward the stairs. “She is so not equipped for this.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to look back at her mother.
“For trying to raise me and run a business all alone,” she says simply.
“I thought she was a stay-at-home mom all your life?”
“She has been, but she and my dad had this whole system worked out with me and Craig in the mornings.” Edie sighs. “It’s just not the same without him. She even forgot to take a first-day-of-school picture.”
“Oh.” Now I feel bad that I got annoyed when Dad and Elliott made me pose for mine this morning. I thought I was getting too old for it.
“It’s fine,” she says, pulling up that same mask she did the last time we talked about her father.
I don’t know what to say to that, so we are silent as we make our way up the stairs with the rest of the students. I notice people giving Edie double takes. Whenever people stare at me, I think it’s because I look different from most people in town. I hate that feeling—that someone is surprised to see a black person. Like we don’t belong in certain areas just because no one was expecting us.
But I forget that Edie is new. A new kid in school is always exciting around here since not many people move to live in Ewing Beach year-round. Maybe they are looking because Edie is black and they weren’t expecting to see her. But the looks are curious more than anything else. And Edie doesn’t look like anyone else around here, with her dark lipstick, a long-sleeved black dress with a white collar and cuffs, and her black combat boots. (The other black jeans never did turn up this morning.)
Edie acts like she doesn’t even notice people staring at her. She breezes through the doors like she owns the place. My stomach flutters and I feel those jitters settling in, right on time. I hope they don’t turn into a stomachache. How is the new girl more comfortable than I am when she’s only just gotten here?
“Good morning, Alberta,” says a voice to my right. “Welcome back.”
I look over to see Ms. Franklin, the vice principal. She’s standing at the front doors, greeting students as they walk into the atrium. I swear, she’s wearing the same outfit she had on the last day of sixth grade: khaki pants with sharp creases down the front, a blindingly white polo shirt, and—wait. Her shoes are new. Every single day last year, Ms. Franklin wore purple Crocs. Even when it was cool out, she wore them with thick wool socks. But these new Crocs are seafoam green, like the pieces of sea glass I used to collect on the beach.
“Good morning, Ms. Franklin.” I put my hand on Edie’s arm so she’ll stop walking. Ewing Beach Middle School isn’t the kind of place you can go unnoticed. She’ll run into Ms. Franklin nearly every day for the rest of the year. It’s best to get this meeting over with.
But before I can say anything, Ms. Franklin’s eyes light up. “Oh, this must be our new student.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m Edie.”
“It’s so wonderful to have you here, Edie! Are you two cousins?”
Edie’s face twists into a frown that probably matches the one on mine.
“Cousins?” I repeat.
“We just met last week,” Edie says. “I moved in across the street from Alberta.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Ms. Franklin’s face turns a slow and steady pink, like we’re watching the sped-up version of someone’s sunburn. “I must have gotten my information mixed up. Welcome, Edie! We’re happy to have another sea lion in our midst!”
“Sea lion?” Edie mutters when we walk away.
“You didn’t look at the website? The Ewing Beach Middle School sea lions.” I point to the enormous bronze statue of our mascot, perched on its pedestal in the middle of the atrium. Courtesy of some anonymous alum. I don’t really understand donating all that money to make something if you’re not going to say who you are.
She snorts. “What’s the high school mascot? The manatees?”
“No, the manta rays. And the elementary school is the dolphins.”
“Wow. You beach people aren’t playing around.”
We head to the office where the aides are handing out our schedules for the semester. I get in the line for A–G and Edie stands next to me while she waits for her mother.
“I hope we get some classes together,” she says, looking around.
The energy is buzzing more than usual, with everyone reunited after months apart. You can almost tell who’s in what grade just by looking. Even the tall sixth graders can’t pass for older; they look petrified, like they don’t quite know where to stand. I’m so glad to not be one of them this year.
Someone bumps my shoulder and I look over to find Laramie standing in the H–N line next to me. I give her a huge smile, but just as I’m about to open my mouth, I see Nicolette behind her. Of course: Mason and McKee. The lines aren’t separated by grade.
I know Laramie had her outfit picked out way before today, but she and Nicolette could almost be twins. They’re both wearing jeans with the cuffs rolled up, brightly colored flats, and floral button-down shirts. I look down at my cream-colored dress, ankle boots, and denim vest. I guess I didn’t get the memo.
“Back to prison,” Nicolette says, rolling her eyes.
Laramie laughs. Edie looks at them curiously. I smile, but only with my lips pressed together and only so Laramie won’t say anything. Last time I checked, she liked school. She’s really good at math, and at the end of sixth grade, she couldn’t stop talking about how she was being bumped up to pre-algebra this year, even though that class is for eighth graders.
“I hope I get Mr. Simons for homeroom,” Laramie says.
I can’t disagree with that. Mr. Simons is the best teacher here, by far. He wears black high-top Chucks, started the rock-climbing club, and has a social media ac
count just for his three-legged cat, Pepper, who lives with him in an apartment above Rosa’s Tacos. But I think I like him best because he doesn’t treat us like little kids—just people who happen to be younger than him.
Nicolette sighs as their line moves forward. “I’m so jealous he doesn’t teach eighth. Simons is a total pushover.” She looks at Edie. “You nervous?”
Edie stares back at her, eyebrow arched. “What’s there to be nervous about? It’s just school.”
Nicolette sizes her up for a moment, and I hold my breath. I know that look. It’s the one right before she usually says something nasty. She narrows her eyes a bit, but all she says is “I think I like you, new girl.”
What? She’s hated me the entire time she’s known me. She’s talked to Edie twice and already likes her? I will never understand Nicolette McKee.
“Edie!” I hear from across the room, then there’s a muffled, “Excuse me, I just need to get through—yes, could you just…? Oh, thank you. If I could just squeeze by—”
And then Ms. Whitman is standing beside us, looking even more flustered than she did when she dropped us off. “Hi, girls,” she says, smiling at all of us. If she recognizes Nicolette from next door, she doesn’t let on. “Ready, Edie? We need to go sit down with the counselor and vice principal for a few minutes. They said you’ll get your schedule then.”
Edie looks at me as she adjusts the black bag on her shoulder. “Hopefully see you soon,” she says before she walks away with her mother.
I’m standing next to my best friend, but as I watch Laramie laugh at something with Nicolette, it sure doesn’t feel like it.
By the time we all shuffle down to the lunchroom, I could swear I’ve been at school for days instead of hours. I did get Mr. Simons for homeroom, and I don’t even have to switch classes after that because he’s my first-period teacher, too, for English. But I don’t have any morning classes with Laramie or Edie, which made my heart sink down to my toes when we compared schedules. And I was paired with Mikey Jameson in science lab; Mikey is nice enough, but he constantly smells like onions, even after the big hygiene talks we’ve gotten in school the last couple of years.
At least there’s lunch. I scope out the cafeteria for Laramie and Edie before remembering we’re seventh graders now. They’re probably outside. Sixth graders and a few of the kids who sit alone usually eat in the cafeteria, but the outside benches are dominated by eighth graders. And somewhere along the way, they decided to let the seventh graders exist in their presence without too much trouble.
The hot-lunch option is always a gamble when it comes to vegetarian food, but today is grilled cheese, so I get in line. I grab a bottle of water and a cup of fresh fruit before I pay, then head outside.
Sure enough, Laramie is seated at one of the far tables, the ones that sit directly in the sun. I pass groups of eighth graders blanketed in shade, and slide into the seat across from Laramie.
“You survived.” She’s smiling, but I think she’s only half kidding about that survival stuff.
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t add just barely.
It’s not that seventh grade is so bad. At least not yet. We went over the syllabus in each class, and it sounds like we’re going to do some interesting things, like studying cells and reading graphic novels. But it seems like there’s going to be a lot more homework, and I keep thinking how much more fun the interesting things would be if I had Laramie or Edie there with me.
“Edie and I have homeroom and two morning classes together,” Laramie says, as if I don’t remember from when I saw their schedules earlier. It didn’t seem fair, but according to the office, everything is decided by computer. I’m pretty sure they say that just so we won’t complain about how unfair it all is.
“I have to sit next to Mikey—” I begin, but I stop when a black leather bag thumps onto the table next to me. I look up. Edie’s here. And she looks bored.
“I miss literally everything about my old school.” She sighs as she plops down next to me. “No offense. And that lunch line is depressing.”
“The food’s not so bad here.” Laramie nods toward her tray. “The french fries are better than the ones at Shore Burger.”
“Everybody’s french fries are better than Shore Burger’s,” I say, popping one of the cafeteria’s into my mouth.
“I guess I’m just missing Brooklyn.” Edie smooths down the ends of her long, straight hair. “And people keep saying I look like—”
“Hey, it’s Wednesday Addams!” Next to Laramie, Fletcher Thomas straddles the bench, tossing a paper lunch sack on the table. “You guys know each other?”
Edie stares at him.
Fletcher is followed by Jamie Goldstein and Oliver. They plunk their trays down next to us like we do this every day. Laramie looks just as confused as I am. We’ve known them for years, and Oliver is my friend from surfing, but we’ve never eaten lunch together. They always acted like they had Very Important Business to take care of that we couldn’t be a part of.
It doesn’t take long to figure out why they’re here. All three of them are staring at Edie like she’s one of the characters in the superhero comics they’re always passing around.
“Yes, Fletcher,” I say, rolling my eyes as I pick up a triangle of grilled cheese. “Edie’s our friend. And my neighbor. Oliver, you didn’t tell them?”
He shrugs.
“Edie, see?” she says, making eye contact with each of them. “My name is Edie. After Edith Minturn Sedgwick: It Girl, actress, and muse to the late, great Andy Warhol. Stop calling me Wednesday Addams.”
“Who’s Wednesday Addams?” Laramie looks around the table at all of us, puzzled.
“The Addams Family.”
“Oh, those movies?”
Edie nods. “But it was a TV show first. And before that, it was a comic strip that ran in the New Yorker.”
The boys exchange a look. I don’t know what they expected from Edie, but it wasn’t this.
“Wednesday was the daughter who wore all black and told people exactly how she felt. Real original, guys.”
“Fine,” Fletcher says, popping open his water bottle. “We’ll stop calling you Wednesday.”
“To your face,” Jamie mutters under his breath.
I guess they’re staying, though, because Fletcher crams about half his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into his mouth. He’s not even finished chewing when he says, “Are you really from the Bronx?”
Gross. I look down at my fruit cup to get the image of Fletcher’s chewed-up food out of my head.
“What? No!” Edie’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m from Brooklyn.”
Fletcher finally finishes chewing and swallows. “Oh man, I totally thought those were the same place.” He doesn’t even look embarrassed.
“Pro tip: Don’t ever say something like that in New York. Some people would fight you for less.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Fletcher says. Edie stares at his skinny arms.
“Well, California’s the best place on Earth,” Jamie says.
“Yeah, we’ve got everything here,” Oliver chimes in. “The beach, the mountains, the desert, the best sports teams.”
“Please,” Edie says. “The Knicks are the greatest team of all time.”
“You gotta be kidding me!” Oliver whoops.
The guys grill her about everything, from her favorite baseball team (the Mets) to whether she likes In-N-Out or Shake Shack better (“Uh, neither,” she responds, looking truly offended. “My favorite is the burger at Peter Luger”).
Fletcher’s lips are twitching. I think he’s dying to ask who Peter Luger is, but he stuffs the rest of his sandwich in his mouth instead.
“So, how are you liking it here so far?” Laramie asks, stopping the boys’ Q&A session. “I mean, besides the missing Brooklyn part.”
“It’s okay,” Edie says. “Better since I already know you guys. But…”
Fletcher, Jamie, and Oliver take this opportunit
y to absolutely massacre their lunches. I don’t think I’ve ever seen people eat so fast. Not even them. I guess interrogating the new kid takes a lot of energy.
Edie looks at me. “My English teacher thought I was you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Mr. Williams thought you were me?”
“No way,” Laramie says, dragging a fry through her little paper cup of ketchup. “You don’t even look alike.”
“Well, he called me Alberta.” Edie shrugs. “And when I corrected him, he said he thought I’d done something different with my hair.”
“Oh, yeah, that used to happen to me and Alex García,” Oliver says, looking up. “I guess two brown kids with G names was too much for them to keep straight.”
Edie laughs with him, and she doesn’t say anything else about it after that, but I can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of lunch. Just like I can’t stop thinking of earlier, when Ms. Franklin thought we were cousins.
KICKING
I’M STILL FEELING WEIRD WHEN EDIE AND I WALK home from school, but overall, I’d say the day was a success.
Edie is in my math and history classes, and we both chose art as our elective. I have zero classes with Laramie for the first time since she moved here in fourth grade. I know everyone else, of course. It’s not like I’m Edie, who had to meet everyone for the first time today.
But I can’t believe how cool she was. By the end of the day, everyone wanted to talk to her, and I didn’t hear anyone calling her Wednesday Addams in any of our afternoon classes. It was like she’s been here her whole life. Like me.
“Everyone’s so sporty in Ewing Beach,” Edie says as we cross Burton Boulevard. Almost home.
“Not everyone. Laramie’s into comics. And zines.”
She couldn’t stop talking about how she was finally able to take the zine class as an elective. When I saw her after last period, she was so excited about it her cheeks were pink as she talked about brainstorming ideas.
“Yeah, but everyone in my gym class was actually excited that we have to play sports.” Edie shudders. As the B&B comes into sight on the corner, she asks, “Want to come over and read more of the journals?”
The Only Black Girls in Town Page 7