Hope’s head cocks to the side, and I can see her brain calculating whether this day can be salvaged after all. “Well, um, okay.” She freezes and touches her hands to her cheeks. “Wait. Is my mascara all runny?”
She looks like the love child of a raccoon and a Hot Topic employee. “Um.”
She snorts. “That’s a yes. Hold on while I go to the bathroom and fix my face. I think I’ve scared enough Starbucks baristas for the day.”
“I’ll meet you at your car,” I call after her, but first I pop into the office and drop a few words like “emergency” and “dead sister,” because Hope’s already on their watch list.
I still get to Hope’s car before she does. When she emerges from the school building, you can’t even tell she’s been crying, and I don’t know much about how makeup works, but things about her face look different. Like, the black rings are gone, and I definitely think she put powder or something on her nose.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she says as she clicks the key fob to let us in. She’s quiet for a minute, just driving, and then she says, “I remember the first time Janie took me for a Pumpkin Spice Latte. I was eleven, and Janie was all, ‘Don’t tell mom I gave you coffee.’ It seemed like the coolest thing in the world.”
She smiles, and I can see her seeing that moment.
“Oh. I almost forgot.” She switches on the sound system, and some up-tempo hip-hop comes on.
It sounds familiar. “Hamilton?”
“Hamilton. It’s become a crucial part of the PSL-run tradition.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “I’m glad we’re not deviating from the protocol.”
Hope’s smile fades.
“What’s up?”
“Well, if Janie were here, we’d be singing along at the top of our lungs, but it’s not like you know the words, and maybe that wouldn’t be—”
“I know the words.” I make a big show of scoffing. The song “The Schuyler Sisters” comes on. “Well, maybe not every song, but I definitely know all the words for this one.”
She gives me this look, like: Jefferson, please.
“I do! I . . . ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal—’” Hopes eyes shoot wide open, but I keep going, belting all the words, even busting out the correct dance moves before I throw my hand in the air and snap my fingers and yell, “Work.” It’s a totally fierce impression of Angelica Schuyler (you know, if Renée Elise Goldsberry was a seventeen-year-old boy with no discernible musical talent).
Hope’s jaw is on the floor of the car. We may need a doctor to surgically reattach it. And then she starts giggling, and she can barely talk, and there are tears in her eyes again, only this time they’re the good kind.
“Where. Did you learn. The choreography?” she manages to choke out.
I shrug. “Janie made me watch that #Ham4Ham clip just as many times as she made you.”
“Factually impossible, but I’m still impressed.”
I spot the Starbucks, and she pulls into the parking lot and lets the car idle for a bit.
“You know she had a chance to go see it? Like on Broadway and everything? She was in New York visiting a friend, and she totally could have gone, but she was all, ‘No, it’s cool. Hope and I have to see it together the first time because seeing each other’s faces is the best part.’”
“That was really sweet of her,” I say.
“Yeah, except it’s not because now I have to go the rest of my life knowing that she never got to see Hamilton, and it’s all my fault.”
I have no idea at all what to say to that, but luckily Hope doesn’t seem to care. She gets out of the car, and I trail after her to the front door, which she flings open.
In a voice that carries to the far corners of the coffee shop, she announces, “Please tell me you have lattes because if you don’t, I am going to lose all hope in the universe.”
The nearest barista is wearing extra-thick guyliner and a confused expression. “Um. This is a Starbucks.”
“Yeah, well, apparently that doesn’t mean as much as it used to.” She hops in line, grinning now. “Spencer, you have to try one. We can get you some kind of skim-milk, no-whip thing.” Her mouth makes a noise between a sigh and an “oh.” “No whip.” She pauses with her hands clasped together, a moment of silence for my whipped cream. “Well, it’s okay. It’ll be okay as long as it has everything else. Coffee, pumpkin spice, magic.”
“Magic? That’s one of the ingredients?”
She fixes me with a look of utmost seriousness. “You are already on dangerously thin ice with the no-whipped-cream thing. Don’t test me about the magic.”
When we get to the front, she orders a venti for each of us, rattling off specifications for mine. I’ve always appreciated that about her. She might tease me about my diet, but she doesn’t nag me to break it the way other people do. My shoulders let off a chain of tic-shrugs while we’re waiting for our drinks. The new meds have been awesome—I’m definitely not tic-ing as much as I used to—but it would be nice not to feel so exhausted every time I take them. Thank goodness for caffeine. We snag a table by the window, and Hope scrutinizes me as I take my first sip.
“Well?”
“It’s good,” I say. And I’m not lying. Even without all the frills, I get it. “Very . . . seasonal.”
She beams. “Right?” She makes a big show of taking her own first sip. Leans back against her chair, eyes closed and smiling wide. “Mmmm. Fall.”
Complete. That’s how she looks right now.
Her eyes open. “Cinnamon is the most perfect spice ever. Like, I’m pretty sure I could put a stick of cinnamon in my mouth and gnaw on it like beef jerky, and that would be cool.” She takes another sip. “Oh. And in about twenty minutes when the aftertaste kicks in, your mouth is going to taste like cinnamon-flavored vomit.” She shrugs brightly and bumps her cup against mine. “Cheers.”
The prodigal son has come home for fall break. We’re having all of Dean’s favorite foods—fried okra, squash casserole, rib-eye steaks—while he regales us with tales of college. His classes are all great, and he’s keeping fit in the off-season, and he’s figured out which dining hall has the best Saturday-morning pancakes. Oh, but he hasn’t figured out how to do his laundry yet, so does Pam mind doing that while he’s here?
“Of course I don’t. I’ll have everything folded before it’s time to go back to school,” she says, beaming.
“Thanks. I’ve just been studying so much. We’re learning a lot of stuff that’s really different from high school. And, like, the people are really different, too. I’ve never met so many people who are different from me.”
“You’re having fun, too, though, right?” I say.
An observation about Dean’s stories: They’re a little too squeaky-clean.
“Well, sure. It’s college.” He side-eyes Dad before grinning at me.
Oh, yeah. I am definitely going to make him tell me the dirt later.
“Have you met any girls yet?” Jayla asks, her eyes all twinkly and sly.
Hell, yes, my girlfriend is on Team Find-Out-What-Really-Happens-in-College.
“A few.”
“A few,” says Pam.
“Well, I don’t want anything serious. I’m trying to focus on school and baseball.”
“S’good,” Dad grunts around a mouthful of steak. “We don’t want any distractions.”
“Because women are merely distractions and not actual human beings,” says Mimi, rolling her eyes.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Hmph.”
Jayla kicks my foot and smiles at me, like, I love your grandma. And I smile back, like, I know, right?
Dean drains the rest of his drink and makes a big show of stretching. “Pam, can you get me another glass of tea?”
Jayla fixes him with her best withering smirk. “And you can’t do that yourself because . . .?”
Dean pretend-scoffs. “I’m the second-best pitcher
we’ve got. I have to protect my pitching arm.”
“Lifting a tea pitcher is not going to strain you. You can fill up mine while you’re at it.”
She jiggles her cup so the ice rattles against the sides, and to my surprise, he does it. He goes to the kitchen and refills it, and when he comes back, he hands it back to her with a bow and a flourish. She laughs and keeps her chin high like royalty.
I think if Dean found a girl like Jayla, he’d be a whole lot happier. He needs a queen, not a groupie.
“So, what’s new around here?” asks Dean.
“I found a new 113 guy, and he’s killing it. He’s pretty cool.”
Jayla grins. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who would use the word ‘cool’ to describe that kid.”
“Yeah.” I frown. “That’s kind of why he’s my freshman buddy.”
“Only seniors get freshman buddies,” says Dean.
“None of them wanted him. I don’t know. I just, I feel like he could use some extra help, you know?”
“Well, I think that’s wonderful,” says Mimi.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” says Dean, and I’m so surprised I nearly put steak sauce on my squash.
We go over wrestling, other sports, town gossip. It doesn’t take long.
“Hope’s still dating Mikey,” I say.
Mimi clucks her tongue. “I hate to see her with that tattoo boy, don’t you? He looks like he smokes those marijuana cigarettes.”
Dean and I snicker.
“And Ethan comes home from school every weekend to see Bella,” I say.
Dean snorts. “Loser.” Only he says it like a term of endearment. “Wow, it’s crazy how nothing ever really changes around here.”
“Yeah.” And then I remember something did change this year. A big something. “Wait, no, something big changed at school this year.”
“A new brand of tater tots in the cafeteria?”
“No.” I glance around the table. Haven’t mentioned this in front of Dad, and not sure why I’m doing it with Jayla next to me, but here goes: “People aren’t allowed to have rebel flags anymore.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you can’t have them on your clothes or on your car or anything. No Confederate flags anywhere on school grounds.”
Dad’s eyebrows furrow, but his lips stay sealed. Thank goodness.
“It’s about damn time,” says Mimi.
“I can’t believe it finally happened.” Dean looks stunned. Not that I blame him. I was pretty shocked, too, when I found out. When you live in a small town, it’s like life moves more slowly. It’s easy to think nothing will ever change, until BAM, it does, and it gives you hope for all the other changes that might be next. “I mean, good,” he says at last.
Jayla is silent beside me. We’ve talked about the whole thing, but I hope I didn’t make her uncomfortable bringing it up in front of my family.
My dad puts his fork down, and it clatters against his plate.
Oh, crap.
“You know, that’s a Constitutional right they’re taking away.”
No, no, no. Please stop talking.
But he doesn’t. “You should be able to wear whatever you want on your own shirt. That’s freedom of speech.” He sticks some okra in his mouth.
I’m trying to put words together, but Mimi is on him almost before he’s finished speaking. “It’s a public place full of minors, Frank. The administration’s allowed to dictate what people wear while they’re there. It’s important that all the students feel safe.” She nods at Jayla. Who I hope will still want to be my girlfriend by the end of this dinner. I put my hand over hers and squeeze. “Pass the squash casserole.”
Dad snorts. “I don’t see what ‘safety’ has to do with anything.”
“I’m sure you’d take issue with folks wearin’ ‘Death to Whitey’ T-shirts, wouldn’t you?” Mimi says.
“Well, that’s just not the same!” Dad says. “It’s an important part of our southern heritage, and people are trying to erase that. First, they take it off the Georgia flag—”
“Wait a minute. You need to check your history,” says Mimi. “The flag we have now is almost just like the original.”
“But—”
“Come on, Dad,” Dean cuts him off. “There’s no way you believe that ‘heritage’ crap.”
Dad doesn’t respond.
“You really think it’s okay for people to walk around a mixed school wearing reminders that people who looked like us owned other human beings?” Dean goes on. “THAT’S what the flag represents. Even if your Daddy’s Daddy’s Daddy fought in the war, a bumper sticker on your Ford is nothing more than a shout that your family was pro-slavery.”
Dean is at least two feet taller than my dad by the time he stops talking. I wish I had been the one to lay it all out there for Dad like that, and not just because of the way Jayla is looking at Dean right now.
Not to mention, Dean’s looking back.
Dad glances at Jayla, turns eleven shades of red, and starts stammering. “Well, I’m not saying slavery was okay . . . I was just talking about the Constitution. I don’t want any trouble for anyone at the school—”
Pam pats his hand. “We know you’re not a racist, honey. We see everybody the same.”
I feel Jayla stiffen beside me.
Oh boy . . .
“Can I say something?” she says.
“’Course you can, sweetheart,” says Mimi.
“Okay . . .” She looks at me. There’s hesitation in her eyes, but I nod. “I don’t mean you any disrespect, Mr. and Mrs. Barton, but I don’t think racism is that cut and dry. People always think, ‘Oh, this person’s a racist, and that person isn’t, and that’s it. The End.’ But it’s not really that simple, is it? When you’ve grown up in a place where people are treated differently because of their skin color, certain ideas become a part of you, whether you want them to or not. I think the fear of being pegged as a ‘racist’ can actually make people act worse and treat people of color more differently.”
“So true,” Dean says. He winks at Jayla and she blushes. Which is pretty uncharacteristic of her.
Dad and Pam glance at each other. Not sure what that means, but I’m so proud of my girl right now for shutting them up, it’s a struggle not to lean over and kiss her. Assuming she still wants to be kissed by a guy who pretty much sucked at speaking up right now. I have to make sure I do better next time.
“That sounds like something I heard on NPR,” Mimi says, cocking her head to the side.
Jayla smiles. “We might have listened to the same episode.”
Mimi is so aflutter, I think I might have some competition for who at this table is most in love with my girlfriend. Everyone else seems unsure what to do next now that we’ve established that A) my dad may or may not be a racist, but he definitely just said a lot of racist things, and B) Mimi and Jayla will probably be getting mani/pedis together in the very near future.
Dad doesn’t continue arguing, and trust me, he can argue with the best of them. Instead, he quietly eats his okra, which I feel means he’s at least thinking about what we said, even if he isn’t ready to change his mind yet. That’s not nothing.
I don’t know. Sometimes I worry that being from here means I’ll always be three steps behind the rest of the world.
After dinner I walk Jayla to the truck, but stop before I open her door.
“I’m really proud to be your boyfriend,” I say. “If you still want to be my girlfriend?”
She nods like she’s scared her voice won’t work and throws her arms around my neck, and I hold her for a few seconds or maybe a few minutes or maybe eternity.
When I get back from taking Jayla home, I let the truck idle in the driveway for longer than I probably should. Eventually, I force myself to go inside. Pam, Mimi, Dean—they’ve all disappeared, leaving my dad alone at the kitchen table with his phone. Something about the way he pushes it to the side when he sees me lets me know he w
asn’t actually using it. Just waiting.
“Hey, buddy.” I can’t remember the last time he called me that. Heck, I can’t remember the last time we were alone together. He looks supremely uncomfortable right now.
“Hey.”
Did Pam put you up to this? Or was it Mimi?
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says.
I really don’t have the energy or patience to hear whatever his excuses are going to be.
“I do a lot of things wrong. I feel like—like I’m not the dad you’re supposed to have, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”
My breath catches.
“You’ve always been different. Even as a little kid. I don’t know what to do with you half the time, but I want you to know, that’s not your fault.”
“Okay.” I whisper it because my voice isn’t working.
“I’m so very proud of you, son.”
And then he’s hugging me, and I imagine it’s what being boa-constricted feels like, but it feels good, really good, and I am definitely not crying into his flannel shirt.
Before I can fully suffocate, he pulls away. “About tonight. If you and your brother think that this flag rule is such a good idea, then I’ll at least read an article on it. I don’t want to make trouble for you and your girl. Also.” He looks uncharacteristically sheepish. “Your grandmother might have given me a reading list.”
“Um, well, that’s great.” And not at all surprising. “You can talk to me about it, you know. I want us to be able to talk about things.”
He squeezes my shoulder—gently—which means it only kind of feels like a vice.
“Me, too.”
Four things I will never understand: dogs that are smaller than cats; trigonometry; people who don’t like mustard on their hotdogs; bras. I’m running my fingers along the back of Jayla’s lacy, ribbon-y death trap right now, trying to be cool as I search for the clasp. Her shirt is still on and it has some kind of elastic thing that goes all the way around because this definitely needed to be more complicated. I still can’t find the clasp. I give up trying to be suave and run my whole hand back and forth across her bra. It isn’t there. I mean, there is no clasp. WHAT KIND OF SORCERY IS THIS?!
A Taxonomy of Love Page 17