When I was in high school, I didn’t talk to my father, though Mom said he found her email and sent her many messages. If classmates or teachers asked about my parents, I said that I didn’t grow up with my father. It was easier to fall into the stereotype than to explain what happened. I even lied about my father to Aubrey for a long time.
After I left for college, my father contacted me. One Saturday afternoon during my freshman year, my eyes sore from sleeping too little, I saw that he emailed me. He said congratulations on my college acceptance but I should have gone to Harvard. Then he told a story about seeing a childhood friend of mine at Sovereign Centre. The friend asked how I was. My father said I was fine. He said I had no idea how painful it was to pretend that your son was talking to you. He knew Mom lied about him being a bad father, but that wasn’t true. If only I would respond, he would tell me the truth.
I stopped reading and deleted the email. I searched my name online. My email and college came up. I didn’t realize the school listed them publicly. I had them taken down and filtered his emails to spam. But my father continued to email—usually telling me that I was hurting him by not replying—and I still read them.
I chew on the inside of my lip. The occasional gust blows a cool mist through the screen. As I wipe the beading water from my forehead, I say, Heard she had a few bad years after we graduated.
You talking about the B and E?
You know what happened?
Des shakes his head. Heard stories, but hard to tell who’s keeping it real, who’s bullshitting, and who’s talking about something they don’t know nothing about.
Still, never expected it. Never thought she’d stick around for so long. The silence sits for a second. I continue, You see her much?
Not really.
In the rain clouds’ shadow, the leaves and tree trunks darken, fading into each other in the distance. Thunder cracks and sounds like a branch breaking.
Bumped into her at the Publix once, Des says. I was waiting for a sandwich when out the aisle comes Aubrey with the Vanilla Coke. Before I even said a word, she hugged me. It was one of them hugs that you ain’t prepared for so your heads bump and your arms ain’t around her. Then she said she heard my mom got fired. I asked where she heard that and she said she was working part-time in customer service at Palm Coast Data. Said my mom was good. Ain’t deserve it.
They play them games over there, I say. Had my mom working thirty-five hours for the longest.
I’m saying though. But what choice my mom got? No degree. Even if she had one, ain’t nowhere else to work. Des drags on his cigarette long and deep. His eyes droop as he pulls and then open as he holds the smoke in. He continues, She asked how you were. I said you were good. I mean, I ain’t heard from you in a minute.
My fault.
I ain’t tripping over that now. At the time, I made up something about how you was wilding out in Cali. Tried to get her jealous.
That’s cold, Des.
Man you know she ain’t get jealous. She ain’t pay me no mind. Shrugged it off, said she was glad, asked about my mom. When my sandwich came out, she offered to pay. Said she figured money was tight at home since my mom lost her job.
You let her pay?
Hell no I ain’t let her pay, he says. Couldn’t let her know we was broke.
When we were in high school, we wore our best sneakers to school and made up stories about what we did on the weekend. We hoped no one called our bluffs, though we suspected everyone who knew how to listen could tell we were lying.
The only thing we lied about more than money was girls. The first time I lied about Aubrey was the day after I saw her bedroom. I was at track practice. Des and I had just run our fourth 200; he edged me out by the length of his head. When we stepped off the track and onto the grass by the starting line, we walked in circles with our hands on our heads, trying to keep from bending over, hoping to catch our breath and slow our pounding hearts. My dry tongue and throat felt swollen. Des took his tank off and dropped it on the ground.
When we could finally breathe enough to talk, Des asked, What happened with Aubrey?
Nothing, I said.
Nothing? Ain’t you tell me you couldn’t come through because you was kicking it with her? Because you was at her house?
The other sprinters from our heat looked at us, though they were too focused on breathing to say anything. Many of them had already had girlfriends. Those who didn’t said they had hooked up with several girls. I was the only one who had never dated or hooked up with anyone. Several teammates joked I was gay. They all watched intently now, ready to crack.
Ain’t nothing happen, I said. I was tired.
Beyond Des, past the chain-link fence surrounding the school, the distance runners were jogging back. Twig led the shirtless pack. His pale skin contrasted with the untamed greens and browns of the overgrown lot beyond him.
You was tired? said Des. So what? I’m tired right now, but if my girl rolled up, it’d be a different story.
Not practice tired, I said. Sleepy tired. Chilling on her bed and falling asleep tired.
You fell asleep?
My dumb ass fell asleep.
Then Des and the boys cracked on me. Des said I wasn’t a closer. That’s why I lost that heat. Someone else said I had no game. Someone else said I wouldn’t know what to do even if I had game. They cracked on me, calling me gay until the next heat began.
After that day, Des and I didn’t talk about Aubrey for a long time. Then he came to my house to give me a haircut in my bathroom. I sat shirtless on a chair facing the mirror, watching Des behind me. He walked around the room in his tank, rifling through clipper attachments. He plugged them in and they buzzed loudly.
Why you let your hair get so long? he asked.
Ain’t nobody cut my hair right.
Who fucked your head up a couple months ago?
This dude in the Publix strip mall.
That’s because he cut your hair like a white dude, Des said, squatting to look at the back of my head. He seen you and your hair and he ain’t know what to think. Next time someone cuts your hair, you let them know. Tell them, Bitch I’m Coolie.
This nigga said, Bitch I’m Coolie.
Little Coolie boy, Des said, putting on his best Jamaican accent, the t’s turned to k’s, sounding like two glass bottles clinking together.
Des put the clippers to the back of my head. They vibrated as they moved up my scalp. They caught a knot and pulled the hair out. The pain made me cringe.
That hurt? Des asked.
I’m good, I say.
So what happened with old girl yesterday? Seen you and Aubrey talking in the hallway. She was crying.
Hair landed on my shoulders and pricked my skin.
She asked about prom, I said. Told her I couldn’t go because it’s the same night as States.
Twig’s going with his girl. Leaving after his race.
Yeah, but I don’t want to go.
Des’s warm hands brushed the hair off my shoulders. I wondered what he would think of me not going to prom with the only girl he had seen me alone with, what he would say about me at practice.
So you just not going to go? Des said.
I ain’t trying to go with her. We broke up.
Broke up? I ain’t realize y’all were dating.
Wasn’t nothing serious.
But you ain’t tell your boys? That’s cold, Brown.
Des’s hand gripped the back of my head and pushed me forward. I looked at the ground. He pulled out his liner. Its loud buzz gave me a moment to think. I had to keep my story straight. I couldn’t renege on any details.
Man, it ain’t got nothing to do with y’all, I said.
Des’s liner singed the back of my neck and I cringed.
Sit still, he said.
My fault, I said.
You hit?
Been hitting.
And you ain’t tell me?
We wasn’t official or nothing like tha
t, I said. Just fucking. Then we broke it off.
So why she think you want to go to prom with her?
That’s what I’m saying, I said, throwing my hands up and my head back. Des gripped my head again.
Be still, he said.
My fault, I said. So we was in the hallway and she asks what I’m going to wear to prom. Said she was wearing pink. So I say, I’m not going and she says, You got to go. I say I got to go to States, but she ain’t having none of that. Says I’m ruining prom for her. I say I ain’t know she wanted to go together and she goes, Don’t play me, Daniel. You knew I wanted to go.
Did you know? Des asks.
Hell yeah I knew, I said. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. Then she gets mad and starts crying and says I’m ruining everything for her. I try to talk her down but ain’t nothing working. So I walk away.
Left her crying in the hallway, Des said. That’s cold, Brown.
I shake my head. He grips the back of my neck.
Be still.
In time, friends asked about what they heard from Des and I told the same story, inventing details to answer new questions. Eventually, I told the lie so much that it came to feel like a part of my history. After I moved to California, Aubrey became my high school girlfriend, someone whom I dated on and off until I left, at which point we fell out of touch. That was the way with high school girlfriends, people said, even for queer folk.
I wonder if Aubrey told Des the truth, if she talked about me much at all. Maybe if she did, I would know that our impact on each other lasted, that I hadn’t made it up.
I bob my leg up and down like a child waiting for class to end. I look over both shoulders, though no one has come in and nothing has moved. Des shoots me a look and I sit still.
You good?
I’m good, I say. When the next time you seen her?
A couple years ago. Must’ve been just before she moved. We was down at the Lion, doing some drinking. Trying to smell the sea, get into a little bit of trouble, maybe go home with some girls.
Never been to the Lion, I say. Seemed mad cool when we was in high school.
The rain slows to a steady fall and the wind calms. The sky lightens. The tree trunks turn brown and the leaves green again.
Normal beach bar. Sand on the ground. Red-faced white dudes with short hair behind the bar.
All of them wearing flip-flops, I say.
All of us wearing sliders and our girls wearing Chinese slippers. I was pretty buzzed when it happened. Not drunk because I was driving, but I was feeling it. All I remember is Egypt—I tell you I been talking to Egypt? Nothing serious, you know. Got to get my money straight before I settle down. But anyway, she comes running up and she’s yelling something to Tati about something happening by the bar when crazy Brandon rolls up.
Never knew why Aubrey went out with him. Said he was funny but that redneck ain’t never made me laugh.
Man, after his mom died, he wasn’t funny no more.
Mrs. Jacobs died?
Yeah, man. Cancer. Everyone saw it coming. She lived in a pack of Marlboro’s.
Des pulls on his cigarette again, though it’s little more than a tobacco stub burning the yellow filter.
So Brandon’s looking bug-eyed and tweaked out. He’s wearing a Confederate-flag tank and a camo hat and walks up looking like he’s ready to thump. You know Tati, she don’t take shit from nobody and she been hated Brandon. Plus she been getting bougie and acting like she live up north so she seen him wearing the flag and popped off. I was clowning with Earl and J-Boogie so I ain’t notice what was going down. She starts something, but she’s older now so she thinks she’s too good for the shit she starts.
Tell me she ain’t walk away.
She walked away, Des says. Screams in this man’s face and walks away.
Screams? I thought Egypt was the hot-headed one.
Man, who you telling? he says. Why you think I ain’t serious about her?
’Cause you don’t like girls your age.
’Cause she can’t stop yelling at a nigga in public, he says.
The rain lightens to a drizzle and the birds begin to chirp again.
So Egypt jumps in on Tati’s beef and starts getting in Brandon’s ear about how he needs to take the shirt off and how her cousins’ll fuck him up. She takes her earrings off and talks about how she ain’t got no nails on today like she’s about to do something. Gets in his face and calls him a racist cracker. Now, Brandon, Brandon’s crazy and he don’t give a fuck about nothing no more, so he shoves her.
He hit a girl?
I’m saying, Brown, Des says. Brandon don’t give a fuck about nothing no more. So Egypt runs back to us and tells us what Brandon just did when Brandon rolls up. Me, Earl, and J-Boogie step to him, but in the back of my mind I’m thinking, Every last one of these camo-wearing rednecks is about to jump in. Either that or I’m going to have to catch Brandon outside. And I know that crazy motherfucker’s packing because them rednecks got more guns than teeth. So my mind’s running and Egypt’s yelling about how she’s calling her cousins and Brandon says to me, You going to let your girl finish your shit?
Your shit? What’d you do?
I’m saying though, Des says. I ain’t start shit. But I wasn’t about to back down neither. So I look him dead in the eye and I say, We got beef?
The rain stops but water still falls from the leaves. A shower falls from the lone large tree in Des’s backyard, though I can’t see what stirred the branches.
Before anything happens, bouncer rolls up. Says take it outside. Brandon says I ain’t going nowhere. I say we can squash this right here. Brandon squares up like the white boys do. You know, mad slow, looking like he’s in the Matrix. Me, I been doing my UFC thing, hitting the gym hard, and Brandon looking like he ain’t worked out in a minute, so I ain’t worried. Plus I got J-Boogie and Earl with me. J-Boogie ain’t worth shit if we scrapping, but Earl just got out the pen so we was straight. So I start to square up and the bouncer’s trying to get between us and Egypt is yelling and Brandon’s pressing me like he’s about to do something and then that motherfucker calls me a no-good nigger. Now I’m about ready to stomp his ass out when Aubrey comes running out of nowhere.
Where she come from?
Bro, I got no clue. Deadass she pops up out of nowhere. Jess standing off in the corner not doing nothing, but Aubrey, she just slips right between the bouncer and me and Brandon and gets in his face. She’s small and he’s tall so she’s looking up at him when she’s yelling. Goes off like, Who the fuck are you calling a nigger? You know Desmond. He’s better than that.
Man, I remember walking with Aubrey in high school one day, I say. You know, back before we dated. We walking and a fight breaks out between two Black kids younger than us. They’re pushing each other and one of them stumbles into her and hits her Coke out her hand. First thing she says is goddamn niggers. I cut my eye at her and I’m about to say something but before I can, she goes, Not you. Them.
Des turns to look at me and asks, She ever call you a nigger?
No.
All right then.
Des leans back in his chair and I shake my head. He always acts like he knows this world better than me. As the old frustration rushes to my head in the way it does when Mom chastises me for something that happened years ago, I exhale deep and survey the yard. The sun is out now, and the leftover raindrops shine as they fall into murky brown puddles at the base of a lone tree in Des’s backyard.
So Aubrey’s getting in his face, talking about, Act like you got some manners. Can’t nobody take you nowhere. At this point, me, Earl, and J-Boogie are just cracking up, watching this small girl run up on this big dude and dress him down in front of everybody. And then, to top it all off, she made him apologize.
He do it?
Yeah. Said he ain’t been right since his mom died. I ain’t say nothing because I still wanted to beat his ass. Aubrey sent him back to his seat. Then she just started talking to us like n
o one else was there. Asks how we’re doing. We said we were straight and she said she was sorry. Said we shouldn’t have to deal with him. Said I was better than this small-minded town and that I was going places and that she couldn’t wait to see the cars I was going to design. Couldn’t wait to buy one. Couldn’t wait till I got out and didn’t have to deal with this ever again. Then, get this, she fixed Egypt’s hair.
Ain’t no way Egypt let her touch her hair, I say. Ain’t no way Aubrey know what she doing with Black hair.
Deadass, bro, Des says. Ain’t never seen a white girl do Black hair before but she done it like she been doing it her whole life.
I roll my eyes. Then the familiar silence—the one that comes when talking about the dead sends friends deep into their thoughts—settles on the afternoon. Des keeps smoking. We don’t make eye contact.
Even now, all these years after I lied to Des, I don’t know how to tell him the truth. I still worry that I’ll lose whatever little trust of his I have left. Perhaps today is not the day, I think to myself as I crack my knuckles. Then the sun’s light makes me squint. It shines onto the back porch and the mesh screen casts a checkerboard shadow onto Des’s face. He is shaking his head and grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray when he says, Normally, when stuff like that goes down, the whole ride home I’m checking my rearview. Looking for some redneck in a pickup with rebel flags waiting to run up and gun me down. Doesn’t matter how many people are in the car, how much we smoked, I keep looking for that truck. Keep looking for the person who’s going to come out the dark. I keep my hand on my piece the whole way. But this time, I drove home looking ahead. One hand on the wheel, the other out the window, just feeling the night.
Aubrey was special, I say.
You ain’t got to tell me, man, says Des. I thought she was so special you’d drop what you was doing and fly home for the funeral.
Families
A spiny curved back moves through the brush, knocking rain off the leaves. An armadillo. They eat everything. No matter how much metal mesh Mom put up, the armadillos made sure her garden never grew past buds and shoots, strands of green clutching to what little soil they could. Mom screamed the first time she saw one scamper away from her plants, looking so much like this one, which walks to the edge of the wilderness, exposing its long snout and mouselike ears. It peers out at the puddles in Des’s yard then turns its head up to us, as if wondering what we are doing, before ambling back to the woods. Except for its occasional rustle, the day is quiet.
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