Chasing Tail Lights

by Patrick Jones

"You're Christy, right?" he says, sticking out his left hand. He leaves it hanging even though my hands remain by my side. His fingers have a couple of silver rings to match the small loops in his earlobes. "I'm Terrell, but you can call me Terrell."

  I giggle, a schoolgirl giggle, which is okay. No matter what Anne or my ankle tattoo tells us, that's what we still are. I finally put my hand in his, overcoming the impulse to avoid skin contact with strangers. "Do you work here?" I ask, then quickly put my hand over my mouth.

  He gives my hand a nice old school handshake. He didn't try to do some thugabe shake like most kids at school. Looking at his black jeans, green Converse All Star Hi-tops, and Bob Mar-ley red-green-yellow on black T-shirt, I know from the get-go Terrell maybe isn't one to do things like other people, white, black, or tan. I don't like strangers touching me, but the press of his skin doesn't feel as odd as I imagined, even if he seems wonderfully weird.

  "In art and music, but I can't paint or sing, only take pictures. How funny is that?" His arms are like windmills when he talks, and his words energize me. "You a shelver too?"

  I just nod my head; I'm too embarrassed to speak.

  "Everybody starts someplace," he says, then pulls up the empty book truck I was about to fill and sits on it. "Remember: even a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step."

  "I guess," I mumble, as I've gone from intrigued to afraid in a matter of seconds. I just don't know how to respond to boys. I guess because I don't have any idea of how they want me to respond. I assume leaving them alone is the response that suits them and me best.

  "Do you know where I read that piece of wisdom that inspires me every day?" he asks. I shake my head from side to side, no doubt he can hear the rocks rattle around in there. "From a fortune cookie. How weird is that?"

  "That's pretty strange," I say, guessing that agreeing works well with most boys.

  "Where do you go to school? Central?" he asks, pointing in the direction of the school, which is across the library's parking lot.

  "I'm a senior at Southwestern," I say, in a tone suggesting pride and surprise. My mouth is dry, my stomach is twisted, and I'm biting into the groove on my lip. I want Terrell just to walk away now; he's had his fun showing off for me, but it's time for me to be invisible again.

  "I go to Summit," he says, and I grin inside. I see Summit School every day with my view from the bridge. "I'm a senior too. So I guess we're both senior citizens."

  I laugh, half from nervousness and half not. "Do you like it there?"

  "I'll like it better when I graduate, and exit from Flint," he says.

  I'm trying not to look at him, but it's hard to control my eyes. "Where are you going to college?" I ask. I know, unlike at Southwestern, every kid at Summit ends up in college.

  "It's down to two: Kenyon or Oberlin," he says. I nod like I know what language he's speaking.

  "How about you?"

  "I'll probably go there," I say, pointing in the direction of University of Michigan-Flint, not that I've dreamed about it or planned for it for one second. The school counselors are off-limits, and there's no getting help at home from Mama. Only Ms. Chapman seems to care if I go to college. She's always dropping hints for Central Michigan, about fifty miles north of Flint.

  "Really?" He's fidgeting with his glasses, and in doing so, making me more nervous.

  "No good?" I ask, desperate for advice from anyone, even a stranger. Yet, there's a vibe between us. He's both a little strange and interested in me, which is even stranger still.

  "I think of Flint as the land of opportunity," he says, then snaps his fingers. He's trying too hard to act cool. "And at the first opportunity, I'm getting the hell out of it!"

  "That's funny!" I wish my bottom lip wasn't so chewed, so I could smile without pain.

  "No, it's actually quite sad," he says, nervously thumbing a book he's lifted from the shelving truck. He's looking now at the book, not at me. "Where do you live?"

  "Stone, off Fenton Road," I say. If he can't tell by how poorly I'm dressed, then my Stone Street address shouts out I'm not from the Miller Road mansions.

  "I used to live in the north end, but we got out," Terrell says, and his gray eyes are magnets now. I know I'm staring at him, but I can't break free.

  "Me too," I whisper, trying not to remember how we moved two or three times a year even when Daddy was alive. It was only just before he died that we settled south on Fenton Road and I finally started getting good grades. I guess you need security to find your true self.

  "What are you going to study in college?" I ask, deflecting any more questions at me.

  "Guess!" he says, snapping his fingers once more, then putting his palms faceup.

  "Theater," I say, since he reminds me of Glen, or maybe it's just how I'm reacting that reminds me of how I reacted to Glen the first time I saw him. A rare good memory that lives on.

  "Wrong answer!" he says, then makes a loud buzzing sound. "Want to guess again?"

  "Poetry?" I say, even though I'm not even sure if you can major in poetry in college.

  "Zero for two," he says, then glances at his watch, which is a lot fancier than mine.

  "I don't really know what—"

  "Last chance." Terrell stands up from the book truck, so we're eye to eye.

  I don't know what to do: I get the feeling anything I guess is going to be wrong. He probably doesn't plan to go to college; he's just having his fun picking on the new girl. He'll tell his friends back at Summit about the skinny ugly girl from Southwestern who couldn't even guess what he was going to study in college, but couldn't stop studying him. Like these books demanding my attention, I'll be an entertaining story to be brought out, enjoyed, and put back on the shelf. "How about literature?" I say in a perfect library whisper.

  He shakes his head slowly from side to side. The small silver hoop earring in his left ear seems to shine bright and beautiful as it reflects the ugly neon glow of the lights in the sorting room. "Christy, I'm afraid that's also incorrect, but a nice try," he says, then reaches out his hand once more to shake mine. His fingers seem longer, his skin softer, and his touch lingers.

  "What is it, then?" I ask, as he pulls his hand away, then walks toward the door.

  "Next time, next time," he says over his shoulder as he picks up a black leather biker jacket from the staff coat rack, then heads out of my day and joins Glen in my book of dreams.

  seventh grade, november

  "Please just look at me."

  My eyes and unspoken words shout at Glen Thompson over the smashing sounds of music filling the crepe-paper-decorated Mc-Kinley Middle School gym. I'm straining to see him in theflashes of dark and light. I never thought, in the darkness of my life, that I'd dream about a boy like Glen. There's something about him; it's his gentleness of spirit that I don't feel at home or experience at school. It's not one thing he said or anything in particular that he's done; it's just who he is. Everything about him tells me he is kind, caring, even compassionate. Daydreaming about Glen, and planning a way for him to notice me, help get me through the long, lonely hours of my day.

  Even though I can't and won't dance, I came back to school tonight to the Fall Dance because I guessed he would be here. Tonight is like any other day at school. I'm on the outskirts watching him. All year, I've seen Glen at school do what he's doing now: making rounds. He goes up to a group, boys or girls, black or white, and with nothing more than a look, he'll find himself on the inside. It's like magic, but I don't know the secret words to say to him.

  "Please, look at me," I whisper again. Yet I could shout the words and no one would hear over the pounding bass that mirrors the sound and sensation in my chest as I stare at Glen. I've yet to speak to him, but I've watched him every day this year. Since I'm not chained down by a group of friends like he is, I can come and go easily and unnoticed. I want to see his smile, which is wide and bright, and always sincere. I don't think he could smirk ifyou paid him, not that he needs the money. He's
one of those Miller Road mansion types.

  "Please, look at me, "Isay again to no one, since I'm sitting alone at one of the tables. I walked over to the dance with some girls who live on my street. I know they hang with me mainly so they can stop by the house to purchase product from Robert. They ditched me, or was it the other way around, as soon as we got here. They're all made up and ready to hook up, while I'm buried in a big black sweatshirt and wanting only one human touch. I normally try not to sit alone at lunch or school functions because that attracts just as much attention, especially from school counselors. Since I don't say much to anyone, lean sit with most anyone at school.

  Glen's talking with some of the other artsy kids at school, and it looks like they're getting ready to leave. Glen's not super popular, because he's not a jock or a thug, but there's always a crowd around him, like he's some sort of magnet. All these people must have something that pulls them toward Glen, but then they must offer him something in return.

  "Please, look at me," I say to myself as I follow him and the others out the back door of the gym, remain invisible as they walk over toward a Dumpster near the cafeteria, then disappear behind it. Seconds later, I see a quick spark, like lightning, followed by laughter. I take a few steps closer, but the Dumpster blocks my sight. Despite the stench coming from the garbage-packed container, my nose captures a recognizable smell that reminds me of Robert and Ryan. I take a deep breath, inhale the familiar fumes, and join Glen and his friends in their secret spot.

  "Ifyou guys wanna buy some good shit, then I can hook you up," I say, knowing I can supply his demand. I know I can make sure that Glen does something tomorrow and the day after, something he does now for the first time ever—look at me.

  7

  november 13, senior year

  "You sura you don't want a hit?"

  I wave Anne off as she passes the joint over to Glen. I've got an SAT study class in the morning, then work at the library, so I need to be straight, since I probably won't be well rested. Aunt Dee has Bree tonight, so I'm free to attend this small Friday the thirteenth theater party at Glen's house, although I'm dreaming of good luck for once in my life.

  I've got on my usual baggy black-hooded sweatshirt, keeping me warm and well hidden. Anne's wearing a pink "Love Bunny" T-shirt, tight and high, and her pretorn jeans, tighter and low, ready to flash her new lower-back-tattooed coolness. There are people dancing inside, but we're in the backyard on Glen's younger sibs play set, oblivious to the cold and the crowd. Anne and I are on the swings, while Glen gives us a gentle push. Anne could probably have Glen, but she's hands-off for my sake. I also don't think that Glen is different enough for Anne's rather interesting, if untested, tastes. He'd more amuse then enrage her father is my guess.

  "Thanks," Glen says, then pulls and holds the smoke deep into his lungs.

  "Is Mr. McDonald coming?" Anne asks. She's decided to pursue Mr. McDonald, after all. In the car on the way over, she was getting us pumped up, asking, "If not now, then when?"

  "I doubt it," Glen replies.

  Anne doesn't even try to hide the disillusionment in her face. She pushes her legs under her and sends herself higher into the air, wishing she could fly away from her disappointment.

  "So, Christy, how's your job?" Glen asks.

  "Okay, I guess," I say, since there's not a whole lot to say about putting books away, other than sharing the dream that one day my name and my picture will be on one of them. If I shared my dreams with Glen, then maybe it would be my lips not my weed he'd want to touch.

  "Tell him about Terrell, that cool guy you work with," Anne says as she swings higher.

  "Shut up," I whisper loudly, as I shoot her a look, but Anne just winks, then pushes herself higher. She thinks I need to make Glen jealous. I push my legs under me and try to swing higher and faster. When I swing like this, I feel like I'm defying laws of gravity and time.

  "Higher!" Anne says, and Glen obliges with a big push, then does the same for me. The tips of his fingers touch my lower back, and I'm higher than even the best weed could make me. After more swinging and laughing, a sudden hard rain sends Glen hustling back into his house.

  "Where's he going?" I ask Anne.

  "Maybe Rani Patel arrived," Anne says. "I'll look for the red carpet."

  "You're so mean," I say, but I'm laughing about it; there's nothing else to do when I think about the uneven triangle of Glen, Rani, and Christy. "I'm sorry about Mr. McDonald."

  Anne pushes herself higher on the swing, her feet pointed straight north. "Well, I don't think my dad would care for him, being that he's like twenty-five years old," she says.

  "Not his type?"

  "His type for me would be somebody like Alan Ackerman or David Lee." She laughs when she says their names. Alan and David are nice enough, smart enough, but they're the poster children for computer geeks anonymous. "Or maybe the son of one of his doctor friends."

  "You could do worse, don't you think?" I say, knowing that with Seth Lewis as my only limited experience, there's almost no man alive that couldn't be better.

  "God, if my boss Mr. Wallace's son is like him, that would be a lot worse," Anne says, her voice picking up pace with the slowly increasing speed of the rain falling on us. "He's such a creepy guy. He's like always hovering around me or doing some weird shit."

  "What now?" I'm curious about her work life. I can't imagine doing what she does: serving people at a Country Club at weddings or other receptions. How could you not hate a job where everybody else is celebrating a joyous occasion and you're cleaning up their mess?

  "You know we have to wear a uniform: white button-down shirt, black pants, real basic," Anne says, and given her somewhat provocative taste in clothes, the simple style doesn't suit her. "And I swear, Christy, that he drops stuff in front of me on purpose just so I'll pick it up."

  "I don't get it," I say, swinging faster as rain hits my face like water bullets.

  "Christy, when I bend over, he's looking down my shirt, I can feel it," Anne says slowly.

  "That's gross," I say. "Why don't you say something to him?"

  "Like what?" Anne says, for once not sounding sure of her words or deeds. "If I just avoid him, then maybe it will stop. I don't dare say anything because my dad would—"

  I choke back what I want to say and instead offer: "Why don't you just tell your dad?"

  "You can't tell the Good Doctor anything," Anne says, her voice rich with disgust. Both of our voices will be rich with mucus if we don't come out of this hard rain that's falling. "But maybe instead of dating one of my perve boss's sons, I'll bring home Tyrone Butler."

  I might drown from laughing so hard as the rain pours down my throat, thinking of five-foot-two Anne Williams kissing six-foot-five, two-hundred-pound-thug-machine Tyrone Butler. Despite being a pothead, Anne's got a good chance to get named as the most likely to succeed; Tyrone's got a better chance of being named by a grand jury and joining Robert at Jackson.

  "Not a good idea?" Anne says once I stop laughing.

  "About as smart as staying out in this hard rain!" I shout, "Wanna go in?"

  Anne and I both take big leaps off the swing, then head inside to warm up. As I open the door, I'm hit with the loud sound of rap music. Glen lives in Anne's neighborhood, so there's a music video projected on the big-screen TV, and everybody is dancing or grinding against each other. The cool thing about theater people is they don't really care what people think about them, so they are not afraid to act however they want. I want to be that way—so no words can harm me, no touch can destroy me—but I know that loneliness is my weakness. I want to be left alone, but I hate feeling lonely, which I usually feel in crowds like this. Everybody's having fun, but it's like something's holding me back, jerking hard on the link of chain tattooed on my ankle.

  "Why aren't you dancing, Christy?" Glen says, moving closer and shouting into my ear.

  "No reason," I shout over the booming bass. The vibration reminds me of standing on the brid
ge, especially when big trucks go under. I worry that bridge is going to collapse, but for one second my nerves forget, my fear leaves me, and the adrenaline rush is as addictive as crack.

  "How could you not like this music?" Glen says, pointing at the screen. "It's so cold."

  "I don't know, I just don't, okay?" It's so hard being around Glen and trying to say the right thing all the time. Besides, what would I tell him? That it's not so much the music I hate as the videos. The women in these videos are everything I'm not: they all have great bodies, fancy clothes, nice cars, and men panting after them. I know that Mitchell dreams of being the next Eminem, but if he made it, I just know he'd sing about women, not bitches or hos. Ryan and his friends, however, can't get enough of the skin and the sleaze on most rap videos. They don't just watch them, they sing along, spitting out bleeped words.

  "That's cool, but I'm going to go dance. Catch you later!" Glen says, with a goofy grin on his face, which is only partially drug induced. I can see just how much Glen likes having everyone watch him as he moves gracefully into the dancing crowd.

  I stand with my back to the TV, knowing I don't really fit in even with this little band of theater and National Honor Society misfits. As I watch Glen dance, I wonder if I could find the courage to go over to him if a slow song came on. I wonder if he would dance with me. I wonder if he would hold me tight, wrapping his arms around my waist. I wonder how sweet he smells up close. I wonder if he'd whisper in my ear, look into my eyes, and then kiss my cracked lips. I wonder after that what would he do, and what I would I do. And it is then, always then, that the images stop in my head, like someone pulled the plug on the TV. I can imagine Glen loving me, but I can't visualize the image of us making love.

  When no one comes over to talk to me, I'm consumed with loneliness, even in this crowded room. I know these people: some are customers, most are classmates, but none, except for Anne and Glen, are my friends. Every now and then, some part of me from my past wants to scream out, "Look at me!" but instead, I know that my role is not queen of the ball, life of the party, or homecoming princess, but the role I cast for myself: the invisible woman. I head out, alone, back into the cold rain. I'll let Glen laugh and dance it up with his real friends and future lovers; I'll let Anne circle the room waiting for Mr. Right for her and Mr. Wrong for her father to make his entrance; and I'll let myself drift back to chasing the tail lights of my memories, which are as elusive and all-consuming as Glen. Long ago, I picked Glen to be my white knight, even if he's told me directly, indirectly, and indiscreetly year after year after year that he just wants to be my friend. Still I dare to dream. But I've read enough books to know there can't be a white knight without a black one.