The Next To Last Mistake

by Jahn, Amalie

  Mrs. Alexander leans forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees. She’s smiling, self-satisfactorily, and I can tell she’s pleased with our discussion. “So, what does this mean for the twelve of you sitting in this room? What lessons can we carry away from Morrison’s work?”

  Her question strikes me with such directness, it’s as if I’m experiencing literature for the first time. I’ve read hundreds of stories over the years purely for enjoyment without ever acknowledging there might be something more the author wanted from me. Was it possible an author could ask something of her audience outside of mere enjoyment and understanding? Could an author expect a reader to foster change in his or her own life based on the ideas presented in a book?

  Sarah Hill, one of the other white students in the group, clears her throat. “We talked last week about how Ms. Morrison used the primer excerpts to point out how different Pecola’s black world was from the white world of Dick and Jane. But maybe in addition to recognizing the differences, like Pecola did with the white picket fence and the blue eyes and the red dress, all the things she didn’t have, we should also focus on the stuff that makes us alike. The stuff that binds us. Like searching for love and acceptance. We all want those things, right? No matter our color or culture.”

  “Exactly. Using those universal truths to build the foundation of our relationships makes it easier to understand and accept the differences,” Rashida says, smiling at Sarah. “We’re not so different once we strip away everything contrived by society, but it’s important to understand why the differences exist, what effects they have on our lives, and most importantly how to celebrate them.”

  “Yeah. And while we’re at it, screw the media,” says Lashanda. “Who cares what they say. We should appreciate each other for who we are, not who society tells us we oughta be. That goes for you too, Snow White,” she adds, pointing at me. “Wear your damn sunscreen.”

  *

  Leonetta is strangely quiet on the way to the other side of the building following lit circle. I get the sense there’s something she’s not saying. Something she’s holding in.

  “Do I make you feel that way?” I ask as we head downstairs to the first floor.

  “Which way?”

  I tuck my thumb into my hand to keep from picking at my cuticle. “Like Roy feels.”

  She hesitates, not looking at me as she adjusts the bag slung across her shoulder. When she eventually speaks, though, her voice is steady. “Not really.”

  I nod, letting the truth settle over me like fog in the pasture on a winter morning. ‘Not really’ isn’t no, but she’s too nice to call me out because we’re friends and she knows how important she is to me. She’s protecting my feelings at the expense of her own.

  Now, our strengthening bond, growing day-by-day one connective thread at a time, compels me to respond. “I can do better, Netta.”

  She stops at the end of the hallway and looks up, her eyes soft. “I know,” she says. “And you will. But right now, you better get your butt home because you and I both know it’s probably gonna take you all night to get your geometry homework done.”

  We’re still laughing about my mathematical incompetence, halfway to our cars on the far side of the student parking lot when Summer pulls up beside us in her cherry red Honda Civic. “I’m meeting Alice at the mall tonight after dinner,” she tells us through her open window. “Some kid on the basketball team, Derek Something-Or-Other, invited her to go to the big party at Calvin Watkins’ after the championship game Friday night. She says she doesn’t have anything to wear so we’re gonna go shopping. Wanna come with?”

  Before I have a chance to process, Leonetta asks, “To the mall or to the party?”

  She shrugs. “Both I guess.”

  Leonetta looks at me expectantly, obviously wanting to tag along. I, on the other hand, am loathe to accept an invitation to the mall as shopping has never been high on my list of priorities. It’s clear, however, if I’m going to survive here in this brave, new world, I need to continue venturing outside of my comfort zone. I’ve already taken a chance on the food and the after-school activities, so why not consider a trip to the mall?

  “So, you girls in?” Summer asks, and as I consider her anticipatory gaze, it dawns on me the others don’t need me to be enthusiastic about the actual shopping. They want me to come along because they like me. Because they enjoy being with me. It’s not so much about the purchasing of goods as it is about the camaraderie. The being-included in a way I’d never imagined I would be moving here.

  “I’m in if Netta’s in,” I tell her at last. “As long as I can get my math finished in time.”

  “I’m in,” Leonetta says without the slightest hesitation.

  “Then meet us in the food court at seven,” Summer says. “And don’t be late!”

  As Summer pulls away, we continue across the lot to where our cars are parked adjacent to the track. Out of nowhere, a pickup with a bed full of students speeds past, nearly running Leonetta down. They miss hitting her by less than a foot.

  “Why you tryin’ to be ghetto, new girl?” one of the guys calls from the back, and although I don’t know him, I do recognize the girl laughing beside him from history class.

  Triflin’ heifer.

  Leonetta’s still shaking as they careen around the corner, nearly tipping sideways onto two wheels before disappearing down the road. The moment passes but I remain frozen, watching helplessly while Leonetta attempts to steady herself.

  “You okay?” I ask, gathering the armful of books she’s scattered across the asphalt.

  She nods, but I can tell she’s still unnerved.

  “Was that John Frasier?” a voice calls from behind us. “Because if it was, I’m gonna beat his ass.”

  Rashida runs toward us in her long bohemian skirt, her shoulder bag draped casually across her chest and flip-flops slapping noisily against the pavement.

  “I don’t know who it was,” I tell her once she reaches us. “But we’re okay. Just a little shaken.”

  Rashida places a hand on Leonetta’s hunched back, soothing my friend who’s struggling to compose herself. “We need to report this to the principal. She needs to know what those maniacs did.”

  Leonetta shakes her head defiantly. “No,” she says. “Let it be.”

  “They can’t get away with harassing you two,” Rashida continues with the same righteous tone she used against Lashanda back in lit circle describing herself as a ‘proud, black woman.’ Watching her now comforting Leonetta, I have no doubt she is.

  Leonetta straightens, collecting her books from my arms. Her shirt is askew across her shoulders revealing her bra straps, but she doesn’t adjust it. Instead, she says, “It’s like we talked about today. Society only wins if we let it and snitching on those idiots to Dr. Emmett will only confirm they’ve upset us.” She looks at me then for the first time since the incident, raising her chin in defiance. “We’ll be friends with whoever we want, and if they don’t like it, it’s on them.”

  Back in my little town in Iowa, Lacey hated me because she was jealous of my friendship with Zander and the nasty episode between us in the eighth grade proved it. Here in Fayetteville, more of the same. There’s a good chance I’m never going to live in a place without ignorant jerks. They’re everywhere, and they come from every walk of life.

  But no one back in Iowa ever tried running me over with a moving vehicle. Not even a tractor.

  chapter 13

  Sizzle

  Tuesday, February 12

  It’s a relief to see Leonetta’s car already parked in the mall lot as I make my second pass down the aisle closest to the entrance. I’d been afraid our traumatic afternoon might cause her to reconsider coming out, but since she’s already waiting inside, I give up on finding a dream spot and ease my car into the next available slot.

  A quick scan of the food court finds her sitting across from Summer and Alice at a table near Subway, and I snag a free sample of bourbon
chicken from a Japanese restaurant employee as I weave my way in their direction, sidestepping dozens of bag-laden and tray-wielding shoppers.

  “Oh, yay!” Alice says as I collapse into the seat beside Leonetta. “I was hoping you’d make it.”

  “Thanks for the invite,” I say. “This party’s a big deal, huh?”

  Thinking back, I don’t recall a single party back in Iowa that required special attire. For the most part, dressing up meant arriving in something other than boots and overalls.

  Alice and Summer share a conspiratorial glance, nonverbally deciding who’s going to fill me in. “Calvin Watkins graduated from Hopkins last year, was a member of the basketball team, and is totally sexy,” Alice explains. “We were only sophomores during his senior year, so it’s not like we had a lot of access to him or anything…”

  “Although Alice stalked him in the hallways like a lunatic,” Summer interrupts.

  “Was it my fault our class locations spring semester caused our paths to cross so many times?” Alice snakes her head and wags her finger in Summer’s face. “Take it up with my guidance counselor because I had nothing to do with it.”

  Summer rolls her eyes good-naturedly and continues. “Y’all, Alice was obsessed with this man with a capital O. She dragged me to every basketball game and woulda sold her soul to have gotten invited to one of his famous after-parties. But we were warned they didn’t let underclassmen in, so we never worked up the courage to go.”

  “He goes to Fayetteville State now on a full-ride basketball scholarship, but he still came back to Hopkins for a couple of games this season to cheer on his old teammates. In fact, he said hi to me at a game back in December,” Alice says.

  “You woulda thought Jesus Christ himself had acknowledged her with the way she carried on.”

  “I wasn’t that bad.”

  Summer narrows her eyes and nods at Leonetta and me, whispering, “She was that bad.”

  “Anyway,” Alice says, ignoring Summer, “I finally got a legit invitation to Calvin’s championship party this Friday night, and I gotta find somethin’ fine to wear. Because God as my witness, that man is gonna notice me this weekend if it’s the last thing I do.” She stands and slides her chair curtly beneath the table. “So, come on. Y’all gotta help a girl out.”

  We head out of the food court into the interior of the mall, past the candle store and the pretzel place. I trail along with Leonetta behind Alice and Summer, who are giggling incessantly about heaven-knows-what. If Zander saw me now—at the mall on a Tuesday night amongst a small herd of teenage girls instead of in a barn with a large herd of cattle—he’d be checking to make sure hell wasn’t freezing over or I wasn’t coming down with the flu.

  Nothing interests Alice in the first several stores, although she and Summer do buy matching unicorn socks at one of the kiosks along the way. She eventually stops to admire a few dresses in the window of Y&M, so we venture inside. While she tosses one dress after another into Summer’s arms near the front of the store, Leonetta and I mill around the clearance racks in the back.

  “You gonna go with them to Calvin’s party?” she asks, and I can tell she’s intentionally trying to sound nonchalant.

  I’ve never been to the type of party where you need to be on some designated list like the kids in the movies. Back at East Chester, where there were only two hundred kids in the entire student body, invitations were typically open-ended. It’s just the way it was. But I’m not sure Summer’s off-handed invitation earlier in the parking lot was even official. And if the guys hosting the party are anything like the kids from the pickup truck this afternoon, Fayetteville-State-Calvin and his college buddies might not be too thrilled about some new girl showing up. Especially if the new girl is me.

  “I dunno,” I tell her. “Do you think I’ll be welcome?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

  Given the ease of her continued browsing, I’m pretty sure she didn’t pick up on my insinuation. I try again, this time more overtly. “Do you think I’ll be welcome even though I’m white?”

  She lifts her eyes to meet mine, her mouth pressed into a thin line before saying for a second time, “I don’t see why not.”

  She turns away from me to peruse a rack of shirts, and I worry I’ve upset her. I’m not intentionally fixating on race. I just keep imagining what might happen if I was to accidentally say something offensive to someone who isn’t as forgiving as Leonetta or Alice or the kids from lit circle. The parking lot incident proves people are already incensed about the two of us being friends. I can’t risk making things worse for the others by showing up where I’m not welcome, especially when I’m still learning what’s appropriate and what isn’t.

  Before I have a chance to explain myself, I notice a sales clerk approaching Leonetta from behind. Easily in her mid-fifties and constructed of pure sinew, the saleswoman’s eyes and lips exhibit the tell-tale creases of a chain smoker. Leonetta is still aimlessly sliding blouses along a rack when the clerk accosts her.

  “What exactly are you doing?” she asks Leonetta brusquely, the way a mother might address a three-year-old with her hand caught in a cookie jar.

  Leonetta jerks back, as if she’s forgotten herself, and holds her hands above her head in an apologetic posture. “Nothing, Ma’am. I’m just looking.”

  The clerk eyes Leonetta’s oversized purse which is zipped shut and crossed tightly against her chest.

  “Are you sure you didn’t slip something into your bag?”

  Without considering the consequences or whether it’s even my place to speak up, I jump to Leonetta’s defense. “She’s been right here with me the entire time. She didn’t take anything off the rack.”

  Leonetta throws me a sideways glance, and I can’t tell if she’s relieved or offended by my intrusion.

  “It’s fine,” she says, glowering at the clerk as she opens the zipper of her purse. “You’re welcome to look inside. I didn’t take anything.”

  She holds her purse open for the woman to scrutinize and after a brief inspection of the contents—a small wallet, a makeup case, two tampons, a bulky keychain, and three paperback novels—the woman takes a step back, suspiciously, as if she’s still not convinced of Leonetta’s innocence.

  “I should have known,” the clerk murmurs just loud enough for us to hear as she turns away. “Nothin’ in this store ‘ill fit you anyway.”

  I watch helplessly as Leonetta’s shoulders slump and her eyes close in what appears to be defeat.

  She’s mortified.

  And I am enraged.

  The woman didn’t even apologize for her rudeness or her wrongful accusation.

  “What just happened?” I growl at Leonetta, still glaring after the clerk as she slinks away.

  Leonetta steps back, chin tucked, eyes downcast. “It was nothin’. And I appreciate you sticking up for me, but I don’t need saving. I can take care of myself.”

  I’m appalled by what I’ve witnessed. Horrified. Nothing about her interaction with the store employee was routine. There was no inquiry about the quality of her day. No cheerful appeal to be of assistance. Only an empty allegation and an unwarranted search. I reach out to Leonetta’s arm, but she flinches at my touch.

  “I know you don’t need saving, Netta, but I can’t understand why you let her do that. It’s not right.”

  She raises her head, finally meeting my gaze, and I’m unnerved by the mixture of fear and anger brewing in the shadowy depths of her eyes. I’m still trying to make sense of it all when she softens, taking me by the arm and leading me toward the front of the store.

  “There are rules, Tess. Rules about being black.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “What sort of rules?”

  We stop at the store’s entrance and she leans against the window, letting her bag drop to the floor. “My dad is a college professor. He holds a Ph.D. in sociology. He’s a smart man. But he’s black.” She pauses as
if to let the weight of this set in. “He always taught me to remember the blackness is what other people see first. Not the education. Not the degree. Not his kindness toward other people. Just the color. He taught me the rules once I was old enough to understand about the color. Rules about what I can and can’t do if I want to stay out of trouble.”

  I remember the rules my dad taught me as a child. Don’t climb the silos. Don’t play on the tractors. Don’t jump from the hayloft. Don’t walk behind the cows. Simple rules. Common sense rules. Rules designed to keep me safe because the farm was a dangerous place for a little girl.

  I can’t imagine Leonetta needing rules because of her skin color. Unless, for her, everywhere is a dangerous place.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  She folds her hands, bringing them to her face in a gesture of reverence, and it feels as though she’s considering whether to reveal a truth that’s not really hers to share or mine to understand.

  “If I tell you, it’s not because I expect you to be my savior. I can handle things on my own. If I tell you, it’s because I trust you genuinely want to understand what it’s like to be me.”

  I know better than to speak so I only nod.

  “Keep your bag zipped, always within arm’s reach. Get a receipt no matter how small the purchase. Never run if there are police around. Dress nicely, regardless of the occasion. Don’t go for a walk after dark. Don’t speak to an adult unless you’re spoken to first. Swallow your pride. Don’t go out with more than three friends at a time. And always, always keep your hands where they can be seen.”

  She can’t look at me, and I recognize the indignity of her disclosure. She’s embarrassed by the rules.

  “That’s the worst list I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, and as I say the words I’m overcome by an unexpected emotion.

  Sadness, of course.

  But also, anger.

  It’s clear why my dad never taught me those rules. Why I’m oblivious to receipt management, don’t have friend limits, and have never restricted my walks to daylight hours. Racial discrimination is the reason she must worry about these things while I remain blissfully unaware. That she’s somehow able to suppress her anger over this injustice is unfathomable to me. As she stares at her shoes, I struggle for something appropriate to say.