The Next To Last Mistake

by Jahn, Amalie

  But they hadn’t said no. They actually supported the idea, encouraging me, as long as I was going anyway, to enter one of our chickens as well.

  That week at the fair, Zander and I tucked ourselves into sleeping bags each night on the straw-covered earth of the cattle barn, exhausted from the events of the day. As we lay together, side-by-side, amongst the pungent odors of the livestock and oppressive heat that was part and parcel to summer in Iowa, we’d promised one another we would return to the fair every year, no matter what. Even once we were old and gray with bad hips and wrinkles.

  “We’ll pick something different to enter each summer,” Zander said, “and come together so neither one of us has to be alone.”

  *

  This August he’ll be entering the dairy goat his mom bought at the farmer’s market last summer for him to raise. And I know, for the first time ever, he’ll be going without me. I wonder if he’ll bring someone else along or if he’ll go it alone. I decide immediately he’ll fly solo. He is, after all, practically a grown man, and he certainly doesn’t need anyone’s help taking care of a stupid goat for a few days.

  I’m imagining him sleeping alone on the floor of the livestock barn when Cameron, in an unprecedented show of boldness, begins to speak while contemplating his next move.

  “Are you going with anyone to prom?”

  He asks without emotion making it difficult to discern his motivations. And while it may be true he says everything without emotion, this particular question comes with a heap of potential consequences depending on how I chose to respond.

  “I’m planning to go with Leonetta and Alice and Summer,” I tell him truthfully, gaze locked on the board, not wanting to give anything more away. Part of me is worried he’s about to ask me himself, and I’ll be forced to let him down. It’s not that I’d have any problem going with Cameron as a date, I just have no interest in going to prom with any guy.

  At least no guys from Fayetteville.

  “Oh,” he says simply, sliding his pawn out of my knight’s range.

  I try to concentrate on my next move. On my next series of moves. Should I protect my bishop? Sacrifice my third pawn? But I’ve lost focus, unable to track more than a few moves in my head, and there’s no denying his interest in my prom plans has me flustered. He has a tender heart, and the last thing I want is to upset him, but now I can’t help wondering why he asked.

  “What about you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  “Me what?” he says without looking up from the board.

  “Prom? Have you asked anyone to prom?”

  His face is inscrutable. “People like me don’t go to prom.”

  There’s something about the way he says it, so matter-of-factly, as if it’s written somewhere in the Old Testament on a tablet sent by God.

  “Why not?” I challenge him, straightening from my hunched chess position to assert a more commanding posture.

  He shrugs.

  “That’s not an answer, Cameron,” I say.

  “It’s your turn,” he replies, ignoring my line of questioning altogether.

  I cross my arms and cock my head. “I’ll take my turn as soon as you tell me why ‘people like you,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean, don’t go to prom.”

  He lifts his eyes slowly from the chess board and in one giant, sweeping motion, throws out his arms, sending the board and all our pieces tumbling onto the ground.

  Several beats pass as we both sit in stunned silence, waiting for the other to react. I’m getting used to his outbursts and overreactions, and although I no longer take them personally, it still takes a second to compose myself. The last thing I want is to enrage him further, and since it’s clear he has no intention of cleaning his mess, I dutifully slide off the end of the picnic table bench and begin collecting our scattered pieces. Cameron, for his part, doesn’t move.

  “The way I see it, you don’t need to be on the shortlist for prom king or queen to deserve to go to the dance. Everyone deserves to go to prom. If you don’t want to, that’s on you. But if you want to and choose not to because you’re nervous or scared or feel like you don’t have anybody to go with, that’s another story.” I hesitate for an instant, wondering if what I’m about to say will be helpful or make everything worse. “If you want to go, you should come with me and my friends. We’d love to have you along.”

  I finish gathering the last of the pieces—a black king and white queen—I have to crawl under the table to reach. After tossing them all into a box, I stand to face Cameron who remains stoically seated in exactly the same position.

  “Well?” I say to him.

  Before he can answer, Mr. Wilson calls to us from his room’s second-floor window directly above our heads.

  “I just got a call from the NC Chess Association and you better do whatever it is you all do to prepare for battle because the delegation from M.A. Hopkins was accepted into the NC State Regional Tournament next month.”

  Cameron’s face brightens almost imperceptibly.

  “For real?” I call to Mr. Wilson.

  “No joke,” he says.

  I turn to Cameron. “I guess we’re gonna compete together.”

  He shrugs. “Then we might as well go to prom, too.”

  chapter 20

  Corn Rows

  Monday, March 18

  Ashley misses the school bus again this morning.

  After dropping her off, I’m late to first period. Sadly, this isn’t the first time, and after I hand in my late pass and slink to my seat, Ms. Krenshaw’s still growling at me for interrupting her class.

  “Getting to be something of a habit for you, Miss Goodwin,” she says, waving my tardy slip above her head. “One more of these and you’ll have earned yourself an ASD.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I say, defeated. Alice slides a stick of gum across my desk. Juicy Fruit. Just what the doctor ordered.

  The rest of history passes without incident but in chemistry, Leonetta is noticeably missing.

  “Did you see her this morning?” I ask Alice as we loiter by the door, waiting for her to arrive.

  “No. But I don’t usually. Did you?”

  I scrunch up my nose, recalling my frazzled morning. “I was late, remember?” Leonetta spent the weekend in the Caribbean at her mother’s wedding. “Think she made it back from Jamaica?” I ask. “Maybe her flight got delayed.”

  Alice shrugs. “I didn’t hear from her one way or the other. Maybe she decided to stay a little longer.”

  I take out my phone to text her, but the late bell rings before I’m able to press send. Mr. Hogan strolls through the door, and I slip my cell into my pocket as we scramble to our seats. He throws me a dirty look for having my phone out but doesn’t dare say anything to Monika and her herd of heifers in the back of the room, still carrying on like it’s Saturday night instead of Monday morning. I’m pretty sure he’s as scared of her as the rest of us.

  She eventually tears herself away from her posse and comes skulking to her seat beside me, asking casually, “Where’s your friend?”

  Although I still have no definitive proof about who hung the slut posters, we both know she’s responsible, which is why I haven’t said a word about it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of knowing she upset me. Now, her unprovoked recognition of my existence catches me off guard, and for an instant, I don’t realize she’s talking to me. The malicious undertone of her inquiry tips me off, though, so I keep my eyes turned down, hoping I’ll be able to ignore her.

  “I’m talking to you, Old MacDonald,” she says, her voice clipped. “I asked if you know where your friend’s at?”

  I don’t look up. “Alice?”

  “No. Not Alice. The other one.”

  She doesn’t have to say it. Leonetta.

  “Haven’t seen her,” I mumble as class begins.

  Monika chuffs. It’s a horrible sound. A laugh capable of making my skin crawl. She leans close to me, closer than the two of us have ev
er been before, and whispers in my ear.

  “She’s probably out there in the middle of the road throwing herself in fronta oncoming traffic. Or at least that’s where I’d be if I was her.”

  She leans back in her chair, fumbling in her purse for a pen, effectively ending our conversation.

  I replay Monika’s words in my head a dozen times before it hits me.

  She’s seen Leonetta. Here at school. Today.

  But Leonetta’s not in class, and Monika’s convinced she should be out trying to kill herself.

  Oh, God, I think. Something’s terribly wrong.

  My hand shoots into the air, and I’m on my feet before Mr. Hogan gives me permission to leave class.

  “This is highly unusual,” he says to me, scribbling off a hall pass for the bathroom. “We just came from class change.”

  “Bad beans for breakfast,” I say, clutching my midsection. “I might be a while.”

  I’m out the door before he has a chance to respond but take a moment in the hallway to assess the situation as I would a game of chess. Although I’m already several moves behind, some matches aren’t won through extensive analysis but on intuition alone. I’m certain my fearless guide Leonetta is around somewhere, but because she seems to know the sizable square footage of the building better than its architect, finding her might prove difficult.

  I decide to begin at the beginning and set off in the direction of the choir room, the place she starts her days. On my way, I shoot her a quick text, asking if everything’s okay, and am discouraged but not surprised when I don’t get an immediate reply. She’s not lurking anywhere near the choir room, so I continue along her presumed route to her first-period Spanish class. I keep checking over my shoulder for Monika or one of her minions, unnerved by the eerily abandoned hallways and tightly shut classroom doors. Only a sea of lockers spreads out before me as I make my way to the foreign language wing, and I pop my head into each of the women’s rooms, checking for feet beneath stall doors as I go.

  The bathrooms are deserted as well.

  There’s no sign of her near the Spanish room, so I continue on, repeatedly checking my phone for a reply as I make the return trip toward chemistry. I’m almost back, chastising myself for my inferior sleuthing skills, when a rustling sound from behind the closest stairwell draws my attention. I turn the corner to investigate.

  Leonetta is almost unrecognizable with her hair braided in tight rows against her head, tiny shells beaded onto the ends. She looks like someone else entirely. Someone from a foreign country. But there’s no one else it could be sitting propped against the wall, legs splayed before her, reading Wuthering Heights.

  “Netta? What are you doing here?”

  Her head jerks up from the book and her tear-stained cheeks tell me everything I need to know. She pats the floor besisde her, an invitation to sit.

  “What happened?” I ask, sliding down the wall beside her.

  She closes her novel and tosses it into her bag. Mascara is smudged beneath her lower lashes and her signature red lipstick is smeared across her cheek as if she’s wiped her face in anger, probably with the back of her hand.

  “Triflin’ heifers,” she says.

  “Monika?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  She nods. “Said I look like a tired, fake Cicely Tyson.”

  I stare blankly at her, having absolutely no idea who Cicely Tyson is.

  “She’s a famous actress and the first black woman to wear cornrows on TV,” she says, accustomed to my ignorance.

  I reach out to touch one of the smooth shells woven onto the side of her head. “Is that what these are called? Cornrows?”

  She gives the smallest indication of a smile. “Yes, girl. Cornrows. My whole family wore them for Mom’s wedding.”

  Oh, God. The wedding. Monika’s drama almost made me forget all about it. “How was it?” I ask now, hoping I don’t seem rude for not remembering to inquire on my own.

  She stares off across the stairwell as if I’ve asked her to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity. “It was fine,” she says finally. “It was nice visiting my sister and brother. They were in elementary school last time I saw them.”

  The nostalgic quality to her voice conveys an unspoken longing, and it’s clear she has no intention of returning with me to class.

  “You never mentioned having other family,” I say, settling in beside her.

  “They’re half-siblings, from my mother’s second marriage. I have another half-sister too, on my dad’s side. But I’m the only kid the two of them had together. They were only a couple for a little over a year.”

  I let this sink in, the idea of having other family members spread all over, not living under the same roof. The idea of being separated from my mother by half an ocean, while she raises siblings I barely know. The loneliness associated with being apart is unfathomable to me because as much as Ashley drives me crazy, I can’t imagine not seeing her every day.

  “They’re all younger than you?”

  “Katrina is older. She lives in Memphis with her husband and little girl, Trish. My dad had her before meeting my mom. Aayla and Hasan are younger. Twelve and fourteen. They’re from mom’s marriage to Omar.”

  I’m staring straight ahead at the pale-colored wall tiles of the stairwell. My head’s swimming with questions I’m not sure are appropriate to ask. None of the families I knew back in Iowa were as complicated as Leonetta’s. Or as interesting.

  “Can I ask you a question about your mom?” I say, hedging my bet she’ll be as open to me as she’s always been.

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  I hesitate. She’s already been upset once this morning. The last thing I want to do is upset her again. But I decide to go for it, wording my question in what I hope is the most innocuous way possible in an attempt to keep her mind off Monika. “I’m glad you’re here, of course, because my life would suck without you, but why did you decide to live in the U.S. with your dad instead of in Jamaica with your mom?”

  She sighs heavily, her chest rising and falling with what seems like the weight of a hundred lifetimes. “My parents’ marriage was short. My mom was a young Jamaican woman, only nineteen-years-old when they met. And, like I told you before, my dad was already established as a well-regarded, American college professor. He was also almost twice her age. He was on a year-long sabbatical, researching the sociological effects of poverty on the people in my mother’s town, and they fell in love. She got pregnant with me, they married, hastily, but by the time I was born they’d come to appreciate their differences were too great for them to ever maintain a relationship, much less raise a child together.”

  She pauses, coming to the part of the story where she tells me how she came to grow up in the United States instead of Jamaica. It’s obvious the separation is a wound that’s never fully healed, and I take her hand.

  “When my parents decided to split, my mother couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Jamaica on her own, if the U.S. would have even allowed it. My father, of course, had to return to the States. To his career. To his obligations. He didn’t have the option to stay. They decided, together, I would be better off living in the U.S. with my dad than in Jamaica with my mom. I’ll never know if they made the right decision, but when I think of how different my life would have been if I’d stayed on with her…” Her voice trails off. After being harassed by Monika and her crew, maybe she’s thinking Jamaica might have been the better option.

  “It must have been hard, growing up without her,” I say, squeezing her palm against mine.

  She shrugs. “Lots of kids grow up without moms. And I have my dad. So that’s something.”

  “It is.” I rack my brain for something to help get her out of the stairwell and back to class. Something to take her mind off of her own troubles. “You know, there was this girl Lacey back in Iowa who was like the Monika of East Chester High. Total queen of the heifers.”

  Leonetta laughs, so I go on.

/>   “In September of eighth grade, one of the kids in our grade, Connor Jenkins, had a birthday party—a big bonfire and cookout in his backyard. Everyone was invited because his mother considers herself a pillar of the community and would never dream of letting him leave anyone out. My friend Zander and I tried to bail because we knew the jerky kids were gonna be there, but our moms forced us to go.”

  “So there’s at least a few benefits to not havin’ a mom around, huh?” she says with a quiet lilt. She’s trying to make me smile, but the melancholy of her tone is unmistakable. I give her shoulder a gentle nudge and confirm, with a roll of my eyes, my mom can definitely be a pain. She responds with a sideways grin, so I continue with my story.

  “Anyway, the party was going along fine until after dusk when one of the kids took out a bottle of his dad’s homebrewed moonshine.”

  “Gross,” Leonetta says.

  I nod in agreement. “Somehow we all ended up playing Truth or Dare. People challenging one another to taste the disgusting drink, throw stuff into the fire, tell who they wanted to kiss.” I pause now because I’m no longer in the stairwell with Leonetta. I’m beside Zander, back around the fire, the searing heat on my face and my hands, smoke and teenage angst wafting through the air. For a moment, I forget what compelled me to dredge up this painful memory.

  Then I remember Leonetta and all the ways she’s been a friend to me since we met. The way I need her to know, in this moment, she’s not alone.

  “Zander, being Zander, opted for a dare. They told him he had to go five hundred paces into the fields behind the fire and count to a thousand before he could come back. And because night had already fallen and the field was a scary place, even for middle-schoolers, he was allowed to take one other person with him.”

  I don’t know what went through Zander’s head at that moment—if he was scared of going into the field alone or if he considered taking someone other than me. And I’ll never know if things might be different for us now if he’d chosen another kid to go with him into the darkness that night.

  “He picked me, of course,” I say to Leonetta, who’s now hanging on my every word, “because I was his best friend.” I explain to her how, with considerable provocation, we made our way into the field, one step at a time, mindful of the rats and snakes that lived there and the treacherous footing of the uneven soil. “I don’t remember what we were talking about. Probably nothing important. We were deep in conversation, the way we always were, before we realized we were so far into the field we could barely make out the glow of the bonfire behind us.”