“Yes, they are. We’ll be looking at some lovely examples in our next lab.”
Bernard starts walking to Mr. Levy’s desk, and I panic. Thankfully, the bell rings, so I start to rush out of the class, but my backpack is on the floor, and I trip right over it.
Bernard breaks out into loud cackles.
It doesn’t surprise me one bit that Bernard would laugh at me for falling down. I try not to look at him because I don’t want him to see how mad I am.
In elementary school, Bernard would just step right in front of the first person in line for the rings like he was a big deal—which I guess he was—and no one would say a word. When he got ahold of the rings, he’d swing and laugh and kick his big Adidas at us until it was time to go back to class. Then he’d jump off and send the rings crashing into the middle pole with a clang that made me flinch.
Bernard grabs my hand and yanks me up, and I sprawl right into him like I’m one of those rings clanging into the pole.
I push away and grab my backpack from the floor.
“You don’t got to break her, bruh,” someone says, and from the tingly feeling I get in my stomach, I know exactly who that someone is.
I look straight into eyes so deep green, you’d think they were apple Jolly Ranchers.
Jace chuckles and slaps Bernard on the back, and then he walks out before I have time to say I’m not broken. Or maybe I am just a little bit, because I can’t seem to make my mouth work right.
“I hurt you?” Bernard says, his mouth twisted into a knot.
I clear the butterflies out of my throat. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Get to class,” Mr. Levy says.
“That’s what we’re doing,” Bernard says, and he brushes past me hard enough to almost make me fall down again.
But I don’t care. All I can think is Jace smiled at me.
In second period, when Mr. Powell hands back a history test and I see I only got a 92 when this boy in my class, Alex, got a 94, I don’t even care. Usually, Alex and I compete to see who can get the highest grade, and when I lose, it really bothers me, but not today. Jace smiled at me.
Still, I still can’t help saying to Alex, “Don’t get too comfortable. You just got lucky this time.”
“Oh, you got jokes?” Alex says. “We’ll see, smart girl.” He gives me this serious nod that cracks me up.
At break, I plop down under our magnolia tree, next to Isabella and Julia. I’m just about to tell them about Jace when I stop and look at Isabella. “You look different,” I say, squinting at her, trying to figure it out.
“You got your braces off!” Julia exclaims, and I see she’s right.
Isabella hadn’t said one thing about getting her braces off when we were all texting last night. And the only pictures she posted online were of Kahlo, one of her cats, and her swollen toe after she stubbed it.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us,” Julia says accusingly.
I mean, seriously. We tell each other everything. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask. And then I notice something else. “You got your eyebrows done too?” I don’t think my voice could get any more high-pitched. I have caterpillars for eyebrows, and I try to talk Momma into letting me get them waxed, but she says N-O. (She really does spell it out, as if that makes it sound more case-closed. Which, actually, it does.)
“I wanted to surprise you,” Isabella says. Then she blushes and drops her head, letting her hair fall into her face. “My mom wanted me to lose the unibrow more than I did.” She glances up at us and then back down. “I don’t look weird?”
“You look scorching,” Julia says. And she doesn’t sound jealous at all.
Isabella bumps her with her shoulder.
“Jace smiled at me,” I say, needing to change the subject.
“Oh, well, I guess he’s going to be your boyfriend tomorrow, then,” Julia says, and giggles.
“Why do you want a boyfriend anyway?” Isabella asks.
I wish I had a good answer for this. Last year in sixth grade I liked this boy Joshua, but he asked Brianna Merkins to be his girlfriend. Brianna has long blond hair she’s always swinging around. And when people would tell her that her and Joshua made a cute couple, she would get this look. This I know look. I want to be able to give that look. I don’t want to say that, though. “Because we’re in seventh grade now,” I say instead.
Julia says, “Jace is super fine.” Then she says, “He’ll probably end up with someone gorgeous.”
And then . . . she glances over at Isabella.
I look at Isabella too. With her nonbushy hair, big hazel eyes, regular-sized forehead, perfectly groomed eyebrows, and shiny straight teeth.
I do not like what I see.
Even though the bell hasn’t rung, I say, “Break’s over,” and get up for class.
11
Unpopular Opinions
For the first time I wish we had to run the mile in PE. I need a good run to get rid of all the thoughts banging around in my head. I know it’s not right for me to be jealous of Isabella, but I can’t help it.
Coach West does have us do some sprints, and that helps a little even though I’m not one of the fastest kids. Not by a long shot.
Carmetta is faster than everybody. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast in real life. It makes me think twice about joining the track team. What if everybody else can run fast like Carmetta?
But toward the end of class, when Coach West tells everyone who’s joining track to huddle up, I huddle.
“We’ll have our first practice next Tuesday, okay? Make sure you tell your parents, guardians, grandparents, or whoever will be wondering where you are after school. If you don’t have running clothes, your PE clothes will be fine.”
My ugly PE clothes will not be fine. I wonder if Momma will buy me running clothes. I sigh. Momma’s not a big fan of buying me stuff she’s not a hundred percent sure I need.
Yolanda and I rush to the locker room together.
“You should ask Coach West if you can be on the track team too,” I say.
“Have you seen me run?” Yolanda laughs. Today her hair is in two buns, one on either side of her head.
“Will you at least change seats with me in shop?” I ask her. If she isn’t willing to do track, maybe she’ll at least do this one favor.
She shrugs. “Sure,” she says. “I don’t care where I sit.”
Then we split up for our different rows. Once I’m changed back into my regular clothes, I can’t wait for her. I have to run all the way across campus to get to English.
When I get to class, I settle into my seat, breathing hard like I just finished a race.
Ms. Jacobs gives me a look like my heavy breathing is bothering her, and then she asks if anyone wants to share anything from their eyeball journals. No one does. I know I sure don’t.
“Nobody?” she asks, sounding disappointed. “Afraid of what your friends might think?” She writes a quote on the board:
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
“What does that mean to you?” Ms. Jacobs asks the class.
I picture myself alone in the woods, lost and crying. You bet I don’t say that.
A skinny girl raises her hand. “To make up your own mind?”
Someone else says, “Be a leader instead of a follower?”
Ms. Jacobs nods. “It’s hard, but you can’t always worry about what everyone else thinks. It’s important to decide what you believe in and stick with it. Emerson thought that was important, and he wasn’t afraid to have unpopular opinions. I believe, if he were alive now, he would be a strong supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement.”
I believe, if Emerson were alive now, Ms. Jacobs would want to marry him, the way she talks about him all the time.
“Emerson was Black?” Jay Landis shouts, and Ms. Jacobs narrows her eyes at him.
“No, Jay, he was not.”
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“Then why would he say only Black lives mattered?”
“What do you think, Shayla?” Ms. Jacobs asks me.
“I—I don’t know.” I squirm in my seat. Ms. Jacobs should really stop acting like just because I’m Black, I’m the only one in class who has an opinion about Black stuff. I don’t know how to answer her. I mean, I know Black Lives Matter is about reminding people our lives count too, but some people take it wrong and think it means we are saying our lives matter more than theirs. Or that only our lives matter. But Momma explained it to me. She said if you go to the doctor and told him you broke your arm and he said, Well, okay, let’s put you in a full-body cast, you’d say, But, doctor, only my arm is broken. Get it? So yeah, even though all your bones matter, you only need to fix the broken one. (Momma said it a lot better.)
A boy in the back calls out, “My dad says saying Black lives matter is racist.”
I want to tell him his dad is an idiot, but I pinch my lips together and don’t say anything. The back of my neck gets so hot, I think I might burn right up.
Ms. Jacobs rests a hand on my shoulder. I’m not sure if she guesses there’s a whole pot of bubbling anger inside of me and she’s holding me down before I start something, or if she is telling me everything’s okay.
“Martin, if I tell you your life matters, do you think I’m saying nobody else’s life in this class matters?” Ms. Jacobs’s voice is calm and quiet.
Martin shakes his head, but I can tell he still doesn’t get it. I wonder if I should tell him Momma’s bone story.
“So when African Americans say Black lives matter, can you see how they aren’t saying that other people’s lives don’t matter?”
It takes Martin a minute, but he finally nods. I don’t care. I still think his dad is a dummy.
Someone in the back of the class—it sounds like Amy Teen—says, “But why are the protests so angry?”
“You’d be angry too if people who looked like you were getting shot for no reason,” I say, sort of under my breath and sort of not, and then snap my mouth back closed. I don’t know how those words sneaked out. It’s like my mouth has a mind of its own. I hear some whispering behind me but I don’t look.
Ms. Jacobs gives my shoulder a squeeze, but then she releases it. “Injustice usually makes people angry,” she says. “Some people are confused about why businesses get vandalized in protests. That can seem wrong. But I’m not sure what is the right way to act if people in your community seem to be unfairly targeted by the police.”
Momma and Daddy don’t want me watching the videos of Black people getting shot or choked or beat up by police. But there’s been so many of them, I can’t help but see some. And I’ve seen videos of protests too, and sometimes they do get really loud and scary.
Ms. Jacobs says, “I can’t tell you what to think. I know in class and at home, and with your friends, you will hear lots of different things. And some of those things will be right and some will be wrong. You’re going to have to use those brains of yours to figure out the difference. Really pay attention to what you’re seeing and make up your own mind.”
I wish she would just tell Martin-with-the-dumb-dad that his father is wrong.
Ms. Jacobs hits her marker against her hand and stares at us for a second. Then she turns to the board and writes:
“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love. . . .”
It takes her a while to write all those words, and no one makes a peep while she’s writing.
“Does anyone know who said that?” she asks us.
“Barack Obama!” someone shouts out.
“Well, he did tweet it. But he was quoting someone else.” Ms. Jacobs turns around and writes Nelson Mandela underneath the quote. “Mandela was a brave man and a powerful leader. And he made me believe that it’s possible for things to change.” Ms. Jacobs smiles, but I feel like her words are just for me.
I can’t wait to tell Daddy that Ms. Jacobs taught us something that wasn’t from a dead white man’s perspective. But I wish she’d stop acting like I’m the only one in class who would understand a Black perspective. If I can understand a dead white man, then everyone else should be able to understand what someone Black has to say.
I also don’t get why some people would think Black people are against them when we’re the ones getting shot.
12
Super Salty
At lunch, Isabella, Julia, and I sit in our regular lunch spot, even though I notice Julia looking over at the table we sat at yesterday.
I bet she wants to sit there, but that’s not our spot. Lynn seems nice, but I’m not sure about Stacy, and besides, the United Nations sit together, just the three of us.
“So tell us more about Jace smiling at you!” Isabella says. She has a little red speck on her cheek, probably paint from art class.
“Yeah, tell us all about it, bruh,” Julia says, as if she already knows my story won’t be all that exciting.
“Well, first, I fell down and Bernard almost gave himself a heart attack laughing at me.”
“That’s so not cool,” Julia says, shaking her head.
“I know,” I say. “And then he yanked me up super hard.” I’m putting a little extra sauce on my story, but that’s what makes a story good. “Jace wanted to make sure Bernard hadn’t hurt me. Isn’t that sweet? And then he smiled real big at me.” Talking about it makes the butterflies come back.
“Sounds promising,” Julia says, and I totally forgive her for sounding so sarcastic a minute ago.
“Command!”
I flinch when I hear the shout.
A bunch of boys surround Alex, and I can tell they’re being jerks just by how they’re laughing and nudging each other.
One of the boys, Daniel Richards, says something to Alex, and at first Alex looks around, a little confused. Daniel is obnoxious, so I know whatever he said can’t be good.
“Why can’t they leave him alone?” I ask.
“Maybe he shouldn’t crack on people all the time,” Julia says. “Or be so sarcastic.”
“You’re one to talk,” I tell Julia.
“They’re just having fun,” Isabella says. “It’s not like they’re hurting him. It’s just a game.” She sounds like she’s apologizing even though she’s not the one doing anything wrong.
Alex climbs up on a lunch bench. The big grin he usually wears is gone and he seems nervous.
“He doesn’t look like he’s having fun,” I say.
Alex almost falls when he steps up from the bench to the top of the table, and instead of helping him, the boys just laugh harder. I start to get up, and that’s when I see Jace standing right in the middle of it all, laughing with the rest of them. My throat gets really small and I sit back down. I’m not sure what I was going to do anyway.
I look around for Principal Trask. She likes to walk around at lunch making sure we’re all doing what we’re supposed to. This isn’t what we’re supposed to do. I know that for sure. Principal Trask is pretty scary, and if she has ever smiled, no one has told me about it. Normally, I don’t want to see her, but I wish she’d show up and tell those boys to leave Alex alone.
“Sing it!” Jace shouts.
“Yeah, sing!” another boy calls out.
Alex starts singing that commercial jingle about good-smelling shampoo, but in the commercial it’s a girl singing it, and I know the boys are trying to make Alex feel embarrassed. Daniel is elbowing his friends and cracking up.
But then I see Alex’s expression change, and his grin comes back. He starts clapping his hands, changing the beat, and I have no clue what he’s up to.
Then he starts rapping! He lays down a few lines about how all the boys are jealous of his hair and need to try his shampoo. When he tells Daniel to stop whining, lots of people at the lunch tables start laughing, and you bet that makes Daniel ge
t a big frown on his face. Serves him right. Alex fluffs his curly hair and then throws in a little beat box. When he’s done, he takes a deep bow.
People start clapping and laughing. I bet they’re all glad to see the tables get turned on Daniel too.
Daniel says, “Dude, that was wack,” and gives Alex a mean look.
Then a yard-duty teacher comes over, and Daniel and Jace and the other boys run off, leaving Alex standing up on the table. The yard-duty teacher offers her hand to help Alex down, but he waves her off.
“I got it,” he says.
“We don’t climb on tables,” she says.
I want to tell the teacher that she should be mad at the boys who made Alex get on the table, but I don’t want to get Jace in trouble.
“My apologies,” Alex says, back to his goofball self, before dashing off.
I would’ve died if someone had made me get up on a table and sing. “I can’t believe you two are playing that dumb game,” I tell Isabella and Julia.
“Oh, come on,” Isabella says. “If me and Julia are playing, you have to play.” She has her ring finger crossed over her pinkie.
“No, she doesn’t,” Julia says. “We don’t have to do everything together.”
I hold my fist out for Julia to bump. “Yeah. I believe in the power of the individual.”
“I’m never going to get caught, because I’ll always have something crossed,” Isabella says. She crosses her eyes at me, cracking herself up. Even with her eyes crossed, and paint on her face, Isabella looks pretty.
Julia hands Isabella a napkin. “You have a paint smudge,” she says. “With all your new gorg, we can’t have you going around with a smudgy face.”
I squeeze my hands tight together to keep from saying anything. I don’t know why Julia keeps making such a big deal about how pretty Isabella is.
Then Julia tells Isabella, “I bet you’ll be the first of us to get a boyfriend, Is.”
“Well, I am in love,” Isabella says, and my stomach squeezes tight.
“What? Who with?” I demand.
Isabella looks all around before sliding out her phone. Having your phone out at school is big-time against the rules. As soon as she shows us the picture, Julia snorts.
A Good Kind of Trouble Page 4