“I like that top.”
“Thanks.” I can hardly breathe.
“Doesn’t your girl Isabella have one like it?”
“Uh, I don’t—I don’t think so.” Why is he talking about Isabella?
“Yeah, well, whatever. See ya.”
I let out a breath. I focus on the positive. He thought I looked good. That’s what he said, right? And he knows my name. And he knows who my friends are—which means he pays attention to me.
But at break I decide not to share this great news with Isabella.
“My top looks so good on you!” she says.
I don’t know why, but it bugs me that she calls it her top, even though it is. For today, it’s supposed to be mine. “Thanks,” I say, but I know I don’t sound grateful.
“I can’t believe you lent it to her,” Julia says. She’s decided to hang out with us again at break. I almost wish she hadn’t if she’s going to say stuff like that. “You really asked to borrow her favorite?” she asks me.
I glance at Isabella. She’s leaning back on her elbows and staring up at the sky. “She didn’t mind,” I quickly say. “She could’ve said no.” That’s not really true since Isabella basically never says no.
“It’s no big deal,” Isabella says, straightening back up. “So, did he say anything? Did you say anything?”
“Yeah, he said something,” I admit. “He said I looked good today.”
Isabella smiles. “Wow!”
“You don’t have to sound like that’s so hard to believe,” I say.
Isabella’s eyes get wide. “Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. I think it’s great.”
“Progress,” Julia says, and shoots the trash from her snack into a trash can. “Sounds cool. What else did he say?”
“Not much,” I say, and shove a handful of cheesy goldfish in my mouth.
Isabella gives me a big smile, and I feel like one of the little fish is struggling to swim its way back up my throat.
When Isabella runs off to class, Julia says, “You know, Is didn’t have to lend you her top.”
“I know.”
“So be nice.”
I suck my teeth at that. Julia seems like the last person who should be talking about being nice.
What if Isabella only lent me her top because she knew it would make Jace think of her?
21
Clearing Hurdles
At our next track practice, after we’re all stretched out, Coach West tells us what specific events she wants us to train for.
When she gets to me, her smile gets really big.
“The 400,” she says, “and hurdles.” She holds her hand up for a high five.
I can’t leave her hanging, but seriously? Hurdles?
Hurdles take coordination. Why can’t I do the 1600 meters? That’s like what I do every week. I can manage that. I mean, not fast or anything, but I can do it.
I check to see if Angie looks worried. The hurdles is her race, and I just bet she won’t want me running in a lane next to her, bumping into her or kicking one of her hurdles over.
As far as I can tell, she isn’t thinking about me at all.
Coach West blows her whistle, and we all start practicing.
I try jumping over a few hurdles, but it feels awkward.
“Angie,” Coach West shouts. “Help Shayla for a bit. She’s struggling with her timing.”
I can’t believe Coach West called me out like that, and I can’t believe she asked Angie to help.
Angie is with the other girls on the relay team: Carmetta, Natalie, and Maya. Our track team isn’t all Black, not even close, but the girls’ relay team is, and they all exchange glances when Coach West asks Angie to help me. Angie shrugs and Natalie laughs. I wonder what that is supposed to mean. It didn’t seem nice.
Maybe I’m doing something wrong, but it doesn’t seem like any of the relay girls have any interest in hanging out with me. Hana made that comment about people saying I think I am too good for them, but as bad as I am at hurdles, that sure can’t be what’s keeping us from being friends.
Angie jogs over and asks me to do a few hurdles so she can see how I’m doing. After a couple of minutes, she stops me.
“You keep jumping with different legs,” she says.
“I do?” I look down at my legs accusingly. “Does that matter?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You should jump with your lead leg. Your strongest leg. What hand are you?”
“Huh? Hand?”
“What hand do you write with?” She holds up both of her hands, like perhaps I’m an alien from another planet and don’t know the meaning of the word hand.
“Oh, sorry. I’m left-handed.” I think I get it. “So I’m left-legged?”
“Probably. Let me see something.”
She gets behind me and then pushes me!
I stumble forward and almost fall. “What are you doing?”
“People say whatever foot you use to catch yourself, you know, if you get pushed, that’s the leg you should use for your lead leg. It’s your power leg.”
I look down, and my left leg is definitely in front of my right. “Thanks,” I say, even though I don’t appreciate getting pushed.
“Sure,” Angie says with a toss of her braids.
I try jumping over a few hurdles again, this time making sure I lead with my left leg, and it actually feels better.
Bernard comes over with a small ball in his hand. A shot.
Shot putting, I found out, has nothing to do with guns. A shot looks like a dark softball, and just like a softball, shots aren’t soft at all. And they’re really heavy. Shot putters have to throw the shot as far as they can.
“Think fast!” Bernard says, and pretends to throw the shot at me.
I flinch, and even though he didn’t actually throw it at me, just thinking about that thing flying into my belly gives me a stomachache.
“Bernard!” Coach West yells.
He gets all scowly faced. “What?”
“Do I need to remind you again that the shot isn’t a toy?”
“No.” He sounds upset.
“Go back to the safe zone with the shot if you’re still practicing.” Coach West is really serious about her safety rules.
“I’m done,” Bernard says.
“Well, then, put the shot away.”
Bernard’s grip on the shot tightens, and I’m not sure what he’s going to do.
“You should put that away,” I say.
He turns around fast and glares at me. “You don’t need to tell me what I have to do.”
“Sorry,” I say, my mouth feeling like it’s packed with marbles. I shuffle my feet and look at the ground and hope he leaves me alone.
“People always on me,” he says.
I don’t look up.
“Bernard!” Coach West shouts.
I want to tell her not to make him mad, not when he has that heavy shot in his hand, but he just shuffles over to the equipment locker.
Soon it’s time to stack up the hurdles and put them off to the side of the track, and all the relay girls are laughing and joking with each other. Carmetta starts singing a Rihanna song. She has a really pretty voice, and Angie, Maya, and Natalie start singing along. It’s one of my favorite songs, and I bet I could sing better than Natalie. She’s way off key.
After practice, we all go out to the front of the school to wait for our rides. Whoever picks up Bernard is always already waiting, so he’s one of the first people to leave. Maybe it’s his mom. I mean, even bullies have mothers.
Groups of kids are scattered all over the grass. I haven’t made friends with anyone on the team, so I wait alone. Natalie gets picked up and then Maya. A van pulls up and a whole bunch of kids pile in. Pretty soon, there’s just a few of us waiting.
I tell my feet to walk over to where Angie and Carmetta are sitting. It’s just the two of them, so I try to convince myself that it’s not too scary. But my feet don’t listen and my hands start itc
hing and I feel like I’m trapped in cement.
Finally, I convince my feet to get moving and start to walk over, but that’s right when Angie and Carmetta’s ride gets there, and they both get up and run to the car.
I stare down at my feet.
They have totally let me down.
22
Your Own
That night, I’m standing in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the pork chops so they don’t burn.
“Momma, do you think there’s something wrong with me?” I start.
“Huh?” She’s sitting at the dinner table reading one of her textbooks. This year, Momma decided to go back to school to get her master’s in English literature. Momma and I both like to read, but it’s a mystery to me why anyone would choose more school if they don’t have to.
“I mean, all your best friends are Black. And so are Hana’s.” I feel dumb talking about this. “Is it weird that none of my friends are?”
Momma closes her book and stretches her arms high above her head. “My girls and I have known each other for a long time, Shayla. I guess you could say we speak the same language.”
“A Black language?”
She shakes her head. “No, sugar.” Then she pauses. “Well, maybe. I mean, not really, you understand, but there’s something about those women, my sisters, that makes me comfortable. You have to remember, back when I was in school, kids stuck with their own.”
“Things haven’t changed.” I sigh and flip the pork chops. Maybe there is something wrong with me. “But I thought Isabella, Julia, and I spoke the same language. At least we used to.”
I didn’t realize I was stabbing the pork chops until Momma comes over and takes the fork from my hand. “Those chops haven’t done you wrong. Why don’t you let them be?” She gives me a sideways look. “Shayla, there’s nothing wrong with you and your friends. I don’t want you to think that’s what I meant.”
“Julia is really into these other girls all of a sudden. Like she likes them better than the United Nations.” I turn to face Momma because I want to make sure she tells me the truth. “Do you think she likes them more than us because Isabella and I aren’t Asian?”
Momma shakes her head like that couldn’t be possible, but then she says, “I can’t speak for Julia, Shayla. But even if it is true that she likes those other girls because they have something in common with her that you don’t have, that doesn’t mean she likes you and Isabella any less. And it doesn’t take away from the friendship you girls had.”
I can’t help notice Momma said had, like maybe we don’t have it anymore.
Momma puts the chops on the cutting board so they can rest, and checks the rice. “Shayla, do you want to have Black friends?”
“I don’t think they want to be friends with me.” It doesn’t sound right, saying it out loud. “It’s like since I don’t sit at the right place at lunch, I’m different or something.” Not one of the girls on the relay team seems interested in being my friend. Angie’s nice to me but she’s nice to everybody.
Momma gives my arm a little squeeze. “Nothing wrong with being different. And right now, you’re just becoming who you’re going be. You still have a lot of growing to do.”
Momma must know I’m about to interrupt, because she holds up her hand to stop me. “Trust me. You’re going to change in all sorts of ways. That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you, Shayla. Or with the friends you have. Just make sure you’re open to all sorts of people. Now, I will tell you this. You may find as you get older that there’s something . . . comfortable, or I don’t know, comforting, in having friends who can relate to things you might be going through. Little things like knowing what type of product to put on your hair, and big stuff like knowing how it feels when we hear about the police hassling someone just because they’re Black. Or worse than hassling. That hurts. Those are things Julia and Isabella might not relate to. Although I bet they have their own things.” Momma chuckles, but not in a this-is-so-funny way, in a sort of sad way. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t your friends, or that you should feel bad about those friendships. You hear me?”
I nod. It’s a lot to process. And I think maybe part of what she is saying is that I really need to get some Black friends.
“But I’ll tell you this too. I’ve met a really wonderful woman at school who I like a lot. We’ve started running the stairs together on campus, and even though I haven’t known her as long as my other friends, I think she and I speak the same language too.”
I don’t know what this has to do with anything, but then Momma says, “Janice isn’t Black. She’s white.”
Hana walks in just then and throws her hand against her chest like she’s having a heart attack. “Daddy, come quick! Momma is starting to fraternize with white folk!”
Momma swipes at her with a dish towel, and that makes Hana laugh, and I feel a little bit better.
A wise man once said (okay, it was Michael Jackson): “It don’t matter if you’re Black or white.” But obviously, MJ didn’t go to Emerson or have the police stop him for a busted taillight. Race shouldn’t matter, but it does. For real.
23
Black Panthers
I’m beginning to think I was wrong to worry about the United Nations being in trouble. Julia has been around almost every break for the past few weeks. I try not to think her missing break time with Isabella and me every once in a while is that big of a deal. And of course she’s always around at lunch.
Like today, it’s just us three like normal, laughing and joking and being silly, until Isabella asks about Halloween costumes.
“Bruuuuuh,” Julia says, sounding like a frog. “Costumes are for babies.”
Isabella, Julia, and I always pick a costume to do together. One year we all dressed up as sand castles and had glittery sand in our hair (and other uncomfortable places) for days. Another time, Isabella and Julia were two parts of a table, and I was the gum stuck underneath them. “You don’t want to dress up?” I ask.
Julia gives a funky little snort (which is very unattractive) and looks at me like I’m so yesterday. So I take that as a no.
When I get home after school, I ask Hana if it’s cool to wear a costume in junior high, and she says I should if I want to, like that is the important thing. She shows me the big afro wig and gold hoop earrings and Black Panther T-shirt she is going to wear. Most people hear Black Panther and they think of the movie, but Hana is quick to remind everyone the activists came first. Hana’s dressing up as Angela Davis. Hana shows me pictures of other people who were in the Black Panthers, and when I see the black jackets and berets, I think I have a good costume idea. I can dress up but not look like I’m way over the top. And a beret will cover some of my forehead. Sold.
I don’t bother with Julia, but I convince Isabella she should dress up too. We decide to surprise each other with what we’re wearing. I can’t help but hope Isabella doesn’t wear something that makes her even more beautiful. Maybe she’ll be a scary witch. With a wart.
On Halloween, I put on Daddy’s black leather coat, which of course is huge on me, but that’s okay, and then a black beret Momma got in Paris. She says she bought it even though no one was actually wearing them there because it made her feel French. She also tells me I better not lose it. But once I have the coat and beret on and check myself out in the mirror, it doesn’t seem all that exciting. Then I get a great idea. The one thing about Halloween is, I can get away with wearing makeup since it can be part of a costume.
Hana walks into the bathroom just as I’m putting on mascara.
“Shayla!”
I almost blind myself with the stick of mascara. I guess I should’ve asked her first before borrowing her makeup.
“Did you see anybody wearing makeup in those pictures I showed you?”
I wipe the black smear off my face. “That was a long time ago. Probably now they would wear it.”
Hana sighs loud. “You’re supposed to be a protester. I know it’s ju
st for Halloween, but can’t you even take a second to think about how important protest is? How it’s not about looking cute?”
I totally want to call Hana out because she looks fantastic as Angela Davis and I doubt she minds. But I’m smart enough not to say it.
Hana stands there for a couple more seconds and then walks away.
I put on some green eye shadow.
On the way to school, Momma keeps giving me little sideways looks until finally I say, “What?” She probably is thinking I shouldn’t have makeup on.
“Just seeing you dressed that way,” Momma says, “makes me . . .” She shakes her head. “Seems like we keep protesting and nothing changes. My daddy got arrested for protesting when he was just a little older than you. And look at us today. Same stuff going on. This trial . . . Mm, mm, mm.” Momma shakes her head again. “I thought we’d be in a better place by now.”
I feel bad I’m wearing something that makes her sad, but when we pull up in front of Emerson, before I get out of the car, Momma says in a big voice, “What do we want?” Even though she’s sort of shouting, she’s smiling.
So I smile back. “Justice!”
“When do we want it?”
“Now!” I shout back at her, giggling. She gives me a kiss goodbye and tells me to have fun.
“I will,” I say, and climb out the car.
There’s a bunch of people in costume, and that makes me feel less nervous about dressing up, but seeing so many people in costume makes me wish the United Nations had come up with a costume idea together like we used to.
Jace isn’t wearing a costume, and I worry that means he’ll think I’m a big loser for dressing up. I push my beret down lower and smile at him, hoping mascara is making my eyes look bigger. I just need him to notice one time my forehead isn’t as big as the moon.
Today doesn’t seem to be the day.
Mr. Levy has his hair brushed back nice and neat, and he isn’t wearing his lab coat. His costume is being normal. Hilarious.
“We’re going to howl like banshees!” he tells us in this excited way he gets sometimes.
A Good Kind of Trouble Page 7