Pretty

by Justin Sayre

  “Bonjour, Sophie.” My father answers on the first ring.

  “Bonjour, Papa.” I smile, but it’s already too late. I can feel it.

  And just like that, he starts in. “I’m worried about you.”

  I listen to him at first, but I can only stand it for so long until I say, “No, you’re not. You’re not worried about me.” He stops. He’s shocked and looking at me like he can’t believe that I’ve actually said anything besides I’m sorry. He can’t believe it’s me saying it. He starts scrunching his nose and squinting to see me more closely. He’s almost unsure that he’s talking to the same little mouse that always just sits there and takes it, but he is. “If you were worried about me, you would ask how I am. You would ask me about what’s going on in my life. You would ask if I was happy. But you don’t. You’re just worried about yourself and about how much attention I’m paying to you. If you were worried about me, you’d be nicer to me.”

  “Excuse me,” he says, still in disbelief. I sit very still and look into the camera, just showing him over and over that it is me. I am standing up to him.

  “You’re angry with me because I haven’t called you, but why would I?” I say right into the camera. “All you do is tell me how bad I am, and what I’m doing wrong, when you don’t even know what I’m doing at all. I am happy. I’m happy and I don’t need to be told by you. You don’t even know me—”

  “And whose fault is that?” he finally spits out. “You never call me. You’re a bad daughter to me, Sophie,” my father says, angrier and more hurt than I’ve ever seen him, but I don’t care.

  “And you’re a terrible father to me,” I scream and hang up.

  He calls back, but I don’t answer. He calls back again, but I don’t answer that one either. He texts, but I don’t write back. I’m not in the mood to fight anymore, but I’m even less in the mood to apologize. I probably am making it worse, but I just don’t care. He’s an ocean away and right now that’s the perfect distance he needs to be. I need to get to church.

  “Oh, there you are. I didn’t even hear you come down. Well, you ready?” Auntie smiles, looking in her purse, but the smile is for me. Or at least half. “You have your MetroCard?”

  I don’t tell my auntie about what happened with my father. I don’t want him to ruin another minute of my day. We walk down the block and stop Ducks’s grandmother on her way out the door.

  “Don’t you two look like you’re heading to a fashion show! Where are you off to?” she yells down to us.

  “Church,” Auntie calls up to her.

  “Aren’t you a good one to go to church with your auntie, Sophie, love. Do you think I could get the little prince to come along with me but once? No, sir. He’s still in his bed, he is.”

  “Well, I’m sure we all wish we could sleep in some Sundays.” Auntie smiles at Mrs. Flynn.

  “Well, we wish for a million-dollar check signed to cash. But we don’t have it, so we make do and do what’s supposed to be doing. Like getting up on Sunday and hearing the good word. Where do you take the child?” Mrs. Flynn says.

  “First Baptist in Harlem. It’s my church.” Auntie smiles.

  “So far? You know you’re always welcome down at St. Anne’s with me and the Mrs. It’s Catholic, but we all come to the same point, don’t we?” Ducks’s grandmother laughs to herself, hoping Auntie will join in, which she does.

  “I appreciate that and maybe we will, but we have to get on the train if we want a good seat. Come on, baby, let’s go,” Auntie says, sweeping me in her big arm and waving goodbye to Ducks’s grandmother, who walks in the opposite direction.

  We race to catch the train and almost miss it, but I hold the door open and Auntie gets on just in time. Luckily there are seats, and grabbing one, Auntie sweeps me over again close to her.

  “Mrs. Flynn’s nice,” I say when we finally sit down.

  “She seems it,” Auntie says, smiling at me.

  “We don’t really have to go to mass with her, though, do we?” I laugh.

  “No. But it would be a nice thing, maybe. And I love Catholic churches. When you go in, they’re always pretty to look at.”

  “But we’re Baptists, wouldn’t it be silly to go into a Catholic church?” I say, sort of laughing and still trying to make my auntie happy with me.

  “Well, baby, I’m a Baptist. But it doesn’t make any difference, really. It’s the ritual about it.”

  “Well, there’s more to it,” I say. “I mean, like, God.”

  “Oh sure, if you believe that stuff. But I don’t.”

  “What?” I ask, looking up. I don’t understand her at all at this moment. It’s all so confusing. What is she talking about? Why are we going to church all the way in Harlem and getting dressed up and then yelling about it, if she doesn’t believe in God?

  “Well, I’d like to think maybe there’s something. But it’s not some old white man with a beard, I can tell you that much,” Auntie says, laughing to herself. “But I go to the church for something else.

  “I love the music. And the people. I guess it’s mostly the people,” Auntie says. “The old women, wearing their crowns, proud, maybe it’s the only day in the week they can feel any pride. And the care they bring into that building, the way they believe and believe in one another just for being there. There’s something very holy to that, which probably has nothing to do with God.”

  “But you say the prayers and call out and sing along,” I say, trying to understand.

  “Sure. I will today just like every time before. But that’s because I want to be part of it. I want to participate in this tradition. I want to go to a service like my mother and her mother and her mother and her mother did before her. I want to be connected to who they were and where I come from. I believe in that. Even if I don’t believe in the rest. Still, I don’t think it’s ever a bad idea to sit in a room with people and think about how to be kinder to one another, do you?”

  “I guess not,” I answer, more confused than I was before.

  “Sometimes you do things for the sake of others, even the ones that are gone, long gone. And sometimes you have to do the right thing for yourself, while you’re here.” Auntie smiles and pats my face. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes.” I smile back at her.

  We ride the rest of the way to 125th Street without saying a word. We get out and walk the blocks over to St. Nicholas Avenue and race to the front, where all the older ladies are saving us a seat. They’re happy to see us, especially me. They’re glad I came back. I am too.

  CHAPTER 21

  Allegra doesn’t ask about anything besides me and Ryan, but she’s never really happy about it. I try to mention other things, like how our project for Mr. Gennetti’s class is coming up, due in, like, a week, but she just sticks to her favorite subject, Sopher. That’s her couple mash-up name for us. I hate it.

  “Well, you and Ryan, Sopher, will probably go as something together for Halloween, won’t you?” Allegra asks.

  “No. We haven’t said,” I answer. “And I don’t see why we have to.”

  “Well, you probably will,” she says, almost rolling her eyes, and walking away. “You’re a we now.” Allegra smiles this terrible smile like she’s caught me in something. But I don’t know what. Later, when Ryan and I sit to take a break from walking home and kiss a little, I bring it up.

  Ryan puts his arm around me, to keep me warm, I guess. I scrunch down a little to get under his arm and lean on him.

  “So about Halloween?” I ask, cupping my mouth on his arm.

  “Brian’s party,” Ryan says.

  “It sounds fun.” It doesn’t, but I’m trying to get to more important things. “What about costumes?”

  Ryan’s still thinking about going as a zombie doctor. “I was figuring you could go as my zombie nurse.”

  “Oh, well I thought
I would get to decide. Besides, I wanted to go as Daphne from Scooby-Doo, I already found this cute vintage dress,” I say back to him. “It was in the window of Shelley’s, and I have enough money to buy it.”

  “Oh, but will anybody get that, if you’re just Daphne by yourself?” Ryan asks.

  “I don’t really care about that. Do you?” I ask him. He looks like I’ve knocked the wind out of him a little. He’s so confused by what I’m saying.

  “I just don’t get what the big deal is. I mean, why can’t you do, like, one thing for me?” Ryan pouts and takes his arm off me. I’m the one that’s shocked now. One thing? I do lots, and I know it probably sounds silly but this matters to me. I care about things as frivolous and vintage dresses from a store I love and never really have enough money to buy anything in. It’s a big deal to me. And he would understand that if he ever asked me anything about myself.

  Ryan gets up and puts his hand out to me. “I just thought it would be fun to go together as something. But it’s cool.” I take his hand and walk with him to my gate. We don’t say much after that, and it’s probably for the best.

  I get into the house and drop my things right at the door. I walk into the kitchen, unbuttoning my coat and really just wanting a glass of orange juice. It’s been a crazy day. The kitchen is quiet, and being here, alone, I start to look around me, realizing then that I actually am alone. Auntie’s not here. I forgot she had class tonight. And I really wanted to talk to her. Especially now. So I call the next best person I can think of.

  “How’s the boyfriend?” Ellen says, even before she says hello.

  “Don’t you start too.” I laugh. “I don’t know, I mean, do you like him?” I ask.

  I can almost see Ellen smirk through the phone. “Do I have to?”

  We both laugh at that, but I think for really different reasons.

  “Ryan’s nice to you. Isn’t he?” Ellen asks me, like she can tell from my laugh that something is up.

  “No. He’s, like, super nice, it’s not that,” I say.

  “Then what is it?” Ellen asks.

  I tell her what’s it like with Ryan. How he’s sweet and nice to me, and pretty much always does the right thing, or does the good thing. It all seems correct, but it doesn’t seem right. Like when you solve a problem in math, it all works out perfectly. There’s something that’s flawless about that, and orderly. That’s right. Correct is something that just works, waiting to be something better. But with Ryan, it doesn’t ever feel like that. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel solved. It feels like a lot of work for something that’s never going to work out anyway. I tell her about the fight, if it even was that, on the walk home, and the Halloween costume problem. Which sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.

  “It’s not. It’s what you’re into. He should be cool about it,” Ellen chimes in. “It sounds like you’re just not that into him.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not.” I sigh. “I mean, have you ever liked anybody?”

  “Well, Charlie, but that doesn’t count.” Ellen snorts. Charlie was a guy from Ellen’s soccer camp who she had over a bunch this summer.

  “Why doesn’t it count?” I ask right away, because I never even heard this.

  “Charlie’s super gay. He told me,” Ellen says. “He told his mom and dad, and his dad made him go to soccer camp I guess as, like, a last attempt to make him straight.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” I say back, trying not to laugh.

  “I know, and he’s really good at soccer,” Ellen says, bursting out laughing so I finally get to.

  “You know, Allegra thought Ducks was gay,” I spit out. I said I wouldn’t tell anyone because I think Allegra was a little embarrassed, but that’s her thing, and this is Ellen.

  “I heard,” Ellen says. She tells me how weirded out Ducks was about it and how for the next week, he kept asking her if anything he was doing, like holding a fork or walking down the street, looked gay.

  “I felt bad. I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown.” We both can’t help but giggle.

  “It’s just one thing,” I say, trying to defend Ryan a little. “I mean, he’s nice in so many other ways.”

  “But if he’s not listening to you? That’s more than one thing,” Ellen says. “If you like someone, you want to see them happy, right? Well, part of that happy is knowing what makes them happy. If he’s not even asking, what’s the point?” It’s weird to say, but in this moment, I think Ellen is the oldest and wisest person I’ve ever known. Then she burps real loud into the phone and says, “At least that’s what Wendy Williams says.”

  I can never help but laugh with Ellen. She’s that sort of person to me.

  “I don’t know,” I just say. “Maybe it’s fine.”

  “Or it isn’t,” Ellen says. “And that’s fine too. If you don’t want to be a zombie nurse, which, barf, and you don’t want to be at Brian’s, come hang out with us. I have to take Hannah around to trick-or-treat. Ducks and Charlie are coming over. So we’ll be here.”

  Just the words of that plan sound better to me. Being with people who love me and want me to be exactly who and what I am sounds like the best night in the world. I wouldn’t even need to be Daphne or a zombie nurse. It wouldn’t matter, I could just be myself.

  CHAPTER 22

  “So, it’s almost time for your big Day of the Dead project. I know you’re all practically finished,” says Mr. Gennetti, grinning to himself as we all settle into our seats. “I thought it would be a good time to take a break from the Phoenicians to start talking about ‘our’ history. Has everybody at least chosen who they want to be?”

  Half the class shoots their hands up in the air. Some of the girls are even fluttering their fingers to show off to Mr. Gennetti how far along they are. I think about lying for a minute and just sticking my hand up, but I don’t. I still don’t even have a clue about the whole thing. I have no idea who I want to be.

  “Well, for those of you who don’t, let’s talk about options, and maybe we all will get a better idea what the project is about.” Mr. Gennetti smiles at the class and sits on the corner of his desk.

  “So my mother’s name is Rosalie, and her parents came from Puerto Rico.” The way he says this, he acts like we’ve never even heard of the place, mystical Puerto Rico. “Now, does anyone else have family from Puerto Rico?”

  A few hands go up around the room, and he calls on Christina Vélez, who stands up, who knows why, to tell everyone in the class that her whole family is from Puerto Rico and they go to the parade every year. Mr. Gennetti smiles and says he loves the parade too. Christina’s face looks like he just said he loves her. She gets a little red and sits back down in a hurry.

  Mr. Gennetti gets up and walks through the room. “What are the things that make you proud of being from a place?” Rebecca Phillips says history, Mr. Gennetti agrees. Tyler Wendell says music, Mr. Gennetti says sure, and keeps walking.

  Ellen waves her hand hard, which is weird, because she’s usually never in a hurry to do anything in this class, then she says, “Well, like, what the people there have been through.” Ellen doesn’t even mumble it.

  “That’s a very smart answer, Ellen.” Mr. Gennetti smiles and walks back to the front of the class. “How a people or a culture survive and go on is a huge reason to be proud.

  “The purpose of this project is to show to the class something important about who you are and who inspires you. Does that make sense to everyone?” Mr. Gennetti asks. And while most of the people around me nod like they understand perfectly, I don’t, and he notices.

  “Sophie, you seem a little lost,” Mr. Gennetti says.

  “No,” I answer. “It’s just, how would I even know who to pick?”

  “Well, that’s really up to you. I mean, the field is pretty open, don’t you think?” Mr. Gennetti says. Some girls start to la
ugh because they all want to please him, which means making me look like a dummy, and that makes me feel worse. But I do actually have a question.

  “But, like, what if you’re lots of things?” I ask.

  “Tell us more about that, Sophie,” Mr. Gennetti says.

  “Well, it’s just, like, I’m a girl.” Jeannette Miller snickers from the first row, but I continue. “And I’m black. My mother and her family are black. And my father is white. And I live in Brooklyn, and I’m an only child, and there’s lots more, I guess. But how can I, like, pick one thing to be, and come in and talk about how I feel pride about just that one thing?”

  “Well, hold up for a minute, Sophie.” Hands fly up as soon as he stops me, I guess other people aren’t as confused as me. But Mr. Gennetti continues on his own. “See, the thing I think you’re missing is that being proud of one thing doesn’t take away from other things. You have so many wonderful worlds you get to be a part of, they’re all a part of your story.”

  As soon as he says the word story, I start to understand a little.

  “Does that help, Sophie?” Mr. Gennetti asks.

  Craig Estraga raises his hand and spits out, “And they don’t need to be dead, just checking.”

  A few girls laugh again, and Mr. Gennetti says, “No, they can be alive. It’s a day to remember our families and our ancestors and pay them a little respect. But I’m letting you pick any member of your family, living or dead, for the project.”