“Like what? Not getting the town newspaper job?” I sound judgmental here because I can’t believe he’s been dealing weed.
“Yeah, but more. Family stuff. I don’t know if Daniel wants me telling his private life issues.”
I sigh. “You just told me Daniel was in juvie. What can be worse than that? Besides, he and I go way back.”
I’ve known Daniel since middle school days. Then we became closer in ninth grade, when he organized a cheerleading corps for the girls basketball team I played on. He had such fun organizing the cheerleader group and traveling to away games, it never occurred to me until now he might have done that just because I asked.
We became pretty close friends, pretty open with each other. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. But we were never a girlfriend/boyfriend item; in fact, I fell in love with a senior who was a musician when we were in ninth grade, and Daniel was well aware of my infatuation, because we both would drop into Ms. Jordan’s room at lunch to hear him play jazz.
The musician was my first real love, one-sided as it was. But while I was thinking about his good looks and beautiful ebony skin when we were together, he was thinking of me as a “sister.” His lack of interest in me as a girlfriend caused me to pull back and pretty much become a loner.
Daniel witnessed all my pain but never mentioned it, or my dramatic shutdown. He has been a consistent friend to me, as I have to him, but we never dig down to a vulnerable level. Still, I thought I knew him better. I never would have thought he’d become a drug dealer.
“I know you and Daniel are friends,” Sean says. “I’m trying to figure out how to be a friend to him, because I know something that just happened and I’m sure he doesn’t want other people to know about it.”
It’s hard to contain my disappointment in Daniel. With a flattened voice, I say, “The ball’s in your court, Sean. You have to figure out what’s right.”
“Okay,” he says after a long silence. “The other thing I know is that Daniel’s parents are getting a divorce. They split up a couple weeks ago. Turns out his stepfather was an asshole toward him, bullied him badly. Daniel seemed pretty on edge the last two weeks, at least to me. Then, yesterday, his stepfather sees Daniel leaving this wooded area outside his law school office. When he finds out cops are milling around and onto drug dealing, he tells on Daniel.”
I am so confused I can’t recognize any feelings or thoughts. I can hear the fear in Sean’s voice. Maybe it has something to do with the trauma he went through last year at Hilltop over Adrian’s suicide.
I exhale. “Thanks for telling me. I don’t know what to say, or do.”
“Yeah, me either.” He sounds completely deflated, no air left. “I guess part of me wanted to reach out to you because last year I learned talking with Chelsea helped me figure out what I needed to do.”
“Well, I’m definitely happy to listen,” I say. “If you want to call back later, do.”
No response from Sean.
“What will you say to Daniel tomorrow?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I want to be encouraging. “It doesn’t really matter what you say. He will know you care, and that’s huge. Give him a hug for me—would you call me after?”
When we hang up, I wonder if I should have been more helpful to Sean. He sounds miserable. I remember my Sunday walks and conversations with Chelsea when she was all tangled up about Adrian. Mostly, she did a lot of soul searching about why she and other students had not reached out to him before he died. She was plenty angry at the school—she felt the environment there encouraged that kind of problem—but she felt personally responsible, too.
My talks with Chelsea helped me learn I can’t solve other people’s problems—and anyway, they don’t want that. They just want someone to listen, understand, and care. Chelsea never asked me what I thought, and neither of us offered each other advice. It was more showing concern and drawing the other person out, not by asking questions but by giving each other space to say more what we were thinking and feeling, exploring where our own thoughts and feelings were taking us.
I learned how to do that when I got to Stone Creek; ninth grade was all about learning communication skills. The listening skill just seems to come naturally to Chelsea, though. When I was with her on Sundays, I never felt different, just normal and accepted. She talked for years about getting away, finding out who she is. I understood, and she felt better about herself knowing I understood. She was gone most of the summer, and now she’s at UVA. I miss having someone here who hears me.
I message her:
Yo, Chelsea. What’s up? Miss our talks—so here’s a substitute for your Sunday morning pleasure, assuming you are out on the town now for a rocking Saturday night. True, I’m not. No particular reason except old ruts. Today, I played golf—stop laughing! It was great until I got a text from Sean saying Daniel was arrested and in a jail for juveniles, for dealing weed. Anyway, ruined my “perfect” day and now I’m feeling guilty for feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes it’s just so damn hard to be there for yourself and others at the same time. You and I have all this trust built up, but how did we do that, like open up to each other? Maybe I need to learn to trust I’ll be okay no matter what and risk trusting other people just because they’re people, like me. Guess I’m just not there yet, not strong enough. So, are you meeting all kinds of amazing people? Tell all. How’s college life? Expand my horizons … Love you, Cora
Pretty lame. I’m feeling the two-year age difference a lot more now that she’s at college.
Since Chelsea left town, I don’t go to church on Sunday mornings anymore. My parents kept going for a while, but then they quit too, preferring to spend all morning reading the Sunday Washington Post. Me, I like spending my Sunday mornings doing schoolwork.
Today I get to work on my history tale. The title is “Freedom.” The inspiration for my thinking is Sue Monk Kidd’s The Invention of Wings:
Once upon a time, black Hetty, “Handful,” was the property of the Grimke family living in the city of Charleston, South Carolina in the early 1800s. Handful’s mother was her security and role model for freedom. She taught Handful being free inside was possible, even if you were bound on the outside.
The opposite was the situation of the white Sarah Grimke, free by color and economics, even if not as a woman. When she is eleven, Sarah is “given” Handful for her birthday. She and Handful become close friends. When the white family discovers the friendship, Handful is whipped and Sarah is banned from her father’s library of books, Sarah’s source for dreams of becoming a lawyer. Sarah escapes to Philadelphia and becomes an abolitionist.
Handful, meanwhile, lives a horrendous life of physical captivity. Through the inspiration of her mother’s love for her, showing the origins of who she is in a quilt story, Handful learns to be a free spirit. Eventually, Sarah and Handful invent their freedom through a courageous escape from Charleston, headed north.
And they all lived free, ever after. Happy?
What is freedom? I’m not a slave, but am I free? Is it about freedom from something? Or freedom to do something? Being free inside or outside? Those are my questions from reading the book.
What a great book, even if it is partly fiction. Building in emotion to the stories helps me understand the past. I love how I feel after finishing a great book—this openness to new possibilities.
I am restless all afternoon after finishing my homework, waiting to hear from Sean. I drift out to the backyard to practice my golf swing with whiffle balls. I have to first unlearn those swings from yesterday, propelled by tension. That requires immense focus on breathing, relaxing muscles, body alignment, and seeing the ball from hit through flight. Gradually, the in-sync feel of driving returns to me.
Mom hollers out the back door, “Cora, your cell has been ringing for the last hour. I didn’t want to interrupt you, but it may be important.”
I run inside and pick up my phone. “Sean. Sorry I missed y
our calls. I was outside. How is Daniel?”
“Really shook. He’s not so much worried about himself, but he’s all wound up with guilt about adding to his mom’s burdens. He looks awful—all washed out, red eyes, doing the bouncy leg thing he does, and he seems to only hear about half what you say. And oh, the answer to your question is, he started smoking weed this past summer—not all the time, but when he feels anxious. He says it helps. He wouldn’t talk about the details of what he did, or the arrest. His attorney told him not to talk with anyone but her about the situation. She says the first thing is to get him out of juvenile detention. There will be a court hearing tomorrow. The attorney will call Chief today to ask if he will come and support Daniel.” All this comes out in one big rush.
“Take a breath, Sean,” I say calmly. “Seeing him there obviously freaked you out. Not that a guy would admit to that.”
Sean responds to this with a half-hearted chuckle.
“Seriously, though, can we do anything to help Daniel right now?” I ask. “Can I do anything to help you?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s really ashamed and worried what everyone will think of him. I realized this afternoon that despite his Mr. Mayor role and everyone liking him, he doesn’t have any real close friends besides you and me. And I don’t even know him all that well, yet. But I’m definitely going to stick with him through this. I guess just acting normal toward him will be a relief for him. I don’t know if this will become public. That would be harder on him, I think.”
He knows Daniel better than he thinks. “Okay, so let’s make a pact. We’re going to be there for Daniel, no matter what. You’re already being a great friend, Sean, in the support you’ve given him. It sounds like today has taken a toll on you too. Call me later if you want to talk more.”
“Thanks, Cora. Thank goodness I can share this responsibility with you.”
When we hang up, I compose a short text to Daniel: “You are a dynamite person and will get through this bump in the road. I’m here for you. Cora.”
I wanted to say “Love, Cora,” but people are so weird about that word. To me, it means I care deeply about your welfare. Not a Cupid thing or mushy girlfriend/boyfriend thing, and certainly not carelessly said.
A Facebook message from Chelsea pops up:
Cora, great to hear from you. Warning, my emotions are kind of out there these days. A whirlwind here. Rather than dealing with all the new stuff, I’m stuck back in making sense of Italy. I told you how great my Aunt Lucia was in supporting the waif of me as I tried to escape from my parents and my drifting life. But I soon realized I have no rudder for deciding what to do with myself. I’ve learned lots of what I don’t want, but have no clue what I do want. Example: it is fraternity and sorority rush time and I know for sure I have zip interest, and lots of disgust for, that whole scene. They’re like Hilltop cliques on steroids. But what do I want? I’m tired of being a loner, present company excepted. Also, excepting the closeness I felt to Jake when we were kids. Sean and I were tight last spring, but the distance, like with you, is hard. So I’ve got to grow up quick and figure things out here. No place to run to now. I heard an expression in one of my classes the other day that jumped out and tackled me—emotional anorexia. I see it in my relationship with my parents, only getting emotional crumbs, and therefore learning to only want that. Starved for deep acceptance, all the while telling myself I don’t need them. When I asked them if I could go to Italy, their response was they would reward me for achieving at Hilltop and choosing UVA. In other words, they’ll love me if … One other thing about Italy, the dig I got to participate on. It was good practice in concentration, looking through the dirt for hours on end. Unlike my kid play days, I was not building but was uncovering, a preserver, asker, listener to buried life. I don’t know what those thoughts mean but they keep coming up when I think about what I want to do for the rest of my life. From your mixed up friend … . .
Free willing, Chelsea
Sean catches me at the end of first period. “My mom talked to Daniel’s mom late last night,” he says. “The attorney thinks they will release Daniel today until a later court date. Do you want to go to Daniel’s house after school?”
“Yes,” I say, “if Daniel and his mom want us there.”
“I think it would be good for Daniel to see us acting normally, so he doesn’t try to hide under a rock.”
“I agree, but it needs to be Daniel’s call,” I say with conviction.
Second period seems entirely different without Daniel there.
At lunch Sean tells me, “I reached Daniel’s mom. He was released this morning until a court date in a couple weeks. She said it is okay if we come by after school.”
Sean seems more nervous about going than I am. Interesting. Maybe it’s because he actually saw Daniel yesterday.
Yep, I am totally taken aback when I see Daniel, who seems so frail he looks more like a five-year-old than a teenager. Daniel’s mom looks to us and back to him compulsively, registering shock in every glance. I break the tension in stereotypical female fashion, giving Daniel a big old bear hug.
“Did Sean deliver the hug I asked him to yesterday?”
Daniel looks confused.
“Sorry, I couldn’t,” Sean says. “We weren’t allowed to touch at the detention center.”
With that comment, Daniel’s mom looks like she might lose it. Looks like I’m the one who has to control the direction of this interaction. With a knot in my stomach, I forge ahead.
“I missed you in morning block today, Daniel, but you can catch up easily. We turned in our history ‘Tale’ drafts and talked about how suggestions for revision would be made. Mine sounds like a seven-year-old wrote it, but it’s a starting point. I really loved the book I read. I’ll let you read what I wrote if you want. Have you finished your reading yet?” I’m babbling on purpose, giving everyone time to breathe.
“Yeah,” Daniel says, “I finished The Great Gatsby last week and started on my write-up, but the whole world looks a little different now.”
“I bet,” Sean says.
Daniel’s mom reaches out and pushes Daniel’s hair out of his eyes in that classic, loving manner moms have. “It will be good for you to stick to your school routines, Daniel. You love Stone Creek and it is good for you.” Turning to us, she says, “Chief was there in court today and came up to us afterward with very kind things to say.”
Taking her lead, I ask, “So what is your view of The Great Gatsby? I saw the movie but haven’t read the book, and I know the books are always better.”
“Well, I originally read it for inspiration, like what it felt like to live a wealthy lifestyle in a time that was exciting. But Gatsby, and actually everyone, seemed pathetic, unhappy, really screwed up.” Daniel raises both shoulders with arms outstretched in a “go figure” pose. “The poor people are really beaten down and the wealthy people seem hollow inside. They just hang out all day drinking, sleeping around, talking about how terrible the world is, and paying no attention to their kids. Gatsby just lives in the past, wanting everything to go back and turn out differently, hoping this woman he loved in the past will leave her husband for him because he’s become successful. But all his bundles of money are from illegal alcohol and stock trading, and he doesn’t even enjoy the money. And the woman he does this all for is dishonest and a coward; in the end, she’s responsible for Gatsby getting killed.”
A black hole of silence sits in the room, everyone sitting stiffly, no eye contact, expressionless.
Daniel looks around at us with a bewildered look on his face. “What?”
Only his mom has the courage to say, “So success, defined as lots of money, and made illegally, didn’t bring happiness.”
Sean and I constantly remind each other of our pact to not allow Daniel to slip away into shame, isolated and alone. I’m glad his attorney made an appointment for him with a therapist. As is bound to happen in a small community, the appointment is with Sean’s therapi
st. There are other therapists in town, but this one specializes in assisting teenagers with anxiety. Apparently, teenagers with anxiety and fear have a harder time than children or adults in learning how not to be afraid. Who knew? It certainly doesn’t fit the legend about teenage years being the “time of your life.”
In an effort to stay more connected with Daniel, I’ve been texting him in the evenings, but he doesn’t respond to my texts. So I took a different tack the other night: I started writing down thoughts, about anything, in a spiral notebook, then handed the notebook to him in morning block the next day and asked him to give it back to me the day after with something he wrote. It isn’t always a dialogue—more like two three-year-olds playing right next to each other and saying things that occur to us independently of what the other just said—but that’s okay. I’m not trying to just reach out to him just about his issues, I’m trying to be real about what’s going on with me too.
My last entry in the spiral notebook expressed my rage in this time of Black Lives Matter. Trayvon Martin shot by a neighborhood watchman in Sanford, Florida, followed by a white man shooting a young black man in Jacksonville over loud music. Police shooting young black men, for no apparent reason, in Ferguson, Baltimore, North Charleston, and Cincinnati. A young black woman dying in her Prairie View, Texas jail cell after arrest for a traffic stop. And as of now, I see seventeen more incidents listed on the website. We know there are many more, of course, but the press have just recently gotten onto it.
What would I do if I lived in one of those cities? Violence and white against black just goes on and on. Truth is I would be seen as singularly black in one of those cities. Stupid, arbitrary definitions! That’s the kind of thing I write in the spiral notebook.
The first thing Daniel writes in the notebook is, “I am panicked I will no longer be in charge of my life, trapped in jail, my future ruined. I will not get into a good college with a police record, and I’ve ruined my chance for scholarship money. What an idiot I am, jeopardizing everything. The hardest thing of all is facing Mom, seeing how worried she is about me. And I worry about her being alone. I put this whole disaster in motion and am helpless to stop it.”
School Tales Page 16