They arrived just as the old fashioned liberty bell shrilled its ten minute warning. Ten minutes till every tardy kid could count on a nose full of Principal Rhinecorn’s sour breath, plus two days of detention.
Out of the Land Rover and scrambling across the parking lot, Edy, the Dysons, and Hassan melted into the crowd. Around them, conversations swarmed as a thousand angry bumblebees all jammed in the same hive, and all buzzed the same buzz: party, clothes, sex, someone dumped someone, new boy, new boy, new boy.
Edy wondered if Wyatt Green had found the school okay, if he knew where to report, if he knew who to avoid. Caught in the upward stream of students, she careened enough to catch a glimpse of the open doors and the walkway of overflowing peers, before the hand at the small of her back pushed her on.
Hassan.
Edy split from the boys at the start of the day, taking homeroom with the jackal-faced Mrs. Rhodes. A trembling surly old woman who could neither see through windowpane-thick spectacles, nor hear on the days she forgot to power on her hearing aid, she marked present people absent and absent people present while conversations carried on unchecked. “Last year until retirement,” she promised them every day.
Edy took a seat towards the front and against the far wall, out of range for Rhodes’ blurred vision. Behind her was Eva Meadows, the once plump, dark haired girl who’d summered in Greece and came back for high school lean, sleek and svelte. Even her eyes had darkened from apple green to emerald. Rumor had it that 25k in plastic surgery had done most of the work. But kids didn’t get lipo, did they?
“Name’s Wyatt Green,” Eva said. “He moved into that condemned house across the street from Edy. Daddy says they must be squatters.”
“Well he does dress like one,” the blonde cheerleader, Sandra Jacobs, conceded.
Her mother, who had also been a cheerleader at South End, was on her third husband, a business magnate who made his home in Milan. People said that Sandra hadn’t seen her mother in two years and that her mother and stepfather hadn’t been on U.S. soil in three. She got the best sort of gifts from them though, judging by that splash of a Marc Jacobs bag hooked on her chair.
“The new kid looks like he smells,” Eva said. “I think I heard someone say he does.”
Sandra stiffened, but said nothing. Edy’s fingers curled into fists that she wished were bigger. She knew these girls, knew their meanness from earlier days, younger days, when their sting and the bitter dismissal were hers to own. She could hit one, she knew, and put some real power behind the blow. A lifetime of being the only girl in a clan of boys meant she could land a wicked right. Their paranoia had ensured as much.
The flat screen at the front of the room powered on and a freckled, peach-faced girl with rag doll curls smiled till her cheeks reddened.
“Good morning, South End and welcome to another wonderful Monday. I’m your host, DeeDee Bell, here to give you the latest.”
Edy pulled out her e-reader. Around her, others reached for similar distractions—cell phones, iPods, an iPad in one instance, as DeeDee started in about the penalty for tardiness. Then meetings. Half a dozen clubs were looking for new members. The Historical Society had begun preparations for its annual spring program and, as usual, needed volunteers. At that, every head in the room swiveled to face Edy, teeth bared in gleeful grins.
Of course. She hadn’t expected to go unscathed.
Each year, Edy’s father volunteered for the Historical Society’s evening production. He’d show up in a powdered wig, monocle and black tights—none of it required—to read a line attributed to his great, great, great grandfather, a freedman named Jebediah Phelps: “’Tis freedom we seek. Nothing more.” He’d scan the auditorium meticulously, gaze sweeping across row after row, ensuring that the breadth of his message had been digested. Once satisfied, he’d give a soulless lecture on political philosophy, tying the lone words of Jebediah Phelps to the works of a half dozen philosophers. Should jeering interrupt him, as it always did, he’d pause long enough to stare down the culprit and begin again, voice carrying even further than before. With each octave he rose Edy sunk in her chair, all too aware of what would follow. Her dad was Fredrick Douglas at South End High, Morgan Freeman, or Harriet Tubman on a bad day.
It was definitely a Harriet Tubman kind of day.
After a dreary compilation of A.P. classes, Edy headed for her least favorite place, brown bag in hand. The muted, buried dread she saved for lunchtime bubbled up to the surface the moment she entered the cafeteria. She imagined at some high schools, lunch really was just lunch, the place where people gathered for food, a bit of people watching, and the last scratching in of last night’s homework, answers borrowed from a friend. But at a place where the children of powerhouse politicians, athletes, journalists, and doctors coalesced, a hierarchy emerged, built on money, looks, talent and parental prestige. People were either in the light or the shadows; they were either someone or no one at all.
“Brown Brahmins” was what the local newspapers called them, a play on the Boston Brahmins, or upper-class elites of the city who could trace their lineage to Mayflower times. Brown Brahmins lived in Sci-Sci, a six-by-six strip of streets that served as the city’s Hollywood Hills equivalent for people of color. They shopped at the Sax in the Pru and ordered duck confit at Hamersley’s and were generally held up as the thing to aspire to for their downtrodden counterparts in Roxbury, Dorchester, and elsewhere. Brown Brahmins summered in the Hamptons or on the Cape, if they stayed in the U.S. at all, and had homes of historical significance or undeniable luxury. “Brown” designation aside, they were as diverse as they were insulated, with little tolerance for newcomers. Kyle Lawson was still considered the new kid and he’d moved there five years ago.
In her mind, Edy could never be one of them, even as she knew herself to be the epitome of them. Hers was the oldest house in Sci-Sci and the second oldest in historic South End, just behind the William Porter place on Washington Ave. The daughter of a celebrated Harvard professor, her lineage included abolitionists, one of the first doctors of color in the city, and two of the earliest professors of color to teach at Harvard—and that was just her father’s side.
So, she had the lineage. And Lord knew she had the prestige. But what she didn’t have was the stomach for what came with it, the who’s who nonsense that meant she had to look the part.
Edy never could figure out how to look the part.
She ventured for the “it” table, not because she belonged on her own merits, but because she went where the boys did. No one challenged that, but the daily glares she earned said they wanted to. Having the right sort of friends made her bearable, or not worth the trouble.
First of the usual suspects to arrive, Edy dropped her lunch on the table and lowered herself onto the attached bench. She dug out a Tupperware dish and plastic utensils. Thick, black hair in a ponytail, high and bushy yet again, wayward wisps fell into her face, threatening her food. Her bowl, near-bursting with the rogan josh, a lamb stew, was but the remnant of an evening with Hassan’s mother.
Each day, she imagined herself in the midst of a game for little ones, one where they were asked “Which one doesn’t fit?”
Hassan’s redhead. Hassan’s redhead taking a seat across from her. Blouse candy pink and dipped low, it hinted at creamy white skin and attention-seeking cleavage. “Edy, right?”
Edy knew of her, of course, the way country folk knew all their neighbors. Aimee Foss, daughter of fashion designer Michel Foss and his one-time girlfriend Bernadine Roe. A junior who lived not quite on the cusp of Sci-Sci but still in South End.
Edy clenched a hand around her spork and trained her gaze down, on her food.
“Are you really going to sit here?” she said.
The redhead clucked her teeth. “Hmm. I get the impression you wouldn’t like that. Why is that, Edy?”
Edy shifted in her seat, unwilling to entertain the burn of unease in her stomach. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so
she looked for Hassan instead.
“It must be hard, being you,” Aimee said. “Being so close to guys like that, investing so much time, only to watch girls like me swoop down and . . .taste so easily.”
Edy’s head snapped up, just in time to see her lip glossed and triumphant smile. It burrowed away in a hustle of teenagers swarming their table. Bright lights illuminated hundred-dollar tees and couture jeans. But one thought ripped through it all. The redhead had been with Hassan.
A finger swooped in from behind and dipped knuckle deep in Edy’s food. She turned to see Hassan insert the finger in his mouth.
“Mmm,” he said. “Just like Mom used to make.”
Edy cleared her throat and willed away the image of him and Aimee together. “Your mom did make it,” she said.
“Oh, yeah.”
With a tilt of his head, the debutantes who had gathered ushered themselves downstream, moving heartbeat fast to make room. He had come into his own pretty quickly and his own seemed to suit him rather naturally. People moved for him. Lawrence sat down in the new opening first, completely ignoring Aimee, who stayed. Only Hassan shot her an impatient look before opening his mouth, pausing, and letting discomfort swallow his features.
He hadn’t noticed her. He hadn’t placed her. Which meant what? That there were a thousand redheads getting naked for him?
Edy looked from one to the other, waiting.
“I forgot your name,” Hassan said.
Snickers announced the arrival of the twins.
“Aimee,” she hissed.
“Aimee,” he said. “Can you move?” He jerked his head, indicating that she should slide down like the rest. The redhead jumped up, but instead of marching downstream, she stood over Edy, just as Hassan took her old seat. Edy, who had begun to dig into her rogan josh, froze with it inches from her mouth, and looked up.
Aimee must have mistaken her for a mark. “Edy,” she said. “Move.”
“You’re making a scene,” Hassan said. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”
The redhead shot Edy a contemptuous look before sauntering to the opposite end of the table.
“Did you want me to make space for your girlfriend?” Edy asked, switching over to Punjabi so that only Hassan understood.
His mother, who stayed home to care for them both since they were in diapers, had spoken Punjabi at home. Edy learned it right alongside English growing up.
“I don’t even know her.”
“That’s not what she says.”
Hassan set down his fork, a single muscle working in his jaw.
“Do we need to talk?”
“Our mouths are moving now, aren’t they? Anyway, I’m only commenting on how well high school is going for you.”
She forced a smile to her lips and nodded to the rogan josh. “Hungry?” she said in English.
Edy fished out a chunk of meat and slipped it in her mouth, pausing to savor it with a few choice moans of appreciation.
“Give me some already.”
When Edy looked up and found the redhead and a handful of cheerleaders staring not at him but her, her face turned molten.
It was only with the arrival of Wyatt that she was saved. Sort of.
He stopped at the entrance, eyes sweeping the room. Spotting the line, he power walked over, late for an already short lunch. He grabbed goulash—not safe—instead of tacos—relatively safe—and crossed over to an empty table toward the back.
Wyatt had the attention of Hassan, the Dyson brothers, and Kyle. It didn’t take long before the whole table followed their glares.
“He looks healthier already,” Mason said. “Bright sky, clear New England air, brisk mile-long walk in the chill. Really gets the heart pumping.”
“Essential for cardiovascular health,” Matt chimed in.
Edy scowled. “Not funny.”
“Neither are you,” Hassan said, switching back to his Boston-sharpened Punjabi. He spooned great heaps of her rogan josh atop of the filling in his chicken taco. Once done, he slid her Tupperware down to Lawrence, who also took a few spoonfuls, though neatly into one square compartment of his lunch tray.
“I told you not to go over there,” Hassan said.” I told you to wait for Mom. Did you really need to meet him so bad? Was he all you dreamed?”
Lawrence shot him a curious look, before sliding Edy’s food back across the table. She snatched it up and stabbed it with her spork.
“He’s a nice guy,” Edy said with enough enthusiasm to annoy. “You’d like him. I sure do.”
Hassan’s gaze narrowed to a pinpoint. The muscle in his jaw quivered. Every bad choice he’d ever made could be attributed to that foul temper of his, a temper that meant he’d draw blood first and only maybe mop up the mess thereafter.
“Not everyone’s your friend,” he said. “Even if they look it.”
Edy’s gaze skated to Chloe, then the cheerleaders, the redhead, and the football players that suddenly couldn’t bear to be without him.
“Not the same,” Hassan said to her sullen, deadpanning face. “It’s not,” he added, hesitant though in his insistence.
Five
The new boy blocked the double row of water fountains as he waited in the crowd-swollen hallway. All around him, people swarmed, shoulder to shoulder, person to person, wall to wall without relief. Wyatt slicked back blunted locks from his eyes, only to have them flop back in. When they did, his hand snatched through his hair a second time, scowl as comical as if he meant to tear the hair from his eyes. His expression melted to nothing when Sandra Jacobs passed.
He grabbed her by the arm. Edy started, though Sandra turned on him with expectancy.
Of course, Edy thought. He’s a guy, so he’d go for long hair, runway makeup, and an assertive amount of boobs. Even if he had smiled at Edy as if she were buttered sunshine—this girl—Sandra Jacobs—was the trophy worth having.
Words passed between Sandra and the new boy. Hot words, heated words, bitter. Wyatt stabbed a finger in her direction, accusing, and Sandra shook her head vehemently. When he turned to stalk off, it was her that snatched him back. She made a swipe at her face as if to rid it of tears.
“What in the . . .?” Hassan said. He’d come up next to Edy for the sole purpose of staring, and now he looked at her as if hoping she’d explain. She couldn’t. Others slowed and gawked, though that did nothing to temper the performance.
Wyatt stormed off, this time past the grasp of Sandra’s arms. She was all running eyeliner and black smears, too much of a mess for class. She started for the girl’s bathroom instead. Hassan darted off, abandoning Edy to catch her.
Every set of eyes shifted to them, to Hassan’s private whispers for Sandra alone. To him reaching in his backpack for the white towel he kept there—his sweat towel, Edy called it—to him caking it with her clown mask. Edy couldn’t hear their words, but she imagined they were intimate. She could picture them lazing about and smiling at each other, lacing their fingers together, doing more when they were alone.
Edy went back to her locker. She had class. Class and ballet and no doubt something else she couldn’t remember. She shoved books and notebooks into her backpack in no discernible fashion, with no clue of what they were and whether she needed them. When Edy pulled her book bag on, she strained under the weight of scholarship.
Let them fight over Sandra. Let Hassan and Wyatt and every other boy tear at each other over the obvious beauty. She had a life to get on with.
Head high, gaze on a point decidedly past Hassan, Edy strode in the direction of History, before backtracking at the realization that she had English the next hour.
~~~
Every day after school, Edy sat in on some bore of a meeting. Five days meant five different organizations, each joined at her mother’s insistence. On that day—Math Club day—she waded through polynomials for kicks before tearing out, late for ballet, as usual. She’d pay for it—as usual. Anyway, Edy’s ability to juggle all her mother’s wants alongsid
e her own made ballet possible.
She had to run. A cut through the 4-H club’s composting site, upending a bin, had her back and apologizing and burning more time. Toad, a boy whose real name she could never remember, waved her off in red faced annoyance—facilitating her trip over a spade. Dang it. How both a graceful ballerina and an oaf could occupy the same body she’d never know.
In ballet, Edy felt what she never did elsewhere—whole, beautiful and accomplished. While tardiness had earned her the ire of her ballet instructor, Madame Louis, wrath became but a memory the moment she began to dance.
She didn’t feel as others did, move as others did, or even allow her heart to beat as another’s would, once the music began. Every pore in her bloomed with the promise of movement, and once realized, she transcended all of life’s imperfections. She was dandelion dust in the wind, ashes in ocean water. She’d mastered her body and challenged it, challenged it to bend, twist, warp and defy gravity in gracefully daring ways. Edy was the thunder of a hurricane and the weightlessness of yesterday. Dance felt like her destiny.
Until practice ended and reality struck again.
She made it home with time enough to shower before heading over to Hassan’s for dinner. Edy stopped at the sight of her mother’s Lexus in the drive. A touch to the hood brought her hand away cool. She’d been in grade school the last time her mother made it home before her and food poisoning had been the blame. Edy unlocked the front door and eased in, with the dread of a girl who came home to find her door ajar. Ballet had run over in accordance with her tardiness; it was the way of Madame Louis. She was home later than she should have been and her mom would sling the hammer for it, regardless of blame.
Love Edy Page 4