And then there was her mother, who’d just let it all happen. Kendra looked at her, frowned. Lynette sat at Greg’s desk, spreading her hands out on the wood. She drummed her fingers against the shiny top. “It’s amazing,” she said. “I’ve never sat here. Not once since we’ve been married.”
“Mom.”
Lynette leaned back in the chair, looked up at the lights, crossed her hands behind her head. “I couldn’t go home yet, Kendra,” she said. “Just not yet.” She blinked hard, lifted her long, toned legs, put them on the desk, crossed her feet. If she hadn’t looked so depleted, she might’ve looked powerful. She closed her eyes. “Our lives are going to change,” she said. “Vastly.”
“They’re already changed,” Kendra said.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Lynette said. “I’m not sure.”
Kendra shook her head. She’d never understood why her mother had put up with her father’s continued absences. On the phone with Greg, Lynette had always sounded weak, succumbing to his sternness without mustering any of her own. There was no reason Lynette couldn’t have demanded his presence. Kendra’s friends’ mothers did it all the time. In fact, her best friend Camille’s mother ordered Camille’s stepfather around so much that she—Camille’s mother—sometimes begged her husband to make a decision.
Lynette opened her eyes, blinked up at the white light. “We were together so long,” she said. “Like an appendage.”
Kendra sat on the chair opposite her mother, leaned back. “But we’re gonna be okay, right?” she said. “I mean, you’re okay financially?”
Lynette folded her legs, sat upright in the chair, looked at Kendra with red, slitted eyes. “Really? That’s what you’re caring about now? That’s what you’re thinking about?”
Kendra shrugged. “Is it a bad thing to think about?”
“I’m gonna get a job,” Lynette said, smirking. “Don’t you worry about that.”
“It’s not such a weird question,” Kendra said.
Lynette shook her head. “Why don’t you just wait in reception for a minute, okay?” she said. “I wanna be alone here.”
“In the waiting room?” Kendra said.
Lynette pursed her lips. “Or outside. Or go home. I just need a minute, okay?”
“But, Mom—”
“Please, Kendra,” Lynette said, her voice sharp. Kendra stood up, backed away.
“I don’t wanna just sit out there,” she said.
“Then go home!” Lynette said.
“What?”
“Just a few minutes, okay?”
Kendra fumed, balled her hands into fists. “I mean, this is happening to me, too, you know.”
Lynette went cold. She sat back in the chair, looked at her reflection in the window. Kendra stood for a while in the doorway, willing her mother to say something more, but Lynette stayed silent, and after a few minutes of suffocating quiet, Kendra left the office and took a seat in the dark outer room.
A few weeks later, Kendra sat listlessly in geometry class, listening to her teacher, Mr. Blaisdell, drone on about parallelograms. He drew a slanted box on the board, adding numbers, letters, symbols, and Kendra, feeling exceptionally tired and ornery, wondered why it was that he never came to class in anything but wrinkly khakis and faded polos. Teachers made okay money, she thought, right? Certainly he could afford new clothes. She rapped her pencil against her book, loud. Blaisdell turned around, put his hands on his hips, tilted his head.
“Miss Brown?” Mr. Blaisdell said.
She didn’t look at him, just stared at her textbook.
“Miss Brown, is everything okay?”
She looked up, choked. Replacing Mr. Blaisdell’s squishy face was the lean face of her father.
“Oh my god,” she said.
“Miss Brown?”
She blinked; Blaisdell’s face returned, but her father still staggered about in her mind’s eye. She shook her head.
“Miss Brown,” Mr. Blaisdell repeated.
She grabbed her bag, stood up, walked. Thirty eyes burned into her. Still, she kept going, out of the room, into the hallway, past the restrooms, past the principal’s office, past the long row of gray lockers, to the front doors. She pushed, breathed in clean autumnal air, and walked some more, down the steps, across the street. She sat on the curb, hugging her knees, watching as the cars on N Street stopped, flashed their blinkers, waited.
Memories fell upon her in one enormous flood—her dad eating silently, grinning down at her, him at a park, she a young girl, her mother’s face shiny with promise, reflecting the sun—and each of these images reminded her that her father hadn’t always retreated into work, that there had been times when he was fully present, such as the day he’d made her sit and watch the Rodney King video, the one where a group of white cops beat Mr. King with batons. She’d been in fifth grade—impressionable, not yet jaded—and her father had rewound, repeated, rewound, repeated. When she’d finally said, “Stop, Daddy!” he’d grabbed her by the shoulders, stared her down, pointed at the screen, and said, “You watch this, Kendra. This is the world we live in.” A little over a year later, riots broke out; people were shot, killed; stores in Los Angeles demolished, set aflame; and he came home that day drunk and sweaty, dropping his briefcase at the door, stumbling helplessly into her mother’s embrace. He’d sobbed and shook, and Kendra had watched, horror-stricken, thinking that the fires of L.A. were headed for her neighborhood. Why else would her father be crying so hard? Why else would he look so defeated?
On the curb, Kendra exhaled a long, ragged breath, blinked back tears. In front of her, Dunbar High School rose like an asylum, a boxy, seven-story brown monolith, housing for the city’s adolescent leftovers. She clutched her knees tighter. Beside her was a tree whose branches curved perfectly up and out like a big, leafy, inverted umbrella. She moved a few feet to the right, catching its shade.
I didn’t even really know you, she thought. So just leave me alone.
She looked across the street at the school. Students trickled outside. Some went to cars. Some walked. Some crossed the street and surrounded her on the sidewalk. A few snickered. She didn’t stand up. They left her alone. She was now the girl whose dad had died in a freak car accident, which was better, she guessed, than being Tasha Vance, the girl whose dad died with a prostitute, or Koreesha Simonson, the girl whose dad shot her mother, but still, she hated that people kept such a wide berth: it wasn’t like she’d contracted some contagious disease. She pulled her knees closer, shivered, watched all the kids, wondered if her mind would ever take a rest. I don’t want to think about you, she thought. Please just go away. Please, please, please—
A person was hovering. She looked up. Her friend Shawn Sims stood above her, playing with his fingers. Kendra squinted.
“Hey,” he said.
“Shawn, I’m not in the mood, okay?” she said. She brought her hand to her forehead. He looked impossibly tall.
“I know you’re going through a lot, but—”
“Shawn, no,” she said.
“Movies might help you take your mind off things,” he said.
“No,” she said. “No.”
He was gangly and thin, his plain white T-shirt oversized and loose. When she stood, dusted herself off, he immediately looked away, as if the death of her father had reconstructed her face into something foreign. They’d known each other for two years now, had started an unofficial horror-lovers club at school, which, at first, had boasted fifteen members. The group had convened once a week in one of the English classrooms. They’d exchanged novels, traded videotapes, discussed the merits and demerits of things they’d watched and read, even talked about filming a movie up in Rock Creek Park, a slasher that they’d tentatively titled President Death. The movie never got made, of course: nobody had equipment, nobody knew how to get equipment, and the few pages of script that Shawn had written were, according to him, so bad they literally smelled. Eventually, without the movie serving as an anchor
for the group, membership dwindled to only Kendra and Shawn: the others cited increased extracurricular obligations, schoolwork, or just general disinterest.
“Things aren’t good at home,” Kendra said, zipping her bag, running her arms through the straps. “My mom’s a mess.” Around them, clusters of students passed. Vanessa Harrison, a girl she’d known since the first grade, looked at her, arched her stenciled eyebrows, then turned swiftly toward Breanna Davis, whispering. Walking behind Vanessa was Jeremy Hortense, a football player, a boy Kendra had crushed on for years. He said, “Shake it, V!” Vanessa ignored him, laced her arm into Breanna’s, started skipping.
Kendra turned back to Shawn, tilted her head. People sometimes made fun of him, mainly because his forehead was enormous. It sped over half of his face, his eyes, cheeks, lips, and chin seemingly squashed together to prevent further extension. They also called him “Oreo,” which annoyed Kendra. There was no such thing as white on the inside. That would mean there’s only one way to be Black. “Our group is done with anyway,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “There’s us. And we can get more. But until then . . .”
“Until then?” she said.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me come over. Please. We can watch Hellraiser.”
She sighed. “My dad just died, Shawn. You really think I wanna watch Hellraiser?”
“But Lord of Illusions is coming out on video soon,” he said. “Don’t you wanna do a Clive Barker marathon before we see it?”
“Didn’t that movie just come out in theaters?”
Shawn shrugged. “It doesn’t take that long . . .”
She tightened her backpack straps, looked over at the school. Only a few students trickled out now. She glanced at her watch. “Shit,” she said. She turned around and walked quickly down the sidewalk. Shawn followed her. “I’ll bring popcorn,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Come on, Kendra,” he said, panting. “You know I can’t watch these by myself.”
She smiled. Shawn, horror lover that he was, was also a big ’fraidy cat. During the hospital scene in Jacob’s Ladder he’d bitten his knuckles so hard that he’d left indentations. She’d had to treat him with antibiotic ointment and a Band-Aid afterward. Big fucking baby, she’d said, laughing.
“Okay,” he said, “maybe not Hellraiser, but how about something dumb? C.H.U.D.? Ghoulies? I haven’t seen C.H.U.D. II yet. You wanna?”
She stopped, turned. “C.H.U.D. II?” she said. “Seriously? Who watches C.H.U.D. anymore?” And yet: as silly as the idea was, watching a low-budget ’80s horror movie sounded, at that moment, incredible. She shook her head.
“Fine,” she said, pulling her hair behind her ear. “Fine. Saturday. Regular time.”
Shawn’s forehead creased: five long squiggles in a sea of skin. “Really?”
“Fine,” she said.
“But what do you want me to bring? Do you want Hellraiser? Or . . .”
“I gotta go,” she said. “See you Saturday.”
“Kendra. What do you want—”
But she was already across the street, running home as fast as she could.
Three days later, on a bright, crisp Saturday, Kendra sat on her couch with her friend Camille Brennan, eating Fritos and bologna sandwiches and watching The Bugs Bunny & Tweety Show. Camille—skinny, brace-faced, light-skinned—usually let Kendra talk only when she, Camille, literally couldn’t—like if her mouth was full or she had laryngitis. Her outpourings had gotten so bad that by the eighth grade, Kendra started timing her friend’s chewing and swallowing habits, knowing that if she wanted to get a word in she’d have to interrupt, or insert herself when Camille’s risk of choking was highest.
On this day, as per usual, Camille commented extensively on the TV show, saying things like, “What is a rascally rabbit anyway? I’ve never heard of anyone calling anything rascally” and “I don’t think some old grandma could move fast enough to clobber a cat like that” and “What’s a roadrunner? Are they actual animals that live in the desert or something?” Knowing that Camille loved Fritos and ate them nearly every day, Kendra had bought two bags, replenishing the bowl as soon as it was half-empty. Kendra had things she needed to talk about, and if she could manage to get a word in, she could direct Camille’s focus.
She set the bowl of Fritos on Camille’s lap. Camille looked at her, shrugged, and said, “You trying to get me fat or something? Doesn’t matter. I’ve been exercising. Sorta like 8-Minute Abs but I add exercises that work the sides and chest and stuff—you should try it.” She took a handful of Fritos, shoved them in her mouth.
They’d known each other forever, or at least that’s how it seemed to Kendra. In elementary school, Camille, scrappy and loud, had pushed Paul LaFleur to the ground when he’d yanked on Kendra’s hair at recess. Camille had shouted, “Get used to being down there, you stupid lowlife.” And Kendra had felt so grateful, so cared for, that she’d followed Camille around until Camille had finally turned to her and said, “So what is this? You want to be best friends? Well, fine.”
Eyeing the bowl of chips, Kendra said, “Shawn Sims is coming over this afternoon and I want you to stay here with us, but you can’t talk during the movie, okay? You can’t talk. I don’t wanna be alone with him, at least not now.”
Camille swallowed. “I don’t know why you hang out with him. He’s such a weirdo and his face is, like, so creepy.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“I mean, I’m really sorry about your dad and everything, Kendra, I’ve said that a hundred times. I’m sure you’re feeling a bit messed up, but that doesn’t mean you should just try to lose your virginity to help calm things down. It doesn’t work, believe me.”
“What? I’m not gonna have sex with him. I’m not you.”
Camille shrugged. “I mean, maybe he’s good? Maybe he’s got all the right moves ’cause he’s so funny-looking? I hear that’s a thing. You know, weird-looking dudes being fucking amazing at sex. Like they’re so grateful for anyone even paying any attention to them that they’ll just make sure that you’re totally pleased in every possible way. But anyway, you want me to stay? Fuck no. Sorry, K. You two can have your own little love-gore fest. I’m not any part of that shit. I don’t wanna—”
“He hasn’t been over since my dad died. I’ve blown him off. And now I feel a little weird, like he’s my friend and I just ignored him. I thought it’d be good for all three of us to be here. Like—”
“But then,” Camille said, “who knows? You like this guy, I can tell. Sure, you do. He’s like . . . I mean, you’re both sorta . . . I don’t wanna be hateful. But—chemistry is chemistry, I guess. Maybe he’s the one.”
Camille scooped another handful of Fritos. Kendra said, “This isn’t a date. I just think it’d be good for all of us to watch together, and my mom, she basically spends weekends in her room, so she won’t be a big deal—”
“Kendra! I’m not staying. This is your life and your date, and you need to do this by yourself.” She chewed. A crumb sprang from her lips, fell onto the floor. “He’d probably get one of those embarrassing boners around me anyhow.” She ran her nails along the couch. “I’m gonna go now,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
“It’s not what you think,” Kendra said.
“It’s good, Kendra. Nerds are more your style. I’ll be honest, and don’t take this the wrong way, okay, because you know that I think you’re cool but you’re also real smart and I think guys like Jeremy Hortense will most likely fall short for you in the intellectual department if you know what I mean. But anyway, your first matters. So, think about it real hard. I’m gonna get outta here now.” She stood, beamed down at her.
“Camille,” Kendra said. “No, please—”
“Go put something cute on. Like something that shows your boobs. I mean, look at you. A date in a Pixies T-shirt? I seriously don’t know about you, Kendra.” She walked to the front door.
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“Camille, wait—”
“Call me later, okay? Call me and fill me in. I’ll be waiting by my phone. Ha.”
“But Camille. Can you just wait—”
“Have a good time! Bye!”
And then she was gone.
Kendra pouted, crossed her arms over her chest. She’d thought for sure that Camille would’ve stayed—she liked eavesdropping on every minor happenstance in Kendra’s life—but Camille had been seeing a boy herself recently, an older guy who called himself “Special D” and whose entire wardrobe seemed comprised of NWA T-shirts and gray sweatpants, so she figured her meeting with Shawn gave Camille an excuse to go see him. Kendra had only met Special D once, and had told Camille afterward that she could do so much better, that she didn’t need to date a guy that chewed with his mouth open and guzzled beer like it was water, but Camille had just looked at Kendra, shook her head, and said, “Someday you’ll understand, baby K.”
On the couch, Kendra closed her eyes, thought of Shawn’s forehead, his close-set eyes, his spindly arms, his tiny waist. She’d distanced herself from him not just because of her dad but because she’d thought he was getting too close, too comfortable, too much like a boyfriend. And did she want that? With him? She didn’t actually think she was attracted to him—mostly, she fantasized about guys like Jeremy Hortense, big athletic types—but since the horror club had devolved to just the two of them, she’d found herself oddly nervous when Shawn was close, and one time, during the hobbling scene in Misery, she’d put her hand on his leg and left it there for a while. He’d been wearing khaki shorts; her fingers prickled against his leg hair. She moved her palm around in small circles, reveling in the scratchiness, wondering what it’d be like to just let hair grow wherever. When he glanced at her, she recoiled, withdrew her hand, looked away, felt her face heat.
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