Black Enough. Группа авторов
is your momma or daddy Black?”
“Of course they are.”
“Then congratulations. You’re Black.” Her words sounded a lot like what Grandma had said earlier about being a feminist.
I thrust my hands into my pockets. “Then what did I do to make you stop talking to me? I had to have done something.”
Now it was her turn to look away. Those lips that were so perfect a year ago were now taut and pursed. “Do you know what happened in December? When I went ghost and fell off from all the messages?” She waited for me to shake my head. “Linton McCants was shot by the police.”
“Who’s that?”
“A kid from the neighborhood,” she said. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You know, other than being Black in the wrong part of town.”
“I didn’t know him,” I said.
“You’ve met him before, but you probably don’t remember. Anyway, he was shot in the leg, and everyone in the neighborhood was real shook up about it. I posted about it online. Everybody posted about it. It was all over Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.”
I thought back to her Facebook page from around that time. I had seen something about a shooting. But I hadn’t realized the kid was from Franklin.
“And do you know what you had on your page on the same day?” This time she didn’t wait for me to respond. “A photo of you and your all-white Academic Bowl team, everybody grinning like the damn Cheshire cat.”
I started to reach out to her, to try to comfort her, but I stopped when she pulled back. “Like I said, I didn’t know him,” I replied.
“But you knew me. You had to have seen what I posted—you were on my page every day. Hell, even Myron put something on his page.” Her voice was beginning to shake. “I wasn’t looking for you to start protesting or anything. Just a simple acknowledgment of what happened would have been okay. But you were so geeked about your stupid win over whatever yuppie school you played against, you didn’t even realize what happened.”
“I just … if I had known he was from here—”
“Oh, so you care if he’s from here, but you don’t if he’s from some other place?”
I rubbed my face. “Jess, I didn’t mean it like that.”
I don’t know if she was even listening to me. “I mean, I knew we were different. But I didn’t care about that stuff. I liked that you were so easygoing. So goofy, even. And smart. It was all really cute.” Her eyes hardened. “But unlike you, I live in the real world. I can’t just ignore stuff.” She started pacing, twisting her hair around her finger with each step. “I mean … God! Aren’t you mad?! Even a little bit?”
“I am!” Now I was yelling, but I didn’t care. “I paid attention when Trayvon Martin was killed. Same with Philando Castile. And all the others. And I noticed when all their shooters—”
“You mean murderers.”
“Whatever. When all their killers got off. But after a while … it happens so much … you just stop paying attention.”
“Hmph. Not paying attention. That’s real dangerous coming from the guy living in an all-white neighborhood. I know you think all those white boys are your friends, but I’d bet anything that—”
She stopped talking as the front door opened, allowing all the noise and fun from inside to spill out. A group of kids stepped onto the porch, then closed the door behind them. They passed us, and then it was just me and Jess and the night and the silence stewing between us.
“And now you show up after a year with all the white folks. Trying to talk like you’re from the hood. Wearing a pair of shoes that you don’t even like. And it just pisses me off that you’d be so shallow to think that how you talk and how you dress would change my opinion of you.”
She took a step away from me, moving toward the house. “As much as I like you, I can’t be with a guy who doesn’t understand where I come from. But look, we can still be friends.”
She took another step.
She was almost at the door.
“I’ll see you around, okay?”
And then she was gone.
I stood there, watching the door where she disappeared. I could feel my heart still pumping fast in my chest, in my ears, a thump loud enough to rival the music inside the house.
Was this a test? Should I follow her back into the house?
But even if I did that, I had no idea what I would say to change her mind.
Once my heartbeat had settled—or more like, once my heart had sunk all the way to my toes—I walked over to Myron’s car. I sat down on the hood, pulled out my phone, and went back to Myron’s Facebook page. Sure, it was full of stupid video clips and pictures of all his shoes, but he also included some real stuff. Lots of information about Linton McCants, the boy who had been shot. Myron had even helped to raise money to cover Linton’s hospital bills.
I kept scrolling and eventually found other things. Quotes from Shakespeare. Langston Hughes. Tupac. Videos of Myron giving all these amazing monologues. And even pictures of him and his friends—Black, white, Latino, Asian. He looked comfortable in every photo.
I had seen all of this on his page before. I was sure that I had. I just hadn’t paid attention.
Myron was right when he said guys like you instead of guys like us. He may have been a chameleon, but deep down, he knew who he was. He could code switch, but he always knew what was real beneath the clothes and the talk.
It was about an hour later when he eventually found me. He didn’t say anything about Jess. He just motioned for me to get in the car.
Once he pulled away from the curb, he reached over to turn up the radio, but I stopped him.
“Myron,” I said, “tell me about Linton McCants.”
“Almost there,” I whisper, straining as my fingers grasp for the brick ledge. Flecks of fuchsia and gamboge paint crust over bits of my brown skin. A smear of cobalt shines on the cuff of my sleeve. Evidence. The window eases up without a sound as wind screams through empty branches behind me. Heat from the radiator blasts my face as I lean in from the cold. I hoist my upper body inside. My heart thuds in my ears.
In twenty-four hours, all my secrets will come out. No more hiding. Parents’ Weekend and Mom and Dad can’t be avoided.
I close the window against the New England chill, pressing my forehead against the glass. I’ve made it. I’ve actually made it. And no one knows what I’ve done—at least not yet.
The night outside is settled, silent, even with my little commotion. No prying eyes or raised blinds meet me as I stare across the dark, sparsely lit quad. I let my bag slump to the floor and flick off my sneakers. At my desk, the never-mailed early-admission application peeks out from behind a stack of books. I should’ve tossed it weeks ago, but I can’t. Years of work went into those pages. Work I’m now willing to jeopardize.
Dad’s going to find out about it at some point soon, but not tonight.
My notebook lies open. Assignments unfinished. And despite nervous adrenaline rushing through me, focusing on medieval civilizations might calm the thumping in my chest, but a hot shower in an empty bathroom sounds even better.