It goes without saying that the terms of Mel and Jim’s secret negotiations would have come down to whether or not I would remain having a home at all at the carriage house. I don’t know how people manage who have no home. Where would I go.
I still don’t say anything back to Niecy. “Want me to braid your hair again?” she asks. “You look so nice when that nappy-wild hair is braided and people can actually see your face. You know how pretty you are, right, Miles?”
Thank you for the lie, truly pretty girl. But I guess I wasn’t pretty enough.
“So Jamal and Bex, huh?” I say. I haven’t seen him in a week, since Bex completed her takeover of him.
“Won’t last,” Niecy assures me. She waves her hand, dismissive. “They’re spirits in the dark, getting through a rough time together, is all. It’ll fade. Like magic.”
It feels almost supernatural to be in a school in the summertime, as if surely gremlins and goblins should taunt us from the ceiling: Out, damn people! Summertime, and the living is queasy. This is OUR playhouse this time of year. Don’t you know the rules?
The rules were supposed to be that Jamal doesn’t date white girls, and daughters of Congressmen Same Old White Men could never express an interest in the son of D.C.’s upper-class black elite.
Niecy bites into her sandwich, then announces, “Mama oughta add these sandwiches to the cafeteria menu at this school. They’re awesome. Want a piece of mine?”
I’m already full from the half bag of cookies I snarfed down in the bathroom, in private. I shake my head. I don’t want a sandwich. I want sweetness. I want to be daring, like her brother. I want to be pretty, like Niecy, and a tell-all, too. I tell her, “I’m probably not coming back to school this fall.”
“Shut up. Where are you going?”
“Dropping out. I don’t belong in school.” It’s not like I know what I’ll do when I drop out. Probably I’ll try to get a full-time job or something. I’ll figure out it after I sign the papers. I don’t think Jim expects me to move out once I turn of legal age. But I’m not sure. The only thing I am sure of is that I’m too scared to ask him directly.
Niecy won’t need to resist the urge to tattle on me. Her mother stands in the doorway, and she’s heard all. Dr. Turner addresses Niecy with a simple, “You are excused, baby.”
Niecy’s look to me says, You’re on your own, girl. She grabs her sandwich, deposits a kiss on Mama’s cheek, and swiftly leaves the principal’s office.
Dr. Turner sits down in her chair at her desk, opposite me.
“You’ll drop out of school over my dead body, Miles.”
Speaking of dead bodies, I glance at the wall behind Dr. Turner’s head. It’s lined with so many award plaques and degrees, it would be natural to assume someone so lauded must secretly be a murderer or at least an embezzler who knows where the bodies are buried.
“Miles? Do you have something to say for yourself? Because in case you didn’t hear me properly—”
“She’s out to get me.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Campbell.” I’ve done my best not to think about her since school let out, since Laura, but being back in this school now, I can’t help but not. Remember how much I hate her.
Mrs. Campbell, head demon terrorizing this school-house, became the creative writing as well as literature teacher last winter when the creative writing teacher took maternity leave. The first creative writing teacher gave me an A-, said I had a unique way of looking at the world through words. Mrs. Campbell gave me a C+. According to Mrs. Campbell, not only do I know nothing about great books, but there are also rules I should be obeying when constructing my own fiction—that is, rules for stories that are supposed to be made up. Also, I have no ability to tell a linear story (I don’t even know what a linear story is so why would I want to write one?), and I’m derivative. And use run-on sentences.
“She’s a fine teacher,” Dr. Turner says. It’s Dr. Turner’s job to defend her teachers; I understand that. In their defense, most of the teachers at this school are pretty decent. There’s just that one.
I give Dr. Turner her daughter’s you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me face in response.
What I like about Dr. Turner is I trust her not to lie to me. And she doesn’t now: “Maybe Mrs. Campbell isn’t a match for every student.” Pause. “Her students test well.” Pause. “She’s not out to get you. She wants to uphold you to the highest standards, get the best work out of you.”
I can read through Dr. Turner’s not-lies: This school’s budget can’t afford better.
“What if Mrs. Campbell’s standards aren’t my standards?” I ask. “What if she’s so hung up on rules and grammar that she can’t recognize an original thought? Wasn’t this school founded to foster creativity and independent thinking instead of obsessing over the forbidden run-on sentence?”
What if Mrs. Campbell is just one of those mean and bitter high school teachers that like their own opinions more than they like teenage students—whom they don’t really seem to like at all, by the way?
Dr. Turner pulls out my file from a pile on her desk. It’s a thick file. The problem students’ case reports always are.
Dr. Turner says, “According to Mrs. Campbell’s notes on your report card, you are a strong writer with an intelligent mind, but you need discipline. That seems like a fair criticism to me. What’s the problem?”
“My own teacher states that I cannot achieve my only dream and yet she is supposed to be teaching me how to do it.”
“She never said you couldn’t pursue your dream.”
“Not in those words, maybe. But she implied it.”
“Miles.” Dr. Turner smiles at Miles.
“What?” I don’t get what I said to earn Dr. Turner’s heartwarming expression. Mrs. Campbell and I are never going to share that uplifting, redemptive student-teacher bond found only in movies.
“You have a dream. Admit it.”
I won’t.
“I don’t see the point in me continuing on with high school after I’m already eighteen.” When Jamal has moved on without me.
“So your future ability to be gainfully employed and possibly pursue higher education means nothing to you?”
“Right.”
“I don’t believe you. Now here’s a true challenge to you: I believe in you. So what’s it going to take?”
“For what?”
“To make you give up on this nonsense idea of dropping out.”
I didn’t believe I could be talked out of it before now. I didn’t believe anybody besides Laura could believe in me. “I want a different creative writing teacher.”
“Can’t do it. We’re a small charter school, Miles. The only other qualified creative writing instructor I have teaches lower school.”
I take the thick pile of voter registration records in my hands and slap them down onto Dr. Turner’s desk with exaggerated, dramatic, derivative movie effect. “Then I want the ability to protest. When Mrs. Campbell says I can’t write a story that supposedly should have infinite possibilities, or that I misread a book that’s completely open to subjective debate, then I want to petition for a second opinion on my grade. Because that lady doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Dr. Turner raises her fist. “Done. Power to the people.”
Hey, Mrs. Campbell: Guess where to find me. I’ll be the student returning to your classroom just to spite you.
I didn’t know I had it in me. Caring, about; Skool.
Snow Day
THE NOON DAY BURNS BRUTALLY HOT AND HUMID. I aspire to perspire the afternoon away in the dark, solitary caverns of the bookstore’s tall, dusty bookcases. I’ll turn off the cranky window A/C that spits dust and lukewarm rather than chill air. I’ll sit near the window that begs for a breeze to come through it. Bake the day inside a book.
My day’s game plan is obstructed by the vision of Team Jamal & Bex standing in front of the bookstore as I approach it.
Even my safe have
ns are no longer safe. Bookstore = sacred spot. Why’d he have to bring her here?
They’re probably waiting for me with some lame idea to kidnap me on an adventure.
Pass.
Go, team. GO!
They’re so tight in each other they don’t notice me walking down the cobblestoned street toward them. They’re not making out as one could assume their teenage idle time hormones would dictate. It’s worse. It’s the easy familiarity of his arm around her shoulder, her head nestled inside his neck, that’s so unsettling. When I see Jamal lean into her, I think, Please don’t let me have to see you kiss her mouth. But he smiles at Bex rather than kiss her, then tucks a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, and tenderly, so tenderly, rubs his index finger along her earlobe.
That’s the move that kills me.
The sweet possessiveness of it.
His hand that’s many times held mine but never once delicately traced a random spot on my flesh.
Jealousy hot flashes through my body, a thunderbolt crashing through. It makes me want to run over to Bex and smash her to pieces. Set something afire.
Crimes of passion: suddenly understood.
If I proceed in their direction, I’m doubting I can keep it together. Hanging out with them would be a form of torture.
So I turn around before they notice me. So much for a work day.
I’ll pretend it’s a snow day. One on which I don’t commit first degree murder.
I’m not so keen on sharing. Must be an only child problem. Last summer I had exclusive access to Jamal’s free time.
I don’t want a death sentence for my crime of wanting what can never be mine. I can commune with the dead instead.
I run past Rock Creek and take amnesty at another of my Georgetown sacred spots, Oak Hill Cemetery, the centuries-old garden park historical cemetery, home to the tombstones and mausoleums of the crème de la crème of Washington history, with grave surnames like Renwick, Corcoran, Van Ness, the namesakes of so many D.C. streets, buildings, and neighborhoods. Inside a den of tall trees and grounds springing azaleas, daffodils and apple blossoms, the dead here can at least brag, Hey now, we got the best view.
I picked a good day to idle with ghosts. What rational living person would want to bake here in the middle of D.C. summer? The cemetery grounds are mostly empty save for a few stray tourists with cameras and wilting hair. Northern Europeans are so dear but uninformed about weather patterns in American cities built on swamps.
I sit on the wrought-iron bench on the path outside the gothic cemetery chapel. Laura and I used to bring our sleds here on snow days. When we rested on this bench, inspecting the snow-covered terrain under the stark, leaveless oak trees, as the setting winter sun tinted light through the oranges and yellows of the chapel’s stained-glass windows, we were pretty sure we’d stumbled on the path to Heaven. Looking now at the ancient stone chapel, the stained-glass windows almost swallowed by the surrounding lush greens of grass and trees, I have to mad respect the majesty “God” inspires others to build for Him. Although I fervently believe in the scientific fact that the universe was created billions of years ago, and no way did He have anything to do with it, the Book of Cool Fiction, I mean Genesis, notwithstanding, I will concede that the art sprung from the passion over the centuries is mad good.
“Don’t tell me. You’re asking, What would Jesus do?” The voice belongs to Niecy, who is standing on the path by the bench, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me, and sweating. “’Cuz I’m gonna tell you what He’d say. He’d say, ‘Miles, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s ninety-six degrees out here, not a cloud in the sky, and there’s been such an invention called AIR-CONDITIONING to help out with this kind of situation.”
“Were you sent to fetch me?” In order for spots to be sacred, there can only be a few of them. This makes it difficult to survive a You Can’t Find Me expedition.
“Jamal said I might find you here.”
“Why are you looking for me?”
“Maybe I’m not looking for you. Maybe I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“For what?”
I can only be grateful she doesn’t answer the question’s challenge.
She sits down on the bench next to me. “Tell me a story. Make this hot day go away.”
In the basement at Niecy and Jamal’s house, there’s an ancient PacMan video game that came along with the house when the family bought it. They never discarded the relic, and it has provided me endless hours of entertainment in the basement corner while Niecy and Jamal played sophisticated video games on the big screen TV nearby. It’s the stupidest game, really. A “Pac-Man” mouth gobbles up dots as it proceeds through simple levels of not-challenge. It’s stupid . . . but completely mesmerizing. I think the sadness that chips away inside me is like that Pac-Man game. It progressively gobbles away at my soul, a physical pain that no one can see, a prism that’s virtually a prison. Clutching onto that sadness is like wielding a weapon; it’s what Laura did, only she didn’t wear it on a fat body the way I do. I think about her pain all the time lately. I imagine how much worse hers must have been than mine for it to have gripped her so badly, gotten so big and tortuous, that it finally gobbled her whole. She couldn’t defeat it.
I don’t know if I can either. But I can try. Not bolting away from Niecy is a step. Disenfranchisement.
“Once upon a time, there was a princess,” I tell Niecy.
“Can she be a Nubian one? I get sick of all those Snow White characters.”
“Surely. She’s a chocolate princess named Snow.”
“A black girl named ‘Snow,’ huh? I like it.”
“Well, she’s not really human. She’s made of chocolate. She’ll melt in the heat. It’s like her Kryptonite. She needs to stay in cold climates to survive.”
“How comes princesses always have some huge flaw that can cause their downfall?”
“I don’t know. Plot?”
“Right, that.”
“So this chocolate princess. Her knight in shining armor is the Easter Bunny.”
“Naturally.”
“But the Easter Bunny. He’s sort of ambisexual. Questioning. And he’s partial to the month of April. The climate variable is risky for his princess. Conflict.”
“How’s Snow going to deal?”
“She won’t compromise. Snow tells E.B. he can have her only if he’ll agree to hop around at acceptably cold latitudes. Plus, he’s got to be a one-Snow bunny-man. She’s not going to have a mate who’s cheating on the side with, like, some St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun, or any hussy tooth fairy. Sadly, E.B. does not get on board. He loves Snow, but he’s not ready to commit, to make these sacrifices for her.”
“Shame. His loss.”
“I agree. So after losing the bunny-man she’d thought was her true love, Snow needs a fresh start. She moves to Canada. The really tippy-top part that’s like glacial. She’s gonna be alone and sad there, frigid but intact. But gradually, her heart starts to thaw, tho’ her form remains choco-solid. She needs company. And since she’s practically in the North Pole and gets bored being alone, she seeks out Santa Claus. They hit it off, become buds. But Snow has to be kind of sneaky ’bout her friendship with Santa; Mrs. Claus is totally jealous of Snow’s radiant chocolate beauty. It’s hard, because everyone assumes Snow and Santa Claus are having an affair, but they’re not at all. Their relationship is pure and based on mutual respect and understanding. The truth is never as interesting as what people whisper about them. But Snow and Santa Claus pay the gossip no mind. They form a strategic alliance and end up drafting an anti-global warming treatise that gets proposed at the United Nations.”
“Good for them! But too bad about Snow and Santa. I’d like to know what happens when Santa gets his freak on.”
“That’s the sequel. When Mrs. Claus writes her tell-all memoir: Claus-ette Effect: How a Chocolate Princess Stole My Man and All Because the Easter Bunny Wouldn’t Put Out.”
What’s funny about our shared laughter is not the joke, but that the physical feeling of the laugh seems to ease off the bellyache of sad that’s otherwise filling out my body.
And, the shared part.
Miles-napped
“DO YOU THINK SHE’S AT PEACE?”
This seems a strange question to ask a person over the sinks at a rest stop along the New Jersey Turnpike. Yet it also seems to be the only place where Bex and I connect: the bathroom.
I shake the water from my hands. Jamal has shaken me off for Bex, I sincerely probably hate her guts, but I have to respect Bex’s good taste in people. “I wish that for Laura,” I say, unsure. I can’t decide whether I believe in an afterlife. I can’t decide why anyone would want an afterlife. What’s so great about living? “I want the comfort of believing Laura is happy wherever she is now, but wasn’t her leaving us the way she did a statement that she didn’t want to go on at all, in any way?” I have to respect the means to the end, too, even if the means mean Laura’s soul is as dead as her body. She’d want no piece of peace.
“I have to believe you’re wrong,” Bex says. “That’s what comforts me when I wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares about what she did. I have to believe she’s been forgiven up above, that—”
“Forgiven by God?”
“Yes, by God.”
Good lord, how naive. I’m glad I was raised not to believe in any faith. Thanks for the atheism, checked-out parents!
“Does it give you peace to think she was forgiven by God?” I ask Bex.