by Kim Johnson
I usher Corinne into the car and frantically roll down the windows to let the heat out, wishing we could take Daddy’s old Buick. It stays hitched under a tree and tarped away with layers of filth—seven years deep.
I wipe my brow from the morning heat. The humidity is the worst, though, the way dust particles stick to my skin like it has a natural adhesive. Another shower is useless, since the sweat will build right back up. Part of me knows the same feeling from stained memories. They never disappear. Just dormant, till they awake in full force during summers in Texas.
Mama joins us, taking the passenger seat so she can finish getting ready. We swerve onto the dirt road, leaving a billowing trail of dust behind us. I cough and hack, then frantically roll up my window before jabbing my fist onto the front dash in three quick pops, hoping the AC will kick in faster.
“We can’t survive without AC this summer,” I say. “It’s already hotter than usual.”
“Hush and be patient while it cools.” Her voice has a sharp edge she hasn’t let go of since the interview.
“We could always sell our car and the Bu, then get a new one.”
The words come out before I can stop them. I know we’d never sell the Bu. Even when money’s tight. Because selling it means giving up on Daddy ever coming home. And if he ever does, Mama wants one thing that hasn’t changed, so he won’t have a constant reminder of the years taken away from him.
“We’re not touching—”
“It stinks.” Corinne pinches her nose at the stale air pumping out of the vents.
“You stink.” I give Corinne a wink in the rearview mirror. Even she knows not to go there with Daddy’s car. She must’ve been born with that gift, ’cause I sure don’t have it.
We take the exit to Galveston Bay, leaving Crowning Heights behind us. Within ten miles, the difference between the cities is glaring. Crowning is basically the no-man’s-land part of Galveston County. We’re more inland, closer to Houston, but poor and rural. The homes in Crowning Heights are shoddily put together, unlike the resort living you see the closer you get to the bay.
All talk of developments stopped in my area after the Davidsons were murdered. Daddy and Mark Davidson had plans to build out here, but after the trial, no one’s touched it. This left Crowning with a long stretch of gravel roads, one rickety gas station, a market owned by a Vietnamese family, and the few migrant workers who stuck around after the farms dried out. We stayed out here because we can’t afford to move closer.
Forty minutes later, we park in front of Corinne’s school. She takes her sweet time getting out. She’s a mini version of Mama when it comes to being on her own schedule.
“Need help?” I motion so Corinne can see how easy it would be for me to unbuckle her jammed-up seat belt.
“I don’t need your help.” Corinne squints at me before fiddling her fingers so the latch releases and she can jump out of the car.
As she gets out, Mama gives her a once-over, studying her heart-shaped brown face before kissing her cheeks. Mama leaves a big red smudge of her lipstick. Corinne scrunches her face, acting like she don’t love the attention.
I should be more like them, enjoying these little moments. I can’t help myself. The pull of being on the move takes over. That rush to hurry, even if it’s to wait and do nothing. Jamal always walks Corinne to class if he’s dropping off, no matter how late we’re running.
Mama wraps her arms around us for a daily prayer. I bow my head. When she’s done, Mama takes off her hair wrap and presses her hands around her edges before checking for stray hairs as she smooths out her thick black hair. She steps into the sunlight, and her long dark brown legs send a shadow climbing up the sidewalk as she walks Corinne to the entrance. You can hear the screams of kids rushing to beat the bell.
“Can’t I go with you guys?” Corinne asks.
“Tracy’s going to school. You want to switch and have her homework?”
Mama’s threat works. Corinne throws her backpack over her shoulder and turns to school, but not before waving goodbye. I love her smile. My heart twinges at how much different her life is at that age from mine. When I was her age, Daddy took Jamal and me to the park down the street from our house every weekend. We used to earn points during the week so we could pick out ice cream when the truck would ride by in the afternoon. We never asked for money ’cause he didn’t have much to spare, so those times were everything to us. I even miss those empty threats of spankings when we were awful. Corinne will never know what it was like to have Daddy home. All she’s known is Daddy locked up.
Mama and I get back into the car to head to Evans Antiques.
“Can Jamal give me a ride home, or is he working tonight?”
“Don’t be fishing for information about your brother from me. If he wants his space, you’re giving it to him. He’ll forgive you when he’s ready.”
Mama’s words fill me with the hope that I haven’t forever changed my relationship with Jamal before he goes off to college.
“Me, on the other hand,” Mama says, and tsks, “you’ve got a long way to go. I don’t know what you were thinking.”
“I was only trying to help—”
“I don’t want to hear it now. You’re gonna make me late.”
With Mama, it’s different. She can forgive, but I know she won’t forget. This is on my permanent record, even if Mama wants Daddy home as bad as I do—if not more. My mind searches for ways to get Mama to forgive me. I look away, thinking of everyone’s disappointment at the studio, and my eyes cloud with tears.
We arrive at the downtown complex that’s filled with small businesses and a variety of local grocers and stores. Herron Media, where Jamal works, is three blocks away.
At the antique store, Mama’s the bookkeeper and online consignment sales rep. They gave her a job after Daddy’s trial.
When I park, Mama nudges me. “Don’t get used to riding with him to school now. Friends are good things, but you don’t need to get caught up with him just ’cause y’all get along…”
Mama doesn’t finish her thought. Instead, her mouth is in a firm line that says that’s all Dean and I should ever be. She’s never straight-up said I couldn’t date Dean because he’s white. She’s never had to.
It wasn’t always like this. Going with Mama to Evans Antiques was the best part about her job. It had a place for me to study with a view of antique knickknacks, jewelry, and furniture, along with somewhere to kick it in the back with Dean, the Evanses’ son. She didn’t have to worry if I was running out in the streets or getting in trouble, since I was only twenty yards away from her office. It was also a place I didn’t need to think about being teased, like I was in school after Daddy’s trial. And when I got a little older, Dean was the one who gave me the paper and stamp to mail off my first letter to Innocence X.
Dean’s and my friendship began days after Jackson Ridges was killed by the cops and Quincy was hit by a stray bullet. While Quincy recovered at the hospital, Dean took his place as a friend who looked out for me.
I was devastated by the arrest, but Dean stuck on so much during Daddy’s trial, you wouldn’t see me without seeing Dean. The more he latched on, the more it made me normal again. We’ve stayed tight—even as our crowds segregated more with age, not less. I will always love Dean for that.
Track also kept us close until I was forced to quit two years ago because I wouldn’t stand during the national anthem in protest for Black Lives Matter. Coach Curry said I could always come back, as long as I knew I gotta stand.
Sports is our normalizer for crossing racial groups. There are Black, brown, and white, and there are athletes. In season, I had competition to hang out with my best friend because it gave Jamal a chance to hang with Dean.
What’s been killing me lately is I can’t tell if Mama’s more against Dean and me being together, or if she’s
protecting me from Dean’s mom’s watchful eyes. Puberty’s hit, and the rules have switched up on us, making me hesitant to drop in on Dean last minute because I don’t know if Mrs. Evans is there.
To be honest, I’m feeling some type of way about this. We’ve always played on the lines of friendship and relationship. I thought I’d have more time to sort things out. Now I can’t tell if we’re pushing each other away because of how his mom acts around me.
I want to ask Dean what he feels, but I’ve spent too many years joking around about why we couldn’t be together. It’s always been my fear of what the world was telling me more than what I’ve felt about Dean. It’s hard to believe we’d be right for each other, when everywhere I look is a hidden reminder. Magazines, television, everyday micro-aggressions. Beaten down with the backhanded compliments I’ve heard all my life, like “You real pretty for a dark-skinned girl.”
I push my thoughts aside, opening the door to Evans Antiques. The gold script glints a bit as the sun hits it just right, and the familiar ring of the bell above the door doesn’t hide my entrance—it announces I’m home.
THE ODD COUPLE
Dean stands at the counter, his hazel eyes staring at me as he runs his hands through his sun-kissed brown hair. Perfect teeth, perfect smile. I hate that I notice this about him now. Because I’ve grown up with him in all our awkwardness, when he used to be filthy or goofy or unassuming. The easygoing way about him that didn’t make me act too proud when he split his lunches with me. He’s never made me feel less than, when everyone else around me so easily could.
My grin drops as Dean’s mom joins him at the register.
Mrs. Evans seems perfectly happy anytime she’s talking to Mama, but she’s never given me much love.
“Hi, Mrs. Evans.” I give her a half-ass wave.
She gives me a half-ass smile. “Tracy.”
Dean’s eyes widen, and that little dimple I always stick my pinkie in to tease him reminds me how our friendship is so controlled by who’s around us.
Dean moves away from the counter, toward what has always been our corner. Together. For, like, ever. Most of my letters crafted right there. His mom doesn’t move, blocking me from our nook, while he grabs his things.
I should’ve just stayed outside and waited for Dean to come out, but he’s always trying to get me and his mom to interact. It never works out right. I swear, since I turned sixteen last year, Mrs. Evans has acted like we’d never met before. Cold. Always asking if I came by to get my mama when she knows darn well I’m here for Dean. She also loves name-dropping girls who come by for Dean. Lately I’ve been avoiding the store when Mama tells me Mrs. Evans is around.
I want to say I’m being ridiculous. Snap out of it. The truth is, I don’t know how to be around Dean anymore.
“Ready?” Dean slings his backpack over his shoulder.
I nod, sensing Mrs. Evans’s judging eyes on me. So strange how a replica of Dean’s eyes can give me such an opposite feeling. It’s not in the way she acts about Daddy being gone; it’s just I know she don’t want to know me. The truth is, I don’t want her to know my story, either.
As soon as we step outside the store, I can breathe again.
Dean loosely places his hand on my shoulder as we walk toward his truck. When we arrive at school, we hop out and take the steps up to the front doors side by side.
“I’m working after school. Want to do some homework in the back?” Dean asks.
There’s nothing I’d rather do than stay at the store and hide behind a good book in the corner while Dean works. Watch him jump to help a customer, then slide right back to me and read over my shoulder. And on busy days, sneak up to the empty loft upstairs and play music, since his parents have never been able to rent it out.
“I need a ride back, but I can’t stick around,” I say.
Dean looks down. “She doesn’t mean to be like that, you know.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I lie.
“You sure you won’t come, though?” Dean asks. “I can take you to where you need to go and wait.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
I know he thinks I’ve been avoiding him lately, but it’s just that being at the store’s not the same with his mom watching me all the time. And I’ve got some making up to do.
“I was gonna try to catch Jamal off guard,” I explain. “You know, hold him hostage until he talks to me.”
“Smart.” Dean’s face brightens. “I still don’t get why you did it, though.”
“Not you, too?” I look away. I was hoping to skip this conversation with Dean.
“I got your back, but the way your family looked on TV. They were shocked. My stomach was churning watching it go down. It was like a car accident, and I couldn’t look away.”
Dean’s always on my side. The fact he was hit hard by what I did really seals the deal. I messed up. He’s supported me through all the letters I’ve written to Innocence X and helped strategize ways to get their attention. He knows how much this means to me. The guilt twists in my stomach. I’ve gotta fix things with Jamal.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I’d immediately get a call from Innocence X, and then all would be forgiven, but nothing. Like usual.” I shake my head.
Dean slings his arm around my shoulders. “You’ll fix it. You always do. Come on, grab your books, bell’s gonna ring soon.”
We head to my locker, where Tasha’s lingering, grinning as she watches Dean and me head her way.
“Hey, Dean.”
“What’s up, Tasha?”
“Waiting on this girl. But now I know why Tracy is so late.”
“Yeah,” I say, “because Jamal ditched me again. You seen him?”
“Nah. Not yet. I heard something, though.” Tasha shakes her head but keeps her mouth shut in front of Dean.
“All right, Tracy.” Dean backs up, catching a clue. “I’ll see you later.”
I give him a thankful grin as he walks away. I mouth, Maybe I’ll stop by, and he flashes me a smile.
“Cuteness.” Tasha clicks her tongue as she hands me my books. “I don’t know why y’all don’t just bite the bullet and date. He gets a pass, you know.”
“Oh yeah, why?” I shut the locker and flick her hair.
“Because he’s the finest white boy I’ve ever seen. People would understand.”
“Oh, that’s how that works, huh? You know I’d have every white girl in school thinking they could get with Dean because they’d be mad he’s with me.”
“Please. Those heffas still wouldn’t even think in their wildest dreams y’all was together. You wasting time playing friends. You know that’s why nobody asks you out, anyways. That and Quincy.”
“You stay on that Quincy tip. He don’t want me; I told you to go after him already.”
“Don’t think I didn’t try. He got eyes for everybody but me. And I know it’s because of you. He’s just waiting for his moment to edge right on in between you and Dean.”
“Okay, enough. What was that look you were giving Dean, anyways? Why you want him rushing off?”
“I was in the bathroom and overheard Natalie Hanes is vying for your editor spot.”
“What? She barely has a feature. What makes her think she’s even got a chance?”
“Girl, I don’t know. She was talking about you not being a team player. She’s going to talk to Mr. Kaine, then work them votes against you. She feel she’s got Angela in the bag because you hijacked The Susan Touric Show, and Angela’s pissed.”
“Damn! Angela shouldn’t even get a vote, since she’s graduating. It should be up to this year’s juniors.” Angela will have influence, though; I’ve got to talk to her. She works with Mr. Kaine in the morning for internship credit. He’s the one who wrote her letter of recommendation to Susan Touric. I’m hoping to
get one from him, too.
“Thanks, Tasha. I gotta talk to Angela.”
I weave my way down the hall, skipping my own class and going straight to the newsroom, which is just a repurposed classroom with desks set up into stations.
Angela and Chris are in heated debate. His boys, Scott and Justin, are crowded together watching them argue. I know Scott from the track team; he’s a long-distance runner. Used to be a sprinter but wasn’t fast enough. He’s tall and lanky with light brown hair; his neck would blanch in pink-and-white blotches when he’d run. I couldn’t stand him because he was always whining about Coach not being fair by taking him off sprinting and putting him on long distance. Said Coach was being racist against him. Never mind Dean runs the four hundred. But Texas be like that. Chris, Scott, and Justin, always a trio sticking together and not having any nonwhite friends.
I wait until they stop arguing. Chris hugs and kisses Angela. Her response is blank. Like she didn’t want him touching her. Chris doesn’t seem to notice, just takes off with the guys as the bell rings.
I step into the classroom, catching Angela by surprise.
“Mr. Kaine’s out this morning.” Angela shoves her heart-covered cell phone into her bag.
“I came to talk to you.”
“Listen, whatever happened is over. You should talk to your brother about the interview.”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“Well, I can see why. You ruined his interview.” She loops her blond hair behind her ear. “Your approach needs work. I tried to tell you, but you blew me off last staff meeting.”
“You wouldn’t get it.” I shake my head. “No one listens to me. You’re all a clique on the newspaper.”
“We’re not a clique. You just don’t try hard enough to get along.”
“I don’t try hard enough?” I put my hand up. “What can I talk about when bonding time equals talking about lavish vacations, brand-new cars for birthday gifts, all things Starbucks? And music? Have we ever tried to listen to a Black radio station? Don’t even get me started on television references to reruns of Friends and Gossip Girl.”
