I still tread water.
“Know any jokes?” she asks.
“Just, you know, little kid jokes.”
“Tell me a little kid joke. I’ve got a little sister who loves little kid jokes.”
I tread water.
The thing is, I do know a lot of little kid jokes because of Imani. We have a deal that if I tell her a joke, she has to not mention anything about “Frozen” for thirty minutes.
“Come on.”
“Yeah, so, well...Why does the elephant bring toilet paper to the party?”
“I don’t know...why?”
“No, you have to guess.”
“Ummmm. Because toilet paper was on sale?’
“Noooo. Because he was a party pooper.”
Rosie laughs like, I don’t know, like I’ve turned into that Bo Burnham comedian guy or something. Her laugh gets me laughing so hard I have to grab the buoy to stay up.
Brent dives from the dock and comes up in front of our buoy, wiping water from his eyes.
“Man, I could hear you laughing all the way from the dock! What’s so funny?”
“Hard to say,” I tell him, my laughter fading into the water.
“Try me,” he says. “What’s so funny.”
He looks from me to Rosie, whose laughter has also faded...but her smile hasn’t. I’m noticing she’s got a great smile.
“You had to be here,” I tell him.
“I am here.”
“But you weren’t.”
“Okay,” Rosie says, “Why does the elephant bring toilet...”
“NOOOO! Not the old party pooper elephant joke!”
Brent lunges at me, pushing my shoulders down. I sink under the buoy. Come up on the other side. Brent lunges again, and again I go under. This time when I come up, Rosie’s swimming in the direction of the dock, already halfway there. I don’t know a lot about girls, but I do know they get bored when guys start messing around.
Brent reaches for the other side of the buoy.
“Why was she out here talking to you?”
“I don’t know. She said she remembered me from Palm Ave. Fourth grade.”
“I went to Palm Ave. She never talks to me.”
“Maybe she doesn’t remember you. She remembers me because I was funny.”
“I was funny at Palm Avenue in the fourth grade. I was funnier than you. Besides, you were barely even in fourth grade at Palm. You were supposed to be master of ceremony for that Harvest Festival thing, and you didn’t even show up for it. You didn’t show up again until the ninth grade, so how can she remember you and not me?”
“Maybe I’m just memorable.”
“Your hand’s memorable. Everybody remembers Captain Hook. Maybe if I had a creepy Captain Hook hand, she’d remember me.”
“Doubt it,” I say, sinking under water and surfacing right before I get to the dock. We’re like that, Cameron and Brent and I, always raggin’ on each other. That’s what friends do. Guys, anyways. Brent’s “Blockhead.” He’s one of the smartest guys I know. He even did that Academic Decathlon thing last year. Except he could never take a math question. He can count to 100, add two and two, and say his times tables up to the fives. That’s about it. And get this: Brent’s dad wants him to be an engineer, like he is.
Cameron is “Zitter,” for obvious reasons. I’m “Captain Hook”, or mostly just “Hook”. On my right hand, I’ve got a thumb, two grown together stubs for my index finger and my middle finger, and just a glob of flesh where my fourth finger and pinkie would attach, if I had a fourth finger and a pinky. I came out that way. Not a problem. I can do anything anyone else can. Well, I didn’t take piano lessons, but I’m okay. My hand’s a mark of distinction. People who don’t remember my name say: “that kid with the hand.” Which is stupid because all the kids have hands, but everyone knows they’re talking about me when they say “that kid with the hand.”
I start up the ladder to the dock. Too many people. I mostly like people one or two at a time. Three’s about my limit. I slide back into the water and swim to shore.
LATER, WHEN I SEE ROSIE walk to the drink stand, I go scoot in behind her. I don’t want a drink—I just want to stand near her. I know it sounds crazy, but something happened out there at the buoy. At least, that’s how it felt to me.
We get drinks and go to a shady place beside the stand. I take a long swallow of lemonade and try to think of something to say.
“Did you get the classes you want?” I ask. What a dork! All of a sudden, I’m asking questions like your grandma would ask?
Rosie doesn’t seem to mind though. “Yeah. but I don’t have much choice. Between having to take AP English and History, French IV and AP Calculus, and staying with Peer Communications and Choir, plus playing soccer, my program’s set. How about you? Did you get the classes you want?”
“I got the two I want. I don’t want any of the rest of them. I’m not much of a school boy.”
“Why not? You were like the smartest kid in Mrs. Summer’s class. You were a school boy then.”
“Yeah. Well, that was back before they gave kids homework.” I take another long swallow of lemonade.
“Well, so, what are the two classes you wanted to get?”
“WriteLight and Yoga.”
“Zero period and 6th period?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you have in between?”
“Dunno. I’ve got whatever it says on my program card. I’ll look Tuesday morning.”
Rosie gives me a raised eyebrow look.
I focus on my lemonade. Is it my turn to talk? It was easier when we were in the water, like treading water made it okay to be quiet.
Rosie looks back toward where her friends are sitting. “I think Fiona’s ready to leave. I should go.” She tosses her soda bottle into the recycle bin and walks back to her friends.
“Bye,” I call after her. At least I know to say that.
She turns and flashes her toothpaste ad smile at me. “Bye.”
HOT SUN, COLD WATER, gritty sand, stop-and-go traffic. I zone out in the white noise that is Brent and Cameron worrying about AP classes, and college essays, and applications. I’m watching the road ahead, but it’s Rosie’s smile I’m seeing.
It’s after seven by the time we take the off-ramp toward Hamilton Heights. Turning onto Main Street, on the way to Cameron’s, I see crowds of people a few blocks down, in front of City Hall.
At the next block, there’s a barrier with two guys in fluorescent vests, waving their flashlights to move traffic off of Main Street and onto 2nd. Closer now, and barely moving, we see cops all over the place, some in riot gear. Some are on horses. There’s a crowd of people in front of City Hall with signs that say stuff like “Justice for Devon Parker,” and “Equality for ALL,” and “Black Lives Matter,” and other stuff I can’t read from here. Then there’s a barrier of cops between the Black Lives Matter group and another bunch of demonstrators with tiki torches and clubs, and signs that say “White Lives Matter,” and “America for Americans,” and “P8RIOTS,” and some with swastikas.
“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of one of those horses,” Brent says. “They’re huge!”
Traffic’s picked up again, and the crowd’s soon out of sight.
“I don’t get that Black Lives Matter shit,” Cameron says. “Like, doesn’t everybody’s life matter?
“Devon Parker’s didn’t matter,” I say. “Or Michael Brown’s or Tamir Rice’s or Stephon Clark’s, or a ton of others.”
“From what I saw on TV, the cop shot that Michael Brown guy in self-defense.”
“Really?” I say.
“Well, he’d stolen stuff from a store, like those cigarillo things.”
“Not a death penalty offense,” I say.
“William’s got you brainwashed,” Cameron says.
“More like brain expanded,” I say.
“Somebody’s got to get your brain expanded,” Brent says with a laugh. “With the a
mount of work you do at school, it won’t happen at Hamilton High.”
We all laugh at that. Smoothing the waters is one of Brent’s talents, maybe because there are so many people in his family to get along with.
When I get home, Max is at the kitchen table, staring into her laptop.
“I thought this was game night,” I say.
Max is glued to her computer, her phone face up, showing an unanswered text to William.
“Where’s William?”
She turns the computer screen toward me. City hall. Torches, horses, riot gear, signs . . . oh shit. William. Black Lives Matter. I sit next to Max and watch the screen, following the ribbon across the bottom, “Live news report from Hamilton Heights. White nationalist groups chanting racist slogans and hurling rocks threaten peaceful Black Lives Matter demonstration.”
Max turns to me. “Look at that bunch of P8RIOT guys with their clubs and torches! It’s like the Make America Great bunch is drawing all of the racists and haters out from whatever rocks they’ve been hiding under.”
Max’s frown is tight, and deep. Like her whole face is frowning—like the frowns she brought back from Iraq. “It’s all good guys versus bad guys,” she says, “and anyone who’s an immigrant, or Muslim, or doesn’t look like the guys in the MAGA hats is a bad guy. Fear and hate. It worries me.”
On the screen, there’re more guys with torches now, yelling, throwing stuff—I’m not sure what—toward the Black Lives Matter demonstrators, who are throwing stuff back. More police, with dogs, trying to keep the groups separated.
“Will you get Imani to bed?” Max says, not looking away from the computer screen.
“Sure.”
All I want is a hot shower and to fall into bed, but I know Imani’s bedtime routine as well as anyone, and Max’ll stay glued to the news until she hears from William.
I stand in the hall and call to Imani, “You want strawberry or lavender?”
“Lavender,” she says, not turning around.
I start the water in the bathtub, pour lavender bubble bath powder directly under the stream of water and watch it foam up. While the tub fills, I get Imani’s PJs from her top dresser drawer, set them on a stool at the end of the bathtub, squeeze toothpaste onto her “Frozen” toothbrush, and shut the water off.
“Bath’s ready,” I tell her.
“I want to see the rest of this!”
“Nope. It’s already way past your bedtime,” I say, shutting off the TV.
“No fair!”
“Go on. Get your bath before the water gets cold.”
She pouts.
“If you get your bath and are all ready for bed in twenty minutes, I’ve got a joke for you.”
“A bear joke?”
“Some joke,” I tell her.
I stretch out on the couch, thinking about Rosie, and about the start of my senior year, and Black Lives Matter, and Rosie, and...
“Joke!” startles me fully awake.
“In bed,” I say.
Once she’s all snuggled down in bed, I ask her, “Why aren’t Teddy Bears ever hungry?”
“Why?”
I wait for the guess.
“Because Mama Bear always feeds them?”
“No, because they’re always stuffed.”
“Not a very good joke,” she says.
“The best I could do,” I tell her. I gesture toward her bookshelves.
“Daddy’s going to read to me,” she says.
“Well, he’s not home right now. What book do you want?”
“I want my Daddy!” she says, sniffling. “I’m scared.”
“Do you want me to read to you or not?”
She shakes her head. I turn on her nightlight and switch the ceiling light off. “Goodnight, then,” I say.
I’m in the bathroom, so ready for a shower, when Imani calls, “Eddie! I’m scared!” I wait, hoping to hear Max on her way to Imani’s room. “Eddie!”
I go back to her room.
“I want my Daddy. I’m scared.”
“Try counting sheep,” I tell her.
“Stay with me,” she says.
I take my shoes off and lie down next to her, on top of the covers, feeling her hand in mine as I drift—or more like plunge—into sleep.
Sometime after midnight, William’s weight on the other side of the bed wakens me. He’s looking down at Imani. “Thanks, Eddie,” he whispers.
As I walk toward the door, I see William lean his face down beside Imani’s.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here, Baby.”
I fall into my own bed, showerless, and dream of treading water.
CHAPTER TWO
What Eddie Knows
Tuesday morning, I jostle my way through the metal detectors and head out to the quad. Walking past the Tech building, I see a new piece of graffiti shit: “Kill Raghead Muslim Terrorists,” slapped up with a black permanent marker. So much for the back-to-school email reminder that “Hamilton High is a Hate-free Environment.” It pisses me off, the haters who want to get rid of everyone who’s not white.
Underneath the Muslim hate, underlined twice, it says “14 Words.” I don’t know what that means, but I’m pretty sure it’s more hate shit.
At the quad, there are six lunch tables lined up with office people and aides behind them, handing out programs and first-day information.
I join Brent in the A-D line. He looks all anxious and worried.
“How’s it going?”
He shakes his head. “I told my dad I don’t want to be an engineer! Like I’ve been telling him at least once a month for the past four years! And he tells me, ‘Stick with it. You’ve got a great opportunity here!’ like he’s been telling me for the past eight years.”
Phong wanders over from the I-L line carrying his program packet. Phong Liu.
“Did you take WriteLight again this year?”
I nod.
“Cool! Maybe you can turn Simba into a vampire. He can help Vernon.”
I laugh. “Simba’s a vegetarian, except for mice.”
“Yeah, but if he eats a vampire mouse, then he’ll be a vampire cat.”
Phong cracks me up. He’s got this thing for a cowardly vampire—Vernon the Cowardly Vampire. He’s always doodling pictures of him. Vernon looks a lot like that guy Edward in the vampire movies, except Edward has these wicked teeth and Vernon has tiny baby teeth.
Me, I doodle pictures of Simba the cat, who is strong and brave. He’s my doodling specialty—has been since I was a little kid and obsessed with “The Lion King.” I even named my kitten Simba because I wanted him to grow into a lion. What can I say? I was a kid. Simba grew into a regular cat, like the one I’m drawing now.
“Later,” Phong says as I reach the front of the line.
Ms. Cordano, one of the office ladies, hands me my packet. As I step aside to wait for Brent, I notice Rosie about halfway back and wander over. She points to the bulky envelope I have tucked under my arm.
“What classes do you have?”
“I haven’t looked yet.”
She laughs. “Then, look!”
I take my program out and read the list of classes to her as she inches along in line. “WriteLight. World History. I like history,” I tell her. “I probably won’t do the homework, but class discussion will be okay.”
Rosie’s looking at me like maybe I’m from another planet or something.
“Environmental Ecology. I don’t even know what that is,” I tell her, “but I’ve heard it’s easy and it’ll meet the science requirement. 20th Century American Lit. That might be okay. I might read some of those books...”
Finally at the front of the line, Rosie gets her packet and rips it open. She skims her program information and waves it in the air.
“Brianna!!” she yells to a girl standing over by the fence.
The girl runs over to Rosie. “You got it?”
“Yes!”
“Me, too!”
Rosie throws
her arms around Brianna, and they jump around, laughing and hugging and doing that squealing girl thing. “We got it!” Rosie says. “We got it!”
“Come on!” Brianna grabs Rosie by the hand and moves back toward the other girls.
“In a sec,” Rosie says, turning back to me. “So, American Lit and what else?” she says, her smile still all glowing.
Brianna looks from Rosie to me and back to Rosie. “I’ll see you at the assembly, then,” Brianna says, and goes back to the others.
“What else have you got?” Rosie asks.
“What have you got that you’re so happy about?”
She shows me her program, pointing to sixth period, Tuesday and Thursday. R.O.P. Music Therapy. She says it’s some “consortium” with students chosen from all of the schools in the county—super hard to get into. But if you do get in, it’s almost certain you can get into this highly competitive Music Therapy program at University of the Foothills. “I’ve wanted to be a music therapist since I first learned about it in seventh grade and UOF has this great program. I love music and I love helping people, so it’ll be perfect...What’re your other classes?” she asks.
“Earth Science, Life Skills, Yoga, Business Math.”
“Business Math? Not Calculus?”
“I’m not going to college. I don’t need calculus. Besides, I’m learning the painting business with my sort of stepdad. Business Math will be good to know.”
“Painting?”
“Yeah. House painting. Office painting. Buildings. You know.”
Rosie stands looking at me for too long. Too serious. I’d like to be treading water.
“But...I remember how smart you were back in the 4th grade. Why aren’t you going to college?”
“I guess I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to go to college.”
“Well, okay, speaking of 4th grade, know any more of those little kid jokes?” She laughs, like even asking is a joke.
It’s a relief to get off the no-college subject, so I tell her, “Here’s the one I told Imani yesterday afternoon so she’d stop telling me every detail of “Frozen” for about the millionth time. I told her the joke in exchange for some quiet time.”
Eddie's Choice Page 2
