by Randi Pink
“I would like to report an attempted rape.” When she lowered her catalog, I knew I had her. Those eyes grew so large I could see her pupils clearly through three sets of thick glass.
“Hold, please.” She rose from her beloved swivel chair and banged on Principal Smith’s office door. She burst through, disappearing into his office and reemerging seconds later. “The principal is in a meeting,” she said as Principal Smith peeked at her through his cracked door.
No offer to take a message, just lies. Big white lies of Edgewood High.
A flicker of anger sprinted up the center of my spine. “Look, lady. If you don’t transfer me to the principal, I’ll call Birmingham news and report you for institutional neglect.” Birmingham was the most progressive city in Alabama.
She stuttered something unintelligible, eyeballed the principal, and said, “You’re calling Birmingham news, you say?” They exchanged hectic sign language. I watched her lower the phone. At first, I thought she was hanging up, but after a click, I realized she’d placed me on speakerphone.
“Yes, Birmingham,” I said, sensing their fear. “I know Edgewood has Montgomery media in their deep pockets, but Birmingham has the Southern Education Desk at their NPR station.”
After a whispered exchange with his Gatekeeper, Principal Smith quickly shut his office door.
“I’m going to transfer you to the principal’s line.”
I’ll be doggoned, so that’s how you get transferred back there. “Principal Smith speaking,” said the stately gentleman’s Atticus Finch voice, which I’d only ever heard over the intercom.
“Yes, I need to report an assault. It happened at a party Saturday night, and it would have gone further if someone hadn’t walked in on us,” I said, barely pausing to breathe. “He held me down. I’m pretty sure I still have his handprint on my forearm. He was so strong. Too strong for me to handle, and I think he may try this type of thing again.” Something occurred to me that I hadn’t thought of. “I’ll bet he’s done something like this before.”
“Does this boy attend Edgewood High School?” His voice simmered like a teakettle about to squeal.
“He does,” I said, trying not to break down, but the thought of Josh’s hands wrapping around my forearms, his breath on my neck, and his sour spit in my throat made me want to rip the phone from the wall and throw it through the glass.
“I need a name.”
“His name is Josh Ander—”
“Of Anderson Toyota, Jeep, Dodge?” he asked before a panicky chuckle. “Our quarterback? Oh, no, ma’am, I assure you he’s not that type of boy.”
“Not that type of boy?” I shot from the stool with such force that I could barely stay on my feet. “He nearly fractured my arm, dumbass!”
“Well, there’s no need to use that type of language. What’s your name, young lady?”
“Why do you need my name? I gave you the name of the bastard who tried to—”
He interrupted, “If you don’t give me a name, there’s nothing I, or anyone, can do.”
“I will not give my name,” I said firmly before hanging up in his face.
The principal stormed from his office, flailed his arms back and forth, and went back to his desk. I watched in utter disbelief as the Gatekeeper recrossed her legs, picked up the catalog, and resumed her flipping. I gave them a few moments to reconsider. Then I gave myself a few more moments to understand: understand that being a girl comes with much responsibility. Not just a white or black girl, or a hot or not-hot girl, but any type of girl. The responsibility to fiercely protect our bodies from monsters who think they can take what they want and get away with it. And then, as final adornment, they spread the rumor that we initiated it, effectively checking the slut box for us.
There was no textbook or class period dedicated to living with the burden of being born with a vagina. No dummy’s guide to avoiding bellicose penises attached to entitled boys with Edgewood clout. Only trial and error, and hopefully true friends to confide in. When I thought about it, the only true female friend I had in the world was my mother.
My mother could never know I’d been attacked, because I didn’t want to be lumped into what she referred to as the “running-in-the-woods girls.” Whenever a white girl went missing on Unsolved Mysteries, my mother would say, “I bet she was running in the woods by herself in butt-out shorts.” Usually, Mom was right. Not that she blamed them for their Unsolved Mysteries–worthy predicaments, but her tone suggested that some responsibility fell on the victim. I wanted my mother to think I was smarter than that, even if I wasn’t. Besides, Lord knows I didn’t want to be responsible for her heart attack, or the prison sentence she would receive from cutting off the quarterback’s wiener. So I resigned myself to finding another way.
* * *
By lunchtime, my head pounded. Though I’d chosen the table farthest from the Chosen Table, the whisper clusters throughout the lunchroom created one giant whisper-holler, defeating the purpose of whispering altogether. Most of the chatter was about Josh’s fat lip and black eye. But some were talking about me.
Trolling the cafeteria, I saw the black people arrive. If I hadn’t been watching, I would have heard them, as they were by far the loudest group in the lunchroom. One of Deanté’s friends, Andre, pointed directly at me and said something into his girlfriend Tiffany’s ear. I picked up my plastic spork and began poking my wayward green peas, but that didn’t stop them from snaking their way to my table.
“So what you got?” Andre and Tiffany slid into the empty seats across from me. “I Googled some pics of STDs, and that shit is crazy. You got the one that looks like yellow broccoli?” he asked. Tiffany was stifling a laugh. I sank my head forward and tried to ignore them. “Hey! Over here, y’all.” He waved four more of his friends, including Deanté, toward my table. “I’m just asking this chick what she got going on in her draws.”
“Andre, chill with that, bruh,” said Deanté. I looked up and locked eyes with him. I never thought I’d see the day, Deanté standing up for someone his friends were picking on.
“D, what’s the matter with you? You been talking like a white boy and acting like a bitch lately,” said Andre.
“Whatever, dude. Just chill. She obviously doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“Dude?” Andre seemed shocked by the word. “You saying dude now?” When Deanté didn’t reply, Andre sucked his teeth. “Come on, y’all. Let’s go. Looks like we done lost Deanté to the white folks,” he said, leaving Deanté standing there.
He looked at the seat that Andre had vacated. “Can I?”
AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY
“Don’t let them get to you,” Deanté said.
“That’s funny, I was going to say the same thing to you. What just happened?” I asked.
“They say I’ve been acting white.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I must say, your English has improved.”
“I know how to speak.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Toya,” he whispered. “I thought about what you said. You shamed me into subject-verb agreement.” He tapped his fingers on the table. I noticed that his nails were clean and cut down evenly—rare for a Southern boy.
“But what about your precious place in Edgewood High School society? Your role, as you called it.” He began poking one of my green beans with the unused plastic knife. He wouldn’t look at my face, but I could tell that he was listening intently. Watching my mom demand immediate action from my dad, with no result, helped me realize that men were listening, they just needed extra time to absorb before they implemented a woman’s words. Maybe it’s pride or stupidity, who knows, but no man will jump when a woman says jump.
“Edgewood High will be just fine. Hopefully, I’ll have you to hang out with. Not you like this but when you turn back, I mean. When are you planning on doing that anyway?” he asked a bit too eagerly.
“Omigosh. I think this is the oddest couple I’ve ever seen in my life.…�
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The twins switched past our table so closely that I could smell their Chanel.
“The oddest…”
“By far…”
“Oops!” Amera dropped her plastic cup of ketchup onto my ballet flats.
“Oops!” Amelia followed suit with some mustard.
They laughed as they walked away. “Now your shoes look as disgusting as your vag.”
“Good one, Amera!”
“Thanks, Amelia.” They high-fived and exited the cafeteria.
Everyone was watching, some sniggering and some pitying, but I couldn’t let them see me break. I grabbed my book bag and ran toward the courtyard.
“Wait up!” Deanté shouted after me.
The courtyard was empty. I sat on the concrete bench, surrounded by bright blue hydrangea bouquets as big as my head.
When the door scraped open, I didn’t look up to see who it was. “Please, leave me alone,” I said.
“It’s just me. Can I stay?”
Deanté snipped a hydrangea and held it beneath my chin. I smiled despite myself. “You can get in trouble for doing that.”
“I don’t really care.” He smiled. I had never noticed the dimple on his left cheek. I wanted to stick my pinkie in it.
“Yeah, sit,” I said. He scooched in close enough to raise the tiny hairs on my forearm. He smelled clean like laundry detergent. Not the cheap kind, though; probably Tide and Downy—the rich-people combo.
“White isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, huh?”
I shook my head.
“How about you just change back to the real Toya like I said? I’m sure Alex would appreciate it. Remember him? Just looking at him now makes me depressed.”
I couldn’t talk about Alex. “You want to hang with me, why?” I looked down at my formerly white shoes, splattered with yellow and red.
“I told you I liked you as Toya.” He uncrossed his legs and shuffled his feet in the grass. I noticed that he wore beige boots instead of sneakers and that made me glad, because I hated the sight of those Jordans. They reminded me of the Deanté who made me bow down at his feet. I inched away, attempting to gain a bit of space between us.
“You sure had a horrible way of showing it.” I folded into myself, slumping until my elbows met my thighs.
He started a few sentences, but gave up after a couple of tries. He dropped his head back, clearly frustrated with himself. “I can’t take back the messed-up things I’ve done. I don’t know, Toya. I just want you to come back so I can really make it up to you.” He took my hand.
But I snatched it away. “You all think that you can just treat girls however the hell you want, and then we’ll fall to pieces when you soften your voices and snuggle up close smelling like really good detergent. Well, that’s not how it works, Deanté.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Who is ‘you all’?”
“I don’t know, all of you,” I said, fighting the urge to sob. “Boys!”
He shifted nearer, effectively closing the small gap I’d created. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted the boys to look my way, and God gave it to me.” I rubbed my forearms to keep the goose pimples at bay. “As a black girl, I was invisible. I know that sounds like a Southern cliché, but it’s the God’s honest truth. I could’ve walked up and down the hallways of Edgewood High School in a pink tutu and sequin bra, and no one, besides your group, would’ve paid me any mind.”
Deanté opened his mouth to speak but quickly changed his mind.
“I know you’re sorry, I can feel that, it’s just the truth. The only popular black kids at Edgewood are exceptional at sports, or singing, or dancing. If you don’t have something extra special, you’re nothing. It’s not like that for the white ones. You don’t need a superpower to stand out. Take Amera and Amelia…”
“Oh God, can we not—”
“Hear me out, Deanté,” I interrupted. “They’re the most popular girls in the sophomore class, maybe the entire school. Their parking space is reserved at parties, and they’ve split the Homecoming crown two years in a row. People bow when they walk down the hallways, for goodness’ sake. What have they done to deserve that coveted tip of the pyramid? Nothing. Edgewood requires nothing of them. The only default requirement is their whiteness.”
Deanté lifted his hand to the small of my back, and for whatever reason, I let him. “Toya,” he said. “If you listen to them, I mean really listen beyond their nastiness, they’re miserable.” His thumb rubbed tiny circles on my back. “They hate themselves just as much as the rest of us hate them. It’s just harder to see underneath that shiny crown.”
He was right. Why else would they torture themselves with starvation? And go out of their way to hurt people who didn’t deserve to be hurt? The twins were fools dropping condiments on shoes and making fun of kids with Down syndrome. They possessed power because we gave them power, not because they were worthy of it. The realization sent shock waves through me, lifting some of the burden that had been weighing me down.
Deanté drew his hand away from my lower back. “What?”
I lifted my hand to his chin, and the invisible stubble tickled the tips of my fingers. “Actually, you’re pretty wise.” When his cheek began to twitch, I withdrew my hand and immediately regretted touching his face.
We sat until he began a breathy whistle to fill the silence.
“I told on Josh, and the principal didn’t do anything about it,” I blurted.
“You know better than to tell the principal. Next fall’s football season is too promising,” Deanté said matter-of-factly, which made it worse. “He’s assaulted other girls, and no one’s done anything about it.”
My God.
“Two that I know of,” he added.
“I’m…” I needed a moment to take it all in. I wanted to scream. I doubled over and cradled my face. My nose was so close to my shoe that the vinegar in the ketchup made my stomach turn.
“Hey, I’m sorry to lay this on you.” He touched my shoulder. “I shouldn’t have…” He trailed off.
I kept my gaze away from him. “How do you know all this?”
“Like I said, nothing happens at this school that I don’t know about. That’s how I knew where you were at the party.” He commenced shuffling his boots again.
My heart beat so hard that I could hear it. “You saved me … on purpose?” He twirled the hydrangea between his index and middle fingers. His eyelashes were shiny black and long like a girl’s. His skin smooth and chocolaty. Little black hairs stuck straight out of his head; too short to curl, but I could tell that they wanted to. I’d never noticed those things before. He bit his lip, hard. “Deanté. Look at me.” He looked into my eyes.
“You know, you still have the same eyes as Toya. Different. But the same.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
“I wanted to save the others, but I was too late,” he said. “I should’ve beat his ass back then. Alex sure let him have it, though, didn’t he?” A little while passed before either of us spoke again. My mind was wild with gratefulness toward Deanté, regret for the other girls, anger toward Josh, frustration with myself for walking up the godforsaken stairs. I couldn’t fix my thoughts on any one thing.
“Hey,” he said in a hushed voice, and then he nudged me. “I’d like it if you’d hurry up and change back.” The dimple showed up again, giving me something to focus on.
I reached toward his face to stick my finger in it when the weed-smoking crew burst through the courtyard doors.
My pinkie was less than an inch from his cheek when he jumped from the bench and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Standing in front of me, he asked, “You busy Saturday?”
“No, why?”
He kicked at a wobbly rock. “My mom says I can have her car for a few hours. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
He held the hydrangea in front of me and peered keenly into my eyes. “Why it’s not so bad to be black.”
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I snatched the flower and rolled my eyes instinctively, assuming he was kidding, but he continued to stare until I spoke. “How do you plan—?”
“Guys! Want to spark up with us?” interrupted one of the stoner kids.
“No!” Deanté and I said in unison.
“Okay,” I replied to Deanté. I’d known him for years but never noticed that dimple.
“Good, then. I should get going.” He tripped on his way to the door. And I laughed.
That dimple haunted me throughout Barnhouse’s biology. How could I miss something so precious? When the ocean whooshed, I realized that I had doodled Deanté’s name onto my notebook twelve and a half times.
I JUST DON’T KNOW ANYMORE
“Toya, you riding with us?” Mom hollered.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well, come on!”
Alex already sat in the backseat; same ol’ courteous big brother, he’d left the seat up for me to climb in beside him. His upper body was even more hunched than the last time I’d ridden with him. He’d walked Hampton through the woodsy backyard the night before, and there were a few leaves in his unbrushed hair. I lifted my hand, reflexively, to pick them out.
He caught sight of my approach and recoiled. “Please don’t touch me,” he said softly.
“You have a few leaves in your hair,” I said, fighting the overwhelming sensation to blubber.
Mom looked back at us. “I’ll get them.” She forced a smile and proceeded to remove the leaves.
“I appreciate that, Mom,” he said before quietly handing me another booklet. This one had my name printed on the front instead of his. “Barnhouse’s cell cycle project is due today. It’s half your overall grade.”
I knew he was still mad at me. The mean crease between his eyes gave him away. For Alex, doing my homework was more pity than forgiveness. He was naturally brilliant, and I’d never been a good student as Toya, but as Katarina, I was atrocious. I couldn’t find the words. Thank you really wasn’t enough, and I’m sorry felt misplaced. I could’ve told him how much I loved him, but I didn’t want him to think I was saying it just because he’d done my homework for me.
