“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good. Because the whole world is my lane.”
“Listen, Stephen, you don’t want to be in prejudiced people’s lanes because that puts you in their hands, and if they have you where they want you, they’ll hurt you.”
“That supermarket man, though? I thought store workers are supposed to be friendly to all customers.”
“Not everyone who is supposed to be friendly is. And not everyone who acts friendly is your friend.”
Mom pokes her head in my bedroom door. From her face, I think she’s been listening for a while.
“Honey, can you come outside?” she asks Dad.
Dad stands, eyeing me. “We’ll finish this later.”
My door shuts and I sit back, reading the words on my bracelet again. WHAT LANE?
I swear under my breath to myself:
I’ll do what I want.
I’ll do everything Dan does.
I’ll do everything Chad does.
I’m as good as Dan.
I’m better than Chad.
Stay in my lane? Really? What lane?
CHAPTER 8
LATER THAT NIGHT, I need to pee. The bathroom is down the hall from my parents’ bedroom.
I tiptoe by their room real quiet so I don’t wake them. But they’re up.
“He’s too young.” Mom’s voice is snappy. “I don’t want Stephen thinking about these things.”
They’re talking about me? I lean close to their door.
“Can’t I just sleep?” Dad sighs hard. “Do we really need to discuss this now?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” It sounds like he sits up. “You don’t want him thinking about these things. But it’s happening to him. That’s why I told him what I said.”
“But you’re pushing him to think like an adult. He’s an innocent kid.”
“Me? I’m not the one bursting his bubble. The world’s doing that. You don’t want him thinking like an adult? Then go tell the world to stop treating him like an adult felon. You don’t want me to be like my father and bottle it all in, do you? I told myself if I had a son, I’d try to really talk with him—not just give him bits and pieces of the truth. Don’t you want me to have a more open relationship with Stephen?”
“I do, but also, I want to protect him feeling free—his imagination, his mind.”
It goes quiet in their room for a few seconds. Then Dad says, “I want to protect him too. I want to protect his body. From prejudiced people hurting him. He needs to know how to steer through this world as a Black boy.”
“He’s mixed.”
“Mixed? You think a racist person sees he’s mixed? And even if they did, then what? They’ll give him a pass?”
He changes his voice to serious-professional. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know you were mixed. You’re now free to go. And remember, you can now get away with what white kids get away with. SWOOSH! There you go. Your White Skin Privilege powers have been turned on. Little boy, your force field against racism is now up.”
“What’s with the jokes?” Mom’s voice is upset.
“I tried to be serious and explain it. You didn’t get how serious it is. So maybe you’d understand it better as a joke.”
“Listen . . .” My mom must be standing, because the bed creaks and her feet shuffle.
I’m ready to run fast if she comes toward the door.
My mom keeps talking. “I know that you and Stephen are Black males. I know that you go through things that I don’t. I get it. Let’s just go to bed and talk more tomorrow.”
* * *
I lie back in bed and think about what I just heard my parents say.
I wonder why it’s such a big deal for my mom to call me “mixed” when my dad’s right: It’s obvious I get treated foul because I’m Black.
I think back to a third-grade parent-teacher conference with my white teacher, Ms. North.
I heard Ms. North give my mom the biggest, warmest hello when my mom walked in before us. “Oh, hi! Whose parent are you?”
Then Ms. North’s jaw dropped for a second when my dad and I walked in. She acted so awkward the whole meeting and mostly spoke to my mom.
Leaving the conference, in the hall outside my class, I joked to my dad, “Ms. North looked SOS when Mom walked in.”
Dad put his arm around me and rapped, all jokey. “That’s because you’re Black, you’re Black. You’re Blackity-Black-Black and you’re Black. Ms. North expected your Black mom to walk in. She didn’t think your mom and I’d be so . . . opposite.”
Friends have said that before: Your mom and dad are opposite.
If you look at their skin colors, then, yeah, they’re opposite. And sometimes Dad is louder and more outgoing than Mom.
But they’re more similar than opposite.
My mom helps manage a public library. Dad’s a teacher. And when they get into talking about books, they finish each other’s sentences like they’re one person. They love the same singers, shows, and restaurants. Love and hate the same politicians. You name it: They’re similar.
Back then, after that parent-teacher conference, we drove home and I asked Dad, “You really think Ms. North thought you and Mom were opposites?”
My mom tried to shut it down. “Honey, this isn’t appropriate to talk badly about Stephen’s teacher.”
“Wait. What?” Dad said. “How am I the inappropriate one? She’s the one that couldn’t get over Stephen having a white mom. And a Black da—”
Mom interrupted. “Well, now she’ll know he’s mixed.”
“Right, but what about his future teachers who haven’t met us? Will they see Stephen as a white boy or a Black boy? And what if a cop sees Stephen? Will the cop see a white boy or a Black boy?”
She shook her head. “This again.”
“Yes, this again. Because this racism thing isn’t going away. So it’s appropriate for Stephen to know some people will treat him different in this world just because he looks different. He needs to be woke so he avoids getting hurt or let down.”
My mom nodded, agreeing with him. Then she giggled. “Woke? That doesn’t even sound like you.”
Dad giggled back. “Yeah. I thought the same thing as I said it.”
I was thinking the same too, but “woke” is cool.
Right then, they both started smiling at each other. “Woke,” they sighed, and giggled at the same time.
See? They’re not opposites, really.
Now I think to fifteen minutes ago, when my mom said, I want to protect him. Then Dad said the same. I want to protect him too. They both want to protect me, so—boom—they’re also the same that way.
But protect me? Do I need it?
I stare above at the solar system Dad hung from strings on the ceiling. He bought it in Manhattan’s American Museum of Natural History. After he hung it up, he winked at me and said, “The world is yours.”
Right now, I don’t feel that way.
CHAPTER 9
SO, THE NEXT afternoon, I can’t believe it when it happens.
Me and Dan are walking and he soft-smacks my face. Boom. We start slap-boxing.
This is how we sometimes play. If one of us soft-smacks the other, it’s on. We start boxing like two UFC fighters or Creed.
Right now, I bob and weave. Swing. “You think you better than me?”
Dan blocks like whoa. Swing. He misses. “Watch me beat you.”
“Beat me?” I say something I heard Muhammad Ali say: “I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!” Swing, swing.
He skips around me, drops his guard! Swing. Bap. I tag his cheek.
Kids our age walk by and a few hawk us as we slap like two cats pawing each other in those GIFs.
Then a woman’s voice barks at me. “Young man! L
eave that boy alone!”
Yo! Why’s she yelling at me?
What happens next is so wild, I feel outside of myself seeing it happen.
“Go back to your neighborhood. Don’t bring trouble here,” she tells me.
Huh? She thinks I can’t live here since it’s a mostly white neighborhood and I’m Black. And she thinks I’m trouble.
The man with her talks to Dan. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Should we call the cops?”
“WHOA!” Dan interrupts them. “This is my best friend. We’re playing.”
The look on the couple’s faces—their minds won’t let them believe me and Dan are tight.
The lady’s head jerks back. “Oh.”
The guy’s slit eyes still stay on me like I’m no good.
They walk off, and Dan hangs an arm around me. “What’s up their butts? They think they cops or something.”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“And why they ask me if I was okay? Don’t they know I’m better than you?” he jokes.
“Better?” I ask Dan. “Hold up. How you better than me?”
“What?”
“You said you better than me.”
“In slap-boxing.”
I feel like I’m bugging. Maybe making this about something more. But I have to ask. “Besides slap-boxing, we the same. Equal, right?”
“Yeah. Of course we’re equal. Why?” Dan scans my face. “You good, Stephen?”
I lift my fist for Dan to bump. “Dead it, bruh. I’m good. We good.”
He fist-bumps me. “Good. Because I might have to slap you again.” He jumps, jokey, to slap-box some more.
“Nah,” I tell him. “Not here.”
CHAPTER 10
THE NEXT DAY, I’m at the water fountain between classes when Wes—my Black friend—comes up. We haven’t hung in a while.
Dan and him have avoided each other since their beef from last year, when me and Wes were arguing about rap music.
“Drake is the best rapper out,” Wes said.
I wagged my head. “He’s a’ight. But he’s trash compared to—”
Dan jumped in. “Wes, there’s, like, twenty rappers better than Drake.”
Wes snapped on Dan. “No one asked you. Rap is a Black thing. Let me and Stephen speak.”
Ever since, they haven’t spoken.
Right now, Wes is with Devin, Erik, and Elijah. These four are tight-tight.
What’s funny is we all could pass for family, even though we’re not all half African American and white. Me, Wes, and Erik are. Devin is Dominican and Elijah is Puerto Rican.
“Whattup,” I say. Me, Wes, and the other guys fist-bump. “What’s good?”
“What you doing after school?” Wes asks. “We hitting the bowling alley. Come.”
“Dang, I have plans,” I say because I’m broke, plus I don’t feel like bowling.
“Word?” Wes rolls his eyes. “You mean you and Dan have plans, right?”
I’m glad Dan isn’t here. Because Dan would ask Wes, “Why you roll your eyes when you say my name?”
Wes thumbs his nose. “Let me talk with you, on the low.”
I’m confused. “A’ight.”
He asks Devin, Erik, and Elijah, “Wait here?”
* * *
When we’re far enough from Devin, Erik, and Elijah, Wes asks me in a soft voice, “Bruh, why you only be with white kids now?”
“Whoa. What?”
“You. You always with Dan, and Jen, Christopher, and Jeremiah.”
“If I only hang with them, how am I here with you?”
“This ain’t hanging.” He names times he’s seen me with Dan, Jen, and all them lately. “That is hanging. And they all white.”
I chuckle. “So? They white. And me and you just hung last . . .” Oh snap. I can’t even remember when. “Hold up. We last hung out . . .”
He raises an eyebrow. “Go ’head.”
“Wait. Me, you, and Devin hit the arcade. That was just . . .”
He finishes my sentence, all flat. “A month ago. Look at you. You can’t even really name when we last hung.”
“Yeah.” I feel grimy because I like Wes. “We should link up. Mos’ def.”
“We should. So don’t run from us.” He pauses. “Because we alike, y’feel me?”
“Alike?”
“Black. Brown.”
Here we go again. “Black.” Like my dad says, I’m only “Black.” This feels like my dad saying I need to stay in my lane.
“So I should stay in one lane?” I ask. “The Black lane?”
“Nah, bruh. I’m saying ride in mad lanes. But you only in one now. With some grimy heads.”
“Grimy? Grimy why? Who’s grimy? Dan? He’s not grimy just because you don’t like him.”
“You think I don’t like Dan. Dan’s okay, just nosy. Chad’s the one who’s grimy.”
I didn’t know they had history. “Why Chad? What’d he do?”
Wes take a deep breath and explains. “So, when Chad first started here, I was friendly to him. One day, we walked out near each other at dismissal, and his parents were outside waiting for him. I said bye and he ignored me. I stuck around to talk with a friend who wasn’t too far from Chad, and I overheard his parents say . . .”
“What?”
“His pops asked him, real disgusting, ‘Who is that?’ And Chad said, just as disgusting, ‘A nobody. That’s Dan’s friend.’ His pops told him, ‘Make sure. I don’t want to see you with kids like that.’ And his mom nodded, agreeing with his pops!”
I ask, “What they mean by ‘kids like that’?”
“That’s what I’m saying! Was I cursing? Was I being a troublemaker? No! His dad could’ve only meant one thing by ‘kids like that’—Black kids.”
“Wow, Wes, they were foul.”
“It gets worse. Then about a week later, a few of us were at the park playing Hands. Me, Elijah, and some white kids Elijah knew. So Chad and his friends—Andy and Gabe—came over. Chad asked to play, so me and him started, right?
“He puts his open hands on mine and I’m on the bottom. Smack. I smack his. Smack smack. I keep soft-smacking the back of his hands over and over, real easy. He gets lucky and pulls away once. Since I missed, it’s his turn to try and smack my hands. On his turn, he OD’s. He smacks my hands way too hard. His friends Andy and Gabe grin all evil. Then he keeps hitting me, harder and harder. I tell him, ‘Chad, chill,’ but homeboy keeps trying to smack my hands off.”
Wes’s face right now. Tight doesn’t even describe it. He eyes me like I’m Chad and he wants to snuff me.
“That’s so messed up. What you do?” I say.
“I pulled my hands back and asked, ‘Why you keep OD smacking hard when I said chill?!’ Chad’s friend Andy asked me, ‘What if Chad punched you in the face. What would you do?’ And I told him, ‘I’d knock his teeth out. And if you jumped in, I’d knock your teeth out.’”
Wes isn’t a troublemaker. But he’s not afraid to fight if he has to, even if the person is bigger. It happened when this eighth grader named Keith and his friend tried bullying Wes by soft-smacking his neck without knowing him. I wasn’t there, but I heard Wes dropped Keith with one punch. Everyone knows about it.
“So that’s when Chad and them left. To avoid getting their butts beat.”
“Woooow. I didn’t know.”
Talk about weird timing. Right now, Chad turns a corner, spots me talking to Wes, and then U-turns around the corner he came from.
“Son,” Wes says. “See? He’s butt. That’s why he just U-turned. Never bring him near me. And you should watch out with him. Dude’ll go too far if you let him.”
I nod, staring Wes in the eye. It feels like he has my back.
I lift my fist. “Let’s get up
with each other soon. For real. All of us: you, Devin, Erik, Elijah.”
He nods. “Word.”
As our fists bump, I notice he rocks a black rubber bracelet like mine. I nod at the white letters on his. “What’s BLM?”
“Bruh, for real?” He shakes his head like he can’t believe I asked that. “Black Lives Matter. The fact you don’t know means you should hang with us more.”
It’s like he’s saying again that I’m riding too much in one lane—a white lane. It’s like he’s saying I’m slipping on being Black.
* * *
I don’t like looking ignorant, so later in computer lab, I type in Black lives matter. Dang! This page is full of links. Now I feel extra dumb for being clueless about it. I won’t be next time. I read parts of different links in my head.
Social movement . . . that the lives of Blacks matter . . .
A group saying life should be just as fair for Blacks as everyone else . . .
Black Lives Matter . . . mantra for people protesting police violence against Blacks . . .
Life should be just as fair for Blacks as everyone else.
This is so similar to what I’ve been thinking about. Life should be the same for me as it is for my white friends.
So me and Wes’s bracelets sorta mean the same thing?
CHAPTER 11
WHEN DAN AND I get to the park on Sunday, everyone’s there, including Chad. Why isn’t he with his friends? I wonder. Why’s he with us on the regular now?
Chad sees me and his face says the same thing I feel about him: Why’re you even here?
Then, from high up, Christopher calls and jokes to me, “Stephen Curry!”
I smile because it’s wavy being called that, and Christopher’s a’ight. Plus it’s dope he’s climbed to the top of the fence that cages in the handball court. He dangles a leg over like it’s dumb easy to be up there.
What Lane? Page 3
