Elsewhere, California

by Dana Johnson

This fat boy sitting in the row in front of me turn around. He look at my picture and then at my hair and then he take a crayon and throw it in my hair. I dont know what to do cause Im surprised. He just laugh and turn back around. Anh hah, he say. Stupid Harry, Brenna say. You dumbass. I try to find the crayon but its stuck in my hair somewhere. Brenna put her hands in my hair and then she pull her hand back real fast like something bite her hand. Eww, she say. Your hair feels funny. And I dont know what she talking about. I dont know what to say. What she mean my hair feel funny? It feel like it always feel but she make me feel bad. I look back at the black boy but he bent over his paper, coloring. He dont say nothing to nobody and his hair too short to get a crayon stuck in it.

  Brenna and me walk home halfway together. She live up the street from me. But on the way home we stop at 7-Eleven and she buy a Slurpee and a magazine. I dont have no money so I dont buy nothing and she let me drink some of hers. Go ahead, she say. At first, I dont want to drink after she do. Mama say thats nasty, drinking after people. But I dont care. I want some blueberry Slurpee. When we walking she show me the pictures in the magazine. Look, she say. Donny Osmond. Hes totally decent. She show me his picture and I like Donny Osmond all right. I watch him all the time on the Donny and Marie show. It say above his picture Can You Turn On His Love-Power? Whats love power, I ask Brenna. She hand me the Slurpee. You know, she say, smiling big. Can you make him do it til youre satisfied? She turn the page. Robbie Benson! She scream. What a fox. She pass me the magazine and point to him. He got dark wavy hair and blue eyes and I like the way he look. Foxy, I say, trying Brennas word. He foxy. When we come to the corner to my house, I stop. Well, Brenna. See you tomorrow. Im finna go home now. Brenna frown. Whats finna, she ask me, and I dont understand. What you mean, whats finna?

  What does that word mean, spaz. Brenna scratch her elbow, waiting on me.

  Whats spaz, Im thinking. Then I say, It mean Im gone go home.

  Brenna say, Then why dont you just say that? That youre going to go home.

  But Im thinking, That aint what I said, that I was go-eng to go home. I said gone. But from now on Im gone think about how I say it. Im gone make it sound how Brenna say it whenever I can remember to. Eng, she say. Not in.

  Brenna and me just look at each other. Then she shrug. You want to take the magazine home? You can just bring it back to school tomorrow. And I think it again. Brenna nice. Yeah, I say, and Im glad I get to take Robbie Benson home. He foxy. He totally decent.

  Mama dont understand why Robbie is foxy. When I show her his picture in Tiger Beat the next morning after she get home from work, she drinking Folgers and I always like that smell, like burnt dirt and sugar mixed together. She stare at him and say, And who is this supposed to be? Mama, I say. Thats Robbie Benson. He a babe. Mama look at me. Babe, she say. You coming up with all kinds of language. She look at him again. She say, He dont look like all that much to me. Then she pickup the magazine and flip through it, drinking her coffee. Aint no black boys in here? She put the magazine down and put another spoon of sugar in her cup. I hum and tilt back in my chair. Sit in that chair right, Mama say. Aint no toy. And she look at me but I caint figure out the look. She not mad, but she not happy either. I say, Why you ask that about black boys? Mama put her cup down. You dont ask me why about nothing, you hear? Im the mama. I ask the questions, she say, and hand me the magazine. And Robbie aint all that cute, she say. To me, she say. And then she go to the sink and pour out her coffee.

  MORREY HAVE THEM dimples in both cheeks. If he smile you can see them good but he hardly smile. Except today. There are some days when you can bring stuff from home that you want to show people at school. Morrey brought in a record. The Commodores. Mrs Campbell say he can play it at the very end of class. Morrey wait and wait. He look at the clock again and again. I watch him. I ask permission to sharpen my pencil cause the sharpener is next to Morreys desk. I say, Hey. We only got two more hours to Brick House. And thats when Morrey smile and I see the dimples. The door is open to the classroom and Mrs Campbell only got some of the lights on so we can mellow out. Thats what Brenna say. Mellow. Mellow, I say, quiet, to myself. Mellow. Brenna tell me it mean kick back. Relax. But I dont want to mellow out. I want to dance to Brick House.

  And finally, finally three o clock come and Mrs Campbell call Morrey up to the front of the room where she roll out the record player. She hold out her hand and Morrey give it to her careful. She say, Morrey is sharing a record called Brick House, class. By the Commodores. And when she say Commodores I wonder all of a sudden what are Commodores anyway? I will ask her later. Morrey stand next to the record player, when the song start, I jump up and start to dance and then Morrey start dancing too. Other kids move in they seats but only Brenna get up and dance with us. Morrey looking happy. Them dimples. And then Mrs Campbell start to frown. Then in a minute, right after the part that say about her ways make an old man wish for younger days she built and know how to please, she take off the record but she scratch it on accident and it make a loud sound like scriiiiitch. Morrey look at her with big eyes like she just smack him across his face. Im sorry, Morrey, Mrs Campbell say. I dont think this song is appropriate for class. She give Morrey back his record and tell him to sit down.

  After school, I walk home with Morrey. He quiet, so I say, My cousin Keith got a shirt like yours. Red with a zero on the back like football players. He say, My mama got it from Zodys. A whole bunch of kids are walking home. I see Brenna up ahead and then I ask, You want to go to 7-Eleven and look at some magazines? Morrey walking real slow up the hill. I dont know, he say. What kind?

  Like Teen Beat or something, I say.

  Nah, Morrey say. I dont think so. Why I want to look at that? Them magazines for white girls. I say Oh, but I dont believe Morrey. Then Brenna call me. Avery! she call out. Catch up! And so I tell Morrey, Later days dude. Dont worry, the Commodores rocked. He look at me like I say a cuss word. No they didnt rock, he say, They aint rock. But I dont see why that matter. I dont know whats wrong with Morrey. Mellow out dude, I say, and run off to Brenna.

  4

  MASSIMO IS CHARMING. When he decides to seduce you, man or woman, child or pet, he looks at you as though you are the rarest of finds. His eyes tell you that he cannot believe his good fortune. Here you are, so close to him. Grace has brought you in his life and you are a treasure. You are more beautiful than anyone else, anything else. He showed me off the first time I met his friends. Even though I lived only thirty minutes from his home in the hills, Massimo drove in the opposite direction down Franklin, and then made a right on Vermont where, he likes to say, he rescued me from the top of my shabby storefront apartment on the corner of Vermont and Melbourne. He joked that I was an unfortunate creature, trapped in a tower and held prisoner above a musty-smelling vintage clothing store because no one understood that I was, in fact, a princess. “Queen,” I said. “I hate princesses.” “Whatever you want,” he said. “Whoever and whatever you want to be,” he said. He smiled broadly and he drove us back to the hills, but now we both know that whoever and whatever I want to be isn’t exactly what he meant at the time, before he learned who I was. Within reason. Within his reason, is what he meant.

  The distance between my apartment and Massimo’s house and his friend’s house was not that far. What is thirty minutes? But I had never before driven up iconic Beachwood Street. Beachwood. At first it looks like nothing, a school yard on the corner. Nothing special. But then, something happens as you drive up the narrow streets. Apartments and houses can emerge or hide away; there are bungalows and cottages, modern and classic, trying to be Spanish, English, Mediterranean, or French. Shabby complexes and elegant ones, too, clustered together like the guests of an extraordinary host. Cantilevered cliffhangers. A beautiful and ordered confusion. We drove up, up, up the hill, and the Hollywood sign was very close, it seemed. We were almost there. So close. But then we made a turn down a narrow street and I didn’t see it anymore.

  We arrived at Mass
imo’s friend’s house and I stared at it from inside Massimo’s black Mercedes. I had been intimidated by the car when I first climbed into it, and now there was this house. It was a new house, all concrete and angles and glass. There was no lawn like the one I grew up lying on, only sharp-edged rocks and human-sized cactuses that stood like thorny, deformed guards. Massimo had come around to my side of the car and opened the door, and it was a gesture that I had only seen on television, when Wally Cleaver or Richie Cunningham took their girls on dates. I had always hoped that one day, a boy would take me out on a date and treat me that way, the way Massimo was treating me, and yet when he opened the door and reached for my hand, I was embarrassed. I thought he was making fun of me. When I hesitated, he leaned into the car and tenderly pried apart my hands that were clasped on my thighs. Gently, he pulled me out of the car. He closed the door, held my hands in his, and stared at me. “Belli-sima,” he said, and ran the back of his hand against my cheek. “Do you know who is behind that door? The people who are inside?” He tilted his curly head toward the entrance of the gray house. I shook my head and began to feel dread.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Nobody,” Massimo said, grinning. “Nobody matters but you.”

  ME AND MY cousin Keith the same age. Me and Keith the only ones in the family thats born in California. They say me and Keith the same because we always got to be told to pay tention, always got to be told what to do and what not to do. We got the same eyes thats shaped like cats eyes, same afros, everything. Only our color is different. We both brown, but brown dont really describe it. His skin be red looking all the time, like that red in Popsicle, red like he just finished running from somewhere. Not me, though. Everybody say my brown is yellow underneath. Im the good one, though but we get whipped together anyhow if Im with him when he get in trouble. We fight bad, but then he my favorite cousin. Sometimes Ill rub his dingaling or he will kiss me on my titties. We dont like kissing though because it feel like we got little rocks on our tongue. Right now he make me sick because he showing off in front of John.

  John has a Playboy in the back of his pants and is covering it with his shirt. At first I say Im going to tell, but Keith say he let me be with them if I dont. We stand around sweating because its so hot in Victorville. Keith look at me trying to decide if Im going to tell. Bet not, he say. Bet not get me in trouble. And I wont. I wont tell because I dont like it when Keith get in trouble. Come on, John say. Take all fucking day, why dont you, and Keith pull the neck of my T-shirt. Come on, then, he say.

  John is twelve. I like him. He looks like Shaun Cassidy. Johns hair is blonde and parted on the side. Feathered, thats what they call it. He wears corduroys and shirts that say Hang Ten and he puts a cigarette behind his ear when nobody looking. He and Keith smoke all the time but I dont tell nobody. If I dont say nothing they let me hang with them, so I never say anything.

  We walk across dirt lots to get to Johns school. He in junior high. Its Saturday, and its like a hundred degrees. It feel like summer, and in two weeks Ill be done with the fifth grade. I already done turned ten in October, the same as Keith, but he act like Im younger than him. John and Keith take off running when they see the dugout and I yell Wait for me, but they dont. By the time I get to them, John already taking out the Playboy. I run up to them, and I make it more dusty. Goddamn, Keith say. Get dirt all over a nigga. You not supposed to say that, I say, and then John say to me, Nigga please. Keith and John laugh. They laughing at me. I dont like it. I want them to be nice to me. I know boys like sports and I like baseball and Im like the only girl I know who care about baseball so I say, Dodgers going all the way this year. Don Sutton got a good arm this year and Ron Cey already got seven home runs.

  Fuck baseball, John say. Nows the time for titties. Him and Keith scooch together and open the magazine. They pull out a long page from the middle. John whistle. Choice, he says. Thats some choice pussy right there. To the bone.

  I lean in next to Keith so I can see what they looking at. Her skin look creamy, like somebody painted it. She got long straight black hair and green eyes, but they kind of rolled up in her head like a dolls so you can hardly see them. Her titties a lot bigger than mine and got pink nipples that look like teeny drops of icing. I stare and stare. I never seen nothing like that before. I stare at her mouth. Its half open.

  Look at that, John say. Man.

  John lick his lips and I stare at his mouth. Its shaped nice, like Shaun Cassidys. It look soft and wet and I want to rub my lips on his. Do John think Im choice? I say to John, Keith saw my titties before, didn’t you? Shut up, Keith say. He look like he shy and I get mad. They looking at her titties. Whats wrong with mine?

  Ah hah, John say. You saw Averys black titties. I bet she look like Aunt Esther on Sanford and Son.

  I like Aunt Esther. She makes me laugh, but she dont look like the lady in the magazine. I want to be choice like the lady in the magazine. I dont want to look like Aunt Esther.

  Why dont you kiss Aunt Esther right now, man, John say. You probably already felt her up.

  Shut up, Keith say. Why dont you kiss her he say, and he kick some dirt on my tennis shoes.

  Ill fucking kiss her dude. Like I care, John say. He put the magazine down on the bench and walk over to me. I get scared and happy. Im going to get to feel his lips. He grab me hard. He kiss me but he kiss me too hard and our teeth bang up against each other. He grab the back of my head, pull on my cornrows, and hold my head tight so I cant breathe. Then he squeeze my tittie. I push him away. Fuckin asshole, I say, like Brenna always do. He just laugh and then he wipe his hands on his cords. Afro Sheen all over my hands, he say and his mouth curl up in the corners like he smell something bad.

  Yeah, nappy, Keith say, and when I look at him, he smiling but he look away. I feel like Im going to cry but I dont let myself. I just walk away. Come on Avery, John call out. We were just playing. For reals!

  But Im tough. I say, Later days fuckers, and then I give them the middle finger like Brenna showed me.

  SCHOOL IS OUT but the Hardy Boys are reruns. I make a collage out of all my old Tiger Beats and Teen Beats. I find all the Shaun Cassidy pictures. I got tons of them. I paste together all the shades that kind of look the same so I can make a big face out of little Shaun Cassidy faces. I want it to be like, from far away, it just kind of look like anybodys face, but when you get up close, you see that all the little pieces that make up the face are all pictures of Shaun Cassidy. Im making it all on a big piece of white cardboard.

  Daddy come in the living room with a drink. He look down at me on the floor with my stuff all spread out. He say, What you doing, Ave? I tell him Im making a big face out of all the little faces. Daddy take another drink. What you watching, he ask. Hardy Boys, Daddy, I say. Daddy look at my collage and then at the TV. Aint nothing else on?

  I dont know, I say. I want to watch this. Daddy stand there like he got more to say, but then he just leave me. It take me three hours to do my Shaun Cassidy. I finish it in my room because Owen kick me out of the living room. He want to watch TV but he dont want to watch all that white shit, he say.

  In my room, I tape my Shaun Cassidy on the wall. Then on the floor underneath him I spread out some Now and Laters, Pop Rocks, Pixie Stix, and Red Hots. I like how the candy look mixed up all together, and maybe Shaun Cassidy like all that kind of candy. To me, John dont look like him anymore. He wish. Shaun Cassidy is a total babe and John is a total dog. Like I even care about that doofus, anyway. Before I go to bed tonight Im going to get on my knees and say my prayers in front of Shaun Cassidy. Dear God Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep if I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take God bless everybody amen Dear Shaun Cassidy I love you I love you Shaun Cassidy when you sing Hey Deanie wont you come out tonight I pretend youre singing it to me Shaun Cassidy. Shaun Cassidy, please.

  5

  THE NIGHT I met Massimo at the Formosa, he was suddenly at the bar, standing next to me.
I saw him in the mirror that reflected our images. I was playing with my hoop earrings, and my silver bangles gleamed in the moody light. My lips were covered in a waxy, blaring red lipstick I never would have worn years before. I would have avoided drawing attention to my lips in any way when I was younger, because everyone always told me they were so big. But that night, because Brenna thought I looked better with it, I wore lipstick. I leaned on the bar, my nearly smooth head in my hands, listening to Brenna make some poor man in a pink oxford shirt suffer. I had dragged her out to Los Angeles, when she simply wanted be sitting in her living room in West Covina, watching television. Watching Massimo in the mirror, I saw that he was standing too close to me, but that his copper skin and wavy hair were striking. He was looking at me. Appraising me. He didn’t know that I was watching him in the mirror. It was only when he glanced in the mirror that our eyes met. They were light eyes, contrasting with his skin. I expected him to look away in embarrassment, but instead he held my gaze for a very long time. You, his eyes said. You. And I was the one who looked away.

  He said, “Please excuse me. May I buy you a drink?” I heard his accent then. Italian. Rich and heavy, and he leaned into me and spoke with a delivery and physicality that was both confident and halting, like a cobra that rears back its head before it strikes. It was late and a weeknight, and so we didn’t have to shout over noise. He asked me to sit in a booth after Brenna asked me many, many times if I was okay alone with this charmer. She left me behind, long ago having disposed of the pink oxford shirt. We sat in the booth and talked about art because, I had said, he came from the most beautiful place in the world. I had never been to Italy or anywhere else outside of the United States to know it was the most beautiful, but I believed it when everyone who had been there said it was so. We fought. We fought over subjects I only knew by reading about them. Which was the best contrapposto: da Bracciano’s Orpheus or Michelangelo’s David? He picked da Bracciano and I picked David. He smiled at me and reached across the table, lightly touching my arm with his warm fingertips. He said, “But that is too easy, Avery. Americans pick always the thing that is easy. But anyway,” he said, a slow grin forming, “neither sculpture is as beautiful as you.” It was a line, but I still fell. Even now, to this day, when we are hurting each other and fighting, he may call me stupid, silly, or idiotic, but he will also always look at me with such longing, such bewildered hurt, as though all he wants to do is adore me, if I would just let him.