If I Tell

by Janet Gurtler

  “Okay.” Jackson didn’t sound convinced, but he reached for his radio dial and turned up the volume. “You’re the boss,” he said. “More rock. Less talk.”

  He flipped channels until a Neil Diamond song blasted over the speakers. “A classic.” Jackson whistled along with the melody for a minute and then belted out the chorus, his voice surprisingly good. “Sweet Caroline,” he sang.

  “Dun dun dun.” I couldn’t resist adding that and then giggled.

  Jackson glanced sideways. “You making fun of my voice?” he asked in mock anger.

  “No.” I signaled at the radio. “My grandpa loved this song. I mean, I love it too,” I admitted.

  “You know this is some hokey-ass music. But wait, didn’t I hear you playing Neil Diamond when you were busking?”

  “I wasn’t busking.” A smile curled my lip up.

  Jackson made a sound that could have been a laugh. “That’s what you claim.” He turned the volume down so we could hear each other better. “I think you should seriously quit busking and join a band. Although finding a band that plays Neil Diamond may be tough.” He smiled. “You take lessons?”

  I glanced down at my lap. “No. My grandpa taught me. He died. My grandpa, I mean. He was the greatest guitar player I knew.”

  I looked up and Jackson nodded, his eyes still on the road. He pulled the car to a stop at a stop sign. “I think it’s cool. That you carry your guitar around and jam when the mood strikes you. Like at school and at the park.”

  “Most people think it’s weird. Think I’m weird.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m not most people.”

  “Apparently not.” I glanced at the four-way stop. There were no cars, but he didn’t pull forward yet. “I can’t believe you like Neil Diamond,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you like him.” He grinned. “Like I said, people really aren’t always what they seem, right?”

  True enough.

  Jackson reached over and touched my hand for a second and then pulled back. “You know, I’m still pretty new around here. I mean, I don’t have a lot of people to talk to. So, if you ever want to talk more, I’m game.”

  I laughed. “I don’t normally talk very much.”

  “Maybe you just never had the right person to talk to.”

  A car honked behind us, and we both glanced back, surprised to see someone had pulled up behind us.

  “Chill,” Jackson said to the driver behind him as if he could hear. He looked at me and laughed. “What’s with the face?”

  “No face,” I said. He was easy to talk to, but I’d also consumed more alcohol this one night than the rest of my life combined. “It’s just that I haven’t got a lot of friends. Especially male ones.”

  “No? Well, their loss. How about a rain check?” he pulled away from the stop sign. “You ever want to talk, there’s no expiration date. Just let me know. Cool?”

  Knowing I’d never take him up on it, I nodded. “Sure.”

  Jackson turned his car down my street then, and when I pointed to my house, he pulled in front. He shifted the car into park and idled.

  I undid my seat belt and reached for the door. Before I opened it, I swallowed hard and let out a big breath. “Um. Thanks. For getting my shoes. And for the ride. You saved me in more ways than one.” I handed his hoodie back to him.

  “Take it,” he told me. “It’s cold outside.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  “I insist. And please keep being weird and playing Neil Diamond on your guitar.”

  He smiled, and I hugged the hoodie tight and then tugged on the door handle. “You know, you’re not really the bad boy everyone says you are.”

  He laughed again, and it sounded like a horn. Weird, but somehow the geeky laugh made me like him a little more.

  “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “But I’ll take that as a compliment.” He grinned.

  I pulled his hoodie close to fight off the cold and inhaled the hoodie’s smell. Boy smell. I liked it.

  “You really did go to juvie for drug dealing?” I asked.

  He lifted a shoulder. He didn’t look proud or sorry. Accepting maybe. “Some rumors are true, I guess.”

  “I guess.” I slammed the door behind me and wanted to climb back inside his car almost immediately. Mistakes seemed easier to forgive in there. I wondered if he was in danger of going back to juvie. I didn’t want him to leave.

  Instead of opening the car door to ask him or beg him to stop, I headed up the driveway. Back to real life.

  Where mistakes mattered.

  chapter six

  Sitting up made my head feel like it might explode, so I rolled over and reached for the phone beside my bed. For the first time, I called in sick to work. At least it wasn’t another lie. Inhaling coffee fumes all day would have made me throw up

  I also couldn’t risk Nathan showing up at Grinds and giving me knowing looks. I’d rather die alone in my room than face him. I rolled over on top of a lump and grabbed it, pulling it out from under the covers. Jackson’s hoodie. Mortified at all the babbling I’d done with him, I nonetheless sniffed the hoodie, hugged it, and lay back down, falling back to sleep with my arms around it.

  “Jasmine. You can’t sleep all day. It’s way past noon.” Grandma poked her head in my room, but she didn’t come inside. Her voice woke me from a sleepless dream. It could have been hours or minutes later.

  “Flu,” I croaked and made a pitiful face. I peeked at the clock beside my bed. It was almost two.

  Grandma lifted her nose and sniffed the air. “Flu, my butt,” she said in a most un-old-lady-like way. “Get up.” She closed the door quietly behind her.

  I groaned, not wanting to wake up and face myself and what I’d done the night before. I stared at the posters on my wall. Johnny Cash. Janis Joplin. Neil Diamond. They all stared down at me as if asking the same question.

  What would Neil do?

  Well, for sure he wouldn’t have gotten into such a mess, making out with Nathan and needing to be rescued shoeless by Jackson.

  I closed my eyes and tried thinking about the song lyrics I’d been working on for the past few days. Usually writing songs in my head soothed me, but my brain hurt too much to concentrate.

  Outside my room I heard the landline ring, and a few minutes later the door opened.

  “Your mom called,” Grandma said, stepping through the doorway. “She told me she’s been asking you out for dinner with Simon, and you keep making excuses.” She crossed her arms, pulling her rose cardigan around her tiny body. “I told her you’d meet her and Simon tonight. You’re meeting her at Pasta de Resistance at five.” Grandma leaned against the door. “Get out of bed.”

  I lay back. “I don’t want to go for dinner. I feel terrible.” I lifted my arm and draped it across my eyes.

  “Too bad.” I didn’t hear her budge from the doorway.

  I moved my arm away to glare at her. “Fine. I’m getting up.” My voice made me sound like an angry little kid, and I covered my face with my arm again.

  Grandma clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Lacey also called. She’s got your backpack. She wanted to make sure you made it home okay, which I assured her you did. Now get up and shower before I change my mind and ground you.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go, I’ll go.” I sat up slowly, holding on to my head. I glanced at Grandma. “Headache,” I said.

  Usually she preferred old-fashioned cheek turning. She’d rather put on a pot of tea and talk about the weather than deal with stuff like this. Her lips disappeared into a straight line, but it had always been Grandpa’s job to talk to me about serious stuff.

  “You were drinking last night,” she said. Great. Suddenly she wanted confrontation instead of tea. Perfect timing.

  “Um.” I looked her in the eye. “I only drank a little.” The lie rolled off my tongue as if I’d been lying to her for years. I remembered being a kid and thinking she could read my mind. Except about the pool. She hadn�
��t read my mind on that one. I’d been thankful for that.

  She sighed. “You haven’t forgotten the things you promised Grandpa, have you, Jasmine?”

  I rubbed my eyes. I shook my head slowly so as not to hurt my brain. Grandpa wouldn’t have let me get away with any of this. He would have been furious at me for taking advantage of the freedom they gave me and getting drunk.

  “Jasmine.” Grandma pressed her lips together again. “I’m not clueless about what goes on with kids your age, but I’ve always trusted you to make good decisions. Safe sex. That’s why I let you stay out late. I don’t want you sneaking around.”

  “Grandma!” I did not want to have that conversation. Especially after last night when I’d actually gotten close to a member of the opposite sex for the first time in my life.

  “Well, how do you think you ended up being born?” she said in a crisp voice. “Osmosis?”

  “I know, I know. Leave me alone, okay? I’m not having sex.” Especially not with Nathan.

  She didn’t take her eyes off me. “Well, okay. But drinking will lead to bad decisions. You’re only seventeen.”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  Grandma gave me a look, and I shut my mouth. “Lacey is old enough to drink, but you’re not. You know I like her. But if you’re going to get into trouble…”

  Grandma let me hang with Lacey because it made both of us feel better that I had friends. Even if they were older.

  “It wasn’t Lacey’s fault.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I mean, she didn’t make me drink.” Not directly. I sat up and pulled my knees in close, trying to make myself smaller.

  “You have a mind of your own. I’m aware of that, but I worry about you. It’s my job. Now up. Shower. Out of bed. It’s not okay to hang around in bed all day.” She paused. “Drinking makes people do stupid things.”

  “Like getting pregnant?” I asked.

  Grandma crossed her arms and pressed her lips tighter.

  “Well, if Mom hadn’t gotten pregnant, I wouldn’t even be here for you to worry about.”

  Grandma stepped closer. “That’s not what I mean. We were blessed with you.” She cleared her throat. “If something is bothering you, you can talk to me, you know. Like you did with Grandpa. It’s not like you to drink. Is it?”

  “No. Everything’s fine.” I stared past her shoulder at a poster. “It was stupid. I’m sorry. I won’t get drunk again. I hated it. I feel terrible.” I sighed. “I miss Grandpa.”

  “Me too.” Grandma’s cheeks reddened. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She needed to reapply her lipstick; she hated being without it. “Why don’t you talk to Simon?”

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  Grandma’s expression changed and she looked almost puzzled. “You’re still angry with him? You two have such a bond. I’ve loved that.”

  “You mean because we’re black?” I snapped.

  “Well, no.” Grandma hesitated and sat on the edge of my bed. “You’re not just black. You’re white too, right?” She reached out and stroked my arm.

  “No, Grandma. You’re white.” I hugged my knees tighter. “I’ve never really been considered white by anyone except you and Grandpa.”

  “That’s not true.” Grandma clucked her tongue like a rooster on speed.

  “It is. I mean, let’s face it. Tadita is a pretty conservative town. Black people stick together, and white people stick together. I feel like the monkey in the middle sometimes.” I rested my head on top of my knees and struggled against the feelings whirling inside me. I’d never told her or Grandpa about the day at the pool. I never would.

  “You and Grandpa always said I needed to accept myself for who I am. But I never knew parts of myself. I still don’t.”

  She reached for my knee and held on.

  “You didn’t teach me about being black. You didn’t even know how to do my hair,” I said. “I looked like Mickey Mouse for the first seven years of my life.”

  Grandma started to laugh, and I couldn’t help it, I joined her. I’d had the worst rat’s nest as a kid. She’d tugged at it and messed around with it and usually put it in pigtails. Two round clumps of coarse hair that sprouted from the sides of my head.

  Then she’d tried cutting it really short, Afro style, and I cried about it so much she let me grow it out. Finally she’d started sending me to the black hairstylist in town.

  I did my own hair now. I was pretty good at it too. A skill I’d been forced to acquire. Spiral curls were easier with good hair products like the Mixed Chicks gel I bought on eBay.

  “Oh, God, your hair,” she said, giggling, and then she sobered up.

  “I’m sorry.” She sighed heavily and took her hand from my knee and patted her gray hair. “I didn’t know what to tell you. I just wanted you to be proud of who you are.”

  She tugged on her ear. “Does it matter, Jasmine?” she finally asked. “What other people see? You’re half white too.”

  “It matters,” I told her. How could it not? “And my father’s family, they never even acknowledged me. Not even when I was a little baby.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. But it’s their loss, you know. We always wanted you to believe that. They missed out. Oh, did they miss out.” Grandma sighed. “You are the most beautiful child. Inside and out.”

  I stared at my bed. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  She had no idea what it was like not to know where she belonged. No matter how white or how black I was, it seemed like neither was enough.

  “I know. I know it is.” She stroked my arm. “Don’t think I never saw the way some people looked at us when you were growing up. Some of them still do. I know that.” She pressed her lips together. “It still makes me angry. Sometimes I wanted to slap people for their ignorance.”

  I couldn’t help grinning at that image. My do-good, volunteer-addicted grandmother slapping people around for looking at me funny.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know what to do. I never knew how to help with the black part. I left it up to your grandpa, and I don’t suppose he did much either. I wish we’d done more. That’s why when Simon showed up and stuck around…” her voice trailed off.

  I bit my lip, not wanting to think about Simon. “Remember when you gave me that black doll when I was a kid? That Cabbage Patchy thing.”

  She groaned. “You hated it. You threw her in the garbage and pretended it was an accident.”

  I bit my lip. “It was different from the other dolls girls were playing with.”

  “So were you, I guess. Different.” She patted me as if I were a little dog or cat. “Maybe we should have moved to a place where there are more kids like you. More mixed couples with kids.”

  I held my breath, overwhelmed. She’d never said anything like that to me before. Never.

  “Well, Grandpa loved Tadita.” Washington was in Grandpa’s blood, he’d said. Especially the wide-open spaces right outside our town. We spent a lot of time hiking the mountains, and even now when I needed to put my life in perspective, a trip to the mountains with a pair of hiking boots did wonders. I should have hiked instead of going to Marnie’s stupid party.

  “Grandpa knew as much as I did about being black or African American or whatever the polite term is these days. I don’t know why I thought he’d be any better at explaining than me.”

  I smirked. “Well, he made sure I had a great background in blues history. And he got me lots of CDs. Even though he ended up teaching me rock and roll.” I glanced over at my guitar leaning against the wall and the posters of white rock-and-roll stars on my walls. Something else I loved that set me apart from the few black kids I knew in Tadita.

  Grandma reached up to cover her smile. The skin on her hand was thin and spotted. “He tried. We both tried.” She lowered her hand, her smile gone. “But really, what did we know about anything?”

  “Grandpa was my dad,” I said. “In the ways that mattered.”

  “I know, sweetie
.” She sighed. “Is that what’s causing problems with you and Simon? That he’s sticking around for the baby? And the man that fathered you didn’t?”

  My nostalgic feelings vanished. My headache returned full force. “That has nothing to do with it, Grandma. Trust me.”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. It disappeared like a note fading out.

  “Try reaching out to Simon. He’s a good man. He’s good with you.” She stood. “And don’t you dare go out and get drunk again. There’d better not be a next time. Not until you’re thirty.”

  She shook a finger at me. “Now. You go have a shower and clean yourself off, and then go and meet your mom for dinner.”

  ***

  Pasta de Resistance buzzed with life. The smell of Italian food and spices mingled with the noise, making my head ring and my stomach queasy. Usually I loved the atmosphere, the loud music, and the clanking sounds of the restaurant, but tonight it was too much.

  I stared across the red-checkered tablecloth at Mom’s bloated stomach. It poked out of her loose maternity dress. I’d thought she’d pull off pregnant better. Her normally glowing skin was blotchy. She looked puffy and uncomfortable. Her disposition wasn’t exactly radiant either.

  Mom used the back of her hand to wipe sweat off her brow and then glanced at her watch for about the hundredth time. “I can’t believe Simon. He’s always late. I told him 6:30, and it’s quarter to seven already.” She glanced around as if she was about to cry.

  Her moods were getting darker as her stomach got bigger. She didn’t usually complain about Simon.

  I picked up a glass of water and took a sip. “He’s not that late,” I said and put my glass down.

  Secretly I wished he’d leave us waiting all night long. I envisioned him disappearing into thin air, like one of those men who go out one night to buy a pack of cigarettes and never return. Too bad Simon didn’t smoke.

  “What would you do if Simon didn’t want the baby?” I asked.

  “What?” her eyes flashed. “What are you talking about? Did he say something to you?”