by Anthology
Stop! Please!
Alberto does not know whether he spoke those words or simply thought them. He can feel Becky looking at him. He realizes his hands are over his ears.
He sticks his hands in his pockets. Becky continues. “My parents pay for me to spend an hour with Layla every week. She’s a psychiatrist. Her office is on One Hundred Sixty-Eighth Street, just a couple of blocks from here. She has two rooms that you get to from the side of her house. One where you wait for her and the other where she sees you. Her cat Pandora is sometimes there, next to Layla, sleeping on a fluffy cat bed. Sometimes Pandora will jump on my lap, and I just sit there listening to her purr. I don’t have to say anything if I don’t want to. I thought it was a waste of time. But they grew on me. Layla and Pandora.”
—I will not stop. I will get you to believe that what I say makes sense, because it is what you want deep down. You will finally understand and accept that you are privileged to hear me. I see what no one else sees in you. I see significance in you. I see the worth that no one else sees. I will persist day and night until you accept the value that is yours. I will persuade you to be who you are meant to be. You will no longer be the slave you are now.
“Layla says that I can come over anytime and see her, day or night. The door to the waiting room has a keypad lock, and she gave me the code. A light goes on in her apartment when someone comes in, and if she’s home or not with another patient, she’ll come out. She said I could come over in an emergency. Do you think the death of a goldfish is an emergency?”
“An emergency. Like a fire?”
“Sometimes it’s like a fire. Sometimes it’s like what Bernie must have felt … like he was drowning in the same water he had lived in all his life.”
—Alberto. Listen to me. I have plans for you. I’m the only one watching out for you. I got your back—trust me. Do not go where this girl wants you to go. This is a trap. I can smell it. I hate traps, and one is being woven for you. You are being pulled into the enslavement of duty and routine where nobodies live. You can amount to something if you do what I tell you. Do not be a slave. You will have no life. You will lose it.
“No!” Alberto says. It is a loud no, and when he looks at Becky, he can see that he has scared her. “Yes,” he says, softly this time.
“No? Yes?”
“Yes. It could be an emergency.”
After a while Becky says, without looking at Alberto, “Layla speaks Spanish. You could tell her about whoever it is you want to go away.”
They stand up together. If they walk around the pond, they will come out on 168th Street. Becky pauses by the spot where she dropped Bernie.
Alberto reaches over and touches the back of Becky’s head.
Dear Nora James, You Know Nothing About Love
DHONIELLE CLAYTON
I DON’T DATE.
Well, I guess that’s not exactly true. I choose not to date. Instead I choose to give love-and-dating advice through my column, “Madame Amour,” in the school newspaper. I have become an expert without having to deal with all the roller-coaster emotions. Mom always says, “Nora, it’s impossible to know a thing without doing it.”
But I disagree. I do research. Romantic comedies. Romance novels. My friends and their drama-filled dating lives. Plus, everyone used to call Nana for love guidance, and she got most of her tips from the stories that came on afternoon TV.
So this whole thing is in my blood.
“You answering another letter, Lady Love?” Mom asks as she’s prancing in and out of her closet, trying on yet another outfit for her second date with Mr. He’s-as-tall-as-your-father-but-not-as-funny.
“I prefer the name Madame Amour,” I remind her for the umpteenth time. “It’s fancier. Everything sounds better in French.” I’m sprawled across her bed, going through my Madame Amour emails and keeping her company as she dresses. She says having me with her keeps her nerves settled in this new “dating process.”
“Okay, Nora Elizabeth James.” She smiles at me through her vanity mirror. We could be twins—same golden-brown skin, button nose, and high cheekbones.
I’m all Mom. Except I got my dad’s unfortunate round face and bad eyesight. So I’ll basically look like a baby wearing glasses for the rest of my life. Nana says the plumpness in my cheeks will ward off wrinkles. Again, I disagree.
“How many letters do you have to answer?” she asks, then pivots to show me the latest outfit. “And what do you think of this?”
“Go for the red. It brings out the honey tones in your skin,” I say, then count the number of emails in my inbox. “Only four emails so far this weekend. I wish we were back in a time when people actually sent handwritten letters.” I look back at my computer. “But it’s been a slow week for love. January usually is. Lots of post-holiday breakups in the new year. ‘Too much holiday nesting.’ That’s what Nana told me yesterday.”
“Nana knows it all,” she replies.
“Yep.”
“Try having her as your mom,” she says with a sarcastic laugh.
Mom does a twirl. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful as always.”
“Do you and Indie have plans tonight? It is a Saturday … and you haven’t gone anywhere in a few weekends.” Mom always feels guilty when she goes out more than I do now that the divorce is finalized.
“No,” I say. “I feel an episode coming on. I need to stay home. Just in case.”
Concern fills her hazel eyes. “Did you take your meds?”
“Yeah, Mom, of course,” I say. “They just haven’t been working as well.”
“Should we go see Dr. Parekh again?”
“No … no … I’m fine.”
“Maybe it’s time for another—”
“Mom!” I bark, then soften. Tonight’s not a night I want to talk about bowel movements and cramps and pain levels and the inner details of my stomach disorder.
“I feel like I should be the one helping you get dressed for a date,” she says, now pinning up her freshly straightened hair into a bun.
“I already have one with You’ve Got Mail, these four emails, and a pint of ice cream.”
“That ice cream will—”
“Mom!”
“Okay, okay,” she says, leaning down to kiss my forehead. She smells like lavender and cocoa butter. “I should cancel this date. I could stay home and make you some broth. Or cook the collard greens I’d planned to make for Sunday dinner. The salt should help settle the cramping. Or I could make you some peppermint tea before I leave. You want that?”
“It’s fine. Don’t cancel. It’s already too late. He probably left for the restaurant already. Don’t worry about me.”
“But I always worry about you. I’ve been worried about you for sixteen years. Ever since they first put you in my arms.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…,” I say, trying to stop her trip down Sappy Road. “I love you too.” I scrunch my nose at her. “No kissing on the second date, all right?”
“Yes, my little love. You know best.”
“That I do.”
- - - Original Message - - -
Sent: Friday, January 7 8:17 PM
To: MADAME AMOUR
Subject: Trapped in Casual
Dear Madame Love,
I just started dating a new guy. He’s sort of perfect. Like everything you’d have on your PERFECT BOYFRIEND CHECKLIST.
-Handsome
-Funny
-Taller than me
-Great kisser
The only issue is—and ugh, why does there even have to be, like, something?—that he wants to keep it casual. See, he’s a senior, and I’m a sophomore. Most people would say that it’s too big of an age gap. But it’s only two years. Plus, my mom is three years older than my other mom, and they have a great marriage. Anyways, I’m not really worried about that so much as the casual thing. But my friends think the grade difference is why he wants to keep it “casual.”
I just really, really want a boyfrie
nd. I like this whole having somebody to talk to thing.
What do you think? Is casual the new “relationship”?
Help!
XO
Trapped in Casual
- - - Original Message - - -
From: MADAME AMOUR
Sent: Friday, January 7 11:17 PM
Subject: RE Trapped in Casual
Dear Trapped in Casual,
I’ll use the famous words of my own Nana: “Never let yourself be someone’s warm-up band when you’ve made them your main event.”
Casual is another word for flexible, and flexible is another word for not serious.
You’re in danger, girl. Watch the movie Ghost. Always listen to Whoopi Goldberg.
Run.
There are more boys out there. We actually have too many at Pinewood Academy. I wrote to Principal Wong about it last week. The gender ratio is unbalanced.
Sincerely,
Madame Amour
* * *
“Are we doing mac ’n’ cheese today?” Indie asks as we snake through the hot-lunch line. Her long and shiny black braid hangs down her back like a snake, and a beautiful flower garland she calls a gajra is tucked on the side of her head.
“Do you want me to die?”
“Not today, no.” She laughs.
I stare at the trays of fried chicken strips, frozen pizza heated up just enough that the congealed cheese doesn’t look like gum, and some sort of breaded meat in a mysterious brown sauce. For a private school, you’d think we’d have a gourmet salad bar and a three-course lunch. But no. We have this. And it’s terrible for those of us with stomach pyrotechnics.
“You’re holding up my line,” one of the lunch ladies says.
“Ms. Bernadette, I do this every time I forget my lunch. It’s like my routine. You know that.”
“A rude routine,” she snaps back, further honing her reputation as the meanest lunch lady in the whole world. She doesn’t understand how standing in front of this metal box of hell, aka a catering stand, triggers my stomach cramping. My anxiety holds me firmly in place. Feet glued to the linoleum. Brain a mess of thoughts about what I’ll be able to digest without trouble. Embarrassment pooling in my stomach as I delay the lunch line and everybody stares at me.
I press a hand to my belly and take a deep breath. It feels hot and pulsating, like someone’s inside me kneading my intestines with a burning rolling pin.
You’re fine, I whisper inside my head. You will be fine.
Mom said half my disorder is in my head. Not in the mean way, like she’s some sort of evil parent telling me that I made this all up. More like my stomach is my second brain, with enough nerve cells to be affected by my thoughts. I have literal evil butterflies that beat drums in my stomach.
“And why am I supposed to deal with it?” Ms. Bernadette’s left eyebrow hitches up, and she purses her thin lips. Her chalky-white face blushes with anger, and I brace myself to be yelled at.
“Do you have any of the mystery meat without the sauce?” I ask.
“It’s meat loaf,” she replies. “No mystery there.”
“Do you have any sauce-less meat loaf?”
She exhales the deepest sigh, then pivots to head into the back of the kitchen area. She returns with a plate of gray beef that looks like a sponge. She hands it to me. “For you, princess.”
“Not everyone can eat everything,” Indie snaps at her. “Allergies, duh!”
“I’ve never heard of nobody allergic to meat loaf.”
“It’s the sauce. It’s more pinkish than red, so I know you put cream and butter in it … but it’s fine.” I take the plate from Ms. Bernadette, curtsy like the princesses in the movies do, then grab a premade bowl of limp salad leaves.
“This is turning into the worst day. I knew it when I woke up this morning,” I tell Indie.
Sometimes I wake up and just know it’s going to be a rough one. I’ll just be off—my nerves at the ready; my stomach tender, as if it’s preparing for the pain; the anxiety ready to rise like water swelling up inside me.
We make our way to our usual table in the back left corner.
“I knew when you missed homeroom that it was one of those days.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I had a bad episode this morning and couldn’t leave on time. I’d get to the front door, and I’d have to turn around.”
Indie’s brown forehead scrunches. “Did you eat something bad?”
“Not this time. Wait. Actually. Scratch that. I had ice cream on Saturday. But, like, I already paid for that on Saturday night. Like two a.m. to four a.m. was not fun. But Sunday, I was fine.” I shrug. “I think it’s that midterms are coming up, and Ms. Córdova wants to talk to me about the direction of my column. And I’m just nervous. It’s probably for no real reason.” And that’s the worst part of this whole thing.
Indie smiles at me like she always does when I unload like this. Her full lips become a stretched-out heart, and a worried flush creeps under her light brown skin. I hate that she has to deal with me talking about this all the time. But it’s like a little cloud that follows me around; sometimes the sun shines through it and everything is okay, and other times it’s full of lightning and thunder and the rain won’t stop.
“So, there’s this thing I need to tell you.” The left side of her mouth curls up in a mischievous smile. “In morning homeroom, Marcus asked about you.”
“Ugh—”
She grabs my hand. “Just listen before you roll your eyes and get all mad. So, his friend Nikhil is going to ask me out today.”
“Oh,” I say, a little taken aback. Indie and I aren’t the girls who date. Since we got to high school, we’ve always been the friend sort of girls who just like to hang out. Indie’s parents are strict no-dating types, and I’ve just … never been that interested.
“He wants to go see the new Denzel Washington movie on Friday, but his parents are just like mine, so yeah, we can’t, like, just make plans.”
“Uh, you know I only see rom-coms in the theaters. Everything else is saved for streaming. Just tell Mum you’re going to the mall.”
“With who? I only go to the mall with you—and you know she’ll call your mom.”
“Oh, I know where this is going.”
“Wait! Just hear me out.” She grabs my hand like she knows I’m about to run far, far away. “I thought we could do, like, a double—”
“DATE! Nope. No way. Nein. I’m good with staying at home on Friday and answering Madame Amour emails.” I put my hands up in the air, ready to back away from this nasty sauce-less meat loaf, the table, and Indie’s wild idea. Me plus Dating equals No Good. It always involves eating and anxiety, and those two things make me sick.
“C’mon. I think Nikhil’s super cute, and you know, like, no one ever asks me out. Plus, Marcus isn’t that bad.”
“That bad? Only that he’s been a weirdo around me my entire life.”
“Only since first grade. And it’s a crush. So, sort of cute.”
“Oh, right, kindergarten stalking doesn’t count.” Marcus Washington III and I have always been in school together. He’s always the only other black kid. Always at my birthday parties. Always grinning at me. Our moms thought it was so cute. WRONG. He doesn’t care that I’m not interested. He thinks we’re meant to be. He thinks I’ll warm up to him eventually.
“He sent me love letters,” I remind her.
“In seventh grade, Nora,” Indie says, exasperated.
“Still.”
“Just do me this favor.”
“He’ll get the wrong idea.”
“Look, what if you don’t even have to sit with us in the theater? Nikhil and I will sit together, and you and Marcus can be on different rows.” She flashes her big brown eyes at me. The lashes curl up long and willowy like feathers. She’s even prettier when she lays it on thick like this. “I feel like Nikhil might be my first kiss.”
“Ugh! Do we really need first kisses?”
She leans in c
lose and whispers, “You run a love column. Shouldn’t you be all about it?”
“Maybe.” The idea of being kissed starts the cramping in my stomach.
“Please? Pretty please?”
“Fine. Fine. Quit your begging. But just know, you owe me so big. Like do-my-whole-art-project-for-Sampson’s-class kind of big.”
“Yes. Of course. I will. Totally,” Indie screeches. “Thank you. Thank you.” She wraps her arms around me.
“Okay, okay. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“You’re the best best friend ever.”
“That’s a lie. But whatever, I’ll take it.”
- - - Original Message - - -
Sent: Monday, January 10 2:13 PM
To: MADAME AMOUR
Subject: Questioning Commitment
Dear Madame Amour,
I’ve been with my girlfriend since sixth grade, and we’re juniors in high school now. That’s five whole years. I love her and she’s great. Let me get that out of the way. She’s a top student, super smart, a wiz at playing the cello, and very gorgeous. My boys say I’m lucky to have a girlfriend like her.
Now that I write this all down, it feels kind of stupid to be writing this email in the first place. But it’s anonymous and the questions keep coming up, so I’m just going to go with it.
The thing is … I’m curious. I keep wondering what else is out there. And the weird thing is that it doesn’t stop me from loving her and having a great time when we’re together. I am a committed boyfriend to her. I would never cheat.
But I just don’t know what to do with these questions and this nagging itch to meet other people and if I’m honest (and I fully admit it makes me sound like an asshole), kiss other girls. Is that terrible? Should I break up with her? Should I see what’s out there?
I feel myself starting to pull away. She’s flipped out on me a little about seeming “different.” I don’t know how to explain it.
