Quite an Undertaking: Devon's Story

by Barbara L. Clanton

  “I know.” I did know. I pushed my lunch toward her. Food was kind of turning my stomach at that point, anyway. She put her PB & J in front of me without a word. We’d been trading lunches since fourth grade, so words weren’t necessary.

  Travis, Gail’s boyfriend of about three months, came bounding up to the table out of breath. He was a definite hottie. He kept his short black hair neat and trimmed, unlike most of the other guys around school that had never seen a comb.

  Gail’s face lit up when she saw him. He threw his backpack on the gravel and sat down. It wasn’t hard to tell that they really liked each other. He leaned over for a kiss that she gave freely. I felt a little nosy watching them, so I looked away.

  I looked out past the maple trees in the courtyard, past the cars in the senior parking lot, and past the tall pine trees separating the school’s property from the neighborhood behind. Storm clouds hurried past us in the dark sky on their way toward Canada.

  An elbow jammed into my side and jolted me out of my cloud gazing. “Hey.” I scowled at Gail. She pointed to Travis.

  Travis said, “Hey, Devon, sorry about your grandma. Funerals suck, don’t they?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, they do.” Bless Travis for knowing the right thing to say. “Thanks,” I added.

  I looked back to the changing sky and inhaled the scent of the damp maple leaves carpeting the courtyard. The faint whiff of pine made me wonder if my grandma was up there in that tumultuous sky. Was she with Grandpa and Great Aunt Bertie? I felt the now-familiar sting of tears in my eyes and was amazed that I had any more to give. My chest tightened, and I knew this could go one of two ways. I might be able to sit here crying quietly, or I might have another complete meltdown like the one I’d had at the funeral home.

  I used the clean napkin from Gail’s lunch to wipe at my nose when all of a sudden loud voices interrupted my misery. To my amazement, Rebecca burst into the courtyard with her friends. One of her friends, Jessie something-or-other, had hundreds of tiny braids in her hair. I would have to ask Missy, but I think they were called cornrows or something. The braids hung down almost to her shoulders and looked nice against her white shirt and dark skin. I didn’t know a lot about Jessie, but I did know two things. She played on the girls’ basketball team, and I’d never seen her smile. I was pretty sure that Rebecca’s other friend, whose name I couldn’t remember, played on the basketball team, too.

  Watching Rebecca with her friends lifted me out of my funk a little. As I thought about it, I realized that those three hung out together all the time at lunch like me and Gail and Travis. I never realized it, but all the black kids seemed to hang out in one big group. Jessie’s story must have been mesmerizing because Rebecca didn’t see me at all, so I took that opportunity to watch her. I tried not to make it obvious, like I was a stalker-chick or something. Her skin was silky smooth and her eyes were bright and playful. She wore her hair pulled back in that cool-looking bun that her mother had worn at the wake, but Rebecca had a pencil in it in instead of a chopstick. The exposed curve of her neck definitely had my attention. Yeah, maybe I was a stalker. She had on black capri pants and tiny shoes that looked like dancer’s shoes or something. I didn’t think Rebecca played on the basketball team, but the purple and white Grasse River girls’ basketball sweatshirt she wore made me wonder.

  I took a deep breath when reality came waltzing in again uninvited. We buried Grandma yesterday. I looked down at the uneaten PB & J sandwich in front of me and tried to swallow the enormous lump growing in my throat. I wished the stupid bell would ring, so I could go to class and have something else to think about. I looked up hoping to catch another glimpse of Rebecca, and to my surprise, she was staring right at me. I gulped. Her smile brightened my heart while a tremor traveled down to my toes and back up again. I smiled back. I couldn’t help it.

  Rebecca mouthed to me, “Are you okay?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes.

  She nodded in sympathy and mouthed the word, “Breathe.”

  I nodded and couldn’t help grinning. I mouthed, “Thank you” to her across the courtyard and this time her smile got bigger.

  I wanted to get up and talk to her, but Rebecca looked away just as Jessie turned back toward her. I got the distinct feeling that she didn’t want Jessie to see her talking to me. As their conversation continued, I realized I must have been staring at them because Jessie challenged me with her eyes as if warning me to mind my own business. I looked away quickly, sure she had been able to read my thoughts.

  Gail nudged me in the side again. We were going to have to talk about all this side-nudging soon.

  “Who’s that?” She nodded her head toward Rebecca.

  “Oh, she’s—her family owns the funeral home, and she helped me get through it yesterday.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  Gail and I were as close as you could get, except when it came to certain things. Certain things like the fact that Gail would rather go out with somebody named Travis or Joe or Bob while I would rather go out with somebody named Rebecca or Marcy or Susan, but Gail did not know this, and I wasn’t sure I was ever going to tell her.

  I LAY ON my bed throwing Seymour, my stuffed teddy bear, into the air and catching him. I’m sure he didn’t appreciate it, but throwing him around helped me chill out after the longest day of school ever. It had taken forever for eighth period French to arrive, but the wait was worth it the second Rebecca made her way to my desk in the back of the room and handed me the notes from the two days I’d missed. The class started, so I couldn’t talk to her, but I practically held my breath until the class ended. When the bell rang to end the period, I jammed my books into my backpack and looked up. My heart froze when I saw that she was already on her way out the door. At least she turned around when she got to the door and said, “See ya later, Devon.”

  I said, “See ya,” right back. See ya. Yeah, I wanted to see her. I wanted to go out with her. What was the difference between seeing someone and going out with someone? I’d have to ask Missy.

  I threw Seymour in the air again and then held him tight when I remembered about Jessie. Rebecca’s friend Jessie had been waiting for her right outside the door to our French classroom. How she had gotten there so fast was beyond me.

  I threw Seymour in the air again just as Missy walked into our room.

  “Hey, Squirt,” she said smiling. “Why are you torturing Seymour?” I moved over, so she could sit on the edge of my bed.

  “He’s okay with it. Really.” I grinned at her, but hugged Seymour to my chest instead of throwing him.

  “How was school today?”

  I sighed. “Long.”

  “I’m sure, but you have the whole weekend to regroup.”

  “That’s true. When are you going back to Plattsburgh?”

  “Sunday. After dinner.” Missy usually went back right after lunch, but I think this time she didn’t want to leave the family. We all had a lot of “regrouping” to do.

  “Cool.” We sat in silence for a moment. I wanted to ask her so many things, but I didn’t know where to start. Then I remembered Mrs. Gibson in first period Journalism. “Mrs. Gibson was on my case today.”

  “Uh, oh. Was she in one of her moods?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed. “She had those moods when you were in her class?”

  “Oh, yeah. No one was safe. Not even Missy Raines, editorin-chief.”

  “Really?” That I could not believe. Mrs. Gibson thought the sun rose and set around Missy.

  “Yeah, even me, but whatever she’s on your case about probably isn’t too earth shattering. What did she say?”

  “My environment article was due Wednesday—”

  “The one about Dad’s company?”

  “Yeah, and I still hadn’t finished it. You know because...” I gestured toward Grandma’s room.

  Missy’s eyes softened. “Um hmm.”

  “Mrs. Gibson came over to me during class while I was working
on it and said something like ‘Let’s talk about your future with the newspaper.’” I used air quotes around the word future. “Can you believe it? I’ve never been late with an article before. In fact—” I poked the air with my finger, “I’ve even rewritten articles that other people have messed up. It’s not fair.”

  “She sounded serious? Never mind, I’m sure she was. I know how she is when she gets something in her head. Well, you should finish your article and make sure it’s absolutely pristine. Make a point of uploading it right at the beginning of the period on Monday.”

  “Yeah, I will. I have no life anyway. I’m home on a Friday night, aren’t I?”

  “What’s Gail doing?”

  “Oh, she has Travis now, so she doesn’t need me tagging along all the time. Fifth wheel and all.”

  “Oh, Devon. There’s somebody out there for you.”

  “Pfft.” I rolled my eyes. “Sure there is.”

  “Devon!” She smacked my leg playfully. “Stop that. With that attitude, no one will ever be interested. Is there anybody on your mind?”

  How could she ask me that question? She had radar better than Mom’s. She couldn’t know, could she? I felt myself blush.

  When I didn’t answer she said quietly, “Devon, look, whoever they are would have to be crazy not to want to go out with you.”

  “Thanks, but you’re my sister. You’re not qualified to judge.” I stuck my tongue out at her in a most mature manner.

  She didn’t go for the bait. “Listen, you’re a beautiful girl. Smart and funny. Have you called them?”

  That was the second time Missy used the plural pronoun. They. Them. As a journalist, Missy knew the difference between the words “them” and “him.” Missy knew grammar. My eyes got wider when I realized that Missy knew. Missy knew I was gay. Somehow, she had figured it out.

  I stammered, “Uh, no. It’s just a new thing.”

  Missy pulled the scrunchie out of her hair and shook her head to let her hair flow free. We had the same parents, but Missy got the great hair, the great looks, the great everything. I got nothing. I didn’t mean to, but I sighed.

  “What’s the matter, Squirt?”

  “My hair sucks.”

  She reached over and looked at the ends. “Your hair looks great. No split ends. Nice and shiny.”

  I laughed. “You mean I have a nice coat?”

  “No!” She smacked my leg playfully again. “You take care of yourself, and it shows, dufous.”

  I hadn’t thought about this in a long time, but I mustered up the courage and asked, “Missy, can you put those highlights in my hair again?”

  “The auburn tint? Oh, like we did last summer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, I think I still have a box around here. C’mon.” She got up and practically ran to the bathroom.

  When I got into the bathroom, Missy looked at me with a hand on her hip. She narrowed her eyes, shook the box of hair color, and asked, “Does this have anything to do with your new thing?”

  I know I turned red because I felt my cheeks getting hot. “Shut up, Missy.”

  She laughed and opened the box of hair color.

  Chapter Three

  Girls' Sports

  I HATED WALKING to school in the dark, but since I only lived a half mile away, the walk wasn’t too bad. I pulled my hood up against the morning cold and didn’t want to think about having to walk to school once winter hit for real. If I ever got a car I’d pick up Gail on the other side of town, and then we’d go get Travis. We’d get to school warm and dry every single day, but, then again, Travis already had his license which made me wonder why he and Gail didn’t come pick me up every morning. I’d have to talk to Gail about this oversight.

  The sky lightened up as I walked through the main doors of the high school. Mother Nature had great timing. I didn’t stop at my locker, which I usually do, but went straight to my journalism class with the environment article ready to upload into the November/December folder. Missy helped me edit the final copy over the weekend before she went back to Plattsburgh, so at least Mrs. Gibson wouldn’t be able to give me grief about bad copy. If she wanted me to drop the course for second semester then at least I had tried my best.

  I held my head up high, yanked off my hood, and readied myself for Mrs. Gibson’s assessment of my future with the newspaper. I dropped my backpack on the table next to my assigned computer and got out the flash drive that held my article. Mike sat at his computer logging in. At least he had a future. As the boys’ sports editor, Mrs. Gibson was probably grooming him for editor-in-chief for next year. She rarely appointed juniors as department editors, so she must have had a lot of faith in him. Too bad she had it out for me. I sighed and turned on my computer.

  I copied the article to the school’s network just as the bell rang to start the class. Mrs. Gibson clapped her hands twice for attention. I swiveled my seat around for our weekly Monday morning staff meeting.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” Mrs. Gibson waited until the twenty or so students turned in their chairs to face her. Her gray hair was pulled back into a power bun, and she was all business.

  She held the clipboard in front of her and peered down through her bifocals. “Your articles that were due last Wednesday will be edited, as usual, by the Journalism III class this week. On Thursday, you can start your rewrites. In the meantime you each need to pick out another topic from the list posted on the bulletin board.”

  I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but I could have sworn that Mrs. Gibson glared at me over her glasses when she mentioned the Wednesday deadline. The deadline I had missed.

  Mrs. Gibson put her clipboard down and continued. “Our upcoming issue will be jammed packed. The sports reports will take up a lot of space because not only do we have the fall sports wrap-ups, but the winter sports previews as well.” She looked at Mike. “Mike, I assume you’ve received the fall wrap-ups from your boys’ sports reporters?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve already started editing.”

  She shot him an approving glance. “Now on to a more serious matter.” She turned to look at me. “Devon—” She looked down at her clipboard as if trying to find her place. Maybe she didn’t want to make direct eye contact with me when she kicked me out of the class. I felt the other students looking at me. I swallowed hard to dislodge the sudden lump in my throat and held my breath waiting for the axe to fall.

  “Oh, here it is. Devon, I hinted on Friday that we needed to discuss your future.”

  I waited.

  “Melissa Cox is moving, uh...” she looked back down at her clipboard. “...oh, at the end of the week. I didn’t realize it was so soon.”

  I had no idea what Melissa Cox had to do with me, but I kept my eyes on Mrs. Gibson and had to remember to breathe in and out.

  She peered at me over her glasses. “I want you to take her place as girls’ sports editor.”

  My eyes flew wide open. Editor? I wasn’t getting dropped from the class? I’m sure the relief showed on my face, but before I could answer, Mrs. Gibson held up her hand to stop my response.

  “Devon, I don’t want your answer yet. Talk it over with Mike. He can tell you what the job entails, but I would like your answer first thing tomorrow morning. Fair enough?”

  Fair? Absolutely. I nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am,” way too enthusiastically. How could I not take an editor position? So what if I had never played a single sport at Grasse River High School, that wouldn’t stop me. Three minutes earlier, I thought I would need to find another class to take during first period, but all she wanted to do was promote me. Why didn’t she just say that on Friday?

  When she ended the staff meeting, I slumped back in my chair with a sigh of relief. I didn’t have a moment to let my promotion sink in because Mike whipped his chair next to mine, so close, in fact, that our arms touched.

  “Congrats, Devon.” He held out his hand. “You’ll make a great editor.”

  I shook his
hand and hoped he couldn’t feel mine trembling. “Thanks. I had no idea.” I let go of his hand, but he held onto mine longer than necessary. I pretended to scoot my chair a little closer to my computer, but all I really wanted to do was move my arm away from his.

  “You’ll be fine. Do you want a rundown on what you have to do? If you take the job that is.”

  I knew in my heart of hearts that I’d accept the position, but I would take the day to weigh the pros and cons. Cons? What cons?

  “Sure, tell me what I’m in for, but don’t scare me off, okay?”

  He winked at me and then smiled in such way that was supposed to melt my heart or something. How could I tell him that somebody had already beaten him to it? What sucked big time was that I couldn’t tell her how I felt. And now Mike seemed to be turning into another problem for me. Why was life getting so complicated all of a sudden?

  He outlined the many and varied duties of a sports editor. First, I had to find out who the girls’ sports reporters were and what sport they covered. Most would come from the Journalism I class—the sophomores—not our class. Next, I had to get their fall wrap-up articles, which were probably in Melissa’s network folder, and then edit, edit, edit. Mike told me that fixing bad writing was a tough gig, but he also told me to ask him if I needed help being diplomatic. Apparently, I had more articles to edit than he did. The girls had seven sports in the fall— volleyball, soccer, tennis, golf, cheerleading, cross-country running, and field hockey while the guys only had five— football, golf, soccer, volleyball, and cross-country running. Just when I thought the editor’s job wouldn’t be too taxing, Mike complicated matters by pointing out that each sport had a junior varsity team, too. He moved his seat closer to mine again, and then reminded me that all varsity winter sports teams needed previews for the upcoming issue.

  I took a deep breath and subtly moved my chair away. The girls’ sports editing job sounded colossal, and with the boys’ sports editor coming on to me big time, I wondered what I was getting myself into.