by Renée Watson
Devin knows me, though, and so he steps back and says, “It’s not about school. We’re not getting back together, are we?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m sorry, Devin. I should’ve been honest with you. I just, I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to stick to our plan.” I feel like I’m just babbling, so I stop talking. Then I take a deep breath and say what I think I’ve been feeling this whole time. “Devin, I think I wanted to be with you because everyone else wanted me to be. But really, you’re my friend—in every sense of the word. We’re like—”
“Like best friends?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Always?”
“Always.”
Chapter 34
Christmas is in three days. Tony and I meet outside in front of my house and walk over to Jackson Avenue. He is shopping for Kate. It is cold today, December cold. No rain, no sun. Just an ordinary gray day. The shops along Jackson Avenue are decorated with Christmas lights, and the sidewalks are full of shoppers walking in and out of the boutiques.
There are cars parked at every inch of the curb, even on the side streets. I don’t know if I will ever get used to my neighborhood being the place where people flock to instead of flee from.
Tony takes my hand. This is the first time we’ve been out together since I broke up with Devin. When we turn the corner, I see Tasha and Cynthia sitting in Daily Blend. I don’t even think about what I’m doing or why, I just slip my hand out of Tony’s, rub my hands together, and put them in my pocket, pretending to be cold.
I hate myself for this.
“It’s your turn,” Tony says. “What’s your question?”
I have a question. But I don’t ask it out loud.
Chapter 35
Star and Charles have been camped out with me all day at Tony’s again. I think Charles is onto me and Tony, but he doesn’t say anything. When they leave, Tony says, “I have something for you.” He runs upstairs, then comes back down with brochures in his hands. “Okay, so before I give you these, just know that I’m not against Spelman. I just care about you, and I want to make sure you’re making the best decision.”
When he hands me the brochures, I realize they are college catalogs.
“These are the top journalism schools in the country,” Tony says. “I know your dream is to write for a big-time paper or magazine, so I just thought, well, I just don’t want you to sell yourself short.”
I bite my lip, try to hear him out.
“I mean, Columbia University is the top ranked—”
“Tony, I know that. But that’s not the point,” I tell him. “And isn’t it too late to apply?”
“You have till January first.”
“Wow, you actually checked?” I set the brochures down on the coffee table. “It’s more complicated than just choosing based on rank, Tony. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Don’t just tell me I wouldn’t understand. Explain it to me,” Tony says. “Why Spelman?”
“Because at Spelman, I’d learn about black history in a way that I just can’t get anywhere else,” I explain. “And for once—for once!—being a black woman who is successful will be the norm, and I’ll have plenty examples of strong black women right in front of me.”
The more I think about it, the more excited I get.
“Because my grandmother and mother went there. Because it was founded on the belief that every black girl deserves to be accepted and educated. Because it has produced thousands of successful black women. And because, because it’s not just Spelman, it’s Atlanta. There are all kinds of blacks there. I want to live in a place where there’s a variety of black people, doing all kinds of things. I’ve never had that. You get to see and experience all kinds of white people all the time.”
I stop talking because I don’t think I’m doing Spelman justice. “I can’t articulate all my reasons, Tony, but, well, let me ask you this. Did you look up anything about Spelman? Or did you just think since you’ve never heard of the school it must not be worth going to?”
“Maya, that’s not fair—”
“Did you know that Spelman produces Fulbright Scholars consistently? That it’s one of the top-ten female universities?”
“I’m not saying it’s not a good school, I was just wondering if it’s the best school given your goals.”
I look through the rest of the brochures. Just about all of them have mostly white people on the cover smiling or posing as if in deep thought, with a few token people of color in the photo, too. I put them on the table. “Well, it might not be the best for journalism, but it’s the best for me,” I say.
“I get it, I think. I mean, I don’t know what it feels like, but I understand why it’s important to you.”
Tony is sitting on the edge of the sofa.
We don’t talk for a while and then Tony says, “Sorry, Maya. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No, don’t. Don’t apologize. I’m actually glad we can hear each other out. One of my fears about dating you was that we wouldn’t be able to have honest conversations. Thank you for, for listening.”
Tony scoots back on the sofa. Gets comfortable and turns the TV on.
The front door opens. Tony sits up, takes his arm from around me.
“We’re home,” Mrs. Jacobs calls out. Mr. Jacobs is behind her, carrying two tote bags full of groceries. Mrs. Jacobs smiles at me. “Hi, Nikki. How are you?”
“Mom, this is Maya,” Tony says.
Mrs. Jacobs looks at me. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
“It’s okay.”
Mr. Jacobs mumbles a hello. He looks like the day has worn him out.
“What are you two up to?” Mrs. Jacobs unpacks the bags and puts the perishable food in the fridge.
Tony helps her. “Not much now. We were doing something for school, but now we’re done.”
“Would you like to stay for dinner, Maya?”
I look at Tony. “Stay,” he says.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Sure. No problem at all,” Mrs. Jacobs says.
Mrs. Jacobs takes out ground turkey from the bag. “Hope you like spaghetti.”
“I do.” I smile.
Mr. Jacobs goes to the fridge and grabs a beer. He cracks it open and comes into the living room and changes the station. “I haven’t seen the news all day.” He flips channels and stops on a local station that is broadcasting live from a bank robbery. Mr. Jacobs turns the volume up. “Isn’t this over by your school?” he says.
Tony comes back to the living room. “Yeah.”
The reporter goes over the details. Customers and bank employees are being held hostage. Police cars surround the bank. The reporter looks into the camera and says, “We have reason to believe that there is more than one suspect in the bank.”
Mrs. Jacobs whimpers. “Oh, no. Oh, God.”
Tony picks up the remote. “This is depressing, Dad. Can I turn it?”
Mr. Jacobs says no.
The more the reporter says, the more anxious Mrs. Jacobs becomes. She is standing over the stove, cooking and praying. “Dear God, please don’t let anyone get hurt. Please protect everyone in there.”
The reporter standing outside the bank says, “We’ve just confirmed the identity of one of the suspects. He is believed to be—”
Oh, God, I think to myself. Please don’t let him be black. Please.
I hold my breath.
Tony changes the channel before the anchor-woman finishes her sentence. “This is just going to drive you crazy, Mom,” he says. “Let’s watch something else.” He flips through the stations.
Mr. Jacobs takes his beer and goes to his bedroom. “Let me know when dinner is ready, will you?”
I hate that the first thought that came to my mind was if the suspect was black. But ever since I was a child, I’ve carried the shame and pride of my black brothers and sisters. When a black person fails or succeeds it means something. All my life strangers have come up to Dad in a store, at the ma
ll, or at church just to tell him how proud they are of him. “It’s good to know that there’s a good black man taking care of his family and doing something positive,” they say. They never just call him a man. He is always a black man. I wonder, if he were white, would his accomplishments seem so significant?
I can’t remember when I started to have these feelings of pride and shame. I guess they’ve always instinctively been there. From my earliest memories I remember feeling pride when a black person succeeded at something—anything. It was like part of me had succeeded, too. And if a black person failed, I felt embarrassed. Ashamed. Like when I’m on the bus and there’s a group of black teens being loud and acting rowdy. I know white kids do this, too. I know whenever a big group is anywhere—a bus, a restaurant—they tend to act like it’s just them, like they’re in a bubble, like no one can hear them, like it doesn’t matter how ridiculous they are being.
But it matters when it’s a group of black teens.
I’ve seen the reaction from strangers. The fearful eyes, the irritated sighs, the way women clutch their purses, hold on tight. And sometimes I’m with the group. Sometimes I’m not. But all the time, if I catch it, if I catch the moment that one of them laughs too loud, or is being obnoxious and reciting explicit lyrics to a song they are listening to, I get embarrassed.
Do white people get that feeling?
Chapter 36
Once Christmas Eve came, Mom insisted on family time, so Nikki and I have been in the house mostly, or visiting our aunt’s house. But now that Christmas is over, Mom is back at work and Nikki and I are back to doing what we want, which is mostly sleeping in.
It’s noon and I am just waking up.
Nikki beat me to the shower, which is fine with me because I am in the perfect position in my bed and I don’t feel like moving. The afternoon light is blocked out by my pulled-down shade. I get out of bed and step over the thick, lavender blanket that I must have kicked off while I was sleeping.
My blankets are always on the floor when I wake up. My pillow, too, sometimes. Mom says I’m the wild one, her fire child. “Must’ve been you kicking me so hard, twisting and turning in my womb,” Mom’s told me.
Nikki is Mom’s rain. Refreshing and nourishing and everything good about rain. Not the thunderstorms or gloomy sky.
When we were younger, Nikki and I would get into our parent’s bed in the middle of the night, scared from the boogie man or some noise we thought we heard. Dad would fuss, but Mom would let us stay in their king-size bed. We’d snuggle between them and fall right to sleep. By morning, all our bodies were intertwined. Feet in mouths, arms across bellies, heads at the foot of the bed.
I stumble my way to the bathroom, my eyes still caked with sleep. “Nikki, how much longer will you be?”
“Five minutes!”
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor.
The doorbell rings and I hear Dad say, “I think she’s still asleep.”
I stand and walk to the edge of the stairs.
“Maya?” Dad is at the foot of the steps. “Uh, Tony is here for you?” Dad says this as a question.
“He is? Oh, okay. I’m, I’m—”
“I’ll tell him to wait down here for you,” Dad says. “I’m gone to the center. Mom’s at work.”
“Okay.”
Nikki comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a yellow towel. “Did I hear Dad say Tony is here?”
“Yeah.”
“Another student council meeting?”
I have no idea why he’s here. “Uh, yeah,” I say. I go into the bathroom, close the door. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and go back to my room and try to find something decent to throw on so I can go downstairs to see what Tony wants.
Nikki knocks on my door and opens it at the same time. “Bye. I’m going over to Kate’s.”
I can’t help but think of how ironic it is that Tony is here and Nikki is going over there. “Okay. Tell Tony I’ll be down in a minute.”
It definitely takes me longer than a minute. I change three times.
Once I am dressed, I do my hair. I put a small dab of coconut oil in my hand and rub it through my twists. I look into the mirror and see Tony standing in the doorway. “Can I come in?”
“Um, yes. What—what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to just stop by, I guess.”
“Come in,” I tell him. I walk over to the chair that’s full of clean clothes—outfits I just put on and tossed. I move them to my bed. “Sit here.”
Tony sits down.
I go back to my dresser, stand in front of the mirror. “I’m just doing my hair. I’m almost ready.” I take the small bottle of oil in my hand and squirt a little onto my scalp.
Tony comes over to me. He picks up the bottle. “Smells good. What does this do?”
“It’s hair oil. It keeps my scalp from getting too dry.”
Tony takes the bottle, turns it upside down and puts a little oil in his hand. He puts his hand in my hair and massages my scalp. I close my eyes. His fingers slow dance with my twists; the palm of his hands press into my scalp, gentle, steady.
My hair must feel so unfamiliar in his hands. It is nothing like his mom’s, or sister’s, or any other girl’s he dated before me. I look into the mirror and watch Tony, who is not looking at me. His eyes are studying my hair, each curl, each frizzy strand. He looks up, sees me in the mirror, and smiles. He kisses the back of my neck, kisses the spaces below each ear, and I am lost in him.
Chapter 37
I haven’t seen Nikki much this week. She is always with Kate or Ronnie. I am always with Tony or Essence. But tonight, Mom makes sure our family is together to welcome in the New Year. This is one family commitment Dad never misses.
11:30 p.m.
Dad starts us off with our family tradition. We each share one thing we’re thankful for and one resolution. Then we’ll toast at midnight and drink sparkling apple cider. I don’t really hear what anyone else has to say because while I’m waiting my turn, I am trying to think up an answer—well, I have answers, but none I can say out loud. Because if I told the truth, I’d say that I’m thankful for my relationship with Tony.
My resolution?
To tell the truth about us.
Chapter 38
School is back in session. It’s lunchtime and I head to The Lounge to meet with Star, Charles, and Tony. Mrs. Armstrong leaves to go warm up her lunch. “Be right back,” she says.
As soon as she leaves, I open my notebook. “I think we should invite the media to our school for our Black History Month assembly.”
Charles leans forward in his chair. Tony is reading the press release that I scribbled. Mrs. Armstrong taught us the elements of a press release and the purpose they serve. I used her handout to help me draft my own.
I explain Richmond’s annual Black History celebration to Tony. “Every February, we have a ceremony in the auditorium that is led by students.”
Charles adds, “Sometimes students read poems by black poets. Last year I recited King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.”
Star says, “And Maya always sings. Last year, she was amazing.” She smiles at me. “So amazing.”
Tony looks at me. “Yeah, I hear Maya can sing. Can’t say I’ve heard her sing, though.”
I keep us on track. “The assembly is the only time we get to run the show. No adult does anything. It’s all us.” I continue, “So I think people should know about it. The news always wants to come to our school to report something bad, well, they should come see us at our best.”
Charles leans back in his seat. “I don’t know, Maya. I mean, I like the idea, but we need some kind of hook to get them here. What’s really going to make the news come to Richmond?”
Tony is nodding, and his eyes roam in his head as he thinks up an answer.
And then I get an idea. “What if we find alumni who are doin
g something big and invite them to come speak or something?”
Charles leans forward. “That would be perfect.”
Tony tells us, “St. Francis always had some former graduate visit our school to give us motivational talks.”
Charles leans forward even more and says, “We could invite T. J. Downing.”
I start taking notes in my journal.
Star smiles. “God, the press would love that. Former Richmond point guard gives back to his community,” she says sarcastically. “Isn’t he playing overseas now?”
“Yeah. He was one of my dad’s mentees. They still keep in touch, and he comes home a lot,” I tell them.
A rainbow smiles across Charles’s face. “This is going to be good.”
Chapter 39
Principal Green says no.
“I’ve decided to have a diversity assembly take the place of our Black History Month celebration.” His excuse for making this change is filled with words like “tolerance” and “unity.” He tells us he has invited a guest speaker to come. “I appreciate your idea. I do, I really appreciate your idea,” Principal Green says. “But inviting the media? No, no. Don’t get me wrong, T. J. is a wonderful person. But he just reinforces what the community already knows about Richmond. They know our boys can play ball. I’d like us to focus on something else,” he says. “And besides, we need to have an assembly that is for everyone, not just the black students.”
“But black history is for everyone,” I say.
Charles says, “And the assembly is a Richmond tradition.”
Tony asks, “Why can’t we celebrate both—diversity and black history?”
Star doesn’t say anything. She is standing there chipping away at her nail polish.
Principal Green says his decision is final. “But I would like students to be involved. Maya, word around the school is that you can sing. Would you like to sing something at the assembly?”
“I, uh—”
Charles cuts me off. “With all due respect, sir, I think the rest of student council should have a say in this.”
