by Mark Oshiro
The lockers in the quad were dented, covered in graffiti and stickers, and most freshmen got stuck with locks that actually didn’t close. The student body had gotten inventive, though, and it wasn’t uncommon to see cables, shoestrings, and U-locks used to keep them shut. Moss had been lucky enough to score a decent locker last year, though his mom wasn’t happy with the rental cost. As his friends split off to find their own, Moss pulled open his locker to drop off his bag before homeroom. He was pleased to see that Rawiya had moved to the one next to him, and they smiled at each other.
“You have a good summer, Moss?” Rawiya asked, pulling out a notebook and pen from her bag. She hung a mirror on the inside of her door and used it to adjust her beige head scarf. She wore a black X-Ray Spex shirt over dark jeans that morning. Moss loved her willingness to expose herself—she angered all the punk kids on campus just by existing. They didn’t think a Muslim girl could be into hardcore, but she knew more about the genre than most others did. It was through her that Moss had discovered bands like Bad Brains and Death, and she never made him feel inferior for listening to other kinds of music. Rawiya just wanted others to enjoy something new.
“It was good,” he told her. “Lazy. Lots of pretending I was doing something important with my life.”
She giggled. “That’s the spirit. You remember that house show we went to in July?”
“Yeah, that one out in Fremont, right? That first band was terrible.”
“True, but that weird Siouxsie cover was amazing,” she said. “Anyway, like a week later, my family decided that we should go to the Grand Canyon. During the first week of August!” She continued after a sigh. “You ever go to the desert in the middle of the summer?”
“Honey, I’m black,” he said.
Rawiya laughed heartily. “Good point. My mom said we leveled up in whiteness because of the trip.”
Moss snickered as he shut his locker. “Where’s your homeroom this year?”
She looked at a small strip of paper that she’d pulled out of her pocket. “Bah, I’ve got Mr. Riordan. Does he hate happiness or something? I swear, that man needs a puppy.”
They bid each other goodbye for the time being, and Moss began the brisk walk back toward the northern end of the building for Mrs. Torrance’s class. Along the way, Moss got a few hugs and fist bumps from familiar faces, but he was mostly on autopilot. The first day of class was easy enough, but he was still distracted. You have to text Javier, he told himself. Moss’s anxiety flared briefly, but he talked it down. Not today, Satan. This will be a normal day.
When he strolled into Mrs. Torrance’s classroom, he saw that Njemile was there, too, towering over all the other students in the room. He nodded to Kaisha quickly. Mrs. Torrance was sitting on a desk in the back of the room, chatting with Carmela, a Puerto Rican girl whom Esperanza was deeply enamored with, but who had thus far not returned the feelings. Her long braids, striped with gray, swung every time she laughed, and it reminded Moss of the days when his mother used to have long hair.
He grabbed a seat next to Njemile just as the first bell rang and the students all slowly assembled into their seats. “We have to talk,” Njemile said, leaning over to Moss and grabbing his arm. “Like … now. I’ve got crucial summer updates for you.”
“All right, all right, after class,” he said, and turned his attention to the front of the classroom, where Mrs. Torrance now stood.
Moss liked Mrs. Torrance, who was born and raised in Oakland, just like he had been. She was an acquaintance of his mother’s from the days when Wanda had been more politically active. Her bright orange blouse was the color of a pumpkin, and Moss was certain that no one in the universe could pull it off except for her.
“Y’all calm down,” she began, spreading her smile around the room. “We’re just getting started, and I don’t want any nonsense from y’all on the first day. We’re having morning announcements in a few minutes, but I’ll be marking attendance for this glorious first day of school in the meantime. I can see that Mr. Jackson over in the back row is already not paying attention, so let’s all stare at him right now.”
Moss turned around, and sure enough, Larry Jackson was engrossed in something on his phone, oblivious to the fact that he had just made a cardinal error in Mrs. Torrance’s class. As Larry continued to stare at his phone, Moss heard Njemile mutter quietly, “Oh, he’s dead.”
It wasn’t that Mrs. Torrance was particularly strict. She just expected a modicum of mutual respect from those she taught. She moved with the silent ease of an assassin as she swooped in, grabbed Larry’s phone, and promptly leaned over to look straight into his shocked face. “You’re new in my classes, aren’t you?”
He muttered a reply that was largely unintelligible, and a few people muffled giggles into their hands. “Quiet,” Mrs. Torrance said without looking up. The room obliged. “Mr. Jackson, I’m sure you’re surprised that I even know your name, seeing as how you’ve never been in a class of mine.”
Larry nodded, his eyes wide, his mouth open.
“All I ask is that you keep your attention focused on what’s happening in my classroom. That’s all. Can you do that?”
Larry nodded again, his face still frozen in shock.
“I’ll be keeping this until the end of class,” she said, gesturing toward his phone. “You’ll see me when the bell rings, right?”
One more nod. Mrs. Torrance strode back to the front of the class with but a single glance at Larry’s phone. She put it on top of her desk and picked up the Scantron attendance sheet for the day. She started out calling names of students she didn’t recognize, marking those that she knew. She smiled when she got to Moss’s name, and he returned it.
As soon as she got to the last name and hung the form on the door, Njemile raised her hand. “Is it true we’ve lost the women’s volleyball team?” she asked as soon as Mrs. Torrance acknowledged her. “I was going to try out this year.”
“I don’t know for sure, Njemile, but a lot of things got cut this year. Which I’m sure you’ll hear about, too, once Mr. Elliot does the announcements. Supplies and books are my concern, and I’m going to pay for any costs for this year’s Book Club. Which, I might add,” she said, pointing to a sheet of paper tacked up next to the whiteboard in the front of the room, “is something y’all should look into if you’re looking for a deeper examination of the literature you’ll be required to be familiar with for this year’s state testing.”
The room groaned in unison. “I know, I know,” Mrs. Torrance replied. “We teachers don’t like them any more than you do. But you’re required to pass the test in order to graduate next year.” More groans. “I know, we don’t have money for sports or clubs, but we sure got lots of funding for these damn tests.”
The speaker above the whiteboard beeped to life, and the voice of the principal, Mr. Jay Elliot, spilled into the room. “Goooood morning, West Oakland High, and welcome to the start of a brand-new year,” he said, and with that, Moss tuned out. He heard vague announcements related to football, homecoming, the Associated Student Body, and other things that didn’t concern him. He glanced around the room and saw that most of the other students, and even Mrs. Torrance, weren’t paying attention, either. In fact, their teacher was casually reading a book at her desk.
Moss wished he’d brought a book to read. He was tempted to pull out his phone to scroll through his texts again, but he didn’t want to risk Mrs. Torrance’s ire. His eyes drifted up to the stains on the ceiling, and he tried to see if he could recognize a pattern in them. He’d almost convinced himself that one of the water spots looked like Jigglypuff when Njemile tapped him on the arm.
“Moss, did you hear that?” Njemile said.
“Hear what?” he said.
“Shhhhh,” she said, and suddenly, Moss was aware that everyone in the class was listening to Mr. Elliot.
“… And though there was much discussion amongst the administration here at West Oakland High, the school district
decided that given some disciplinary incidents here last year, our school would ultimately benefit from a new safety program. So, beginning tomorrow, all students who have rented a locker for the year will be subject to random searches from the staff.”
The classroom broke out into a chorus of groans and shouts, and Mrs. Torrance, who was shaking her head, discontent on her face, asked everyone to quiet down. Moss felt a fire in his stomach rise to his throat.
“Now,” Mr. Elliot continued, “we know that this may seem like an inconvenience, but our concern is for the safety of the entire school. If you receive a summons from Officer Hull and Mr. Jacobs, please gather your belongings and head with him to your locker. He will conduct each of the searches, and we expect all members of our student body to treat our resident school resource officer with respect.”
Moss heard someone behind him angrily whisper, “This is bullshit,” and he couldn’t agree more. He felt a hand close on his, and he saw that Njemile was looking at him with concern. She knew why this infuriated him.
“We’ll be sending more information about this program to your parents in a couple of days, so please coordinate with them to make sure that in the future, we can all have a safe experience here at West Oakland High.”
It was at this point that the principal lost the attention of the room, and Mrs. Torrance didn’t bother to tame the disquiet of her students. The disappointment on her face was palpable, but it was Moss who wore the most pained expression.
“Maybe they won’t search ours,” said Njemile, but Moss could hear it in her voice: She didn’t believe what she was saying.
“Maybe,” he said, “but what about the others? That man has a temper.”
“True.” Njemile frowned and her forehead crinkled up. “This sucks.”
He couldn’t have put it better.
4
When Moss sat down across from his mother that night at their tiny dining room table, stomach aching from stress and hunger, his mother was quick to the point.
“So, Moss, talk to me. Something isn’t right.”
He looked up at her, then past Wanda at Ekemeni, who had just turned away from the stove. The apron wrapped around her was covered in multicolored stains that strangely matched her red and white top. “Nope,” she said. “Don’t you look at me, Moss. I cannot save you.”
Wanda pointed at Moss. “This is still my house,” she said. “No appealing to our guests for help.”
“Come to our house next time,” said Ogonna, walking into the kitchen, Njemile trailing behind her. “Then you won’t have to follow the rules.” She walked up to her wife and planted a kiss on her cheek while Njemile dropped a big bag of greens on the counter. “Missed you.”
“Missed you, too, sugar,” said Ekemeni. “But don’t let us get in the way of some good family drama.”
Even Moss had to laugh at that one. He adjusted the silverware next to his plate, delaying the inevitable for a few seconds. His mom could see right through him, however, so he sighed.
“I just had a long day, that’s all.” He reached over and tried to adjust another setting, but his silent treatment didn’t work very well. After a few seconds, he sensed that his mother was still staring at him. He looked up to find her soft brown eyes focused intently on him, her right hand under her chin. “And?” she said.
“And … not much else,” Moss replied.
“Well, that’s a lie.”
“Mama, it’s not that important, I swear. At least not yet.”
“Not yet?”
At this point, Njemile and her moms were all staring at Moss. Njemile shrugged, as if to say, You go first.
He put his fork down, taking a deep breath in the process. “It’s just that … yeah, today was kind of depressing.”
“How so, baby? Because of last night?”
“What happened last night?” Ogonna asked.
Wanda waved a hand at her without looking. “Same thing. People not minding their own business.”
“Again?” Njemile grimaced. “Over your dad, right?”
Moss nodded. “You know, I was thinking how people always want to be famous, but anyone who knows my face only sees what I wish we could forget.”
Ekemeni whistled as she stirred something in the pot on the stove. “Ain’t that the truth.”
He shook his head. “To be honest, I managed not to think about Papa all that much at school today.”
“So then what is it?” Wanda asked.
“You hear what they’re doing to our school?” When she shook her head, Moss continued. “Random locker searches. At any time of the day. They can just pull you out of class whenever they want.” He raised his fork. “Actually, let me correct myself: That Officer Hull can pull you out of class whenever he wants.”
“That the same young man who caused all that trouble last year for cussing someone out?”
Moss nodded. “Yep. Been invited back for another year of overreactions. And he’s still got a gun, despite that a ton of parents complained about it.”
Wanda sucked air through clenched teeth. “That so?” she said. “You hear about this, Ekemeni? Ogonna?”
“I hadn’t had a chance to tell them yet,” said Njemile.
“So, the big question is,” said Moss, “do we go to a prison or to a school?”
His mother didn’t say anything, but she looked like she wanted to. He decided to keep going.
“And it’s weird, Mama, cuz we don’t have all that much funding this year, and they’re cutting programs and some of the teachers are handing out copies of textbooks because we don’t have enough. Look!”
He scooted his chair out and stood up, then bolted into his room. He returned with a thick stack of paper with a black spiral binding. The first page read, New Biological Sciences. He handed it over to her, and she began to leaf through it silently. As he sat back down, she sighed.
“This is your textbook?”
“Yep. The whole thing.”
Ogonna moved over to the table and sat across from Moss, then reached out to Wanda. She examined the copy of the book after it was handed to her, then laid it gently down next to one of the plates, brushing. “Njemile, honey, you got any books like this, too?”
Njemile nodded as she came to stand next to Ogonna. “For American history,” she said, and she moved her long hair out of her face. “And Algebra II.”
“I don’t remember having to deal with this when we were in school, Wanda. Do you?”
Moss’s mother shook her head. “Nope.” She said nothing more, and Moss could see the irritation build in her. Her jaw moved as if she were chewing, but it was just a nervous reaction she had whenever she started to get angry.
They all sat at the table without saying anything while Ekemeni chopped up some greens over on the counter. Moss watched her, hoping someone would break the awkward silence. His mother snapped her head toward Moss.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Me?” Moss said, surprised. “Nothin’, I suppose. What can I do?”
“I don’t know. You don’t seem to like it, though.”
“Well, I don’t. Doesn’t mean there’s anything I can change.”
“Just another day in Oakland, isn’t it?” Njemile said. “I guess I can’t be too surprised. Our school, they stay messin’ up.”
Wanda stood up without a word and walked over to the kitchen, joining Ekemeni as she began to sauté greens in bacon fat. The smell filled the kitchen, and it was a comfort at the moment, a sense that Moss was right where he should be. His mother had worked long hours at the post office the last few years, a necessary evil in order to keep the bills paid. It meant that there were some days when she simply could not cook a meal for the two of them when she got home. Moss had learned a few basic dishes by the time he was thirteen—burgers, oven-baked chicken, roasted vegetables, and, if he was feeling ambitious, a pretty dope meat loaf. Sometimes, if he got out of school early, he would attempt his mother’s favorite: apple
pie. He wasn’t terrific at it, and so he was thankful on days when Njemile’s moms or his aunties or Shamika took over duties, socializing while constructing their meals, giving Wanda a chance to get off her feet and relax.
He watched Wanda and Ekemeni switch places, saw the pork chops come out of the oven where they’d been kept warm, listened to the women speak about their days. His kitchen had always been a loud place, even in the months after the funeral, and he was glad that his mother kept people in their lives. It was a strange family assembled before him, but it was what he had.
Ekemeni placed a large steaming bowl of greens on the table. “Not my real recipe,” she said while walking back toward the stove. “I didn’t have enough time today to let them sit for a few hours.”
“Please,” Moss said, standing to take a bowl of rice from Ogonna. “Like I’m gonna complain about all this delicious food.”
“You say that now,” she shot back, “but imagine if I’d had time to make my jollof rice instead.”
“Mom, don’t tease him,” said Njemile. “He is but a fragile man, and you know their fortitude is weaker than ours.”
The five of them sat at the table, and before serving any of the food, they lowered their heads. Ogonna cleared her throat. “Thank you for this blessing of food and company,” she said, then raised her head and smiled. “Amen, cuz I like to keep it short.”
Even though Moss never really prayed, he still replied with an “Amen” before digging into the bowl of greens in front of him. As he passed the bowl to his mother, he felt a vibration in his pocket. He reached down and pulled his phone out. It was a text from Esperanza, and the preview read, TEXT JAVIER. NOW.
“No texting at the table, baby,” Wanda said, passing the bowl to her right.
“Sorry,” he said, sticking it back in his pocket. “Just Esperanza reminding me of something.”
“How’s she doin’?” Ekemeni asked. “I haven’t seen her since last Christmas.”
“She’s fine,” said Moss. “She was here this past weekend since her folks was out of town.”
