No One Ever Asked

by Katie Ganshert

  When she finished her ten o’clock, the ten o’clock stayed to get her nails done by ReShawn, and the conversation continued. Jen moved to the seat at the shampoo station.

  Jubilee sat in the salon chair as Trill used a blow dryer to dry her hair as straight as straw. She couldn’t stop staring at herself in the mirror.

  When Trill turned the dryer off, a song came on.

  A song Jen didn’t know.

  It was a song that had ReShawn and Trill catching each other’s eye with wide, matching smiles. As if on cue, Abeo jumped up from the toy truck he’d been pushing around on the floor and yanked up his pants.

  All the women hooted with laughter.

  “It’s his song,” Trill said.

  “Get it, lil man,” ReShawn added.

  And little Abeo did.

  He started shimmying his shoulders and sliding his feet like a young Michael Jackson. The women hooted louder. They snapped their fingers and moved their heads back and forth to the rhythm, just like Abeo.

  Jen felt herself smiling.

  She looked at Jubilee, who was smiling too. That shy smile of hers, as ever so slightly, her shoulder bobbed in tune with the beat.

  Forty

  Anaya’s body thrummed with life as she hung the self-portraits her students painted the day before. At the top of the bulletin board were precut, bright letters that said: The Beautiful Colors of Yellow 2.

  Anaya stepped back and smiled.

  On Monday, Mr. Keibler visited her class for his fourth and final lesson on bullying. The timing was perfect, given what had transpired beforehand. She spoke about it with him quite extensively at the end of last month, and unlike Mr. Kelly, Mr. Keibler had been both visibly and audibly disturbed. Hence, the book he read to the class yesterday.

  “It’s not dumb skin or smart skin, or keep us apart skin; or weak skin or strong skin, I’m right and you’re wrong skin.”

  Anaya’s soul had sung when she listened to those rhymes, so much so that she wanted to jump out of her desk chair and clap her hands. Lift her arm heavenward and shout Amen! like Mama when she was feeling the Spirit. Mr. Keibler wasn’t afraid to point out their differences. He didn’t act like they were shameful or embarrassing in that way adults sometimes did. He didn’t pretend the kids couldn’t see color. Of course they saw color. It was one of the first things they learned in preschool. The names of each one and look here, let’s separate them into groups. Four-year-olds knew that brown wasn’t peach and peach wasn’t brown. They just didn’t ascribe any meaning to it.

  That had to be learned. And the world was all too eager to teach. It delivered lessons in a thousand subliminal ways.

  Every single day.

  When Mr. Keibler left, Madison wanted to know why their skin was different. So Anaya taught an impromptu science lesson on the wonders of melanin. They spent the rest of the afternoon mixing paint colors to match their skin tones and creating the portraits she hung now.

  The atmosphere had been kinetic.

  She could practically see the wonder bouncing from one student to the next, until all twenty were excitedly holding their arms next to each other, admiring their different shades.

  It was an atmosphere that had been brewing for weeks—an atmosphere that made her excited and a little apprehensive. Especially after yesterday morning, when Madison raised her hand and asked what she asked.

  Her students were learning things she had to wait to learn until freshman year of college, when she signed up for an African American Studies course. Too many kids in South Fork never got that far. They moved through elementary school and middle school and high school believing the lie of omission. That the really important people from history—apart from a very select, standard few—were entirely white. But here in her class? She wasn’t making them wait for college. Here in her class, she got to watch Nia and Dante and Zeke and Jubilee take on a new sort of glow. All these people—all these heroes. And they had brown skin just like them.

  Nia had been the most ecstatic of all of them. But then, that was Nia. She spoke with a hand on her hip and a confident jut in her chin. “Why don’t she have a day? Christopher Columbus has his own day, and he didn’t even do nothing good. But Nina Simone is a hero, and she don’t have a day.”

  Nia had selected Nina Simone for her informational writing assignment.

  “My mama said most people don’t even know who she is.”

  Nia’s mother was right.

  Not enough people knew about the Nina Simones of the world.

  So they had a class discussion about why. Twenty second graders were becoming critical thinkers, right before Anaya’s eyes. Why were there holes in the things they were taught? Why were there missing spots? What were the missing spots?

  “You always want to ask what’s missing,” Anaya said, tapping her temple. “It’s just as important as what’s there.”

  And all twenty students had nodded soberly, like they understood.

  A throat cleared behind her, interrupting the memory.

  Mr. Kelly stepped inside her empty classroom, smiling a little awkwardly, his cheeks redder than normal, and Anaya knew why he was there. She’d been bracing for it.

  “Hi there, Anaya,” he said.

  “Hi,” she said back.

  “What’s this here?” he said, studying the just-finished bulletin board. “Did they do these in art class?”

  “They did them in here, with me.”

  An almost imperceptible furrow creased his brow.

  He cleared his throat again.

  Anaya’s muscles tensed a little more with every hem and every haw.

  “So…you’re sticking with the curriculum, right?”

  “Sir?”

  “I want to make sure you’re covering what’s meant to be covered. Second grade is a big year. There’s a lot to get through.” Mr. Kelly rubbed his cheek. “And the standards at Crystal Ridge are, of course, very high.”

  “Have I given you any reason to believe I’m neglecting the standards?”

  “No, no. I’ve just…” He wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. “I’ve received a few concerned phone calls from parents.”

  And there it was.

  “Some of them have expressed concern over what the kids are learning. They’re worried that too much is being changed around.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and squinted at the bulletin board next to the self-portraits—the Incredible Hulk bulletin board, where she’d hung the students’ finished reports. Gavin Royce had chosen Frederick Douglass. Mr. Kelly seemed to be reading the quote at the top of Gavin’s paper. “Usually, we cover this kind of stuff in February.”

  A scratch, Anaya…

  She waited for the sting to subside, then spoke with measured calm. “The students had to complete an informative piece in writing this year. As far as I can tell, the teacher has the freedom to choose the topic.”

  Mr. Kelly strolled several paces as she spoke. He casually opened the door to the time machine and peeked inside. “Sarah Land’s mother called this morning. She said that Sarah came home yesterday, feeling bad about being…white?”

  “We talked about that.”

  “You and Mrs. Land?”

  “Me and Sarah.”

  “Oh.”

  “She was feeling bad. I helped her understand that we don’t learn about our past to feel bad about it. We learn about the past so we can learn from our mistakes.”

  Sarah had come up to Anaya’s desk during quiet reading time. She was holding a book about Ruby Bridges and blinking back tears. “How could they be so mean?” she had asked, sniffling.

  It was a valid question, and Anaya gave her what she hoped was a valid answer. “You don’t have to be a mean person to do mean things.”

  Sarah had pondered that for a while, and then they talked for a
little longer. About all those big feelings—those bad and sad and mad feelings—and how Sarah could turn them into something good. She could decide that she would do better than her ancestors. She could be the change where she was at.

  Anaya wasn’t sure if Sarah understood.

  But she gave her a hug, and Sarah wiped her eyes.

  And then recess happened.

  Sensitive Sarah Land—a follower not a leader—didn’t follow Paige Gray to the monkey bars that day. Instead, she played hopscotch. She played hopscotch with two little girls with matching beads in their hair. Jen Covington had taken Jubilee to Auntie Trill’s.

  “She also expressed concern that you were teaching the kids about someone named Emmett Till. I wasn’t exactly sure who that was, so I did a Google search. The pictures are quite…graphic.”

  “They are very graphic.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little mature for second grade?”

  “I didn’t teach them about Emmett Till, Mr. Kelly. Madison came across him on her own at home when she was searching the internet for important events in the 1950s.”

  “Oh.”

  “I could hardly leave something like that unaddressed. I assure you, I did not go into any details.”

  Mr. Kelly’s brow furrowed even more.

  “Sir?”

  He looked at her, his furrow impossibly deep.

  “I’m not neglecting any of the district’s standards. I’m just approaching some of them from a different angle. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  Forty-One

  Camille clasped her hands, craning to see. It was a chilly fifty-eight degrees, but her palms were sweating. Her underarms too. She always got nervous watching Taylor run. It was as though her lungs were incapable of expanding until she caught the first glimpse of her long-legged daughter rounding the corner, kicking hard toward the finish line with a comfortable lead.

  This was the cross-country state meet, which ratcheted her nerves to a whole new level. It didn’t matter that this was Taylor’s third time; fifth if you counted track. Last year, Taylor placed seventh. Seventh as a sophomore. This year, Taylor had her sights set on the top five. Coach Mack told Camille in confidence that he thought she was capable of top three.

  Camille was afraid to believe him.

  Until she saw Taylor with her own eyes, halfway through the course, keeping pace with numbers one and two.

  It did the opposite of settle her nerves.

  “Mom,” Austin said beside her. “I don’t have to spend the night. I can just hang out.”

  “I already told you, Austin,” Camille replied, her eyes glued to the top of the hill. Any second now, the front runners would appear. Any second. “If you and Edison want to hang out, he is more than welcome to come to our house.”

  “But he’s already been to our house. He wants me to come to his.”

  “I said no.”

  “Why not?”

  Because Edison lives in the ghetto! There was another shooting in South Fork last week. Camille fully supported Austin and Edison’s budding friendship, but not at the expense of her son’s safety.

  “Dad, will you let me?”

  A monster in Camille’s chest snarled to life. Austin’s father didn’t get to make that decision. He forfeited that ability four months ago. But before she could say so, a runner appeared. A brunette, followed closely by two blondes.

  Camille rose up on her tiptoes, her heart pounding.

  Taylor? Was one of them Taylor?

  The crowd broke into applause. A heavyset woman whooped and ran forward, jumping and clapping her hands. “C’mon, Vanessa! Push, baby. Push!”

  Vanessa was the brunette, and she was losing her lead.

  Not to Taylor.

  Taylor wasn’t part of the pack.

  “Where is she?” Paige asked, jumping on the balls of her feet to see around the crowd of spectators. “Why isn’t she in third anymore?”

  Two more runners crested the hill. Contenders for fourth and fifth.

  A Latino girl. And a redhead.

  Camille’s hands clenched into tight fists beneath her chin.

  C’mon, Taylor, where are you?

  It wasn’t too late. If she showed up now—right now—she could start her kick and pass the two girls for fourth place. She could still make her goal, because her kick was impressive. Her kick had won her many races.

  “There she is!” Austin said.

  Camille’s adrenaline surged.

  Taylor had come over the hill, her face scrunched up in exertion, neck and neck with two others.

  C’mon, Taylor. C’mon. Show us that kick, baby.

  Paige started jumping and cheering, calling out encouragement.

  Camille clutched Austin’s shoulder.

  Where’s your kick, Taylor? Show us that kick.

  But it didn’t come.

  The other two girls pulled ahead.

  Taylor crossed the finish line at number eight.

  Camille’s thudding heart sank into her stomach.

  Eighth place.

  Taylor had gotten eighth place.

  “Ouch, Mom.” Austin extricated himself from her death grip. She had grabbed Neil’s arm too. Their eyes met, and, like a hot potato, she let him go.

  She turned away and pushed through the crowd toward her daughter, who was leaning over her knees, sucking at the air, nodding at her coach. He clapped her shoulder, then headed off to cheer for his other runners. He had three today.

  Taylor shook out her legs, looking down at them like they were foreign objects instead of a familiar part of her body.

  “Honey?”

  Taylor looked up. Her cheeks were red, her lips pale, her forehead beading with sweat.

  “You did great.”

  “No, I didn’t. I did awful.”

  Camille opened her mouth to reply, but Taylor didn’t wait. With heartbreaking tears in her eyes, she walked over to the tent where she and her teammates put their bags. She squatted and yanked at the zipper.

  “Hey,” Neil said, squeezing past a couple of women. “Is she okay?”

  He was dressed in a pair of casual jeans and a heather-gray cotton pullover. It was an outfit Camille picked out for him after he lost his weight. Turned out, he lost that weight for another woman. And he had the audacity to ask if Taylor was okay.

  No, Taylor wasn’t okay. None of them were okay. Everything was falling apart. Camille and Kathleen were in an incredibly weird place because Kathleen was so worried about Cody. She seemed to hold Camille personally responsible for the fact that Taylor rejected Cody’s homecoming proposal, as if Camille had any control over who Taylor liked. She didn’t even have any control over who her husband liked.

  Jen Covington—who was the full-time nurse at the high school now, thanks to her, no less—hated Camille’s guts. So did Paige’s teacher. Both of them might as well have dressed up as matching Elsas at Yellow 2’s Fall Festival, given how coldly they treated her. Never mind the fact that she planned the entire party, even though her own family was in turmoil. Never mind the fact that Camille made Paige write an apology note. Never mind the fact that Camille had personally called Jen at least three times hoping to explain. The woman never answered; she never returned Camille’s phone calls. She cut Camille off completely and became BFFs with Nia’s mother. Their girls even had matching hair now. And somehow all of it was Neil’s fault. Because everything started falling apart when he left.

  “Is she okay?” Camille’s voice trembled like it did the first time she had to give a speech in high school. Only this time, it wasn’t trembling with nerves. “What do you think, Neil? Her father walked out on her.”

  His face went pale. “I didn’t walk out on Taylor.”

  “Right. That was just me.”

  “Don’
t put this on my shoulders, Camille. She had an off day. It happens to everyone.”

  “It never happens to Taylor.”

  “It just happened right now.”

  “I saw you with her.”

  “What?”

  “I saw you with Jasmine Patri.”

  His face went even whiter, confirming everything she already knew and all the things she only suspected.

  “Or Jas, as she appears in your phone. You know, I’ve been wondering. Do you two have a nickname for me like you have for her ex-husband? Hairy Gary and Camille the Heel? Is that how you struck up a relationship? She was new to town and lonely, so she told you her sob story while you did burpees together? Maybe that’s why you never invited me to CrossFit.”

  “You hate CrossFit.”

  “And she loves it. Just like she loves hunting and numbers. Aren’t you two perfect for each other? The financial advisor and the accountant.”

  Neil narrowed his eyes. “Did you hire someone to investigate her?”

  “I hired someone to investigate you.”

  People were starting to stare.

  Austin and Paige among them. They remained where they’d been when Taylor lost, watching in the same way they watched the police officer and Darius Jones on her front lawn.

  She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “I don’t even know who you are. We’ve been married for twenty-one years, and somehow you’re a complete stranger.” Because the Neil she knew? He would never have done this. Not to her, and certainly not to their children.

  “I can’t believe you hired a private investigator.”