“Peanut butter,” we both said simultaneously.
She leaned closer, until our eyes met. I glanced at her pinkie, an inch or two from mine now.
“Playing gotcha,” she whispered, that wry smile settling back onto her lips.
I took a deep breath, finding the last of my courage for the night. “You.”
“My turn? Again?”
“No. I like . . . you.”
“Me?”
We were so close, I felt her exhalation on my lips. And then I felt all the other supremely good things that I liked swirl inside of me—ocean breezes, hot sand between my toes, the coolness of a sun shower. All of that waiting to be found, right there in Sally Blake’s second kiss.
Senior Year
7. DRIVING AN IMPALA TO THE MOON
“OH, JIGGETY-JACK LOOKS GOOD.” A few hours after the unveiling of Erika’s prom dress, Diego and I clock out of Grendel’s and head over to his souped-up Impala. I climb in, pausing to run my hands over the fresh topcoat—a sparkling emerald gloss that makes his old ride look as good as new. “How’d you score the new paint job?”
Diego beams proudly. “Moms knows this guy from church. I helped paint his house; he gave me a pretty new sweater for baby boy.” Diego uses the edge of his shirt to wipe away a smudge from the hood. “Almost getting too pretty to drive, right? Gonna have to be on the bus like your ass when I get Old Jiggetty a spot in the classic car museum.”
“Nah, don’t do that. Something this pretty has to be shown off, right?”
“Yeah, that’s true, and with Jade riding shotgun, it’ll be like I have all the beauty in the ’hood right here, in my ride.”
We slide into the leather bucket seats Diego had repaired last year—another bartered restoration from another dude at his mom’s church—and I settle into a few minutes of heavenly rest, sipping on my coffee while Diego gives me the side-eye.
“It’s only half full,” I reassure him, because spills aren’t allowed in Old Jiggety, but I’m willing to risk his wrath because this tiny dose of caffeine will help me power through the last of my homework. I yawn, and when I glance at Diego, he’s yawning too.
“This,” he says, pointing at his mouth, “is because of you. When you start with that nonsense, I can’t even stop till tomorrow. I’ll yawn my way through all my beauty rest.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry is as sorry does.” He yawns again. “So, what did Grendel want with you?”
“Huh?”
“You know, in the office?”
“Oh . . . that?” That’s a conversation I’d like to avoid, so I yawn again, face thrust at him. Sure enough, he takes the bait, yawning too.
“Stop.”
“You know, it’s good that you yawn back. Means that you’re not a psychopath.”
“How’d we go from yawning to psychopaths?”
I shrug. “It’s about empathy. If you yawn back, you’re basically feeling my exhaus—”
“Let me guess, you read that somewhere?”
“I read everything somewhere.”
Usually we can banter like this for hours, but tonight Diego has tunnel vision. “Nah, but seriously, what he’d say?”
“Huh?” I yawn again. “Who?”
“Grendel.”
“Um . . .”
“Come on, now.” Diego takes a turn at a red light, slowing down suddenly to let a cat pass.
“Okay, well . . .” And I tell him about the problem with my overtime, leaving out the part about Mr. Grendel encouraging me to interview for the management-trainee program. Like Erika said earlier, that part isn’t relevant.
“Couldn’t Brenda tell you that?”
I shrug. “I guess, but . . . Grendel did.”
“That’s some watchful eye Mr. Grendel has.”
“Yep. Eyes everywhere.”
Diego pulls into my driveway and looks at me, all thoughtful. “Think those cameras have sound? ’Cause maybe the volume was turned down the last time I was in the office.”
I know they don’t because when I was in the office with Mr. Grendel, I managed to casually ask that question, but I decide to have a little fun with him anyway. “Bro, best to think they do. If you wanna be a Grendel man for life, you’re gonna have to look, act, and sound the part.”
“Piece of cake.” Diego smiles confidently. “I’ll just imitate corny-ass you.”
• • •
Inside, I knock off fifty push-ups just to relax, followed by a shower to get the grit and grime from my skin. After, I sit at my desk, spending one last hour working on my physics final. This project is just the kind of assignment that only our teacher, Mrs. A, could come up with. First we have to complete a “deep dive” into one of our favorite physics principles or concepts. Then we have to explain how that principle or concept applies to our everyday lives.
MRS. A
You have to be slightly philosophical.
KID AT BACK OF CLASS
Say what?
MRS. A
(smiles patiently)
Physics is practical, but there’s also a beauty to all of these rules about the way the universe operates. These are principles of organization, of interaction between objects that are visible and invisible to the naked eye. Think about the principles that dictate the way you live your life—both visible and invisible.
KID AT FRONT OF CLASS
How do you live an invisible life?
MRS. A
(laughing)
You don’t live an invisible life, but much like physics, a lot of why we act the way we do is a result of the invisible forces at play. Forces like love, sadness, fear, and pain. I want you to consider how those forces complicate and
influence the trajectory of your lives. What are the universal laws that you use to manage those forces?
KID AT BACK OF CLASS
Say what?
You’ve probably figured out that Mrs. A is that teacher who smells of essential oils, wears clothes made out of organic materials (hemp, for Mrs. A), and washes her hair with mixtures of baking soda and apple cider vinegar.
My friend Mrs. Banks says Mrs. A is the most hippie teacher I’ll ever meet. And you know a thing or two about the kind of teachers you’ll meet in a lifetime when you get to be Mrs. Banks’s age. Although, technically, no one knows how old Mrs. Banks is. The only clue is a crinkled black-and-white photo of her as a toddler, standing outside a row house in Washington, DC. Sookie is Mrs. Banks’s neighbor, and she says her parents believe that picture was taken some time between World War I and World War II. That would make Mrs. Banks as old as a hundred or as young as eighty—so, pretty old or super old. As a nod to all that oldness, the tribe calls her Old Mrs. B when she’s not around. When she is around, we just listen, because like I said, Old Mrs. B knows a thing or two about everything, including teachers.
Anyway, up until now it is true that I haven’t had a more hippie teacher. But hippie or not, I like Mrs. A. I like that her Jamaican accent is still strong, since she’s only been in the United States for a few years. I like the faint smell of lavender when she passes by my desk. I like the depth of her brown eyes. I like that when she looks at me, I feel like more than just the sum of my GPA and attendance record.
Yeah, I like Mrs. A, but I don’t really like this assignment, because I’m good at science, but life? That I’m not so sure about.
But the paper is due soon, so tonight I force myself to work on the first part of the assignment: wormholes. Truth be told, I’ve been fascinated with wormholes ever since Pop introduced me to that old nineties movie Contact when I was about seven.
That part at the end, when that blond scientist Ellie travels through a series of wormholes to arrive in this new place—maybe a new galaxy!—to meet an alien who looks just like her dad? Wow.
And even more impressive is how all of that goes down. On earth, Ellie is gone for just a few seconds. But her video camera—a nineties version of a GoPro—captures eighteen hours of static. What
does that mean? How can you reconcile the time difference?
Back then Pop tried to explain it to me, but all I remember are the series of words he used: wormholes, speed of light, something about Einstein.
I’ve watched Contact a dozen times since then. Now that my brain has developed more, I get how it’s done now, at least in theory.
In theory, even though Ellie’s gone for only a few seconds of earth time, she could still be gone for eighteen hours Ellie time because the wormhole could pick her up, at say 3:05:02 p.m. and return her back to earth at 3:05:04 p.m. That’s one of the reasons why wormholes are so amazing. If real, they could cut through the fabric of space and time. (At least in theory.)
After an hour reading up on wormholes and jotting down notes, I make a list for what I’ll try to find tomorrow at the library. At two a.m., I crawl into bed. You’d think I’d fall dead asleep, but instead, I’m awake in the dark, watching my ceiling fan whirl above me. And then I do something that I often do late at night. I whisper the words I heard almost four years earlier from Pop’s doctors: He’s suffered a traumatic brain injury.
Those words are like a cancer that sits inside me, metastasizing to my bones, my skin, my heart.
Many versions of the story have been told over the years—by me, by others—but the shortest version is the one I return to tonight: After the eighth-grade dance, Pop got hurt and our lives changed forever.
I roll onto my back to stare at the moon outside my window. I try to calm down, step away from my thoughts—the night Pop got hurt, Sally in the cafeteria yesterday, Mr. Grendel and our talk, Erika and her questions about the future. I play a game Pop taught me when I was six. The game is “How Long Would It Take You to Get to the Moon?” And the answer is, “Depends.” Here are the options:
1. If a dude tried to drive to the moon in his Impala, it would take him about five months.
2. But if a dude tried to get there on a rocket, it’d take him thirteen hours.
3. But if he hitched a ride on a wave of light, it’d take him 1.52 seconds.
You might be like, “Marco, the moon is 238,900 miles away. That’s an outrageous destination for a dude with an Impala. But if I have to choose, book me a first-class ticket on that wave o’ light.”
But I’ll tell you what Pop used to say to me. “Think of all that you’d miss along the way. That first break from the atmosphere, the earth full-out behind you. The lights as they brighten our globe at night. Think about that, little man.”
And even though I’m not a little man anymore, I think a little about that tonight.
About all that I’d miss along the way.
About all that the twins have missed along the way.
I think about Pop.
About who he is and who he used to be.
About wormholes and Ellie bending space and time to see her father again—at least some version of him.
And then I remind myself that wormholes exist only in theory. And me and Pop, we exist in real life. And for us there is no going back.
• • •
The following Tuesday night Old Mrs. B hands me a yellow sticky note covered in her slanted handwriting. The ink is bright purple; the quote stretches from edge to edge. “Have you gotten to that part of the book yet?” she asks.
We are sitting on a courtyard bench outside of Seagrove Branch Library, taking a “breather,” which Old Mrs. B defines as five minutes of fresh air and companionable silence. I’m at the library because we, the tribe, meet here every week. Sookie came up with the idea at the start of our senior year because . . .
SOOKIE
Well, Jade’s always busy with cheerleading, and I’m always busy with my committees. Marco, you’ve got school and work and your family and, Diego—the same—so, like, when do we really hang anymore?
ME
We hang all the time.
SOOKIE
Not outside of school.
ME
I swear I just saw you on Friday.
JADE
I saw her last night and this morning and at lunch. . . . I think sometimes she watches me while I sleep.
DIEGO
That’s creepy.
SOOKIE
Untrue, but if true . . .
(points to Diego)
pot to my kettle.
DIEGO
What is that? Old-people metaphor?
JADE
You two are fighting over who stalks me more.
(winks at me)
I’m beloved, Marco. I am.
SOOKIE
Anyway. We need a guaranteed midweek meeting. Our high school experience is almost over. We’re about to be Petals on the Wind and you all are Beloved by me, so let’s really think about The Way We Live Now.
DIEGO
Huh?
SOOKIE
(winks at Diego)
Welcome to twentieth-century pop novel.
And that’s how Tuesdays—part study group, part smack talk, part potluck madness—became our thang. Now, I know you’re not exactly supposed to talk or eat in the library, but since Sookie is a library aide and Old Mrs. B runs the reference desk, we got hooked up with a janitor’s closet to do just that. The space is tight. One overhead light illuminates five-by-five feet of crammed furniture—a rectangular wooden table, five chairs, and a storage shelf that holds cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper, paper towels, and the like—but since it’s connected to the library’s main space by a long hallway, we have our privacy. Although Old Mrs. B makes us keep the door wide open because “rules” and “being the adult here” and also “common decency is dependent on transparency.”
I use the closet to study more than the others, so above the table I’ve hung posters of my heroes: Einstein and Newton and Hawking and the little-known Emmy Noether, who, to paraphrase Einstein, was a helluva mathematician.
If you don’t know about Emmy, look her up.
The rest of the space is filled with random, mostly inspirational quotes that Old Mrs. B taped to the wall. Though we’ve added our own over the years.
And then there’s one corner, the far-right corner, that’s sort of an altar for Trayvon Martin, the South Florida kid who was murdered in 2012 for just being a teen who wore a hoodie and walked through a neighborhood that wasn’t his—a black kid like me is what Diego had said when it happened. I know how it can go. I see how some people look at me when I got my hood up.
He’s right. When you’re a young person of color, who knows how it can go? But to be knee-deep in that reality every day is hard. When I said that to Diego, though, he was like, “Man, we got to think about it every day. We’ve got to remember.”
So, we remember.
It was Diego who taped Trayvon’s picture to the wall. And Sookie who handwrote the index card affixed below, the words of an old Jewish proverb: “As long as we live, they too will live; for they are now a part of us; as we remember them.”
And it was also Sookie who, on our eighteenth birthdays, presented each of us with several voter registration applications wrapped in red, white, and blue ribbon—one to register and a few to pass out to whomever because “we’ve all got to fight to make things right, to make them better.”
Anyway, this is our thing. Each Tuesday we’re here dutifully to have one another’s backs. That is, unless it’s this week and we’re talking about something like this weekend, when Erika sorta asked me to move in with her freshman year of college.
DIEGO
Wait, What? Whoa.
ME
That’s hard-core alliteration.
JADE
Freshman year?
(sucks on lips)
That’s major, huh?
ME
Says the girl who started a savings account to move in with this dude
(nods at Diego)
this summer.
JADE
Yeah, but we’ve been together for almost four years. You and Erika got together when? November?
DIEGO
<
br /> And mostly because she straight-up kissed you.
ME
No. No.
SOOKIE
Yes. Yes.
ME
No, I kissed her.
DIEGO
Back. Bro, you kissed her back.
ME
No. I got that party started.
JADE
Eh . . .
(tilts hand side to side)
Did you?
SOOKIE
You were very good at receiving the kiss, Marco.
ME
There was a mutual lean-in!
DIEGO
Eh, you took a step back, like way back. But damn . . .
(whistles)
You closed the deal. Eventually.
JADE
Yeah, but if it weren’t for that wall behind you, who knows? You’d be stuck in lonely heart city.
DIEGO
But, damn, Erika’s been after you for, like, what?
JADE
If you count eighth grade . . . about four years plus before the eagle landed.
DIEGO
(eyes Jade)
Eagle landed?
JADE
It’s a common idiomatic expression.
DIEGO
Idiomatic expression?
JADE
Stop. I got mad vocab.
(smirks)
That better?
DIEGO
(smiling, proud-like)
Humph.
SOOKIE
Anyway, Marco. It was four years. But that’s okay. You had to heal from your broken-heart syndrome.
ME
From my what?
SOOKIE
You know, because . . .
(exchanges looks with Jade and Diego)
ME
. . .
SOOKIE
But you opened your heart again.
ME
She . . . I . . . I . . . We were just friends back then. I wasn’t healing, and she wasn’t waiting.
SOOKIE
Except she had the love eyes for you. Like, in eighth grade.
ME
Regular eyes. Normal eyes. Everyday eyes.
SOOKIE
Tarsier eyes. Nature unleashed.
JADE
Love at ten thousandth sight.
ME
And I’m out.
DIEGO
Bro, c’mon . . . Hey! Wait! You said no, right?
“I did say no,” I tell Old Mrs. B while I pick at the bark of a shady palm tree.
The Universal Laws of Marco Page 6
