Alright, fine. We were inseparable for an entire school year, through seasons and growth spurts. So maybe at first it felt like fifty-nine days, the way they skipped past us and didn’t look back. But it was so much more.
He felt like my everything that year. My only thing.
He orders hot black coffee, and I almost die of laughter. “You are so predictable, when did you become a college fuckboy?”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. I-Lift-Girls-Over-My-Muscular-Ass-Shoulders-and-Post-the-Pics-to-Instagram.”
“Wow. So you’ve been stalking me?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, lifting his hot black tar in a cup to his lips. He talks as he blows just over the lip of his cup to cool it off. “Of course I have. You’re not the only one who got kinda lost after that whole thing in eighth grade.”
That whole thing in eighth grade. I really don’t even know how to talk about it. So I resolve not to. I guess that’s a pretty okay thing to refer to it as. A Whole Thing.
“Who says I was lost?” I counter. I scramble a little bit, thinking I’ve killed the mood.
He only offers back a sedate “Mm,” brows raised, lips clipped to his coffee mug.
“So, how’d you end up here? Back in California. And enrolled here at SFSU. That was a shocker.”
“The universe has jokes.” But he doesn’t elaborate on that particularly vague thing, switching instead to, “Do anything fun since you got here?”
I waffle. But in the end, I skip over the billion-dollar burritos with CAKE and the mandatory “Welcome” thing with Desh, et cetera. “Not really. I’m kinda stuck on what’s back home.”
“Thought you hated home.”
“I do. I did. I mean, I do but there are parts … my bees.”
Scale of one to ten, ten being LMAO YOU DUMBASS, how much of a dumbass do I sound like right now?
“Bees?” Gabriel says.
“It’s a long story.”
“So shorten it for me.” He shrugs, like it’s so easy to shorten the longest love affair of my life.
“Okay, well. For his royal highness, I’ll try. Basically, I own an apiary.”
“Which is … what, exactly? You know, not for me. But for the idiots in the back.”
“Right. Yes. The idiots. An apiary is essentially a bee farm. A place to keep bees. To farm honey and breed more bees. Especially ones like the Hawaiian yellow-faced bee.” He’s quiet. I elaborate, “They’re on the endangered species list?”
“Wow,” he says. “Yeah, wow. I never knew.”
“Most people don’t. And I never told anyone about the farm. It wasn’t always mine though.”
“No?” he says.
“No.” And I don’t provide more there. Seems to be the name of the game, and right now I’m down to play it. “So you’re trying to do some kind of arts major? What, like, art history?”
He looks like the type. An artíst.
“Nah,” he says, a shy grin on his face. A shy grin I’ve never seen before. I like it so much on him. “Dance. It’s an arts major and a dance focus.”
Dance. I don’t think I remember that.
“Yeah, the look on your face says you don’t recall that. You probably wouldn’t remember because I didn’t let my mom push it on me outside of the dance community. You know how brown moms are. I loved it. And still do. But it was hard to be a brown boy named London who had an attraction to dance and also had a similar thing going with dudes part-time.”
“Got that Afro-Brazilian wave going, she doesn’t play.”
“I’m saying. She will kill my ass over something trivial. I love her, though, that’s my woman.”
“So … dance. Can I ask what kind of dance?”
This one. Look, look! You see it? That crinkled-nose smile? Probably number two on my favorites list.
“You? Of course. You can ask me anything.”
Dangerous, that word. Anything.
Once, back then, he and I snuck out. It wasn’t too late, but just dark enough that we felt like we’d managed something big, half walking, half running from bus stop to bus stop and then, finally, breathless, landing on some random suburb’s almost-tidy corner.
“What should we do now?” I asked.
“Anything,” he whispered right into my ear. And I swear I felt his lips brush my neck. There and then gone, just like the boy himself would be mere weeks after that.
Gabriel continues, “Lyrical. Contemporary.” He doesn’t do that thing a lot of people do when they talk about their talent where they shrug or get shy or downplay it. He owns it. Leans back all long torso, ropy arms, and delicate fingers, red at the knuckle.
He’s proud of himself, but he’s also got pride in the craft, too. You can tell by the way he lights up.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing.”
“You know what contemporary dance is?”
“No,” I say, a genuine smile attacking my face, trying to fight for the maximum amount of space.
He has to compose himself before he can continue. “Yeah, a lot of people don’t. If it’s not ballet, hip-hop, or salsa, it’s new news. Which is funny, because contemporary-lyrical dance is basically a mixture of all those things.”
“Lyrical dance … set to song lyrics?”
Gabriel snaps his fingers and then points at me. “Precisely. Lyrical and contemp are basically the same things. The only difference is that lyrical’s choreography relies more on the lyrics of the song. Contemp is about the nonverbal feeling you get. About which ancestor living inside you shakes your frame the most.”
“You like that one best.”
“You’re right on that,” he says. “What about you? I would attempt to guess what direction you’re headed in but you’re sort of an enigma, Torrey McKenzie.”
He reaches one arm across his body to scratch his biceps, which then turns into his thumb pressing into the skin there, casually moving back and forth.
I can’t stop staring at it. “I’m really not. I’m undecided.”
“Keeping your options open.”
“Not really. Just kind of wondering what my options are at this point.”
He’s so quiet right before he says, abruptly, “Torrey, do you go to church?”
And I don’t really know where he’s going with this so I answer with no hesitation. “Uh, church? I don’t know, my fam’s pretty serious about it.”
“Okay, but, like, do you go to church?”
I get what he’s saying now.
“Kind of. Yeah. I sometimes need to believe in something bigger than me.”
He nods.
“Why?”
“I just … I just find myself wanting to know things about you. Needing to know things about you.”
Kind of heavy for a just-coffee type of thing. But the rest of it. God.
He scratches the skin just below his lip. There’s a tiny patch of hair there that gives way to the patch of it on his chin. Those two puzzle pieces go well with his mustache, which, somehow, I’m just now noticing, too. Dudes and our facial hair—it’s all totally contrived, trust me. All for attraction purposes. We plan this stuff, meticulously.
But still, his facial hair, the hair on his arms, and the fine strands on his legs, between the end of his jeans hem and that damn ankle … it’s the ideal balance. There-but-not-furry.
“I’m kind of a heathen, so anytime I get within twenty-five feet of a religious institution, I set flames to the building as well as any small children present.”
“Yikes. Not the kids, Gabe. Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” he says. “The kids, Torrey.”
I’m laughing and trying to hold most of it in so I don’t seem overeager when he says, “They say it’s supposed to get easier.”
“What is? Going to church?”
“Figuring out who you want to be.”
My eyes hold his for a moment. Or his eyes hold mine. I’m not sure which, but eventually it ceases to matter.
11.
Emery Grymchan—the E in our lovely CAKE acronym—is all gaming consoles, elitist anime preferences, and horror manga. Her skin, the most entrancing umber brown I’ve ever seen, plus the sunburst of black beachy waves around her head automatically shove her in the category of Cooler Than Torrey McKenzie.
She and I share a class, it turns out. (Remember that 11:00 a.m. Tuesday class I was on time to? Yeah, turns out it’s twice a week, and I missed the Thursday lecture. So here I am, a week after that. The professor does not let this go unnoticed.)
“Nice of you to join us for both classes this week, Mr. McKenzie,” he says. Dr. Che is a brown man living his best gay life, lipstick and highlights kicking ass. (Yes, I know what highlighter is. Aunt Lisa used to practice using it on me. She only stopped when Theo started to make comments about me and animal testing.)
I slide in, not quietly, next to Emery, who has her massive sack full of probably small babies and eighteen copies of 1Q84 saving my seat.
Settled, laptop on my desk, book out, highlighter, pencil, perfect I’m-listening-I’m-learning student face in play, I nudge Em.
“Ow! What?” she hisses.
I nod at her laptop and mouth Facebook.
So she opens her web browser and navigates to your granny’s favorite form of social media, where I have messaged her.
TM: I remembered something interesting about you the other day
EG: About me? What??
TM: The Collective, out in Oakland and down through LA—don’t you basically stan for them eternally?
EG: OK yes, so if you’ll recall, stanning for The Collective is the reason I have an arrest record
TM: I know I know, just hear me out
EG: And that I am firmly entrenched in this life where I follow all the rules and all the laws
TM: Emery.
EG: And that I need to keep my head low to the ground now if I wanna keep DREAMing, iykwim
Emery and her family came here from Senegal a couple of years back.
TM: I do. And listen. None of what I need from you here is gonna be illegal. I just need info, resources, maybe a slap on the ass so that I don’t fall behind on anything.
EG: You’re already behind in this class, Torr
TM: I am?
TM: Or, I mean, I know, but that doesn’t even matter
TM: I’m talking about getting behind on whatever paper trail is gonna help me keep my bees
EG: What do you eman DOESN’T MATTER
EG: *mean
TM: I EMAN I’m not staying here. I’m gonna disenroll, I’m going down to admissions soon to figure out what I gotta do.
EG: Torr. I hate to tell you, but that’s gonna be a PITA. My cousin Roger did that. They made him pay back, like, all of his fin aid.
My stomach drops. Dr. Che screams something about fact-checking and investigative journalism. Literally, he screams. He’s super passionate about fact-checking.
Anyway, the point is his shouting resonates.
It’s a mirror of just how wrecked I feel right now. I’ve already used a good chunk of my grant, and I really don’t want to have to take out any loans.
If I leave outright, it’ll mean I’m doing so willingly, failing each and every one of my classes. Which means my GPA would drop lower than Desharu’s postpubescent balls. It’d be nonexistent and that would make it all but impossible to reapply or even reenroll here at SFSU later. If there ever is a later.
The smart choice—the only choice, off top—is to get in there before that Add/Drop deadline.
But leaving … it feels like the only way to pick up all those broken pieces at home. It feels like the only way to hold on to Uncle Miles, to thank him, to keep him alive and make him proud.
What am I even doing? Everything in my life is falling apart. I swallow repeatedly, hoping I don’t choke on my tongue or something and screw that up, too. I’m not ready. I don’t know how the hell I made it this far, to a university in a city that isn’t the Hills, alone. Who do I even think I am trying to keep my apiary from drowning when I can’t even keep my own head above choppy waters?
My favorite thing about Uncle Miles was probably his sense of style. He took huge amounts of pride in that, and he taught me to do the same thing for myself. I can remember being a kid and having this super-intense desire to be just like him.
It wasn’t even a hard thing to do. Uncle Miles and I have always looked a ton alike. Our baby pictures are near identical, always the butt of every easy joke at the family reunion. Even now that I’m older, I’d still wager I could pass for Uncle Miles. Both dark skinned with similar builds, rangy arms and legs, sinew, song and struggle deep in the bones. Deep-set brows settled onto angular foreheads. Too-full mouths pressed into sharp jaws.
The lashes—not gonna lie, girls have a thing for the lashes. Never did me any good, but gave Uncle Miles plenty of play.
And the hair. Uncle Miles always said we shouldn’t ever be caught without a fade, so I try to make sure I stick to that. A shadow taper every couple of weeks while the top dances on a twist of its own. Which reminds me, I guess I need to try and find a freaking barber in this white-ass college town, then?
It’s weird, this fundamental peer isolation. Living in a town where I’d have to seek out a barbershop with barbers of color and not just waltz into the first Great Clips I see on the corner. It’s new and, you know, it kind of leaves the door open for the sort of exploration I’m not sure I’m ready for.
As I approach, there’s a guy at the entrance of my dorm talking to one of our RAs, Kiana. Dude looks familiar. He’s dressed like a shark. I immediately don’t like him and his greasy, slicked-back, probably dyed blue-black hair.
Aim for that, Torrey.
For what?
His money. You need to aim for that one day. That success.
Man, money ain’t everything.
Lookit you, kid. Money ain’t everything. That’s for damn sure. But ain’t his suit fresh?
Uncle Miles and I used to have conversations just like that all the time. One of his main lessons was making sure I was reaching high enough and not selling myself short.
Now, I pat Kiana’s arm the minute I make it over to them—a gesture that says, Hey! There are witnesses and so trying to kidnap people from here won’t go well for you, Random White Man.
I’m about to squeeze my way past the pair when dude says, “You’re Torrey.”
“Who’s asking.”
The guy smirks. He’s new money. Clean money. Money my part of the hood doesn’t see on a visit and definitely not on any long-term kind of fly-in. But this isn’t the Hills, is it.
“I’m not asking. I remember you.”
“Can I help you?”
He laughs, and I place my hands on my hips and stand in front of Kiana in the world’s worst example of male chauvinism I’ve ever seen.
Kiana intones, “Torr?”
“Can I help you?” I say again, ignoring Kiana. She doesn’t walk away though, even if being here’s not in her job description, but that’s what I’ve figured out about her. She’ll back you one hundred even if she’s not required to. Though, usually it’s like, she won’t rat you out for co-ed after-hours junk or she’ll come unlock the door for you if you’re shwasted and getting back to the dorm after 11:00 p.m. or whatever.
“My name’s Rick. Richard Mathew, but Rick.”
“Pretty sure ‘Dick’ is supposed to be short for Richard.”
“Yes,” he says, lips pursed. I take that as a win, point to me. Asshole. “I think you know why I’m here.”
“Can’t say that I do. Which is why I’ve asked you twice what I can do for you. As you can see, I’m kinda busy being a college student here and Kiana doesn’t have all day to entertain you either.”
“Yeah. Well, you’ll have a lot more time to be a busy college student with Kiara here after you hear me out.”
Kiara. What a jackass.
He continues, “I’m the reason you’re going under.”
I feel all the fight drain out of me. I’m not even entirely sure what it is he’s saying. And yet still, it’s like being unplugged. Like water draining out of a bathtub.
He continues, “I just came by to get some insight into who you are and how we might be able to help each other.”
Kiana whispers, “This doesn’t feel like an okay thing, Torr.”
I nod in her direction then continue to Dick Richard. “I see.”
“Yeah. This’s been years in the making. I remember meeting your uncle. What’s his name, uh …?”
“Miles.”
“That’s it!” He snaps. “Your uncle Mike, he—”
“That wasn’t at all subtle, I literally just told you his name. It’s Miles. I’d appreciate you not pulling that one again.” The whites—always on some bull like this.
“Yeah, sure sure. Anyway, I was real sorry to hear about what happened with him. But your space. It’s a dream. Been hearing what they got planned for that neighborhood, and I’m telling you—you kids are gonna love it.”
“Oh?” I’m giving him a whole lotta fuck-you face right now, and he’s not picking up on it at all. Maybe because he’s barely talking to me. It’s more of a talking-at-me type of thing. Again—that’s white people.
This is for y’all. No, no—not you, Black and brown folk.
The whites do it unconsciously. And so I get it. But that still doesn’t make it cool.
Oh. Wow, yes. Okay. You—A White—think you’re not complicit in this? Very cute. Very false.
This is what we call a microaggression.
So you’ve got The Whites who don’t realize they’re doing it, and then there are the rest—the Woke Whites—who believe that they’re above it.
You’re not, Cheryl-Rose. You’re not. All those callout threads you do on the Twitter dot com, you’re not exempt from them.
To me, it’s important to understand that these are learning opportunities.
“Yeah, we’re talking strip malls and parks and lash bars and—”
“Listen, Dick. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time here. But I’m not taking this news with my ass planted on a seat. I’m appealing.”
He scoffs. Like, for real, it is a scoff.
By Any Means Necessary Page 6
