Open Mic Read online

  (My modification of yet another series of lame jokes about me, courtesy of Benji. Uttered anytime I walked, spoke, breathed, or blinked.)

  So I don’t speak to the Harris girls. And they don’t speak to me. We just pass each other, day after day.

  It’s quite possible that I could have gone on avoiding Violet and Jasmine for another week, or maybe forever, if Rebecca hadn’t called me out.

  “They asked about you,” she says one Thursday night when we’re doing our homework in the study room on her floor. Boys are allowed on the floor until eight p.m. I’ve been here every night this week, even on days I didn’t have homework. It’s like I can’t help myself.

  “Who?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Violet and Jasmine.”

  “Oh. What did they want to know?”

  “Just your name. Where you were from. If you were ‘cool.’”

  “Why’d they ask you?” I know the words come out harder than they’re supposed to, but I need to know.

  “Violet thought . . .” Rebecca flips a page in her chemistry book. “They see us together a lot.”

  We don’t speak for a few minutes. I move on to my next calculus problem, but I may as well be deciphering Sanskrit.

  It doesn’t help that Rebecca’s wearing her hair like she did on our trip to New York last year. The drama club went to see Wicked on Broadway — and even though I was a set designer (well, more like a grunt for the set designer), I got to tag along. The play was okay, I guess. All I remember is Rebecca sitting beside me, dark curls spilling over her shoulders, skin smelling like oranges and mangoes, thigh pressed against mine during the entire show.

  The musical was named right. There had been something wicked going on in my head. And in my pants.

  “The young twin has a boyfriend,” Rebecca says. “But not the older one. Not Violet.”

  “Um . . . okay.”

  Another flip of the page. “You know . . . in case you were interested.”

  I shake my head harder than necessary. “I don’t like her,” I say. Loudly. Just to be sure she hears me. “Not like that, anyway. I don’t even know her.”

  Rebecca shrugs. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Shrugs again. Shuts her book. Takes a breath. “You said you were going to call this summer.”

  Her voice is low, and the hurt on her face slams into me harder than a thousand of Benji’s lame, flat, painful, offensive jokes.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Is it because . . . ?” Whatever bravery she exhibited confronting Callie on the first day of school has withered away.

  “It’s because I’m stupid.”

  We’re both quiet. Rebecca’s hair falls over her face, hiding her full, round cheeks. “You should talk to them,” she says softly. “They’re lonely.”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug.

  The next day I head for the library, hall pass in hand. Rebecca stands at the circulation desk but busies herself by looking in every possible direction except mine.

  It doesn’t take me long to find Violet.

  At least, I assume it’s Violet. They are twins, after all.

  “Violet?” I ask, nearing the table.

  She looks up from her textbook and slips the buds from her ears. “Griff. Wassup.”

  I sit down across from her. Her skin glows under the hard, bright fluorescent lights. “I just wanted to officially introduce myself. I’ve been meaning to, but —”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’m sure you got better things to do than hang with someone like me.”

  The sweat collecting underneath my arms approaches oceanic levels. “What makes you think that?”

  “I’m a freshman. Low man on the totem pole.”

  “Sophomores aren’t much better off,” I mumble. “So where’s your sister?”

  Her smile falters. “In study hall, texting that sorry, trifling boyfriend of hers.” She leans closer to me. She smells like aloe vera. Nice, but nothing like citrus. “I miss my boyfriend, too, but you don’t see me moping around.”

  She has a boyfriend. I want to turn toward Rebecca and her dark curls and citrus-scented skin and yell, She has a boyfriend!

  “It ain’t just him. It’s home.” She strums the table. “She misses home.”

  “Hobbs takes a while to get used to.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  I laugh. “When I get there, I’ll let you know.”

  I’m in the middle of telling her about what cafeteria meals to avoid when Mrs. Whittaker walks over. The school librarian is out on maternity leave, so Mandy Whittaker’s mom offered to substitute. Like an English degree, two snobby teens, and a huge bank account make you an expert on all things literary.

  “You two getting any work done?” Mrs. Whittaker asks.

  “Griffin was nice enough to come over and introduce himself. He’s giving me some pointers about school.”

  She glances at Violet’s notebook. “What are you studying?”

  “English.” She moves her hand, giving Mrs. Whittaker full view of her notebook. “I’m working on an essay on I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. By Maya Angelou.”

  “I’m familiar with the book,” Mrs. Whittaker says, touching the top button of her blouse. “I thought your class was reading The Book Thief.”

  “By Markus Zusak. I read it last year.” She doesn’t blink an eye. “Mr. Brooks and I thought it would be more worthwhile to focus on another book.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Whittaker’s voice is different. Smaller. She looks around the table, letting her eyes settle on the open Angelou book. The pages sport an assortment of highlights and underlines, with notes in the margins.

  “It’s my personal copy,” Violet says.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Whittaker nods to Violet, then to me. “Let me know if I can help, okay?”

  After Mrs. Whittaker leaves, Violet shakes her head. Her eyes remind me of a dull penny. “Sorry ’bout getting you into trouble. My bad.”

  It’s almost magical, the way she switches talking like that.

  Some people call it slang.

  Teachers call it bad English.

  Idiots call it Ebonics.

  And me — I call it just talking. Like you do with family.

  I want to be like her, loose and carefree with my vowels and consonants, right here at Hobbs. Because lately, even at home with my cousins, the words are starting to come out stiff and broken and wrong. The last time I was home, they said I sounded white.

  I shake this thought away. “I’m not worried about Mrs. Whittaker.”

  “That ain’t who I’m talking about.”

  I look back toward the circulation desk. Rebecca is scrubbing the counter with a dust rag. I can almost see the varnish rising from the counter, and the steam rising from her head.

  “She don’t have anything to worry about. Like I said, I have a boyfriend.” She glances at Rebecca. “She’s nice. Everybody thinks you two would make a nice couple.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Everyone?”

  The way she looks at me, I know she understands what I’m trying to ask.

  “Don’t date her if you don’t want to. It’s a free country. But she’s got it bad for you. And from the way it sounds, you’re jonesing for her, too.”

  That’s all she says. No jokes about the other white meat. No teasing about the black man’s kryptonite. No jabs about Mr. Oreo looking for a glass of milk.

  She picks up her earbuds. “I’d better get back to work. This essay ain’t going to write itself.”

  I take a scrap of paper and scribble my number on it. “Just in case you need to get ahold of me. About anything.”

  She takes the paper. “Hey, whatcha got going on this weekend? Want to hang out with me and Jazzy on Saturday? It might take her mind off of home and that sorry boyfriend of hers.” She pops her knuckles. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to bring out the dominoes. And now that we have a third player . . .”

  I think about lying or coming up with so
me excuse, but after the conversation we had, Violet deserves better. “I don’t know how to play.”

  She blinks twice, like she’s processing the data. “Oh. Okay. We’ll teach you.”

  I sit there, not sure what to say.

  She’s already got her nose back in her book. “And if you want, bring Rebecca. That way we can play spades, too.”

  I head to circulation, which smells of wildflowers and ammonia. And oranges and mangoes. “Thanks for getting me to talk to Violet.”

  “No problem. I forgot you guys were even in here.”

  Sure she did. I reach across the wide desk and place my hand on hers. Mrs. Whittaker would have a heart attack if she saw, but who cares? “What are you doing for lunch?”

  She glances at my hand. “You don’t want to go to the caf with Evan and Callie?”

  “No. Let’s walk over to Pat’s.”

  “Just us?”

  “Yeah. Just us. Like we used to last year.”

  She gives me a smile that grabs me and refuses to let go. “You’re buying.”

  I squeeze her hand, smile one last time, and head for the exit. Right before I open the door, I look back at Violet and give her a head nod.

  She sees me, and she nods back.

  In high school, my friends and I owned two words — we were Black, and we were geeks. We had the soundtrack to prove the first: classic Nina Simone and Aretha Franklin renditions of “Young, Gifted and Black.” That song was as much a part of my regular diet as the lumpy and not-sweet-enough porridge I had for breakfast many mornings. My mom was an Excellence for Black Children mother, which meant that she battled for Parent-of-a-High-Achiever supremacy at monthly meetings and was quick to whip out the dashiki and boom box so that I could dance interpretively alongside my equally gifted and well-mothered friends at the annual Martin Luther King Jr. breakfasts.

  We were on display at family gatherings, too — some evil auntie or uncle got the idea to have “the young people” perform every Thanksgiving before dinner. If we did not slouch to the center of the living room to recite a little Langston Hughes or perform a painful excerpt from our last piano recital, we could forget about eating. My cousins and I grumbled and threatened revolt, but . . . miss out on more codfish cakes and mac and cheese? We performed.

  But let’s be honest. My friends and I didn’t need that much prodding to put excellence on display, especially the academic variety. We were serious geeks. Second proof: we voluntarily joined (and were the only members of) the math and debate teams. We brought all of our textbooks home daily (just in case) in book bags the size of igloos. K. and I would call each other breathlessly on report card day to tally our As and A+s. (It was understood that the occasional B was too devastating to discuss.) We took such excessive pride in our academic achievements that when K. received an A instead of an A+ with a 98 average, we hurried to Mrs. H. to rectify this grievous error, with me along as his consigliere. Maybe Mrs. H. had gotten confused?

  No. The A would stand, “because you’re pompous,” she told us.

  Okay, so Mrs. H. wasn’t confused. But clearly she needed a sabbatical.

  Looking back, though, Mrs. H. might have been onto something. K. and I were certain that our all-around fabulosity knew no bounds, and certainly not racial ones. Our high school was an oasis of suburban racial integration. These were the ’80s; “Ebony and Ivory,” Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney’s pop hit of the era, could have been our school song. Jheri-curled and Sun-In’d hairstyles were equally welcome at the best parties. Our school put on The Wiz with a multiracial cast, and when we did The Crucible, the drama coach was sensitive enough to ask the Black members of the troupe if we’d be uncomfortable playing the role of slave Tituba. “Ummmm . . . yeah,” I murmured, imagining my mother’s face if I’d dared to come home saying, “Hey, Mom! I’m going to play the slave in the school play! Invite the whole family!” She would’ve thought I’d lost my mind.

  Still, I was secure enough in my two-word identity to wear different personas like the rubber bracelets that snaked up my arms. In playwriting workshop, I explored my younger days of dancing on the bed with a “blond” towel on my head in a thoughtful piece; after school, I giggled through the mall talking like a Valley girl with friends of every shape, size, and hue — we were like piano keys, melodious and harmonic, dancing to the same beat of mutual respect. We acknowledged the chocolate-and-peanut-butter perfection of Aerosmith and Run-D.M.C on “Walk This Way.” Smurf was both TV noun and dance-party verb, and Prince vs. Michael Jackson? Stumped us all. Just when Thriller and the moonwalk took our collective breath away, Purple Rain stormed in, wearing high-heeled boots and rolling pop, rock, heavy metal, and R&B into a glorious ball of awesome. Black and White, we all loved the spare beats and synthesizers of ’80s music (and the hair! Have you seen the hair? Seriously, google it. I’ll wait.).

  So of course, my friends and I were sure our White classmates weren’t racist. Racists were red-faced people wearing white sheets. They were not sitting next to us in AP English or competing with us for the Individual Research Projects in Science Award. We giggled and got good grades alongside one another, we were on the honor roll together, and we collectively celebrated the rise of hip-hop and blue-eyed soul.

  But surface harmony notwithstanding, there were cracks in the veneer.

  When I proudly displayed one of Keith Haring’s giant Free South Africa posters in my room, a friend came to visit and went white with outrage (pun intended). “That poster seems like it’s saying the Black people should rise up and crush White people,” he said. “They should really try talking to them first.”

  Of course.

  The nearly fifty years of resistance to the government system of apartheid could not have possibly included some talking.

  Even the music we shared started to feel a bit offbeat. As much as I admired the philanthropic sentiment, some of the lyrics in “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” the star-studded musical call for famine relief in Ethiopia, made me squirm. At school assemblies, the whole student body rapped and sang along to “Caravan of Love” and “King Holiday,” but the ugliness of Howard Beach, where a group of Black men were chased by a mob of White men through the streets of New York City and severely beaten, was only minutes away.

  My visits to the school library stopped after I’d asked the librarian where I might find resources for my research paper on Zora Neale Hurston and she told me there was “no such person.”

  Oh-kayy . . .

  Whatever. I had work to do. I was getting ready to move on to college, where surely more enlightened adults waited to affirm my brilliance. Pompous, that’s right.

  Then the school newspaper published a cartoon featuring Black teens speaking “Ebonically” (“Dat’s nasty!”). My friends and I (also on the newspaper staff) were not amused. Accompanying the cartoon was an op-ed of sorts decrying “Black” behavior at parties, and Black students drafted and signed a petition condemning the piece. We were at first buoyed by the number of student allies who immediately expressed their support. But things got sticky when those allies wanted to add their names to the petition, and we held fast to the notion that a petition from “We, the Black students” should be signed by . . . well, the Black students. It went back and forth. Feelings were hurt. We held our ground, suggesting that sympathetic parties start another petition, add a rainbow coalition of outrage to the voices of protest. That didn’t go over so well. We were called “reverse racists.” The principal called me into her office and gently asked that as student body president, I lead the charge to amend the petition so that White students could sign it. I declined politely. Later that day, the newspaper advisor explained to me and a friend that it was one big misunderstanding and had not been done to offend and oh-so helpfully added that in her day, minstrel shows were legitimate entertainment. The newspaper editors, genuinely chagrined, issued an apology, and life went on. Or so it seemed.

  After the school newspaper incident, my friends and
I were no longer at ease, but the discomfort was muted by empowerment lessons imparted by our parents and people like Ms. B., who shared both Oprah and Okonkwo (of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart fame) with us in African history class. There was Ms. Z., who had the vision and authority to shove nudge us into extracurricular Black theater. I played Mama in A Raisin in the Sun (my chagrin at having to play an “old lady” — with padding! — barely mitigated by the fact that I’d gotten a lead role), and yes, we revisited the dashiki days to dance interpretively to Claude McKay’s poem “White Houses” in front of the entire school. We were frequently mortified, but more often filled with confidence and pride. We took pride in knowing our roots (and how to dramatize them), and since my friends and I were a competitive group in a competitive class, the A+s flowed. We envisioned ourselves easing on down the road to a top-tier-college future.

  I had a pretty good portfolio of College Material that could open doors at a variety of hallowed halls named after Rich Dead Guys. Here I was — honor roll? Check. Good SAT scores? Check. More activities than I actually had time for? Check. I once calculated my after-school commitments and the time that each needed, and it came out to just under sixty-six hours a week. And that was before I counted weekends. Let the record show that I was undeterred. As a reader of both science fiction and fantasy, I figured it was only a matter of time before I uncovered the secrets of time travel, transmogrification, and magic wardrobes that would allow me to Do It All. Looking at the “me” on paper, how could I not expect to be a desirable candidate in the world of higher learning?

  And then I signed up for my first and only college prep meeting with my guidance counselor. He took one look at my list — Northwestern, University of Pennsylvania, Cornell, and SUNY Binghamton — and smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he said, “These schools are kind of a reach for you.”

  A reach? For me?