The Book of Lost Friends(101)

We move to LaJuna next. “I am Seraphina,” she says. “My daddy was the banker….”

I eventually deduce that she has abandoned her own research project on family roots, to take on a role from Lil’ Ray’s family, now that they are a couple and all.

We’ll have a talk about that later.

I let her finish, and we move along. A few of the life histories are more complete than others, but there’s something magnificent in each one. Even the littlest participants manage to stumble through. Tobias tells, in only a few lines, the story of Willie Tobias, who died along with his siblings so tragically young.

I’m wrung out by the end of the rehearsal, and stand with the volunteers, unable to process my thoughts into words. I’m amazed. I’m elated. I’m proud. I love these kids in a deeper way than ever before. They are incredible.

They’ve also attracted a bit of an audience. Cars have pulled in along the road’s shoulder, where the armchair quarterback dads usually stop to watch middle school football practices. Some of tonight’s observers are undoubtedly parents who’ve come to give kids a ride home. Others, I’m not so sure of. The sleek SUVs and luxury sedans are too upscale for this school, and the people stand in bemused groups, watching, talking, pointing occasionally. The body language looks ominous, and I think I spot the mayor’s wife in her exercise clothes. A police department vehicle drifts around the corner and pulls in. Redd Fontaine swaggers forth, belly first. A few of the bystanders walk over to check in.

“Mmm-hmmm, that’s trouble,” Granny T says. “Meetin’ of the BS—the Busybody Society—going on over there. And mmm-hmm, there goes Mr. Fontaine, struttin’ down the way to see, can he find anybody with a bad taillight or a license tag out of date and write some citations? Just there to throw his considerable weight around. That’s all he’s up to.”

A rust-mottled truck at the far end pulls out and rattles away before Officer Fontaine can get there. Some poor student’s ride home just vacated the area.

“Uh-huh,” one of the other New Century ladies murmurs in disgust.

Heat boils under my jacket and spills out my collar. I’m livid. This night is a triumphant one. I refuse to let it be spoiled. I am not putting up with this.

I start across the field, but I’m waylaid by kids asking how I thought things went, and if it was good, and what they should do with their lanterns, and how can they get costume materials if they don’t yet have what they need? With our dress rehearsal having gone well, the ones who had been lackluster are psyched up.

“We do okay?” Lil’ Ray wants to know. “Are we gonna get to have our Underground pageant? Because LaJuna and me got the advertising posters all figured out. Our manager at the Cluck says if we write up something for a flyer, he’ll take it over to the Kinko’s and get copies made for us when he goes to Baton Rouge to the restaurant supply. Color paper and everything. We’re okay to do it, right, Miss Pooh? ’Cause I got these threads from my Uncle Hal, and I am lookin’ fine.” He shakes LaJuna loose and does a slick 360-degree heel spin so I can get the full effect.

His smile fades when LaJuna is the only one who laughs. “Miss Pooh? You still mad at us?”

I’m not mad. I’m focused on the cars and the bystanders. What is going on over there?

“We okay?” LaJuna prods, reattaching herself to Lil’ Ray’s arm. She looks cute in the prom dress. It’s narrow in the waist and low-cut. Too low-cut. And she looks too cute in it. Teenage pheromones thicken the air like smoke from a spontaneous combustion about to burst forth in full flame. I’ve seen the sort of mischief that goes on under the bleachers at the football stadium. I know where this could be headed.

Don’t assume the worst, Benny Silva.

“Yes, we’re okay.” But I have a feeling the activity along the road means we might not be. “You guys were incredible. I’m really proud of you…most of you, anyway. And the rest, well, you guys help each other out, and let’s get this thing in shape.”

“Yeah, who’s jammin’ now?” Lil’ Ray says and struts away in his top hat. LaJuna picks up her skirts and trails along behind.

Sarge, passing by with a box of tea light lanterns, leans close to me and whispers, “I don’t like the looks of that.” She motions toward the street, but before I can answer, her attention veers to LaJuna and Lil’ Ray, fading into the night together. “Don’t like the looks of that, either.” Then she cups a hand to her mouth. “LaJuna Rae, where do you think you’re off to with that boy?” She strikes out in hot pursuit.

I watch as the audience fades away, parents leaving with their kids and uninvited bystanders idling down the street in their vehicles one by one. Redd Fontaine hangs around long enough to write some poor parent a ticket. When I try to intervene, he advises me to mind my own business, then asks, “You get permission to have all them kids hanging around here after hours?” He licks the end of his felt-tip pen, then goes back to writing in his ticket book.

“They’re not hanging around. They’re working on a project.”

“School property.” All three of his chins wiggle toward the building. “This field’s for school activities.”

“It’s a class project…for school. And, besides, I see kids playing sandlot ball here all the time after hours and on the weekends.”