The Black Kids(27)
“Nobody’s coming here, boys,” my next-door neighbor, Mr. Katz, yells across at them as he picks up his morning paper. Last night, after the protests grew violent near the Parker Center, rioters made their way over to City Hall and then threw bricks through the windows of the Los Angeles Times building, and even trashed some of the offices. Still, somehow we got today’s paper.
The Katzes are like the Jewish Barbie and Ken, perfectly tan and thin with muscles that lightly ripple through their surfaces. I think Mr. and Mrs. Katz are in their early thirties, but they could be as old as early forties. They’re so tan I can’t quite tell. Mr. Katz has the easy confidence of a man for whom nearly everything has been easy. If he says nothing is coming, nothing’s coming. Except his paper.
“Gotta stay vigilant just in case,” one Parker boy says as though he’s now a little unsure of it himself.
“Yeah. Just in case,” the simple one says.
The Parkers are mostly friendly to us these days, but sometimes they’re not. They seem to go through neighborly phases depending on what’s going on in the news, like they’re on some sort of racist swing being pushed closer, then away, then closer. The Olympics and Flo-Jo, closer. The Rainbow Coalition, away. The Central Park Five? Way away. When my parents confronted the Parkers about the mailbox, my mother said that Mrs. Parker had responded, “My boys would never do a thing like that. We’re very tolerant people.”
Fuck being tolerated.
Mr. Katz shakes his head at the Parkers. He’s wearing flannel boxers and an absurd silk robe that hangs on him a little like a cape. He turns around to wave at Lucia and me as we get into the car to head to school.
“Ay,” Lucia murmurs, “he doesn’t believe in clothes?”
But she says it like she doesn’t entirely mind.
Once, Jo and I saw the Katzes having sex in their pool, which was notable because later that same day they had a pool party, with little kids and everything. We both thought that was deeply unsanitary. That said, the Katzes are very nice perverts, and not racist at all—as far as we can tell, anyway. You never really know. They have not one but two Clinton-Gore signs on their lawn.
“You’re still going to school today, in this?” Mr. Katz says.
“Unfortunately,” I shout over.
“Well… good for you, I guess. Go get those As! Stay out of trouble!” Mr. Katz winks as we pull away.
The Parkers adjust themselves and wave at me as I stare out the car window. Their hard guns rest across their soft legs like a threat.
* * *
The sky is an orange haze, that eerie glow that creeps over the entire city whenever there’s a big fire. Yesterday, some of the protestors even walked up on the 101 and set the palm trees that line the freeway on fire. Palm trees! That’s like a declaration of war against Los Angeles itself. Anyway, LAX has temporarily suspended flights on account of all the smoke. For now, by plane anyway, nobody can come into Los Angeles International. Nobody can leave. Lucia isn’t supposed to leave for another month or so; still, some small piece of me hopes the airport remains closed indefinitely so she can stay. Then I feel like shit, ’cause that’s easy to say when it’s not your neighborhood on fire.
* * *
LaShawn comes to school by bus. I know this because when he’s late, he tells the teachers the bus was running behind schedule, and they eat that shit up and smile at him apologetically because he’s poor, and this embarrasses them all a bit. Bus service has been suspended in large portions of the city; that’s probably why he’s late.
When LaShawn finally enters class, it’s ten minutes before the end of first period. The first things I notice are his feet. LaShawn is rocking a pristine, fresh-out-the-box, newest-edition pair of Air Jordans. They’re white, silver, red, and navy blue, with metallic gold accents in honor of the upcoming Olympics. Instead of having Jordan’s usual number, 23, they feature his Olympic number, 9, on the triangle. The boys elbow each other.
“Daaaaaaamn, homie,” they say.
All the sneakerheads at school try to outdo each other with who can get the newest ones the fastest.
Mrs. Brooks pauses her lesson as LaShawn walks down the aisle to his desk. We stop taking notes to look at him. She leans down to talk to him, and her freckled breasts spill over the top of her silk shirt. He whispers to her and she turns a little red. LaShawn has this effect on students and teachers alike. This isn’t the first time we’ve watched grown women turn into schoolgirls in his presence.
“Are you okay?” she says as she returns to the chalkboard.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Good. If there’s anything you need, you let me know.”
LaShawn is always getting away with things like this. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that he’s in at Stanford, and I’m on the wait list. I know I shouldn’t be jealous of him, but I am.
What must it be like to have the world in a leather ball at your fingertips? Despite what Kimberly said, LaShawn didn’t get into Stanford just because he’s poor. Everybody knows that. Academically, he’s one of the top-ranked kids in our class. LaShawn is handsome and smart and talented and funny and will probably be worth millions one day. What must it be like to know at eighteen that, as long as you don’t screw it up, everything is yours for the taking?