The Black Kids(28)

I stare down at LaShawn’s new shoes and think about the crush of people moving from store to store, taking and playing with fire. Then I think about that looter on TV this morning, the sneaker boxes in his arms spilling over like a bouquet.



* * *




Mr. Holmes starts to work on our review of rotational kinematics formulas, then stops. He turns around slowly to face the class, and when he does, it’s like the reveal in a comic book, his raw side turned to the light.

He hoists himself up onto his desk like a teacher in an inspirational movie about troubled youths. We’re only mildly troubled at best, but I appreciate the effort.

“We had a store off Avalon. It was a small convenience store with a deli in the back. My mother was from Syria and a single mom. She had to work late at the store a lot, since it was just her, so the next-door neighbors would take me in and feed me dinner; I’m talking black-eyed peas, gumbo, greens. Catfish! Half the neighborhood was from the South.… I’m getting hungry just thinking about it. Anyway, our store didn’t get looted during the riots in 1965, but my mom moved out of Watts after that, from a nice little two-bedroom house on a street where I could bike around to a cramped apartment in Sherman Oaks. I went from having lots of black neighbors to having none.”

Mr. Holmes is lost in his own memories, like a person telling you about a really vivid dream.

“My best friend’s name was Tanya Jefferson. Like the street. Or George, I guess. The other kids used to make fun of me because of my face, but not Tanya. Anyway, I never saw her after we moved to the Valley. I feel bad that I never called. I should’ve called. I tried looking her up in the phone book a few days ago, but she’s probably gotten married and changed her name. That’s the trouble with women.”

He laughs and shifts his weight around the desk a bit more.

“Something’s gotta give, you guys. I hope when you guys get to be my age, the world is better for you.”

Mr. Holmes looks to be on the verge of tears. I can feel the room tense up; we aren’t used to grown men’s tears.

I look down at LaShawn’s new Jordans. Two years ago, this high school kid in Philadelphia was killed over his Jordans. Two dudes tried to rob him and he struggled with them, and then they shot him in the heart.

“How did you get that way?” Steve Ruggles asks Mr. Holmes.

Joanie Wang gasps audibly.

Anuj Patel says to nobody in particular, “Oh shiiiiiit.”

If it were anybody other than Steve Ruggles asking, on any other day, I don’t think Mr. Holmes would answer. He pauses for a long while, deciding how much of himself to give to us today.

“My brother and his friend were playing with fireworks one Fourth of July. I think they meant to startle me. We don’t talk anymore… but that’s not why.”

“Did it hurt really bad?” Steve says.

“It took several surgeries to put me back together again,” Mr. Holmes says. He breathes in deeply and exhales. Then he turns back to the chalkboard.

“So… instead of displacement there’s angular displacement…”

And just like that, we’re back to physics. Physics isn’t my favorite science, though Mr. Holmes is my favorite science teacher. I loved AP bio best because I loved reading about the secret worlds under our skin.

After class, I linger while Mr. Holmes stands at the chalkboard wiping everything away. The white of the erased chalk fills the board in little clouds.

“I’m sorry about your face, Mr. Holmes,” I say.

Mr. Holmes turns to look at me. He closes one eye, then opens it and closes the other, like I’ve done to him so many times. Then he laughs.



* * *




“Did you hear they’re thinking of canceling prom?” Courtney says as we cram into the restroom to look at Kimberly’s new hoo-ha. We peer down at it, raw and pink like uncooked chicken skin. “It doesn’t even make sense. It’s not like anybody’s rioting here.”

“I had to put ice on my vagina for hours last night. They are so not canceling this prom.”

“You put ice on your vulva. Dude, we’re practically grown-ups. You guys really need to stop being ashamed of your own bodies and start saying the right words for these things.” Heather crunches her words. She’s already started to snack on some baby carrots.

“Don’t eat in the bathroom,” Courtney says.

We sit at our usual lunch table. Kimberly and Courtney eat matching salads. Heather eats a cafeteria burger and fries. Lucia has packed me a sandwich. I almost always get sandwiches, except for when I get leftovers. I guess I’m old enough to pack my own lunches now, but Lucia usually draws little doodles on my napkins for me—like today, she’s drawn a little cartoon puppy with his tongue hanging out and a speech bubble that says “?Comer!?”

I take the bread off my sandwich. It’s messy, but at least it saves me some calories. Without its top, my sandwich is vulnerable and unsteady, guts exposed; kinda like our city right now.

“Seriously, Ash, you do that, like, every time. Why don’t you just ask Lucia to skip the bread?” Kimberly asks. I never knew she noticed what I did and didn’t eat.

“I nibble at it.” I’m only a little bit defensive.

“You’re such a weirdo sometimes,” she says.