The Black Kids(41)

“Since when do you listen to so much black shit?”

“I’m black,” I say.

“Yeah, but you’re not, like, blackity black,” she says.

I don’t know what to say to this, but Kimberly doesn’t seem to expect an actual answer. She applies another layer of lipstick, gets a paper towel, and blots. We just got to school; I can’t imagine she needs a touch-up already, but sometimes more lipstick is extra armor for the day ahead.

“You and Michael talk a lot, right?”

Her mouth is the color of guts. I can’t tell if it’s an accusation.

“I mean, not a lot,” I say.

She knows me well enough to know when I’m lying.

“What do you talk about?” she asks. “I feel like we’ve been together for years and we hang out and make out, but he doesn’t, like, open up or whatever.”

“Um… we talk about you,” I say. “He’s crazy about you.”

She narrows her eyes. We stand awkwardly looking at each other in the mirror. What she says next is not what I expect from her at that moment.

“I miss us,” she says finally.

“I’m right here,” I say.





CHAPTER 10


LASHAWN IS DRESSED in a Brooks Brothers polo and old-white-man khakis that crease in uncool places. He looks tired. He’s on time for school because instead of taking the bus, he spent the night at White Brian’s house, and now he’s wearing White Brian’s white dad’s clothes. White Brian is Goofy come to life—long limbs, awkward gait, and a laugh that sounds like an infectious hiccup. They’ve been best friends since freshman year, when nobody knew how good LaShawn was, back when they both rocked anemic mustaches and video game T-shirts. They’re an odd pairing, but somehow they make sense. Also, there’s no Black Brian.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to LaShawn as he takes his seat.

“What? You didn’t do anything.” He smiles wanly.

Mr. Holmes stands at the board, patchwork side of his face to us. He hasn’t brought up any more about Watts or the riots. Instead, we came in and he got straight to work, like he was embarrassed that he’d shared so much of himself with us yesterday. The AC in the classroom isn’t working, so sweat drips down our bodies in tiny rivers. Behind me, Phillip Murkowski is starting to smell. Teenage boys already smell bad enough without being slowly roasted in their own juices. While the city burns, even our rich-kid school is coming undone. Meanwhile, my cousin gets to stay at home. She’s probably going through my stuff.

We’re in the middle of reviewing gravitational orbit energy when the principal comes to the classroom door. Principal Jeffries looks like a former hippie who enjoys hiking and drinking on the weekends. She’s got that leather to her skin, and even here at work, she wears Tevas as though at any time she might be called upon to climb a mountain of unruly teenagers.

“LaShawn, can you come with me, please?” she says.

LaShawn stands up, confused. White Brian’s dad’s khakis stop just above his ankles.

“I bet you it’s about those shoes,” Anuj Patel whispers behind me.

“Don’t talk to me,” I say.

When the bell rings, LaShawn still has not returned to class. White Brian places LaShawn’s books, pens, and notebook into his abandoned backpack, zips it up, and carries it with his own out the door.



* * *




I see LaShawn between second and third periods. He kicks at his locker hard, scuffing his Jordans, leaving a dent like a metal wound.

As we pour out of our classrooms, LaShawn turns as if to address the entire student body. “Man, fuck this place. This is what y’all really think of me? This all I am to you?”

Anuj was right: They must’ve taken him aside to ask him about the shoes.

“Yo, I woulda been out there, too, if I could. Cop me some kicks. Fight the power and all that shit, right?” The white kids call Dustin Cavanaugh a wigger because he wears his clothes baggy and listens to gangsta rap and tries to talk like he came from the hood. He’s like our school’s very own version of Al Jolson. He doesn’t actually talk to the black kids. Or, I guess, maybe it’s more like they don’t talk to him. If he’s a wigger for “acting black,” what does that make them? Or me?

“Yo, you’re an asshole,” LaShawn says.

“Me?” Dustin walks back toward him. He seems shocked that LaShawn didn’t laugh or throw up signs in response.

“That shit ain’t fucking funny,” LaShawn yells.

Everyone around us grows silent. This is not the LaShawn to whom we’re accustomed. The gentle boy who smiles at everyone and lets crickets out the window. The boy we watched scouts salivate over for several games in a row. The boy with the loud-ass mama who’s never loud himself. The boy who always keeps his cool on the court, even during championship games when the referees are dead wrong. The boy our school paper actually described in earnest as “one of the brightest shining stars to ever grace these hallowed halls.”

Our school paper is full of purple prose written by B-student drama queens. But they weren’t wrong. Not about LaShawn.

We go quiet, and then we wait for Dustin’s response.

“Yeah, well… Least I ain’t no thief,” he says.