The Black Kids(60)

“I’m gonna miss you guys so much next year.” Courtney sighs.

“We’re not going anywhere. We’re gonna get old and wrinkly together and be like the Golden Girls,” Heather says.

“Courtney is Rose,” Kimberly says. “You’re Dorothy. Ashley’s Sophia. And I’m Blanche. ’Cause she’s the sexiest.”

“Dorothy’s the sexiest. Blanche is a ho. Besides, you can’t be Blanche; you’ve never even had sex,” Heather says.

“Why the hell am I the old lady?” I say.

“They’re all old ladies.” Kimberly shrugs.

“Sophia’s the funniest, anyway,” Heather offers.

“Wait. Am I Rose ’cause you think I’m dumb?” Courtney says.

Kimberly glues on our fake eyelashes; years of pageants have made her an expert. When she finishes, she blows across our eyelids like Tinkerbell. While Fresh Kid Ice raps, together we flutter our new lashes, revel in our new faces, and will tonight to be magical.



* * *




Trevor and Michael arrive in Trevor’s dad’s vintage Rolls-Royce. It’s impeccable and sleek, a haughty glossy white with off-white tire rims. Courtney wanted to rent a limo, but limos are apparently on the list of things Kimberly finds tacky. There isn’t enough room in the car for all of us, so Courtney and dateless Heather are going in Courtney’s date’s car.

Courtney met her date at a support group for adopted children. She started going to meetings earlier this year, and at lunch she sometimes tells us stories of international orphans rescued from abject misery and brought all the way across the world to live in, like, Chatsworth. Rusty’s parents adopted him from Korea, but they’re white. This is gonna be our first time meeting him. She’s shown us pictures; he looks very handsome, lithe with thick, dark hair down to his shoulders. Heather spent weeks telling anybody who’d listen how lame prom was and how it was the ritualized subjugation of young American women. Then at the last minute, when she decided she wanted to be subjugated after all, there was nobody left to ask her. We watch Trevor and Michael pull up and get out. We shriek again and run back down the stairs to the front door, to our boys, transformed.

If Trevor’s tuxedo is a joke, the powder blue of a lazy afternoon, Michael’s is the sleek still of midnight. They hold our flowers in plastic boxes with pins topped by pearls.



* * *




Courtney’s date, Rusty, is an hour late to meet up at my house. Together we sit around the living room, waiting to take pictures and raging against the melting of our faces. Uncle Ronnie sprawls out on the couch, so we position ourselves around his body, like we’re at a wake.

“Don’t mind me,” Uncle Ronnie groans. He wasn’t groaning before my friends came, so either his pain meds are wearing off or he’s being theatrical. Knowing Uncle Ronnie, it’s probably both. “Where’s your date, Ashley?”

I point at Trevor, who goes over to shake Uncle Ronnie’s hand, all formal-like.

“I remember my prom. Better not do none of what I did.” He laughs and then moans.

“No sir,” Trevor says. “Definitely not.”

“Boy, I didn’t even tell you what I did.” Ronnie laughs again.

We sit there awkwardly for a few moments until Courtney opens her mouth to speak.

“So, did you get shot at? Did they beat you up? Were you scared? Did your life, like, flash before your eyes?”

“Jesus Christ, Courtney,” Heather says.

“What?”

Uncle Ronnie struggles to sit up a little bit. “I was scared.”

My friends stare at him expectantly.

“That was my mama’s store. Ashley’s grandmother. She started that store back in ’51. Do you know how hard she had to fight to keep it? A woman by herself—and a black woman at that. She kept it running through the Watts riots and the recessions. People tried to buy her out twice, but she refused. I was scared, but only because I didn’t want to see everything my mama worked for go up in flames on my watch. Those looters, though? I wasn’t scared of them. Not physically. They weren’t going to hurt me. Not much, anyway. They’re angry as hell, but it ain’t at me.”

My friends sit there flabbergasted.

“Why don’t you kids go ahead and put on some television,” he says.

We can’t decide between the news and MTV, but Courtney says, “I don’t want to watch depressing shit right now, it’s prom!” so MTV wins. My mother runs around the house looking for where she put the film for the camera.

I think Ronnie’s fallen asleep—his eyes are closed, body still—when I hear him start to harmonize with Eddie Vedder as he sings.

“How do you even know this song?” Courtney asks, and Uncle Ronnie looks at her like he’s trying to figure out if she’s asking because he’s black or old, but it’s probably both.

“I know everything,” Uncle Ronnie replies, and Courtney nods as though she believes it.

“You have a really good voice,” Heather says. “You could be a singer. Like, professionally.”

“And she should know; her grandfather owns a studio,” Kimberly chimes in.

“I came close.” Uncle Ronnie sighs. “You know, I almost went on tour with the Delfonics.… You kids too young to know who that is? But there was Mama to take care of… and the store.” He drifts off.