The Black Kids(67)

“I’d be mad too, I guess.”

“Yeah. But my mama’s trying her best.”

“Maybe she feels like your mama doesn’t care as much about her ’cause she’s a girl.”

“I don’t think that’s it. But what do I know? I’ve never been a girl.”

LaShawn’s sister is only two years younger than he is. I imagine what it must be like to grow up playing, wanting the same things. Her brother says I want the world, and her mother does everything in her power to give it to him. She says I want the world, and everyone—including her own mother—tells her that’s too much.

Sometimes it’s hard being a girl, and it’s hard being black. Being both is like carrying a double load, but you’re not supposed to complain about it. There are so many things you have to remember about how to be.

First things first: be pretty. Never take up too much space; your breasts, arms, lips, hips, thighs, and even your nose should always be just so. If your body should spill over just so or not quite fill it up, well, honestly, I don’t know what to tell you. Just don’t. Be a good girl, but not too good; nobody likes that girl. Laugh, but not too loud; you’ll make them nervous. No, don’t be sour, never that, even if you’re having a bad day, month, year, life. They’ll think you’re angry. Make sure you smile so they can see your teeth. Be smart, but never smarter than; or they’ll think you’re uppity. Be more. Yes, that’s it! Practice! Dream! Rise! Wait, not so high, girl! Those stars, they aren’t meant for you.

I open my mouth to try to tell LaShawn what it feels like to move through the world with that in your head, all these things Kaitlyn and I have pinned to our thoughts like paperweights. At times, all those paperweights heavy in your head make it so you have trouble telling left from right—the right friends, the right people to give yourself to, the right thing.

“I’m sorry,” I say to LaShawn.

“I know.… Ashley, I don’t want to be an asshole or nothing, but, like, I still don’t really want to talk to you right now,” LaShawn says as he stares out the window. Then he adds, because he’s polite, “No offense.”

“Right. Okay… I’m sorry.” I shut up and drive.

We follow several detours around road barriers and through emptying or emptied streets, before we end up in a part of town that scares me. At the nearest red light, I roll the windows up and lock the doors. LaShawn softens a little bit, then finally opens his mouth and says, “This was a bad idea. Let’s go back.”

So instead, I keep going.

There are a number of ways we could die right now, ways I’ve never even thought about. Here we are in our city, but we’re also in a war zone. The smoke is already beginning to stick to my skin.

We park Trevor’s dad’s car near an empty squad car and start to walk.

LaShawn grabs my hand. “Stay close to me. Keep moving, okay?”

“Okay.”

A man talks very animatedly to himself as he pushes a shopping cart across the street. I pause for a half second to take him in.

“Keep moving,” LaShawn says.

LaShawn leads me through streets I’ve heard of but never been to. We keep pace with each other, our steps in sync over broken sidewalks.

In front of us, the firemen in their yellow unfurl their hoses and spray. Their smudged faces look like Ash Wednesday. They look weary. Firefighters have been getting shot at. One of the first few people to die in the riot was a firefighter.

It looks like an apocalypse, like we’ve found our way into some Arnold Schwarzenegger film, or a disaster movie where we need a hero in a helicopter to rescue us in the nick of time and carry us up and away. Papers blow down the street like urban tumbleweeds. There are lots of abandoned shoes.

A woman wanders past us, frail and glassy-eyed, her eyes ancient and her body almost childlike.

“Hello,” she whispers.

We’re only two blocks away from his grandmama’s, but a huge National Guard tank and a line of guardsmen block the way. Most of them don’t look too much older than we are. A National Guardsman’s glasses slip down his freckled nose, and he pushes them back up again.

Here, it’s so clearly us versus them. And, for once in my life, it doesn’t seem so blurry who is the us and who is the them.



* * *




LaShawn pulls me around a corner and down an alleyway. He looks down the length of it, darting his head back and forth. Halfway down, a man is slumped over like a rag doll, and I think he might look over at us or head toward us, but it’s as though we’re not even there.

“Can you hop a fence in those?”

He points down at my heels.

“I’m not a comic-book character,” I say. I expect him to chuckle, but I guess he’s still kinda mad at me ’cause he doesn’t.

“Okay, you’ll have to take them off.”

I nod.

“You first.” I step my bare foot into his hand, and he lifts me and propels me into the sky. As I straddle the fence, I hear something in my dress rip; I think maybe the lining, but it’s a layer of tulle. It hangs down behind me like a blood trail.

“Hurry up over,” LaShawn says. It’s a long way down, and I take the landing wrong. My ankle hurts as soon as it hits the concrete.