The Black Kids(72)

Anyway, Brad and Pham’s friend is dying, and instead of waiting until he’s gone to have a funeral, he asked his friends to come to his home for a party. As Lana tells us about their friend, Brad stumbles out of the hallway smelling of wine and cigarettes, a streak of Pham’s glitter across his cheek.

“He was in a lot of pain, but he looked happy, don’t you think?” Brad plops down on the couch across from me.

“Yes.” Pham nods. He places two teacups on coasters on their sculptural coffee table.

“So many of my friends died alone because everyone was so afraid.” Brad sighs. He starts to tear up, and Pham grabs his hand.

“It was almost canceled because of the uprising. You know, a lot of our friends protested the verdict in West Hollywood. But we don’t know how much longer Danny has,” Brad says. “We didn’t want him to feel like he’d been abandoned.”

There’s a riot going on, and it’s consumed all of us for days, but you forget that in the middle of it there are people in other parts of the city just quietly living and dying, and other people who love them.

“The nurses wheeled his hospital bed out to the living room, and we sang his favorite songs and danced,” Lana says. “It was sad, but also kinda fun in the saddest way, because… I don’t really know how to explain it.”

“Y’all had a homegoing, kinda,” LaShawn says.

“What’s this?” Pham says.

LaShawn explains that to our ancestors, death wasn’t a thing to be feared. It was freedom—slaves no more, they would return to God, or Africa, or whatever. And funerals weren’t somber affairs, they were celebrations of life.

“Yes!” Brad smiles and wipes his face with his boa. “A homegoing. He would’ve liked that.”



* * *




We talk about everything and nothing, and the evening stretches into the hours when everything outside is still. Brad and Pham gather up pillows and blankets for us before excusing themselves to their chambers.

“This is the part of the evening when we old folks retire. Can’t party like we used to,” Brad says with a wink.

LaShawn sits in a pretzel on the living-room floor. Lana and I lean against each other on the couch.

“You know, you two are the first people I’ve had over in four years of high school,” she says.

“How is that possible?” I say.

“I don’t know. I didn’t want anybody coming over and judging me. You guys live in these ridiculously fancy homes, and I live in a guest house on somebody else’s property. I’m not embarrassed, I just…”

“I get it,” LaShawn says.

“Nobody invites me over, either,” she says.

“You can come over to mine,” I say.

“I don’t think your friends will like that much,” she says.

“I don’t know if they’re my friends anymore,” I say. “Not after tonight.”

I run my hand along a crisp, yellowed houseplant. Part of it crumbles and falls. Sometimes awful things happen to you that you can’t tell anybody about. Sometimes you’re the awful thing.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say. “I think maybe I’m kinda this like really selfish, awful person.”

Maybe Jo and I are more alike than not, just broken in different places. I miss my sister in the present tense. Lana takes my face into her hands and looks at me intently.

“You just want to be loved. That’s what’s wrong with most of us,” she says.

The bruise her mother gave her has transitioned from angry plum to subdued mauve. It’s faded, but it’s still there. I lightly press my fingertips to it and feel the heat of her skin and the blood moving under her pain. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with anyone. Lana exhales. I didn’t even realize she was holding her breath.

We fall asleep together in Brad and Pham’s living room, LaShawn buried in blankets on the floor, Lana and I curled up in each other and the couch cushions. Lana wraps her arms around my waist, and I can feel her heartbeat at my back as I start to dream.



* * *




Around four o’clock in the morning, I wake up, even though I’ve only been asleep for an hour. I open my eyes to see LaShawn sitting up, staring into the darkness.

“It’s too quiet here,” he whispers. “I’m not used to this.”

“I don’t sleep well in other people’s houses,” I say. Lana stirs, and I gently extricate myself from her grip.

“You wanna go outside?”

“Do they have a house alarm?”

“I don’t think so.”

We step barefoot onto the early morning dew. A few lonely birds chirp across the trees.

“Listen,” LaShawn whispers.

Crickets.

We laugh. LaShawn laughs loudly, and I put my hand to LaShawn’s mouth. His lips are soft under my fingertips.

He moves closer to me, and I lower my hand from his mouth.

“You’re not an asshole,” he says. “I’m sorry I said that earlier.”

“Maybe I am a little bit. But I’m trying not to be…”

Instead of responding, he pulls me toward him, we lean in, our mouths press against each other, and my whole body feels in bloom. It’s so stupid.