The Black Kids(81)

Fat Albert’s real name is Percy, but his middle name actually is Albert.

There is Coke-bottle-body Tisha and Guillaume, who is Haitian. Guillaume’s family used to own a shop, and now they own a pile of rubble.

Margie is so light she could probably pass if she straightened her hair and were so inclined.

Jason is mostly nondescript, save for his crooked glasses. He apparently lives not too far from me and has seen me around with my parents or Lucia, even if I haven’t seen him.

Winnie is very soft-spoken and meek, and in a great bit of irony was apparently named after Winnie Mandela.

Q introduces himself as Q and doesn’t elaborate, so I don’t actually know what his name is or much else about him.

Tarrell and Julia are cousins who are, like, super into church and Jesus or whatever, but they’re nice and they cuss a little, so they can’t be that preachy, right?

Jo always says, “Black folks love them some Jesus.”

“Our church youth group is organizing a bunch of us to go help clean up,” Julia says. “You wanna come with? You don’t gotta be religious or nothing.”

“Sure!” I say, and mean it.

Brian isn’t black at all, but they seem to love him like one of their own. Our own, I guess. As far as rich white boys go, he’s respectfully down. Down enough that they call him nigga. Down enough that he knows not to call them that back.

I sit with the black kids on the ledge and wonder why I never made this short journey across the quad before. Nobody here seems to care about the rumors, or even acknowledge them. I want to ask them if they’ve ever heard of Greenwood, of what happened to my grandmother and her family, if any of their families carry those same scars. But, like, there’s no easy way to casually incorporate a massacre into a conversation with new friends.

“So, has LaShawn told you about how we used to call you Lisa Turtle?” Fat Albert says between bites.

LaShawn blushes. “Why you bringing that up now?”

“Like from the kids’ show?” I say.

“Girl, don’t go acting like you ain’t familiar with Saved by the Bell.” Fat Albert carries his weight around like it’s a joke he’s made, or keeps making.

“How am I Lisa Turtle?” I ask.

“Leave her alone,” LaShawn says.

“So, like, Lisa, right? We never see her with the black kids. Just like Slater doesn’t hang with Latinos, he just goes around calling everybody ‘Mama.’?”

“Lisa grew up with all of them, so maybe that’s just who she’s most comfortable with,” I say.

“Or maybe they didn’t have no black folks in Bayside,” Julia says.

“Look in the background. They got black folks.”

“Percy, I’ma need you to watch 20/20 or CNN or, like, some adult shit,” LaShawn says.

“For reals. Why y’all going in on a kids’ show?” Tarrell says.

“Kids’ shit is important. It’s, like, shaping the future or whatever,” Fat Albert says, and takes another bite.

“You’re not no Lisa Turtle,” LaShawn says, and pats my knee.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Fat Albert raising his eyebrows at Tarrell and Julia, and LaShawn quickly removes his hand.

“So, LaShawn finally got you over here,” White Brian says in a singsong.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” LaShawn says, but White Brian winks at him.



* * *




I run into Heather at my defaced locker.

“Missed you at lunch.” She’s got this nervous energy, fidgety and shit like she doesn’t know what to do with her limbs. I haven’t seen her act this awkward since junior high.

“Yeah… well… you know,” I say, and nod at my locker.

“Right…” Heather traces the outline of the scribbled S with her fingertips. “Nobody calls boys sluts,” she says. “At least, not in the same way.”

“No,” I say.

“?‘Woman is the nigger of the world.’?” Heather sighs.

“Niggers are the nigger of the world,” I say. “And stop saying ‘nigger.’ It’s not cool.”



* * *




LaShawn’s mother wears pink scrubs and chunky orthopedic shoes. Her dark hair is slicked back in a greasy bun instead of one of the loud wigs she usually wears to LaShawn’s games. She looks worn, like she’s come off a long shift spent on her feet. She and Principal Jeffries stand in the middle of the office, a bulletin of stars beaming down on them. I pull open the heavy glass door and stand inside, but I don’t dare step any farther.

“It was a bad judgment call to have him come into the office based on student rumors,” Principal Jeffries says. “You’re absolutely right about that. You have every right to be angry, Ms. Johnson.”

“I’m not just angry,” she says, “I’m hurt. It hurts that you would do this to my baby boy after everything he’s done for this school. That this is how he’s going to remember his last few weeks of high school. How people are gonna remember him. Can’t you understand how much that hurts me as his mother?”

LaShawn’s mother looks as though she’s already teared up several times in the course of their discussion. The school secretary rises from her desk and passes Principal Jeffries a tissue box, from which she hands LaShawn’s mother several tissues. Ms. Johnson pauses to look up at her before taking them. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose, then looks around for a trash can before Principal Jeffries says, “I’ll take them for you,” at which point LaShawn’s mother drops her boogies into Principal Jeffries’s hand like a small child.