Grown(2)

“If you’re done with your concert, can you kindly get your butts in the water? Now! Ten laps. Let’s go!”

The whistle blows and I dive in, slipping under the surface like sliding into a freshly made bed.

In the lanes to the right and left of me, Mackenzie and Hannah practice their breaststroke. My goggles are tight, but on purpose. I hate when chlorine slips through the crevices and I end up with red eyes like I’ve been smoking a blunt. Not that I’d know what that’s like. But being one of ten black students in the entire school . . . the stupid assumption would be too easy.

After a warm-up, coach talks us through a few practice drills.

I hit the wall at the end of the pool on my last lap and power back. On land, Coach Wilson clicks her stopwatch, her face unreadable.

“Few seconds off. Not bad. Could be better.”

I sniff, wiping my face dry. “You are full of compliments.”

“Compliments don’t help you improve,” she chuckles. “All right, ladies! Showers. Then class. And I better not hear about any of you being late to homeroom. Jones, a word?”

Dripping wet, I skip into her office. “Yes, Coach?”

She tips her glasses. “You’re spilling out of your uniform there.”

I give myself a once-over. “I . . . am?”

“Butts and boobs need to be fully covered. Might be time to move up a size.”

The locker room smells of chlorine and musty wet socks as a blow-dryer churns in the background. Glad I don’t have problems like long hair to deal with anymore. In and out the shower, I can be ready for school in less than ten minutes.

Parkwood High School is the only private one in the county that doesn’t have a strict dress code, but the student handbook specifically says no hats, no short skirts, no “distracting” hairstyles.

Yeah, I can read between the words unsaid there too.

I solved that problem by shaving off my locs. But somehow, my presence is still distracting.

At the mirror, I glide a hand over my baldy, the short hair prickling my fingertips. The cutest shirt I own looks plain in the dingy locker-room light. I didn’t want to do too much . . . it would set off alarms and I’m already nervous enough about today as it is. Maybe later, with Gab’s gold hoops and some bright pink lipstick, I’ll look . . . hot.

Hot? This is going to be a disaster.

Mackenzie slams her locker shut with a smirk. “Kyle Bacon.”

I press my lips together to compose myself before feigning ignorance. “Who?”

“Kyle Bacon? He’s a senior. Tall . . . um, dark eyes . . .”

Black, I want to say, help fill in the blank she’s trying to avoid.

“What about him?” I sigh, knowing where this is going.

“Well . . . he doesn’t have a date to the dance. You should go with him.”

“Why? I don’t even know him.”

“You can get to know each other. Like a blind date.”

“I’m not taking a blind date to homecoming.”

“Come on! You’ll look so good together in pictures.”

“How do you know?”

Mackenzie’s cheeks burn pink, her freckles on fire.

“Just . . . well, he’s cute! And you’re, like, really pretty.”

I snort. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Mean Girls right now.”

“All I’m saying is, you need a date. He’s available. It’s not like you’re strangers. He saw you at the talent showcase last year. Actually, everyone saw you at the talent showcase, but he remembers you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, he liked the video I posted.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through Instagram, turning up the sound. There I am, singing Aretha’s “Ain’t No Way.” Bet seventy-five percent of my classmates had never even heard of the song before.

I swallow back the memory. The last thing I need today is a reminder of the stage fright that hit me minutes beforehand. But like Gab says . . . wasn’t ready then, but I’m ready now.

I shrug. “Well. Maybe. Since we’ll look good together and all.”

“Cool! Study sesh after school? If I fail bio, my mom will kill me. Or take my phone. I don’t know which is worse.”

I slip on my book bag. “Um, nah. I got something to do.”

Despite Coach’s lateness warning, I wait until the coast is clear before popping out of my hiding spot, sneakers squeaking against the wet tile. I pull back the curtains and set up my phone. Ten-minute vocal warm-up video on YouTube.

“La la la la la la la la laaaaaaa.”

Pool acoustics are great, but showers are really where it’s at! The only sound booth I’ve ever known.

I rehearse my song for later over and over. It has to be perfect, flawless.

Who knows when I’ll have this chance again.





Chapter 3


Caged Birds Must Sing




Mom is predictably twenty minutes late for pickup. Daddy says LaToya Jones will be late to her own funeral. It’s why he refused to have a traditional wedding and went straight to the courthouse a few months before I came into this world.

So I’m used to working in my songbook on the outside steps of school, waiting for her arrival . . .