Grown(7)

Gab smiles. “Of course he did. Because you’re good, and the world needs to know that. This is just a start. Soon you’ll be performing in sold-out concerts!”

I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe even with him.”

She plucks a thought from my head and frowns. “He’s too old for you.”

“Well. Y-y-yeah, obviously,” I mumble, my cheeks on fire. “But a girl can dream, right?”

Her face contorts. “Why the hell would you want to dream about that old-ass uncle?”

“Uncle? He ain’t that old! He’s not even thirty! He’s only, what, seven years older than Jay?”

Gab’s eyes squint over her can of Sprite. “That’s completely different, and you know it.”

“OK, OK! Easy, killer,” I laugh. “I can’t believe you still get in your feelings about that.”

Jay. Gab’s boyfriend. Gab’s college boyfriend.

She squirms. “It’s just . . . gross, what people say about us.”

OK, so it’s not the same thing. Jay is twenty-one and has been with Gab for three years.

Footsteps down the hall make me swallow back my response. Two freshmen pass the alcove, stopping to stare at us.

“What?” Gab snaps. “Can I help y’all with something? If not, then beat it!”

The two kids exchange a look then glance back at us, their eyes wide. Gab slams her notebook shut.

“Did I stutter? I said fuck off!” Her voice a whip snap. They jump, scurrying away, mumbling.

“Damn, Gab. Take it easy.”

“I hate how people stare at us like we’re some damn aliens, like they’ve never seen a black or Latina in their life!”

After almost two years, I’m used to the stares. The blue, green, and hazel eyes are part of the decor. Gab doesn’t have that problem; she could pass for a white girl, blending into the field. But she’d never acknowledge that.

“Why you always want to hang out over here?” I ask.

Gab’s face is tinted mint under the fluorescents, her jawline reflecting off a hockey trophy won back in the nineties, covered in dust.

She shrugs, returning to her textbook. “It’s easier to talk to you here. Too many nosey people. Plus, I can actually get some homework done instead of waiting until I’m off the clock. Oh! I got you this cute hoodie! It was buy one, get one fifty percent off. Twinning!”

Gab works at Old Navy in the White Plains Galleria. That’s when she’s not driving down to Fordham University to visit Jay. In the car she owns, paid for with her own money. She doesn’t have much time for trivial nonsense like homework. She’s a senior going on fifty.

But at least she has a boyfriend. All I have is swimming, music, and dreams of Korey.

“I wish you could come to the concert with us.”

“That fresh shipment of Rockstar jeans isn’t going to fold itself,” she jokes. “Besides, this is your time to shine!” She carries a note as far as her lungs will allow, singing the lines I just shared with her. Why she refuses to share the stage with me, I’ll never know.

I think of Korey again. His hand on my stomach, palm pressing into my belly button, imprinting on me. Wonder what it would be like to really BE with him, having the type of love he always sings about.

“He was . . . sweet.”

Gab pretends not to hear me and continues copying the lesson on cell units.





Chapter 8


Will and Willow Meeting Notes




Between moving to Hartsdale with its limited diversity and attending an elite private school, Mom thought the best way for the Littles and me to connect with the black people in our area was to join Will and Willow Incorporated. The objective of Will and Willow as stated on their website: “to create a medium of contact for African American mothers to bring their children together in social and cultural environments to be strengthened through leadership development, volunteer service, and civic duty.”

My cousin says it’s for bougie black moms to show off their equally bougie black kids. And he isn’t exactly wrong.

There are chapters all over the country, divided into groups by age. We, the Westchester Teen chapter, have a once-a-month meeting, directed by our teen government board: Malika Evens: President

Sean Patrick Jr.: Vice President

Creighton Stevens: Treasurer

Aisha Woods: Secretary

Enchanted Jones: just a regular ol’ member Shea Jones: her little sister, newest member of the teen Group Five.

We all live about ten miles from each other but these kids’ parents have money. Surgeons, lawyers, architects, politicians—one is even related to Denzel Washington. Meanwhile, my family is making it by the skin of our teeth, and it shows.

Our meetings go a little something like this: Creighton: Where’s Emery?

Enchanted: Think he had to work.

Malika: Of course. OK, everyone, let’s get started. Now, as you all know, next month is the Eastern Regional Teen Cluster. Our room block at the Marriott has been confirmed. Creighton, has everyone paid their dues?

Creighton: Everyone except the Jones sisters.

Shea: Chant?

Enchanted: My mom is dropping the money off on Friday.

Malika: Right. Well, until then, we’ll assume you won’t be attending.

Enchanted: Or . . . you can assume we are going since I just told you my mom will drop off the money on Friday.