This Is My America(11)

Mama and I get back into the car to head to Evans Antiques.

“Can Jamal give me a ride home, or is he working tonight?”

“Don’t be fishing for information about your brother from me. If he wants his space, you’re giving it to him. He’ll forgive you when he’s ready.”



Mama’s words fill me with the hope that I haven’t forever changed my relationship with Jamal before he goes off to college.

“Me, on the other hand,” Mama says, and tsks, “you’ve got a long way to go. I don’t know what you were thinking.”

“I was only trying to help—”

“I don’t want to hear it now. You’re gonna make me late.”

With Mama, it’s different. She can forgive, but I know she won’t forget. This is on my permanent record, even if Mama wants Daddy home as bad as I do—if not more. My mind searches for ways to get Mama to forgive me. I look away, thinking of everyone’s disappointment at the studio, and my eyes cloud with tears.

We arrive at the downtown complex that’s filled with small businesses and a variety of local grocers and stores. Herron Media, where Jamal works, is three blocks away.

At the antique store, Mama’s the bookkeeper and online consignment sales rep. They gave her a job after Daddy’s trial.

When I park, Mama nudges me. “Don’t get used to riding with him to school now. Friends are good things, but you don’t need to get caught up with him just ’cause y’all get along…”

Mama doesn’t finish her thought. Instead, her mouth is in a firm line that says that’s all Dean and I should ever be. She’s never straight-up said I couldn’t date Dean because he’s white. She’s never had to.

It wasn’t always like this. Going with Mama to Evans Antiques was the best part about her job. It had a place for me to study with a view of antique knickknacks, jewelry, and furniture, along with somewhere to kick it in the back with Dean, the Evanses’ son. She didn’t have to worry if I was running out in the streets or getting in trouble, since I was only twenty yards away from her office. It was also a place I didn’t need to think about being teased, like I was in school after Daddy’s trial. And when I got a little older, Dean was the one who gave me the paper and stamp to mail off my first letter to Innocence X.



Dean’s and my friendship began days after Jackson Ridges was killed by the cops and Quincy was hit by a stray bullet. While Quincy recovered at the hospital, Dean took his place as a friend who looked out for me.

I was devastated by the arrest, but Dean stuck on so much during Daddy’s trial, you wouldn’t see me without seeing Dean. The more he latched on, the more it made me normal again. We’ve stayed tight—even as our crowds segregated more with age, not less. I will always love Dean for that.

Track also kept us close until I was forced to quit two years ago because I wouldn’t stand during the national anthem in protest for Black Lives Matter. Coach Curry said I could always come back, as long as I knew I gotta stand.

Sports is our normalizer for crossing racial groups. There are Black, brown, and white, and there are athletes. In season, I had competition to hang out with my best friend because it gave Jamal a chance to hang with Dean.

What’s been killing me lately is I can’t tell if Mama’s more against Dean and me being together, or if she’s protecting me from Dean’s mom’s watchful eyes. Puberty’s hit, and the rules have switched up on us, making me hesitant to drop in on Dean last minute because I don’t know if Mrs. Evans is there.



To be honest, I’m feeling some type of way about this. We’ve always played on the lines of friendship and relationship. I thought I’d have more time to sort things out. Now I can’t tell if we’re pushing each other away because of how his mom acts around me.

I want to ask Dean what he feels, but I’ve spent too many years joking around about why we couldn’t be together. It’s always been my fear of what the world was telling me more than what I’ve felt about Dean. It’s hard to believe we’d be right for each other, when everywhere I look is a hidden reminder. Magazines, television, everyday micro-aggressions. Beaten down with the backhanded compliments I’ve heard all my life, like “You real pretty for a dark-skinned girl.”

I push my thoughts aside, opening the door to Evans Antiques. The gold script glints a bit as the sun hits it just right, and the familiar ring of the bell above the door doesn’t hide my entrance—it announces I’m home.





THE ODD COUPLE


Dean stands at the counter, his hazel eyes staring at me as he runs his hands through his sun-kissed brown hair. Perfect teeth, perfect smile. I hate that I notice this about him now. Because I’ve grown up with him in all our awkwardness, when he used to be filthy or goofy or unassuming. The easygoing way about him that didn’t make me act too proud when he split his lunches with me. He’s never made me feel less than, when everyone else around me so easily could.

My grin drops as Dean’s mom joins him at the register.

Mrs. Evans seems perfectly happy anytime she’s talking to Mama, but she’s never given me much love.

“Hi, Mrs. Evans.” I give her a half-ass wave.

She gives me a half-ass smile. “Tracy.”