“Boo ya! Holla at ya, boy!”
Benny looks over at me with his ocean-blue eyes, smiles, and then quickly turns his attention back to the television set in front of us. It’s a state-of-the-art television. Forty-six-inch Sony high-definition set, with a twelve-hundred-watt theater system. Some buttered popcorn and a roomful of black folks talking over the sounds on-screen and we would be at our local Loews movie theater. NBA players run up and down a basketball court in front of us, courtesy of Benny’s Xbox 360. Their likeness to the real players is uncanny. The computer-generated images, or CGI, as Benny the Geek is quick to point out, even move with the same fluidity of the real players, with the same cool that a million-dollar contract and an equal number of adoring fans can add to one’s self-confidence. Benny uses the Los Angeles Lakers, takes most if not all of his shots with Kobe Bryant. It’s the start of the fourth quarter of our game and Kobe already has forty-six points. I run with the Miami Heat, most of my points scored by Dwayne Wade. I’m beating Benny by three points, but the momentum is definitely in his favor. He’s on a thirteen-to-two run, has almost completely wiped out my lead.
“Boo ya! Can’t stop, won’t stop.”
Kobe Bryant yet again.
I say, “Would you stop that.”
“It’s called competition,” Benny replies. “It’s up to you to stop me, Eric. I won’t just lay down for you. But I feel your pain, homie. Kobe is on fire.”
“Not that…all that boo ya stuff, the hip-hop talk.”
“That’s how I talk, Eric. Nahmean?”
“‘Nahmean’?” I frown at Benny’s word choice. “No, I don’t know what you mean. And that’s not how you talk. I don’t know if I’m playing you or Eminem.”
“I’m offended you picked a white rapper, Eric. That’s reverse racism. But I’ll let you slide on that, homie.”
“You’re out of control, Benny. I wish you’d stop. That’s not how you talk.”
“Is now,” Benny says, talking to me without looking in my direction, his focus trained on the action on the screen. I talk to him in the same way. If either one of us takes our eyes off the TV, the other gains an advantage. We don’t want that to happen. This is serious business. Bragging rights are at stake.
I ask, “Since when have you talked that way?”
“Since Crash did me dirty. Since I became the school’s biggest joke—no offense—next to you. I’ve got two more years there. I’m going to do my best to make them good ones. Can’t beat ’em…join ’em. That’s my new motto.”
I say, “And you think talking like a rapper is gonna get you points?”
Benny says, “Can’t hurt to try. I can’t go in there talking like Shakespeare.” He pauses, forces some kind of English accent. “Thou doth protest my good intentions too fervently. See how ridiculous that is, Eric? If it comes down to the Bard or Fiddy, I have to roll with Fiddy.”
I want to present the opposing point of view, remind Benny that his “back that thing up” comment to Kenya really started this thing. Remind him that Crash and the others have never taken kindly to some pale white boy speaking in a way that they themselves speak, that they find it insulting and demeaning, that it will cause him more problems than he has now. I say, “I think you’re asking for trouble, Benny.”
“You’re not exactly an expert on the matter, Eric. No offense. But maybe you would find yourself in a better place if you had a little more Fiddy in you than Steve Urkel.”
“Steve Urkel?”
“Did I do that?” Benny says in Urkel’s whiny voice. “Didn’t mean to speak so openly, Eric. But yeah, that’s how everyone sees you. I’m sorry.”
Steve Urkel.
I’ve been going for Kanye West, Pharrell, even Common, and somehow I keep ending up like Urkel, arguably the biggest example of a black nerd that exists, the pop culture icon for everything an impressionable black adolescent doesn’t want to be.
Lucky me.
Angry, I say, “Well, Benny, I hate to tell you, but they see you in the same light, or worse, because of your lack of melanin. And changing how you speak isn’t gonna change that. Just gives them another name to add to geek, nerd, lame, and pizza face: wigger.”
Nasty words, I know. I want to hurt Benny in the same way his words hurt me. What he said about everyone seeing me as Steve Urkel is the truth. And, well, the truth hurts. I won’t be alone with my pain, though. Benny’s gonna share in it.
Benny pauses his Xbox onslaught and looks over at me. I expect some angry words in exchange. That we’ll be fist fighting again for the second time in less than a week. I’m prepared for it. Benny says, “Don’t hate…congratulate,” and goes right back to the game.
It’s hopeless.
“You’re ridiculous, Benny.”
“Word to your mother.”
“That’s old, Benny. Real old. What you been doing, renting old Spike Lee movies? Doin’ the Right Thing?”
Benny corrects me. “Do…Do the Right Thing.”
I say, “I’ll pray for you.”
Benny says, “Please do. Ask God if there’s a place in heaven for a G.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Boo ya!” Benny shouts, and then adds, “I’m ridiculous. And you are now on the short end of the score. I’ll take ridiculous to loser any day, homie.”
Kobe again, giving Benny a lead of two points.
I need to focus on the game. I can save Benny’s soul after the final buzzer sounds. Maybe. He just might be too far gone.
I grit my teeth, thumb a button on my controller and pass inside to Wade. He’s a sure thing. His dunk rattles the rim, ties the score. I tell Benny, “You can’t stop him. You can only hope to contain him.”
“Eric, Eric, Eric.” Benny moves to Kobe again, of course, and shoots a three-point shot from far beyond the arc. The net on the rim ripples as Kobe buries the shot. Benny’s now in the lead by three points. One and a half minutes left in the game.
“Lucky shot, Benny.”
I attempt a long pass. Bad move. Lamar Odom swoops in and intercepts the pass, dishes the ball immediately to Kobe, who shoots another three. Dead-on, nothing but net. I’m down six in the blink of an eye.
Benny says, “This is why I’m hot. That pass is why you’re not,” and laughs at his little rhyme.
I don’t reply to that. But if he starts saying ay-bay-bay, we will definitely find ourselves in a fistfight. There are certain lines that just can’t be crossed.
Dwayne Wade cuts into Benny’s six-point cushion. I’m down four with a minute to go.
Kobe misses.
Dwayne Wade doesn’t.
I’m down two points with forty-five seconds.
Benny says, “Okay, you’re doing a lil’ somethin’ somethin’. But I’m not shook.”
Kobe clanks another shot. He picked the perfect time to go ice-cold. God bless his CGI heart.
I grab the rebound and go inside to old reliable again. Wade ties the score with an easy basket.
The breakdown: Twenty-two seconds left in the game, tied score, Benny’s ball.
Kobe dribbles away the clock. I attempt a steal. My bid is unsuccessful.
Six seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Benny finally makes his move with Kobe, darting to the left, then quickly back to his right. My defender is no match for that slick move. Kobe is alone as he elevates for the last shot. He releases it smoothly. The ball moves in slow motion. I sit silent, watch, wait. The buzzer sounds, loud because of Benny’s state-of-the-art television. Kobe’s shot rattles through the hoop. The CGI Kobe pumps his fist and does a little dance. Benny drops his controller on the plush carpet and throws his hands in the air. Same pose Jay-Z struck at his retirement concert at Madison Square Garden. A winner’s pose.
“Dang,” I say, disgusted. “I can’t believe I blew that lead.” My controller also finds Benny’s carpet as I throw it down.
Benny moves over to me and rubs my shoulder apologetically.
“Luck,” I tell him.
“Don’t hate the player. Hate the game,” he responds.
All the attempts at cool talk aside, Benny is without question just a geek. His room proves it. It’s neat and orderly. There are no posters of swimsuit models on his walls. No Heidi Klum, no Tyra Banks, not even a worn-out poster of Britney Spears. No rap CDs scattered on his desk, even though he’s taken the vernacular and attempted to make it his own. I’m not even sure Benny likes music of any kind. I’ve never seen him listening to the radio, never witnessed him purchase a CD, and MTV and VH1 get no play on his television.
More important than what you won’t find in Benny’s room is what you will. GamePro and EGM (Electronic Gaming Monthly) magazines, the jewel cases to any number of video games, comic books and controllers for every video game system invented. If you turn his television on, you’re likely to find it on one of two channels: Discovery or G4, the gaming channel.
And then there is Benny himself. He’s the best evidence to prove my point.
The things he finds really cool, the things that bring his blood to a steady boil, are things that none of the cool kids at school would find the least bit interesting. I sit in Benny’s leather swivel chair at his desk, across the room from him, and watch him in action. He’s got this look on his face I can’t quite describe. In one class we talked about the “glow” that permeates a woman’s skin once she becomes pregnant. Something about hormonal changes that affect the skin. That’s it, that’s Benny’s look.
I call out to him, “Who knocked you up, Benny? Was it Anne Hathaway?”
Anne’s a couple shades paler than Benny, with just as much acne, mousy-looking hair and, believe it or not, a pound or two more baby fat than even Benny. She dresses like a movie star—unfortunately, a star from the fifties—Katharine Hepburn or somebody, women old enough for my mother to have to stretch her brain to remember their movies.
All of that, and Benny gets tongue-tied around Anne Hathaway. I don’t think he’s ever gotten out a word in her presence. I don’t even know if she knows Benny exists. It’s bad when even the unpopular girls don’t know your name.
I say, “Or was it ‘Big Bertha’ Beatrice?” Nickname says it all.
Benny puts a finger up to his lips, shushes me. He has a cordless phone pressed to his ear; anticipation dances across his pale, acne-scarred face.
I start to say something else, but Benny clears his throat and turns his back to me. “Yes, my name’s Mike Hunt,” he begins. His shoulders rock as he stifles laughter. “I’m trying to locate a good friend. He had this number last, from what I’m told. I hope I have the right number.”
Benny turns to me, smiles wide, mouths Mike Hunt and gets a he-he-he look on his face.
Mike Hunt.
Mike Hunt.
Say it slow…Mike Hunt. My cu—you get the point.
“Yes,” Benny says into the phone. “I’ve been running into dead ends like you wouldn’t believe.” He nods and smiles, very proper, not an ounce of wannabe rapper left in the lilt of his voice. “I sure hope so. What’s his name?” He pauses for effect. “Ben Dover.”
He-he-he.
The person on the other end must think Benny’s crazy.
Benny repeats, “Ben. Dover.”
I shake my head at Benny’s immaturity.
He covers his mouth with his free hand to stifle more laughter, and, unsuccessful, just hangs up the phone. He tosses the cordless to me. I put it on his desk with all the gaming magazines. Benny falls on his bed. He kicks his feet in excitement. “My adrenaline is off the hook, Eric. What a rush.”
I say, “You’ve got problems, Benny.”
He says, “I had that lady’s mind in the Matrix, Eric. She didn’t know which way was up, whether I was feeding her the blue pill or the red pill.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s a real problem when he starts to babble.
He continues. “Wish I’d taped that one, Eric. I’d love to hear it on playback. It was classic.”
I say, “That’s illegal, Benny. A Homeland Security violation or something.”
“I’m not Barack Obama. I’m not on the gubment’s list.”
I say, “You mean Osama bin Laden.”
Benny says, “Same difference.”
“Keep joking around about this stuff and get the Feds breathing down your neck.”
Benny says, “I’m not scared of po-po.”
“Benny, you’re scared of Miss Mitchell.” Miss Mitchell has mashed-potatoes duty in the school cafeteria. She’s known to bark at students in her deep Newport voice if they try to pass her station without getting a healthy spoonful of potatoes. The mashed potatoes are close to inedible, but there isn’t a student in our school outside of Crash who’ll pass by Miss Mitchell’s station empty-handed.
Benny says, “You ever seen that pocketbook Miss Mitchell carries?”
“Have to be Stevie Wonder to miss it,” I reply. “It’s the size of a suitcase.”
“Exactly,” Benny says.
“And?”
“I’m not scared of her, Eric. Just cautious. She could easily have a gat tucked away in that thing.”
I laugh at the visual of Miss Mitchell pulling a gun from her pocketbook.
Benny says, “You feel me, homie?”
I just nod. What else can I do?
“Homie,” I reply. “You’re really taking this serious, Benny. You actually think you can remake yourself into one of the cool boys.”
Benny looks at me. “Who controls the past controls the future,” he says. “Who controls the present controls the past.”
“Who is that?”
“George Orwell.”
“And not one of the cool boys could tell you who George Orwell is,” I remind him.
Benny shrugs. “I don’t plan on reciting Orwell in school.” He taps the side of his head with a finger. “I’ll keep that kind of stuff up here, where it belongs.”
“That would be wise.”
He says, “In the meantime—”
A loud crash comes from outside in the hall, interrupts Benny before he can finish his statement. Benny frowns, looks at me with concern, and then heads out of his room to investigate. I follow on his heels. I prepare myself to make a run for the door if it is anything remotely dangerous. Mama ain’t raise no fool.
“I’m looking forward to you dying, old woman. You are a miserable, miserable woman.”
The voice is deep and resentful. It belongs to Benny’s father. His father is in the room at the very end of the hall. I know that Benny’s grandmother occupies that room. I’ve never been inside it. The door is always closed. I only know she’s in there because Benny gets a hitch in his step every time he passes the door. He talks of her in hushed tones, and with a blatant lack of love. I’ve always wondered why.
Benny stops at the threshold of the room. I stand right behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“Should just let you rot in this,” Benny’s father continues. “Save myself from your abuse.”
I see Benny’s father drop a dirty rag in a brown paper bag next to the bed and crinkle up his nose as he pulls off a pair of white latex gloves. Benny’s grandmother clutches her bed rail with arthritic hands. Her fingernails are long, hard and crusted yellow. Fingers so gnarled by arthritis it appears as if she has two hands’ worth of fingers on each hand. Her skin has an unhealthy gray-yellow coloring to it. Her full head of white hair is tinted with a sort of dirty green-yellow. White lady composed of more colors than a rainbow.
The room smells like an overflowing trash can in the dead heat of late July.
“I’m not feeding you lunch today,” Benny’s father announces. “I don’t want you having anything else in your stomach. Some ginger ale, that’s it.”
I can’t believe how mean he is to the old woman. Mama’s always said that white people are touched by the devil. Just look at how they treat their own parents when their parents become old and helpless. Devils, that’s exactly what those white people are.
I’ve always avoided blanket hate of white folks. Benny’s been one of my best friends since the day I met him. Our school is diverse enough that you’re going to encounter folks of another race. However, most of the cool black kids stick together in a cocoon. I’ve never done that. I’ve never felt bad about venturing out and becoming friends with kids like Benny, either. In truth, the black kids have treated me worse than any white kid ever did.
But now, watching Benny’s dad, I’m starting to feel somewhat different.
“Any of that tuna fish left?” Benny’s grandmother asks.
Benny’s father replies, “I know you’re practically blind, but are you deaf, too, you old bag of bones? I said you aren’t getting anything.”
She snaps back, “I see. I see just fine. And my ears work plenty well, too.”
“Wish your mouth didn’t work. Shut your trap.”
I turn to move away.
Then I hear the old woman’s voice calling.
It sounds like she’s calling for me.
I turn back to see. Benny presses his hand in my chest, tries to move me back in the direction I was going. I push him aside, move back to the doorway of his grandmother’s room. I find a comfortable place in the space and stand there.
“Boy,” she says.
“Yes?”
“You see how I’m being treated?”
“Yes.”
“Shameful, isn’t it?”
I don’t reply. It is shameful, but I’m a guest in Benny’s home. It’s not my place to point out his family’s dysfunction.
“Bet your mammy raised you to treat old folks with respect, didn’t she?”
I nod. “Yes, Mrs. Sedgwick. She sure did.” I take it she meant mom when she said mammy.
“I could use her,” she says. “I can’t really blame my son here.”
“Quiet with your foolishness,” Benny’s father says to her.
She swats him away with one of those arthritic hands. “I’m trying to help you. This boy could be the answer to your problem.”
I say, “What can I do for you, Mrs. Sedgwick?”
Benny pulls at my shirt. I turn and give him an evil eye. Let me handle this, my expression says. In Benny’s eyes I recognize certain desperation. I ignore it and shoo him away just like his grandmother shooed away his father.
Benny’s grandmother asks, “Your mammy isn’t carrying a bundle at the moment, is she?”
I turn back to her again. “Pregnant, you mean?”
“Yes, boy,” she says, “pregnant.”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering, boy. I know your women are most of the time.”
“Mother…” That’s Benny’s father again.
Benny continues to tug at my shirt. He can’t move me.
Benny’s grandmother says, “Your mother raising all those kids on her own. I do have empathy, believe me.”
I frown. What does she know about my mother? All of what kids? I want to ask. There’s only Kenya and myself. What is wrong with this old lady?
She continues, “I know it must be hard. And welfare only takes care of so much.”
“Welfare?”
She nods. “That food stamp program is shameful. Are you eating well enough? You look a bit peaked. Scrawny, actually, if I put aside pretense.”
I don’t know what to say.
She says, “I’m prepared to offer your mammy a job, boy. Wiping an old woman’s white ass isn’t a duty for her son.”
I say, “Mrs. Sedgwick, my mother already has a job. And we’re not on welfare.”
It’s like she doesn’t even hear me.
“No,” she says, “wiping a white ass is a job for a Negro woman.”
My dumbfounded “Say what?” is drowned out by the “Why, Mother? Why?” cry of Benny’s father.
Benny pulls at my shirt more forcefully. I finally relent and let him remove me from his grandmother’s room. I should have left while the leaving was good, as my mother would say.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Benny says.
I look at him through narrow eyes. My heartbeat is very pronounced, pounding my chest like a fist. This is apt, because I feel as if I’ve been punched. Sucker punched. “You’re sorry,” I say to Benny.
Benny nods. “Very. She’s a sick old woman. Her head isn’t right.”
For the first time I understand why the black kids don’t befriend kids like Benny. We are from two different worlds. We’ll never, no matter how much we pretend we could, ever fully understand one another. Martin Luther King was always hopeful that blacks and whites could find common ground, a level of appreciation for one another. Malcolm X was a realist. He didn’t like the prospects of that notion. Before today I’d have leaned toward Martin Luther King’s belief. But today changes everything. “Separate but equal” works just fine for me.
Benny says, “Let’s go play another game of—”
“Nah, Benny. I’m out.”
I start moving toward his steps. I notice for the first time how large his house is. The stairway winds and turns and appears to go on forever. The banisters are ornately carved out of wood. The carpeting on the stairs is a rich burgundy. His home is like Tara, the estate from Gone With the Wind.
I wonder where the slave quarters are.
“I thought you were staying the night, Eric.”
“Changed my mind,” I call to him as I start descending the stairs.
“If it’s about my grandmother, again, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for her. She said what she felt.”
“And what are you feeling, Eric?”
I stop at the bottom of the stairs and look up at him. The concern in his eyes is clear. I ignore it.
“Feeling like I made a big mistake.”
“What mistake, Eric?”
“Thinking I could be friends with a fool-ass white boy.”
“What?” The hurt in his voice is a sound I won’t soon forget. But that doesn’t matter. Some things have to happen. This moment was preordained. It had to happen.
“Later,” I say, and then add, “homie.”
“Eric.”
I shut the door on his voice.
Shut the door on our friendship, for good this time.
I have a seventeen-block walk ahead of me. Luckily I have my soft Nikes on today. Otherwise I’d be an unhappy camper. The hub station for Metro Transit is on Jeremiah Avenue, far removed from Benny’s suburban landscape. I can catch a bus from there back to my hood. I don’t know why I ever thought Benny and I could remain as thick as thieves. We’re from two different worlds. His street address is 1154 Sycamore Avenue. His street is named after a tree. My street address is 90A Anestio Perdina Boulevard. My street is named after a seven-year-old Mexican boy felled by three stray bullets as he played with his Big Wheel out in front of his parents’ duplex. At the end of my block some folks in the community carved a little five-foot-by-five-foot square of empty land into a garden in Anestio’s memory. The flowers are kept fresh almost year-round. A cross is staked in the hardest area of ground. A picture of a smiling Anestio is kept secure in a large frame the entire neighborhood chipped in to buy. It’s a sad situation that folks have tried to turn positive. Making lemonade out of lemons is how the older folks describe this sort of thing. Where I’m from, that’s what you do.
I wipe my brow, frown at the sun, and keep moving at a steady pace. In Benny’s neighborhood there are no lemons; everything is naturally lemonade. Homes are well kept and adorned with manicured lawns, cobblestone circular driveways, wrought-iron gates, garden gnomes. Lemonade, fruit punch and Kool-Aid, take your pick. No lemons.
No activity on the street, either.
I’m the only soul walking.
Passing by homes with Lexuses and BMWs parked in their garages.
At times like this I wish I had an iPod to listen to. Mama was going to buy me one last Christmas, but I balked at the last minute, asked her for a portable DVD player instead. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the iPod. I didn’t want Mama to spend her hard-earned money purchasing one. Times are lean. She’s raising Kenya and me by herself for the most part. I hate watching her stretch her finances to provide for us. Hate the sacrifices she makes to ensure that Kenya and I don’t go without. Mama wears shoes until the heels fall off. She seldom buys new clothes. She gets all of her toiletries and beauty items at the Dollar Tree. It’s a tough way of living.
So I told her I didn’t want an iPod after all, that a portable DVD player would suit me just fine. It wasn’t a lie. I enjoy movies almost as much as music.
Of course, by the time she finished buying DVDs for my portable player she could have gotten me two iPods. I woke up Christmas morning to two large wrapped presents. One box was the DVD player. The other box was the DVDs. All of my favorite actors and actresses were represented: Eddie Murphy in Boomerang; Denzel in Out of Time and Training Day; Mekhi Phifer in Paid in Full; Jamie Foxx in Collateral; Ray Liotta in Smoking Aces. There were many more, too many to list.
I’ve got the best mama.
Six blocks to go.
I wonder what Benny’s up to. Whether he went straight back to playing with his Xbox after I left. Whether he’s having a heart-to-heart with his father about the hatefulness of his grandmother. Whether they’re conversing about an idealistic world where people are judged by the content of their character and not the color of their skin.
Benny’s been a good friend, I must admit.
But other friends will come.
At least, I hope so.
Finally, the bus station is in sight. The walk over wasn’t so bad after all. The blocks are short, nothing like what you’d find in the city. I can see the kiosk where riders wait to be picked up. Nothing like it exists in Benny’s neighborhood.
The kiosk’s glass is frosted from wear and tear. There’s a schedule posted in flimsy plastic casing attached to the glass. I’m alone at the station. I run my finger over the schedule, find my bus’s arrival time.
I have another twenty minutes to kill.
I have a seat on the bench in the bus kiosk.
Wait. Alone, as usual.
Here comes the bus, finally.
Twenty minutes late.
I stand up, fish in my pocket for coins and move to the curb. The door opens and I step up. The driver is a portly middle-aged black man with a patchy growth of hair on his chin. Hair also grows out of his ears. I look at his left hand as I drop my coins in the slot. No wedding ring. I notice that his gray uniform shirt carries remnants of his lunch. Ketchup and mustard stains. My biggest fear is that I will end up just like him in thirty years. That I’ll be hearing chants of “Poser, Poser, Poser” for the rest of my natural life.
The bus is crowded; the only available seats are way in the back. I move toward one, which is directly across from two girls I’ve seen before at school. I don’t know their names. They’re in the popular crowd. Kenya knows them, though, I’m sure. One is busy bopping her head to the music coming out of her iPod. The other is busy watching me move down the aisle, chewing her gum like it’s going out of style. Ms. Bazooka elbows the other girl in the side and nods her head in my direction as I approach.
I pretend I don’t see them as I drop into a seat directly across the aisle from where they sit. Again I wish I had an iPod I could get lost in. Wish I had brought my Nintendo Game Boy along with me. Even my portable DVD player would be okay. I could plug in my earphones and absorb one of my movies. But I don’t have any diversion. As usual, it’s just me.
My stomach churns with nerves. My hands are sweaty. My mouth is dry. My heart is a drum in my chest. I expect some drama in one, two, three…
“You go to Marcus Garvey, don’t you?”
I keep my posture and head straight ahead.
I did not hear Ms. Bazooka address me.
“Hey,” she half yells between hard chews on her gum.
I can’t hide. I turn in her direction. “Hey,” I say, mimicking how I’ve heard Crash speak to girls. “What’s cracking?”
Ms. Bazooka’s nose wrinkles. “‘What’s cracking?’ That’s pretty lame.”
I try again. “What’s good?”
She says, “Too late,” and iPod giggles. She’s turned her music off. Not a good sign. I’m about to get double-teamed, for certain. This is exactly why I’ve been hesitant to venture outside my home since what I refer to simply as the Incident.
Ms. Bazooka says, “You’re Kenya’s brother.”
It isn’t a question. I nod in answer, though. iPod says, “That’s gotta suck…for Kenya.”
Okay, this is about to get really bad. My only remaining hope is that they didn’t see my fight with Crash. That they’re unaware of the specifics of that situation. That, even though they attend the same high school as me, and talk of the fight is pretty much dominating everyone’s mind, they’re not aware of just how badly my fisticuffs with Crash turned out. That they don’t have MySpace pages and haven’t visited any of the more than two dozen pages that reference my fight with Crash.
Ms. Bazooka says, “Kenya’s gonna be fine. Eric here, too, I see. He’s not wearing a neck brace. That’s a good sign.” She slaps hands with iPod. iPod giggles. I hate her giggle.
So much for hope.
Everyone knows. Girls who never noticed me, and certainly didn’t know my name, now do.
I’m the laughingstock of the entire school.
I say, “Crash is one of my best friends, ladies. I was uncomfortable fighting him.”
Ms. Bazooka says, “With friends like that, who needs enemies?” iPod giggles.
There is no use in talking to them. I turn around in my seat.
“Hey, Eric?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
“Eric?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
“Stop playing, boy. I’m talking to you.”
I look. Don’t blame me; blame the sudden bass in her voice.
I manage, “Yes? What is it?”
“‘Yes? What is it?’” Ms. Bazooka mocks. “Damn, boy, you sound white as hell,” she says. “Whiter than that boy that kicked your ass before Crash finished you off.”
I say, “Benny did not kick my ass.”
“Whatever.”
“He didn’t.”
“Did too,” she says.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.” iPod says, “Stop, Chante. This boy will go back and forth with you all day. Lame ass.”
They both burst out laughing. Hysterical, sidesplitting laughter. I have to sit here and endure their teasing. As usual, it is all at my expense. iPod’s giggle is enough to make me want to do her bodily harm. The passengers around us on the bus are all suddenly interested in our little conversation. A woman in front of me, with dog hair all over her clothes, turns without pretense and eyeballs me. A white man with a priest’s collar on the other side of the aisle does the same thing. He looks at me like he wants to sprinkle me with holy water. A woman who looks like a suburban soccer mom can’t keep her eyes off me. I wonder why she isn’t home baking cookies, why she’s even riding the bus. What happened, her minivan is in the shop?
Ms. Bazooka says, “I give you credit.”
Stupidly, I ask, “For?”
“Showing your face in public.”
I turn away from her again. Turn away from her and iPod’s laughter. The bus comes to a stop after some time. A group of people shuffle aboard. They’ll be standing, as the bus is completely filled with seated passengers. I look out the window, my thoughts a million miles away. Why does it have to be this way? Out of all the people I could have been born as, why did I end up who I am and with the life I have? What did I ever do to deserve this? There is no peace anywhere in my life. Could it possibly get any worse?
I hear Ms. Bazooka say, “Oh, snap.” Then she calls to me, “Hey, Eric?”
I ignore her.
“Hey, Eric?”
I’m not paying her any attention.
The boarding passengers move down the aisle. It’s like a mini-stampede. I keep my focus out the window. I don’t need to see these new passengers. They’re just like everyone else. Certainly not fans of mine, certainly no one who would find any value in me.
“Hey, Eric?” Ms. Bazooka calls for a third time.
I wheel on her. “What? What? What?”
She frowns. “Don’t be getting all snappy with me, boy.”
I say, “Would you leave me alone?”
Now she smiles. “I was just gonna warn you, but fine….”
“Warn me of what?”
That hateful smile crosses her face again. “That you’re probably gonna have to give up your seat.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I?”
“Yup.”
And then a shadow falls over me. I know the shadow, oddly enough. I swallow a gulp. I don’t even have to look up, but I do. I hear iPod’s giggle and Ms. Bazooka’s laughter in the background. I hear my heartbeat pulsing in my ears, too.
Crash.
Standing over me like the Grim Reaper.
“Hey,” I say in a weak voice.
Crash is without emotion. Face blank, eyes dead like they were the day we fought.
Ms. Bazooka says, “Don’t be rude, Eric…offer Crash your seat.”
I ignore her, ask Crash, “What you been up to?”
He doesn’t respond.
My heart does. It wants out of my chest.
My underarms are a pool all of a sudden.
Is he gonna hit me again?
Should I just get up and let him have my seat?
Why isn’t he saying anything?
What is he thinking?
Will anyone step forward and be a Good Samaritan if Crash suddenly starts pummeling me?
I say, “Crash, I—”
He cuts me off. “Get up.” iPod giggles. Ms. Bazooka cracks up.
I say, “Come on, Crash. This is my seat.”
If I give my seat up, that’s just another sad part of this tale. More fodder for the kids at school. I can’t give the seat up, no matter how dire the consequences. If Crash decides to beat me up for that, so be it.
“Get up,” Crash repeats. His voice is deep, like a grown man’s.
I sigh. I won’t be moved. He will just have to move me. At some point I have to face down Crash’s constant pressure, whatever the outcome, for my own dignity’s sake. It’s all part of my maturation process. My voice will get deeper, I will grow hair on my chest, and I will stand up to Crash and win. Adolescence.
“Get up,” Crash barks.
I can’t form my mouth to speak. But I shake my head defiantly.
Ms. Bazooka says, “Oh, snap.”
I’d like to snap her neck.
Crash takes a hard step toward me.
I close my eyes and prepare for his assault. I hear every one of his steps. One. Two. Three. He’s right on me. I open my eyes, knowing a fist is probably flying toward me.
A fist isn’t, though.
But unfortunately, in the same move of opening my eyes, I’d jumped up, jumped up without knowing what was happening.
I say, “Take the seat. I don’t want to fight. You have it.” iPod giggles. Ms. Bazooka cracks up.
Crash says, “Your stop.”
I look out the window.
It is my stop.
Crash wasn’t bullying me. He was letting me know it was my stop.
Again, I punked out, made myself look beyond foolish. iPod giggles. Ms. Bazooka cracks up.
I move past Crash with my head down.
Exit the bus in the same manner.
I try to sneak into the house without being noticed. Of course that doesn’t happen. Mama’s in the kitchen, all kinds of wonderful smells around her, and yet she sniffs out my presence like a ninja. “Eric? That you?” Her voice is cooler than the underside of a pillow. It has a jazz singer’s strength to it, too. Combine Mama’s rich voice with her regal dark skin, Vivica A. Fox frame, and a smile that’s more soothing than chicken noodle soup, and you have the adult equivalent of cool.
I must be the only person left on the planet, besides Benny, who doesn’t have it.
Despite her calling for me, I try to tiptoe past Mama without answering. I know she’ll be at my bedroom door in seconds, knocking and wondering why I passed by without giving her some sugar, but I’ll just claim ignorance. Tired, Mama. Long day. Didn’t even hear you in the kitchen. Thought you might have been working late. That sort of thing.
“Eric Preston Posey, you better bring your narrow tail in here, now.”
Dayum.
I turn, head back to the kitchen, a Kanye West I-rule-the-world smile on my face. Na-na-na-na what don’t kill me can only make me stronger.
I say, “Yes, Mama?”
She looks at me hard, places her hands covered in large oven mitts on her hips, and frowns. “Don’t you ‘Yes, Mama’ me, Eric. You tried to sneak in.”
“Sneak in? No.”
“Now you’re lying to me.”
“What’s up, Mama?”
“You tell me, Eric.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing. Just got in from Benny’s.”
She glances at the clock, then back at me. “A day early, too.”
I forgot that little glitch.
I say, “Forgot I had some work to do here, for school. We had our fun. Now it’s work time.” I smile for good measure.
Mama cuts her eyes at me. “Dinner will be ready soon. Garlic mashed potatoes. Roasted chicken. Macaroni and cheese. Cabbage with bacon. Honey-topped homemade rolls. Butter pecan ice cream and apple pie for dessert.”
I say, “Okay.”
“That’s every last one of your favorites, Eric. And all I get from you is an ‘okay.’ No, something’s wrong. You’re going to talk to me, too, before you even think about leaving this kitchen.”
I say, “Did you say ‘macaroni and cheese’? I thought you said ‘back up off me and leave.’ Wow! Mac and cheese, that’s great, Mama. Can’t wait to dig in.”
Mama cocks her head, studies me a moment, and then removes her oven mitts. She moves to the stove, adjusts the temperature on the oven. Turns back to me, points at our kitchen table. I know what this means. A powwow. I move to the table, defeated, find myself a seat. Mama does the same.
She says, “I found a beautiful figurine today. A black peasant woman holding a gourd. Carved in stone. Woman who sold it to me says it’s from Norman A. Hughes’s Sankofa collection. She sold it to me for a fair price. I’m giving it to Hollywood for his birthday.”
I know what she’s trying to do. Mama has this thing she does where we sit and discuss the highlight of our day. Most days I have to stretch to find one; today I can’t even do that.
I’m not about to play this game.
I focus on Mama instead. Hollywood is her boyfriend. I’m not sure a grown man named Hollywood would appreciate such a gift, but whatever.
I say, “I’m sure Hollywood will love it. He was talking about Yankees tickets, but the black woman holding a gourd is hard to top.”
Mama says, “Don’t be a smart-ass, Eric.”
“What I say?”
“Your tone. You implied that Hollywood isn’t astute enough to appreciate a gift of cultural significance.”
When you have Mama’s type of cool, you can talk like that and not get ridiculed. If you’re like me, two steps removed from Steve Urkel, and you talk like that, you risk daily doses of wedgies from the school bullies.
I say, “I wasn’t dissing Hollywood. He’s cool. Nahmean?”
After my second confrontation with Crash, I’m starting to think Benny was right. I have to reinvent myself.
Mama frowns at the new me. “Since when have you been talking in that manner, Eric?”
I say, “I talk how I talk.”
“Ebonics does not suit you. Some things just don’t go together. Like that ugly clown rapper with the big clock around his neck and that washed-up blond actress.”
“Flavor Flav and Brigitte Nielsen.”
“Yes, whoever. Well, dear heart, that’s you and Ebonics. Not a good fit.”
Mama’s right, of course. Sad to say, it’s almost more pathetic coming from me than it is from Benny.
I drop my gaze, focus on my shoes. They’re nice. Wallabees. Cool shoes, just not on me, I guess. “Sorry, Mama. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She doesn’t say anything.
But comes to me.
Fingers on my chin lift my head.
Our eyes meet. She looks like she did the day Daddy left for good.
It hits me then. She knows. Knows the struggles I’ve been having. I’ve always kept my troubles at school a secret. But Mama, somehow someway, knows.
“I’m a joke, Mama.” My voice catches in my throat. It’s sad to say, but my eyes start to water.
Mama says, “Oh, Eric, baby. Don’t say that. You aren’t.”
I say, “They hate me. Every last one of the kids at school. Boys. Girls. Doesn’t matter. Everybody. They laugh at me all the time. Tease me constantly. I’m the butt of all the jokes.”
Big drops of water fall from my eyes. I hate this. I feel so foolish crying in front of my mother. So worthless. The only thing worse would be if I did this in front of the entire school. Can’t believe I’m falling apart like this. Pull yourself together, Eric.
I can hear them at school: Cry to Mama. Poser, Poser, Poser.
Mama says, “Kids can be hateful. But they don’t hate you, Eric. They don’t understand you. And so they don’t appreciate what they don’t understand. You just have to get them to understand you. To appreciate you for you.” She stops, forces a smile, sniffs out a laugh. “Like how I have to get Hollywood to appreciate a sculpture more than A-Rod and Derek Jeter.”
I say, “Just once…” and my voice catches again. I can’t get the words from my brain to my tongue. Just once, I want to say, I’d like to be accepted.
“Oh hells no. I know I ain’t seeing what I’m seeing.”
Kenya’s voice drifts into the kitchen. I try to wipe my eyes. Too late.
Kenya says, “Eric, I know you ain’t up in here crying like Paris Hilton going to jail.”
Mama says, “Kenya,” then, “Correct grammar, girl. It’s ‘Eric, I know you aren’t in here crying like Paris Hilton going to jail.’”
They share a quick laugh.
At my expense, what else?
I make a move to leave.
Mama says, “Eric, hold it. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Laughter is the best medicine.”
Kenya adds, “That’s right. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Oh…wait. You cried already. My bad.”
I’m leaving. I make another move.
Mama scolds Kenya, calls me back.
Again, I don’t leave.
Mama says, “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t quite know how to handle all of this. You’ll have to forgive me. My son getting beat up…being so traumatized he has an accident on himself.”
I look at Kenya. She told. I can’t believe it. The scowl on my face could melt metal.
Kenya obviously isn’t metal.
She says, “Who you trying to look at all mean? You better chill, boy.”
I say, “I’m not going to be too many more people’s boy today.”
Kenya says, “Look at you getting your panties in a bunch. What happened? Some little old lady punked you today or something?”
She’s trying to be funny, and yet has hit the nail so squarely on the head I’m stunned. That’s pitiful.
I say, “Go ’head with that,” and wave her off.
Something I’ve heard Crash say.
Mama says, “You two, stop. Eric, your sister was concerned about you. She came to speak to me out of love.”
I say, “Whatever. And if I came to you and told you Kenya was using your shower massager for something other than its intended purpose and that she’s been seriously contemplating doing the do with a certain boy she often sneaks in the house, would that be love, too?”
Kenya gasps.
Mama says, “Kenya?”
Kenya’s nostrils flare. Fire is in her eyes. She says, “Can’t believe you went there. You are so lame. That’s why nobody can stand you.”
Mama is in another place. My words have opened a whole new world of worry in her heart. Now she’s worried more about her teenage daughter than her teenage son. Mama’s head is no doubt filled with the prospects of grandbabies before their time, that and worse. “Is that true, Kenya?” she asks. “And who is this boy?”
Kenya ignores her. Instead, she directs all her anger at me. “Sometimes I hate you, Eric.”
She sounds like she means it.
Mama asks her another question about the mystery boy. Again, Kenya ignores her.
I say, “Sometimes I hate you, too, Kenya. So we’re even.”
She shakes her head. “I assure you, we aren’t. I said sometimes, but it’s more like always. You’re an embarrassment to me. I wish you were never born.”
I think she’s done.
She isn’t.
She says, “Crash was considering letting you slide. Came and talked to me about it. You know he’s always liked me.”
He has.
But Mama would have a fit, and Kenya knows better.
She continues. “I gave him my blessing. Told him to do whatever he had to do to you. I didn’t care.”
What?
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Kenya can’t possibly hate me that much.
I say, “You didn’t. You’re just talking.”
Mama’s completely silent. Lost, I suppose.
Kenya says, “I sure did. I wanted him to beat you up. You do stupid stuff, Eric. And then everybody comes to me with it. And I have to end up cleaning all your messes. I wanted you to have to clean this up yourself. Teach you a lesson, I hoped.”
I open my mouth to speak.
Not for the first time, nothing comes out.
Kenya continues. “I regret it all now, though.”
I swallow. There’s still a crumb of something between us, at least. I was worried for a moment. All our recent troubles aside, I love my sister. I remember the days when we danced the night away in our pajamas. I remember our games of checkers, tic-tac-toe. All the times we drove Mama crazy playing tag in the house.
Kenya says, “I regret it because then you went and wet…You embarrassed yourself. All everyone talks about.” She snarls at me. “And you’re nobody, so it all falls on me. You being my brother and all. I didn’t expect that to happen. Thought you’d have to pay the piper on this one alone.”
I’m nobody.
My own sister’s estimation of me.
Mama finally comes to life, says, “Oh, Kenya. Take that back. That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Terrible, yes, Mama,” Kenya admits. “True, though, too.”
Mama protests some more.
I finally find my voice. “No need for her to take it back, Mama. She’s right. I’m nobody.”
Mama says, “Eric, that’s not true. Not one bit.”
Hollywood walks in then. Wrecks our family moment. Loud, as usual. He knows no other way to enter a room. “What’s up with dinner?”
Mama says, “My children are going through some things.”
Hollywood says, “Your children.”
He has on his work overalls. His boots are clean. There isn’t any dirt under his fingernails. His hands are baby-bottom soft. I feel like exposing his secret to Mama, as well. Let it all hang out today. But I let it go.
Mama, despite all of her tough talk about men to Kenya, moves to finish the dinner preparations.
Hollywood asks Kenya, “So what’s happening got all y’all up in here disturbing your mama?”
Kenya is the only other person in the house he speaks to regularly, including Mama.
He practically ignores me.
I don’t fit his perception of what a teen boy is, I guess.
Well, he doesn’t fit my perception of what a grown man is, either.
So we’re even.
He says, “Huh, girl?”
Kenya doesn’t answer him. She can’t stand Hollywood. She moves past all of us, leaves the kitchen in a huff. Like a gusty wind on a bad day.
Hollywood tells Mama, “That girl’s got a serious attitude. You need to check her, Pam. Put her in her place. She in your house running around like she owns the place.”
Mama says, “Doing my best.” She moves over toward him, caresses his arms. “Eric is having problems at school. Problems fitting in. Why don’t you give him some advice.”
No, I want to say. Hollywood isn’t an advice giver. I don’t want anything from the man, and I certainly wouldn’t heed anything he says to me. But I don’t say anything. Mama doesn’t like it when we say negative things about Hollywood.
Hollywood stares me down for a moment and then says, “Stop being such a pussy. That’s my advice.”
Some advice.
I leave the kitchen with it.
I don’t even hear Mama raise her voice to him.
I told Mama I left Benny’s house and came home early because I have a project to work on. That wasn’t an outright lie, even though Mama saw through it as if it were as clear as Sprite. It was a partial truth, I admit. I never set out to mislead Mama. Don’t have it in me to lie to her. I do have homework. But it isn’t for school, as I led Mama to believe. It’s for me, a personal project of the highest importance. It holds more weight than anything I’ve ever done in any of my classes. More important than reading The Scarlet Letter in English, fiddling with a Bunsen burner in science, and certainly more important than timing my run of a mile in gym.
The outcome of this project will determine what direction my life takes.
That’s how much importance I place on it.
So after I leave Mama and Hollywood in the kitchen, I head straight for my room. Inside, I lock my door, make a call to set up my project, and then move toward the window over my bed. I climb out, just as Ricky Williams does by Kenya’s window, and crawl slowly down the side. I’m not cool, true enough. But I’m not afraid of heights, either. I descend smoothly and quickly, too. I’m like Spider-Man if you ask me to scale anything. In some way, I think that must be cool. It feels as if it is, at least. On safe ground at the bottom, I brush off my pants and hands and head to meet up with the person I called to help with my project.
I start walking to our meeting place, wishing the entire time I had an iPod. I have to do something about that soon. I’m a few years away from driving, so everywhere I go is on foot, by public transportation or in the passenger seat of Mama’s car. In none of those places am I afforded the opportunity to listen to music I love to hear. Traveling without music isn’t good.
When I reach the street of my destination, my palms start to sweat.
Nerves bunch up in my stomach.
What if this doesn’t work?
Then what?
I have no options beyond this.
I’ll be dead in the water if this fails.
Which means one thing: this has to work.
I look up and notice her coming down the stoop in front of her apartment. I call her name. She frowns and motions for me to keep walking by. I do. When I reach the corner, I turn back to see if she’s following. She is. I smile at the sight of her. Let the project begin, I think. As Swizz Beatz says, Game time.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know if my parental units were looking out the window. They know you’re Kenya’s brother, but…well, they’re protective of me, you know?”
I nod. “Thanks for helping me, Lark. I truly appreciate it.”
“I haven’t helped yet, Eric. But I will try. I feel bad for you.”
“That makes two of us.”
She rubs her hands together. “Okay, let’s get to work. Favorite book?”
I squint. “Say what?”
“I want to start by asking you some questions. Okay?”
I don’t know about this, but I say, “All right.”
Lark says, “Now. What’s your favorite book?”
“Anything by Baldwin,” I tell her. “Oh, and Richard Wright, also. It’s too bad we don’t read them in school. I loved—”
I stop because I notice Lark is looking at me strangely. She doesn’t say a word.
I say, “What?”
“This is going to be hard, Eric. I’ll tell you that right now.”
“I messed up already?”
She nods. “You answered wrong. And then you started talking about books with enthusiasm. The goal is to be popular, correct?”
I say, “Yes.”
“So start over. What’s your favorite book, Eric?”
I don’t know how to answer. What would a popular boy read? Harry Potter?
Lark says, “You wouldn’t be caught dead reading a book. XXL magazine, maybe Vibe, comic books, that’s it.”
“That’s it? No real diversity in what I read?”
Lark sighs. “And if you keep using words like diversity, you can forget it.”
“You’re right. I can’t do this.” I start to pace the alley we’ve picked to serve as our classroom. It’s cluttered with garbage from the Chinese restaurant out front. A few stray cats move about carefully, their colorful eyes scanning everything that moves around them.
Lark says, “Don’t get down on yourself. Let me toss you an easy one. What’s your favorite song right now?”
I think about that one for a moment, come up with, “Birdman and Lil’ Wayne’s ‘Pop Bottles’ is kind of cool.”
Lark smiles, nods and says, “See what I’m saying? You aren’t hopeless. It would have been better if you’d said it was fiyah, but that’s nitpicking.”
You aren’t hopeless—that’s about the best thing I’ve ever heard.
I say, “Mario’s ‘Crying Out for Me’ is fiyah.”
Lark’s shoulder’s sag; she buries her head in her hands.
I say, “No?”
She shakes her head.
“What’s wrong with it?”
She looks up. Says, “Nothing, Eric, unless you’re lacking testosterone. If you gotta go R & B, make sure it’s something sexual in a bragging way. Stick with R. Kelly and no one else if you get confused. You’re a guy. You’ve gotta act the part. Guys don’t like love songs. And if they do, it won’t be a sweet love song, it’ll be a sexy love song. No emotion involved, just booty. Like R. Kelly.” She stops, thinks, and then sings, “‘Rubbing on that booty. That booty. That booty.’ Okay, Eric?”
“Okay.”
She makes a motion. “Walk to that garbage can and back.”
I do.
She says, “You need to watch yourself walk in the mirror.”
“I have.”
“And you still walk like that?”
She must notice the look that comes over my face. She softens her voice, says, “Walking is all about rhythm. Walk like you hear the music from your favorite song playing in your head. Okay?”
I nod, try again.
Her sigh lets me know how I did. She says, “So your favorite song is by Kevin Federline?”
Ouch.
I say, “I’m hopeless.”
She says, “No,” and looks at her watch. “But I have to head back, Eric. In the meantime, I have an assignment for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Get out. Observe people. The mall is a good place to observe. You know which boys are cool, which girls are popular. Mimic them. That’ll work better than anything I can teach you.”
I nod, hold out my hand. She moves beyond it, gives me a hug.
She says, “Take care. Be good.”
I watch her move up the street with pep in her step.
Observe and mimic.
I can do that.