22
Brainstorming Masterpieces

“Don’t worry,” Mary Agnes says. “There’s always Musicale.”

She, Maricel, and I are sitting along the back wall of the cafeteria, enjoying the sun coming through the large windows and eating meatballs in a gooey white sauce. Many West Indians, especially Jamaicans, are vegetarians. Another few months of St. Catherine’s lunches, and I might have to join them.

“Tell me, what is Musicale, again?” I ask. In the last week, everyone seems to be talking about it, like it’s the answer to peace and global happiness. But no one ever takes the time to explain what it actually is.

“It’s a chance to show your talent to the whole school,” Mary Agnes says. “To both schools.”

“Is it, how do you say … mandatory?” I ask.

Mary Agnes and Maricel exchange looks. “Well, not technically,” Mary Agnes says. “But who wouldn’t want to? It’s our only cool tradition.”

“Basically, it’s an excuse for boys and girls to make out in the catacombs,” Maricel says.

“That, too,” Mary Agnes says, giggling. “Well, that, primarily. Especially now, since your grumpy uncle has made your love life so difficult.”

“Love life?” I say. “I don’t want a love life.” I wish she would not make fun of Tonton Pierre. If I am going to have to deceive him, I certainly don’t want to talk about it in front of the whole world. And Mary Agnes is not always so generous as she seems. She’s looking for ways to be with the boy she likes, too, but she is too afraid to ask him on a “solo date.”

“Anyway, back to the topic,” Maricel says. “It’s pretty much free-form. You pick your group—groups are encouraged, because there are only ten soloists allowed, and those are usually musical-prodigy types who spend all their non-school time practicing piano or whatever—write up a one-paragraph summary of what you’re going to do, then submit it to the Musicale Committee.”

“That’s Mr. Sinclair, from St. Chris’s,” Mary Agnes says. “And Ms. Alonzo, our music teacher.”

“They have a thing for each other,” Maricel says.

“They totally do, and get this: they’re the Musicale practice monitors,” Mary Agnes says. “Which means we spend more time flirting in the catacombs than we do brainstorming masterpieces.”

“What are the catacombs?” I ask.

“This building is superold, and there’s a network of, like, underground tunnels that somebody dug here a long time ago,” Maricel says.

“That sounds … scary,” I say.

“It’s not,” Mary Agnes says. “In the olden days, monks prayed down there or something. But the school fixed them up a few years ago, and now it’s like a nice, finished basement. Lots of practice rooms for … brainstorming.”

“For example, flirting and/or making out with cute boys,” Maricel says.

“Yep,” Mary Agnes says. “Lots of narrow hallways, and twists and turns to get lost in. And nice, hygienic spots to pursue both musical and nonmusical interests.”

“You two are both terrible!” I say.

“Okay, now that that’s been established,” Mary Agnes says, “what are we going to do?”

“I say we go for something cross-cultural,” Maricel says. “Like a mash-up. I can work on my DJ skills.”

“Absolutely,” Mary Agnes says. “Sinclair and Alonzo will love that. They’re having a cross-cultural romance of their own, after all. And what are we, if not diverse? We’ve got a white girl, a Haitian, a couple Dominicans, and the cutest Japanese boy in Brooklyn.” She winks. So silly. “Bijou, didn’t you say Alex is pretty good on that Haitian drum thingy?”

“Yes, he’s not bad.” I can’t help but smile. He was so cute, drumming with his eyes closed, like my brother and his friends.

“And you can dance, right?” Mary Agnes’s eyes open wide. Her excitement always scares me a little bit. She could have played a role in Terror Lake.

I frown, imagining myself performing Haitian traditional dance for several hundred Episcopal middle school students and their families.

Ms. Barrington, my English teacher, lets our seventh-period study hall out early, so I get to leave school at two forty-five. This is good. I can use the extra time to stop by the Gran Bwa to drop off my letter to Alex (and see if he’s left anything there for me!), and still be home early. Pierre won’t be home until after six, but Marie Claire will, and she will be expected to give her husband the most detailed of reports on my comings and goings, especially since last Saturday.

What a lucky thing to have some extra time! I have promised Marie Claire I would pick up her dry cleaning on Flatbush before meeting Jou Jou at Guillaume’s. I decide to walk by St. Christopher’s to see if, by chance, Alex and I might go together. He doesn’t even know I will stop by our Gran Bwa, or that I’m going to sit in on his lesson.

Alex is not here, but I do spot another couple of boys lingering on the front steps. I try not to make eye contact with them, but it’s too late; they’ve already looked up. No, no, no. It’s Rocky and Trevor.

“Hey, Bijou,” says Rocky.

Then Trevor stands up. “I’ll catch you tomorrow, Rock,” he says.

“You sure you know what you’re doing, man?” the spiky one asks.

“Watch and learn.” Do they think I cannot hear them? Or do they simply not care?

“Hey, wait up a second,” the tall one calls out to me. Do I just keep on walking? Ignore him completely?

“It’s Bijou, right?” he asks. I force him to walk alongside me; I do not make extra room for him on the sidewalk. “You remember me, from the dance? I’m Trevor.”

“I remember,” I say. “So?” My attitude toward him is not cold. It is subfreezing.

“Oh, I get it, totally,” he says. “That was a completely uncool situation. But I wasn’t really the one giving Schrader a hard time. That was Rocky, remember?” He puts on a sad face. “I guess I need to start picking better friends.”

“You don’t need to start with me. There are lots of other people you can make friends with.” The subway is only two blocks away, on Clark Street. I have no idea where this Trevor lives, but I pray he leaves me at the station. If I have to sit with him on the train, I’ll go crazy. Why did Ms. Barrington have to let us out early again?

“Listen, we got off to a wrong start, and I’m sorry about that,” the boy says, brushing back his hair behind his ear. He knows he is handsome, which makes him almost ugly. To me, anyway. “But I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m actually pretty nice.”

“Are you nice to Jenna?” I ask. “She’s your girlfriend, right?”

“I never know with her.” Again, the sad face. “Sometimes she is, sometimes she isn’t.”

“Well, I’m not looking for any new friends.” At last, the Clark Street station is only another half block. “And I’m in a hurry to get home, so—”

Then, out of nowhere, Trevor grabs my hand. “Stay and talk for a second,” he says.

“What are you doing?” I say, yanking my hand away.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He smiles. “I … really like you.”

“Well, thank you, but it’s not polite to reach for a girl’s hand, unless it’s offered to you first.” Finally, the elevator. Unless this rich-looking white boy plans on following me to “scary” Flatbush, I only just have time to reach our Gran Bwa and still get to Monsieur Guillaume’s.

“Is this what you did with Alex?” he asks. “Play hard to get?”

I don’t respond, but I’m sure he can see the look of disgust on my face.

Suddenly, Jenna appears beside him. “Hey,” she says, shoving him while giving me a dirty look. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

“Well, you found me.” Trevor smiles, taking her hand.

I turn away and step into the elevator. I cannot escape from these two soon enough.

“What were you doing, talking to her?” I hear Jenna say behind me.

“I wasn’t ‘talking to her.’ I just ran into her on my way to the newsstand in the station. They’re the only place that carries sour-cream-and-onion Utz.”

I’m looking down into the station, so I don’t see or hear Jenna’s reaction. The elevator takes me down, down, down, away from this boy, away from his foolish games. I shake my head, thinking about Jenna. Now she will hate me even more, and for nothing.

Please God, tell me that, deep inside, not all boys are like this. Because I am on my way to see a boy right now who is quite different.