23
Lessons

As I’m leaving school, I run into Rocky and Angela. They’re lounging out on St. Chris’s front steps, where they always hang out, draped over each other, lazily smacking gum.

“Hey, here comes the big man,” Rocky says, leaning back against the steps. He toys with Angela’s hair. She swats at his hand, like the girl from Terror Lake. “How’s that little girlfriend of yours?”

“Bijou?” Darn, I shouldn’t have said her name. Now I’ve put a target on Bijou’s back. And mine, too.

“She’s adorable,” Rocky says in that voice where you can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not. Angela flashes him a look. “I mean, she’s not a goddess, like you, but she’s … interesting.”

“She’s a snob,” Angela said.

“Who’s a snob?” asks Trevor. He and Jenna plop down on the steps.

“Bijou, the new girl,” Angela says. Then, nodding toward Trevor, “So where was he hiding?”

“He was at the subway station, buying chips.” Jenna eyes Trevor suspiciously. “Or so he says.”

Trevor holds up a bag of Utz and puts on a “Who? Me?” expression.

“And yeah, she is a snob,” Jenna says. “We just saw her. She refused to even look at me.”

“Just because she doesn’t like you,” Rocky snarks, “doesn’t make her a snob.” I have to agree with him there.

“She is definitely stuck-up,” Jenna says. Are we even talking about the same person here? Bijou’s not stuck-up; she’s shy. “I was so nice to her the first week she was here, and now she thinks she’s all that.”

“Oh my God, I’m so tired of hearing you guys complain about her,” Trevor says. “You’re just mad because (a) she didn’t join your little clique at the drop of a hat—”

“Not cool, Trevor,” Angela says, while Jenna looks at her boyfriend in total shock.

“—and (b) now the two of you have competition for who is the hottest girl in your class. There, I finally said it.”

Jenna puts her hand up to her mouth. For a second it looks like she’s about to gag. “You are … such … a … complete jerk!” she says, before picking up her backpack and running away. She looks genuinely hurt. I know it’s Jenna Minaya, but I actually feel sorry for her. For anyone dumb enough to pick Trevor Zelo as a boyfriend.

“Wow, dude, way to overshare,” Rocky says, shaking his head.

“What are you thinking?” Angela asks. “You should run after her right now and apologize.”

“Eh, maybe later,” Trevor says. “She’s really been annoying lately. And admit it, Angela. It’s true: she’s just jealous.”

“Whatever,” Angela says, picking up her things.

“Now you’re going, too?” Rocky asks. “What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” Angela says, walking off. “You two deserve each other.”

Rocky and I stare at each other for a moment, probably both wondering how exactly we wound up alone together.

“See, Schrader?” Rocky says, smirking. “Even when you’re popular, girls can still be a total pain. If you ever manage to get a girlfriend, you’ll see.”

“No way,” I say. “I’m not like you guys.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re exactly like us.”

By the time I arrive at Monsieur Guillaume’s, I’m thoroughly winded. It’s a long trip from the Parkside stop when you’re not riding in a dollar van. I pause outside Guillaume’s to catch my breath, take a quick look at my reflection in the shop window—if Bijou’s there already, I need to be looking my best—and check my watch.

Yikes, it’s already almost three thirty, and I told my mom I’d be home by five. She thinks I’m studying math with Nomura, of course, not studying rara music in a discount clothing store on the “bad side” of Flatbush Avenue and hoping for a glimpse of my hopefully-soon-to-be girlfriend.

I wave hello to Monsieur Guillaume, who’s whacking away at the old cash register like it’s willfully disobeying him. Bijou’s not here, not yet, anyway, but I don’t ask Jou Jou about her. He’s taking time out of his day to teach me, and he’s only charging me a measly ten bucks (all I can afford without asking Mom for cash). I want to let him know that I am here for my lesson, not just for Bijou, even though it’s hard to concentrate, knowing she might walk in the door any second.

“You doing real good, Alex,” Jou Jou says. We’re not down in the basement, but up in the store, sharing Jou Jou’s rada. He’s on one side of the drum, I’m on the other.

“Yes, he is,” says Guillaume. “Alex, you sure don’t look Haitian. What’m I missing here, son?”

Jou Jou and I laugh along with him, but only for a second. Jou Jou’s kind of intense when he’s teaching. He might seem like a lighthearted dude, but when it comes to rara music, he’s all business.

He shows me a beat he calls raboday. “No, Alex, don’t cup your hand, see?” He pulls the drum closer to him and demonstrates. “Like this, see? Elbows in a little … and pull your left thumb in. Otherwise, you gonna whack it when it’s time for you to use the stick.”

I’m going to learn how to use a drumstick, too? It’s exciting to think about being good at this one day, but it’s also hard to imagine. He and Bijou grew up with this music, after all, while to me it’s completely foreign. I’m not going to become awesome at it overnight, just like I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and speak to Nomura in fluent Japanese. Still, though, I want to learn, definitely a first for Alex Schrader.

I practice the raboday pattern for a couple of minutes, and somewhere deep down, buried under the muck of my sloppy mistakes, I recognize something resembling actual rhythm. My whole body vibrates as I slap the cow-skin head and feel it snap against the rada’s wooden rim.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Jou Jou says. “Now you need to work on that about thirty more hours.”

I give him a look of shock. What would the females in my house do if I started a thirty-hour-a-week drumming regimen? Jou Jou laughs.

“When am I going to study?” I ask, not knowing whether he’s fully serious or not. “You know, for school?”

“School?” Jou Jou asks. Then he nods toward the drum. “This is school.”

I hear the door swing open. Bijou walks in the room, wearing her school uniform and carrying not only a ridiculously heavy-looking backpack, but also an armful of dry cleaning.

“Need help with that?” I ask.

“No, I’m okay.” She smiles, but she looks a little stressed. “I don’t want to interrupt, but Jou Jou, can you please call Marie Claire? She expects me any minute, and I want to let her know I am with you.”

“Yes, sister, no worries.” He gets up and kisses her hello, then starts dialing.

“Don’t tell her who your student is!” she whispers. Jou Jou looks at her like she’s told him the most obvious thing in the world.

While Jou Jou is on the phone, I get my hello kisses. Nice! I’m getting to be a pro at this.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes, yes. I got your note and came right over. Everything is fine, as long as they think I’m with Jou Jou, and only Jou Jou.”

“Your uncle was pretty mad about the movie, huh?”

“Movie? He has no idea about that.” She laughs. “If he knew we left the house for two full hours, he would have had a heart attack.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Tonton Pierre? You know, this is the first time I am living with him. He means well. He gets angry quickly, but he forgets quickly, too. He doesn’t want to be mad; he is only doing what he thinks my maman would want.” She nods toward Jou Jou. “And as long as I’m with family, it’s fine.”

Jou Jou hangs up. “All good,” he says. “Auntie say be home in a half hour, though.”

“Okay,” Bijou says. “Can you give me a ride?”

“Sorry, Bijou, I can’t. We have rehearsal here at six, and I’ve got to pick up some flyers at the copy shop first.” Then, a trace of a smile. “Alex, you can be a gentleman and walk my sister home, can’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.” I can definitely be a gentleman. Anything for ten minutes of unsupervised time with Bijou. “No problem.”

“Oh, and Alex, I was thinking of something. No promises, okay? But if you keep up with your practicing, maybe I can ask Fabian and see if you could join us for the first rara this year. May thirtieth, in Prospect Park. Would you like that?”

“I would love that,” I say. Wow.

But not as much as I love walking Bijou home, even though I’m about to keel over from carrying both her backpack and mine.

“You sure you are okay?” Bijou asks.

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” The truth is, it feels like I’m carrying a small refrigerator, but I can’t tell Bijou that. Honesty isn’t always the best policy when you’re trying to be at your most gentlemanly.

Bijou laughs. “Well, you don’t have to do it, but in one way, you are lucky.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “How so?”

“We are here.”

“Oh really?” I’m torn between immense relief that I can put down her so-heavy-there-must-be-a-dead-body-in-it backpack and regret that our time together is almost up. “Is this your house?” I nod toward a brown-shingled three-family.

Bijou gives me a get serious look. “I can’t take you right in front of my house. My aunt would see me, or a neighbor would recognize me.” She nods down the street. “See over there? That’s my building.” A brightly painted white Victorian. Nice place. Bigger than ours. “Uh-oh, that’s Marie Claire. Come on.” Sure enough, a fifty-something black lady walks out the front door with a trash bag in hand.

Bijou takes me by the wrist, and we duck into the doorway of the three-family. “We wait here a moment, then I go,” she whispers, the tiny wind of her breath tickling my cheek. We’re even closer now than we were in the movie theater. I don’t want her to get in trouble, but can we stay here forever, huddled in this Flatbush foyer?

“Alex, write me tomorrow,” she says. Marie Claire has gone back in the house, so it’s safe. No more huddling.

“Okay, sure. Yeah.”

She’s so close to me that I can’t help it. I put my arms around Bijou’s waist. It feels right. I’m looking directly at her, and she’s looking back. I’ve never seen her eyes this close before, never touched any part of her body except her arm hairs and her hand. But now we’re joined as one, our hands meeting on her hips, our fingers interlocked.

Then, just like that, she moves two inches closer and kisses me. On the mouth. Her lips are soft, and they linger on mine for a moment, before she steps back and breaks the seal of our kiss.

And she is gone. And I cannot move. And I cannot stand. I stay here, long enough to watch her run off without looking back, open her front door, and disappear. And still, I cannot move. That was no peck. It was a real kiss. My first real kiss.

I look at my watch. It’s five thirty. I’m late! Mom’s not going to be happy, but who cares? I am totally immobile. I don’t think my legs even work anymore.

I have kissed a girl.

I have kissed Bijou.

Bijou has kissed me.

My first kiss.

Our first kiss.