8

“So... GIS mapping.” I swallow. “Sounds fun.”

Aric folds his arms in annoyance, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling in a defiant, childlike gesture that reads, Na-na na-na boo-boo, stick your head in doo-doo.

“How about we start with introductions? Yeah? Okay, I’m Tiffany. I like the mall and my favorite food is spaghetti.”

Marcus pulls at his gloves uneasily.

“Oooohkay. Don’t everyone talk at once.”

Two girls sitting in front of us are staring. One whispers in the other’s ear; both girls smirk and giggle.

Aric raises his hand. “Mr. Mills?”

Mr. Mills looks up from the book he’s reading at his desk. “Yep?”

“I ain’t feelin’ too good. Can I go see the nurse?”

Mr. Mills sighs. “You look healthy, vibrant and extremely tan.”

“I think I might throw up. For real.”

“Fine, Aric. Take the pass.”

Aric bolts up, grabs his backpack and within a few seconds has disappeared out the door, leaving Marcus and me alone at the desk.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble.

“I don’t mind. It’s tough to bother me.”

“Really?” What about the fact that you’re a risk for sudden death? I want to ask him about it. I look down at my notes instead. “So, we have to find some mappable information that relates to food, energy or water? Any ideas? I got nothin’.”

“How about organic food providers. Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s, for example. Did you have those in Chicago?”

“We have them...yeah.”

“Well, we could overlay the organic food providers in the city by demographics.”

“Demographics? Like what?”

“I was thinking race.”

“You mean, see if organic food providers build their stores in mostly white neighborhoods? We don’t need a GIS map to answer that.”

“Or neighborhoods with a particular socioeconomic status. We can use census bureau stats about income. There could be a correlation. Would be fascinating to research.”

I set down my pen, push past my anxiety and look him in the eye, like really look at him. His eyes are extremely green, demon-like sure, but kind. Like a nice demon. And his features are attractive—slanted eyes, full lips, angular cheeks. But there’s something about his face I can’t quite put my finger on. It hits me. Eyebrows! He doesn’t have eyebrows? “You shave your eyebrows?”

“I have an extreme type of alopecia. I don’t grow hair anywhere on my body.”

“That’s crazy. I have alopecia, too. I mean, I grow hair...” I notice his eyes glance up at my thick head of beautiful hair. “Your mom. She covered up all the bald spots. Made my hair unbe-weavable.”

Mr. Mills clears his throat and stands. Time’s up. “Let’s talk about Google Earth, shall we?”

* * *

The bell chimes, signaling the end of class, and I close my book and notepad, stuffing them into my backpack. In addition to last weekend’s homework, I have to write five hundred words outlining themes for the partner project and begin constructing a virtual tour on Google Earth for presentation on Friday. Plus, there’s a vocab quiz tomorrow. I slide my backpack on, the weight feeling doubled since this morning.

“Don’t worry about the outline,” Marcus says as if reading my mind. “I can do it. Goodbye. It was very nice talking to you.” I watch him head out of the classroom.

Mr. Mills waves me over. “Yes, sir?” I approach his desk as the class empties.

“Sir is my grandpa. Mr. Mills is bad enough. If I had it my way you guys would just call me Brian.”

Brian Mills. I smile. What a nice name.

“Listen, I wanted to say thank you. That was a noble gesture, volunteering to have Marcus as a partner.”

“Oh, yeah. No bigs.”

I look down at Mr. Mills’s left-hand ring finger, a bad habit of mine since Mom was always on the hunt for single men. Single men without prior felonies, as she used to put it. “Check his ring finger, Tiff,” she’d whisper when a nice-looking guy was giving her the eye and I’d groan and oblige. Mr. Mills is not wearing a wedding ring. But, as I used to point out to Mom, that doesn’t really give clear information.

“Also, Tiffany. If you should find yourself in need of some help, please come to my office hours. Wednesday and Friday till four thirty. I want you to succeed. That’s why I’m here. Okay?”

He runs a hand through his mane of amazing hair and smiles at me. His eyes are the kind of eyes that seem void of color and every color all at once. My stomach churns as a surprising burst of butterflies spring free.

Thump-thump, thump-thump: Could you be any weirder? He’s your teacher! And he’s thirty.

“Thank you, sir... I mean, Mr. Mills. I’ll catch up. I guess this class might be a little bit harder than my old one.”

“I can tell you’re a bright girl. You’ll be fine. Where’s your guide?”

“Guide?”

“It’s your first day. You should’ve been assigned a guide and a pass to excuse your tardiness. Curington can be a bit of a maze if you don’t know where you’re going.”

New students are filing into the class.

“Oh, right. My guide. We lost each other somehow.”

He glances at his watch. “Better get moving. Time’s ticking. What’s next?”

“English.”

“House Three. Find stairs and exit the building. It’s the farthest house to the left. And touch base with Aric. Fill him in on what you and Marcus chose for the group project. And my office hours.” He grins. “Don’t forget, okay?”

I nod and exit the class, moving into the hallway, wondering if he invites everyone to his personal office hours with such a charming smile. Of course he does. Of course.

* * *

I’m late for English. Like ridiculously late, since apparently I don’t know my left from right and thought House Five was House Three and I also thought Advanced Algebra was English. It wasn’t until the teacher started writing equations on the board that I realized I was in the wrong place and excused myself. So embarrassing. I’m also late for my class after English. Geometry. And the class after that. Chemistry. Now it’s lunchtime and I’m following behind a group of giggling girls who I know, by eavesdropping on their conversation, are going to lunch, so at least I won’t be late for that. I review in my mind all the homework I have so far. There’s a lot.

English: Read part two of Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell. But since I haven’t read part one, I might want to check that out, too. Basically...read the whole book.

Geometry: Simplifying radicals. A whopping thirty-seven equations.

Chemistry: Balancing equations and stoichiometry. Chapters four and five review questions. Twenty-five total.

Spanish: Five pages from the workbook. Verb conjugation and sentence structure.

The giggling girls exit House Five into the blindingly bright California sun and I shield my eyes, thinking back to my Spanish class. The teacher only spoke Spanish. I had no idea what she was even saying. I mean, sure I can tell the little boy not to stand under the table—El nino pequeno! No se pare debajo de la mesa! And I can conjugate hundreds of verbs. Name a verb. I can conjugate it. I’m running—corro. You’re running—corres. She’s running—corre. Everybody’s freaking running—corremos. Still... I don’t speak Spanish! The only reason I was able to get the homework assignment is because, thank goodness, Mrs. Richmond wrote it on the board in English.

The girls lead me to a courtyard. It’s like a campus quad that sort of connects all the houses with lunch tables set up under the shade of tall sycamore trees. From the quad, I push through a set of double doors and move into the Curington lunchroom, which is something similar to a mall food court, only nicer. Lots of cool food stations and three checkout lanes. There’s a burrito bar, a make-your-own-sandwich section, pizza and pasta bar, and a soup and salad bar. Also, there are fancy doorless refrigerators filled with yogurt and drinks and shelves stacked with fresh fruit and different varieties of chips. I move to grab a tray when someone yanks my arm.

“What is wrong with you?” It’s London. Pretty face twisted into a nasty glare.

“Well, well, well. It’s the world’s worst first-day-of-school guide. I thought you got sucked into the Twilight Zone.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me beside a counter with condiments and silverware. “I heard about Geography.” She crosses her arms. “Please explain.”

“GIS mapping? I still don’t know what that is.”

“This isn’t funny, Tiffany. You picked Marcus McKinney as a partner? I’m so confused. Why would you do that? My dad’s going to flip. We have specific rules not to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean why can’t we talk to him? He seems nice and normal. Aside from the whole white-face thing.”

“He doesn’t...match us and our belief system.”

A girl squeals London’s name. She spins around and waves happily at two approaching blondes.

“London Bear!” One of the girls grabs her and squeezes her in a tight hug.

I’m not sure why, I mean, both of London’s superhappy friends are wearing the same outfit as me, but they look better in it than I do. It could be their perfectly manicured hands, their long, shiny blond hair or their glowing skin and bright eyes. But I think it’s more than that. There’s an aura about them, like life has been kind. Like the biggest pain they’ve ever experienced is when the ski lift breaks down on their annual trip to Aspen. Not like me. The biggest pain I’ve experienced is watching my mom die. Slowly.

* * *

“Tiffany,” Mom said one day while I sat beside her bed at the hospice reading a schoolbook.

“Hmm?” I replied without looking up.

“I don’t want you to be afraid to die.”

I looked up then. She was a shell of her former self. Skin dark and lifeless. Head completely bald. Her body thin and frail. The whites of her eyes yellowing. Almost completely unrecognizable. I’m not sure if it’s the cancer that destroys the person or the chemo and radiation. Perhaps it’s our will to survive. The fight for life somehow makes life not even worth living.

“There’s a peace in it,” Mom whispered. “I can’t explain it. Do you still believe in God, Tiff?”

“Why are you asking me that, Mom?” I closed my schoolbook and crawled into bed beside her. Peeling away the covers and the IVs and the wires until I was able to lay my head on her chest, listening to the faint sound of her weak heart and all the machines that were helping her hold on to her last shreds of life.

“Because I know you, Tiffany Sly. I can see the wheels turning in your head.” She played with the braids on my head. “You think, if there’s a God, why won’t he save me?”

I didn’t respond, but yes, that was it exactly.

“When I look back at my life, Tiffany, you know what I’m most proud of?”

“Me?”

Mom playfully pulled on one of my braids. “Jeez, conceited,” she said so softly I had to strain to hear her. “For your information, I wasn’t gonna say you.”

I sat up then and looked into her eyes. Only a spark of life left there. “Mommy! It’s not me?”

She shook her head. “Nope. You’re at a close second, though.”

I adjusted the nasal cannula that helped her breathe. Instead of bursting into tears and sobbing on her chest like I wanted to, I smiled and said, “Mommy, what are you most proud of that isn’t me but should be?”

She smiled back. “My faith. Here I am, facing my worst fear, and my faith hasn’t wavered. Not even a little bit. Everybody’s gotta die, Tiffany. Just my turn, is all.”

* * *

“OMG!” the friend hugging London squeals. “A new girl.”

The other friend twists a slick-straight strand of blond hair around her finger. “Oh, my God, we’re Rudeness with a capital R. I’m Isabel and this is Charlotte. But we call her Charlie Bear.”

“Right. And we call Isabel Izzy Bear. And of course Londy Bear,” Charlie explains excitedly. “We’re the Three Bears. Get it?”

I don’t. The Three Bears? This would’ve never been a successful trio at West. The-Three-Girls-Who-Get-Beat-Up-After-School would be more like it. “Tiffany Sly. Nice meeting you guys.”

“You and London are the exact same height,” Isabel exclaims.

I look over at London and realize for the first time...we are the exact same height. Coincidence?

“Is today your first day?” Charlie asks.

“Mmm-hmm.”

Izzy wraps her arm around London so that now the three girls are standing in a line, arms linked around one another in adorable solidarity. “How do you know our bestie, Londy Bear?”

“She’s my sister,” I say, sounding way too unsure of myself.

Izzy Bear’s jaw drops. “No way.”

Charlie stares at me. “So weird. You guys don’t look anything alike.”

“We have different moms, obviously,” London explains.

Izzy nods. “London, I swear sometimes I forget you’re even black. You’re so light-skinned. You could totally pass for white.”

“Why would she want to do that?” I ask, annoyed.

The color drains from Izzy’s face. “I—I meant...like...she doesn’t have to be one or the other. She doesn’t have to be labeled as anything.”

“Lucky her,” I mumble sarcastically.

“Hey, you guys grab our table,” London cuts in. “We don’t want anybody taking our spot.”

“We’re so on it.” Charlie grabs Izzy’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Tiffany.”

“Yeah, totes,” Izzy says, and the girls move off.

London glares at me.

“What?”

“Izzy and Charlie are my two best friends. Don’t be rude to them.”

“Don’t talk to Marcus McKinney. Don’t be rude to your friends even though they say weird shit like, ‘Omigosh, I totally forgot you were, like...black.’” I dramatically flip my hair over my shoulder. “Any other rules or would you prefer to type up a list and slip it under my door like your dad did.”

“You’re hopeless. I’ll see you around, Tiffany.” London quickly follows after her friends.

* * *

I’m sitting at a lunch bench with three young boys who are probably freshmen. I make this determination based on their high-pitched, cracking voices. They’re also having a very animated discussion about a video game. I pull out my phone to text Keelah: School out yet?

Keelah texts back right away: Who is this?

Technically, I didn’t lie to Keelah. I mean, it is like another world. And I’ve met some cool people. Like Mr. Mills, for example. In two years I’ll be eighteen and he’ll be...thirty-two? I exhale. Tiffany Mills has a nice ring to it.

I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s good. Turkey, lettuce and cheese. I have a bag of potato chips, too, and a bottle of grape juice. At the checkout, you swipe your school ID card to pay for your lunch. The cost is included with tuition but you can’t go over the daily limit, which is ten dollars. I mean, you can, but you have to pay cash to cover the extra cost.

“Dude! You haven’t been in the secret room on the ark?” one of the boys at my table squawks. “You gotta pause right after John jumps out of the Pelican in the beginning lands.”

“I tried that!” another boy replies.

“Did you fly up the mountain and tap Y?”

I try to tune out the boys and take another bite of my sandwich when I notice Marcus push through the doors of the lunchroom and step outside. Students part to let him pass, scattering like roaches. We make eye contact and I give him a polite wave, feeling sorry for him. What would I do if people scrambled to get away when I walked by? Having taken my friendly wave as an invitation to come sit with me, he moves to my table.

“Hello. Do you mind if I sit here?” The startled freshmen boys look over in horror. He turns to them and waves politely. “Hello.”

They quickly grab their trays of food and move to a nearby, free lunch bench.

Seemingly unaffected, he sits across from me and takes out a book from his backpack, sets it on the table beside his tray and begins eating his large vegetable salad. His white makeup looks less chalky and more smeared, like it’s melting in the hot sun.

“You’re missing a protein, Marcus.”

“I had a protein smoothie for breakfast.”

“Are you a vegetarian?”

“Vegan.”

“Okay, riddle me this. I totally get the no-meat thing. But no eggs? What’s wrong with eggs?”

“Did you know that on egg farms, even organic farms, when male chicks are born they toss them into meat grinders. They kill thousands and thousands of male chicks. They’re considered useless. I can’t support the unethical treatment of animals.”

I see that some students have taken notice of Marcus and me. More whispers. More stares. I wonder how long it will take London to discover me cavorting with someone who doesn’t match her belief system. Whatever that means. “What are you reading?”

He holds his book up for me to see. It’s a white paperback with nothing on the cover but the words The Boy Who Lived Before in black print.

“Whoa. Is that your book? Your mom told me about it. I thought it didn’t come out till next year?”

“It doesn’t. This is an advanced reader’s copy.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I’m sorry?”

“To die. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool. I don’t even know why I asked you that. It sort of erupted out of me...like word vomit. Also, I don’t know why I said that. I have foot-in-mouth disease, which is not the same as foot-and-mouth disease, which is red spots on your hands and feet and mouth. Like chicken pox. I had that once, too. Anyway, I say stupid things and then people realize I’m a big weirdo. It’s my superpower.”

“I’m sorry. What was your question again?”

“What was my question? Oh! Did it hurt to die?”

“No.”

I take a swig from my grape juice and notice a few more stares from students. “Hey, can I ask you a personal question?”

He nods.

“Are you wearing contacts?”

“No.”

“Someone in your mom’s family have green eyes?”

“No.”

“That’s so bizarre. I never seen a brown-skinned black boy with green eyes.”

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

“Can I ask you another personal question?”

“You can ask me anything just so long as you stop asking if you can ask.”

“Got it. Why do you wear that stuff on your face? It makes you look...” I want to say crazy. I decide on: “Not normal.”

“I wear it because it makes me feel better.”

“And the white gloves? Those make you feel better, too?”

“Yes, they do.”

“It’s all coming off a little Stephen King. I think if you toned down the Pennywise, people would be nicer to you.”

“I see.” He chews another forkful of salad and swallows courteously before speaking again. “In order for people to be nice to me, I have to look a certain way?”

“Not exactly. But a white-painted face is superodd.”

“The antonym for odd would be ordinary, yes? So basically you’re suggesting I be ordinary, so that I can have friends.”

“Be normal.”

“Interesting. May I ask you a personal question now?”

“Sure.”

“Your mom’s passed, yes?”

I take a bite of my sandwich, swallow and nod.

“Did she pass in a hospice?”

I nod again.

“Were you there?”

My chest tightens. The memories are fresh. It’s not easy to talk about without bursting into tears. I was always there. But the night she died...I wasn’t.

“I’m only asking because it’s something I discuss in my book. Loved ones stay by their dying relative’s side for days, weeks, months, and the moment they leave, even if it’s to run quickly to the store...the loved one passes on.”

“Is that true?”

He nods. “I believe it’s a good sign. Confirmation that the soul desired to go and left in peace.”

My eyes well with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says even softer than his standard soft tone of voice. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“I had this dream.” I wipe the tears as they spring free. “Three weeks after my mom died. I dreamed she was walking down the corridors of a hospital and she looked beautiful and healthy again. She was walking and talking with one of her nurses and she said to him, ‘Thank you for doing that. I had to go in peace.’ And then I woke up from the dream.” I blow my nose with a paper towel. “I feel like that dream makes sense now.”

I was by Mom’s side day and night when she moved into hospice care. The night she passed, a nurse came into her room and stayed awhile, listening to me play softly. When I finished Mom’s favorite gospel song, he said, “Tiffany, your mom is stable. You and your grandmother should go home. Get some rest. Come back tomorrow.” I was deliriously tired and probably smelled since I hadn’t showered or even brushed my teeth in a couple of days, and the thought of a warm shower and a real meal sounded heavenly, so Grams and I went home. But when I stepped out of the shower, I heard Grams screaming. I wrapped a towel around me and raced out of the bathroom to see her fall to her knees, cell phone in hand.

Mom was gone.

Marcus hands me his book. “Here, take it. Keep it.”

“Seriously? But it’s your advanced reader’s copy.”

“It’s cool. They sent me a whole box.”

“Thanks.” I take the book, placing it carefully inside my backpack. “Marcus, I have to confess something. Your mom, uh, she asked me to talk to you and be your friend and then she’d do my hair for free.”

He nods, like the information doesn’t bother or surprise him in the slightest.

“And again...word vomit. I don’t know why I told you that. But what if I didn’t tell you? Then we’d become friends and later on you’d find out and run away screaming and crying in the rain and I’d be like, ‘Marcus, wait! You weren’t my friend then, but you are now!’ But of course you won’t care and you’d never talk to me ever again.”

“How come it’s raining?”

“Huh?”

“In your fantasy. Why am I running away in the rain?”

“Oh.” I shrug. “I like rain.”

He nods and resumes eating.

“Anyway, I’m so sorry. I probably would’ve talked to you, anyway.”

“It’s fine. My moms, they mean well.”

I take another swig of grape juice and see more students staring at us. In fact, we’re attracting a ton of attention.

“They think we’re dating,” Marcus says.

“We’re both black. Of course we’re dating.”

“The guys here will be sad to think you’re taken.”

“All these white boys? Pa-lease. White guys don’t like black girls. Not black girls like me, anyway.”

“What’s a black girl like you?”

“Regular. I’m not light-skinned or mixed. I mean, maybe I...might be...a little...but it doesn’t show. I don’t have long, pretty hair or light eyes or look like Kim Kardashian.”

“Interesting.”

“What? You think I’m wrong?”

“Yes.”

“We should GIS map it,” I say.

“You’re a very interesting girl. I don’t typically talk to people here at Curington.”

“How come?”

“I guess I don’t have much to say, but I like you, Tiffany. Sort of the way you like a...cousin.”

“You cousin-zoned me? Being in the friend zone is one thing, but the cousin zone?” I smile. “But you know something, Marcus McKinney? I like you, too. The way you like a...family pet.”

“Pet-zoned?” He nods approvingly. “Should I bark in appreciation?”

“Marcus, you start barking, these people will really start running from you.” I laugh. Man...it feels good to laugh.