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“What happened during English class?”
The voice stops me right in my tracks, and I whip around to see three of the girls that run the school. Well, somewhat.
Amber, Leslie, and Olivia. Or, ALO as I’ve christened them as.
I honestly forget who is who sometimes.
Their hair colours vary slightly, I guess. Amber’s sporting some shade of tawny. Leslie has dark brown hair that stops right above her waist. Olivia has some sort of red tinge to her hair.
Amber asks the question, standing right in the middle of the sidewalk directly outside the school, gusts of wind billowing our hair and skirts.
Amber Wesley. I let out an amused gust of air. Amber Wesley is the type of person that claps every time a plane lands, the type that always makes sure to let her listener know that her eyes change colors, (which they don’t), and the type that talks to her bad hair days by comparing them to black hair. (i.e.“Ew, my hair is so freakin’ frizzy today. It looks like an Afro.” Usually followed by an exaggerated sigh, as she runs her hands through greasy waves “I want to delete my existence.”) The type that starts awkward sentences with: “not to sound racist, but—”
“Um,” I shift my weight to the side, pulling myself out of my thoughts. “Nothing much?”
I’m actually surprised the trio knows that I exist. I mean, I guess it’s hard to ignore the only black girl in the entire school, but most people do a pretty good job of doing so.
“Well, John told us you had a little freak-out during the class discussion.” This time it’s Leslie, carefully pulling her ridiculously long hair into a ponytail.
My mind slowly attempts to register her comment. Because I never once raised my voice. In fact, I made sure that my tone stayed even and calm throughout the entire time I spoke.
I shake my head. “I didn’t.”
“He should’ve taken a video,” Amber mutters, shaking her head at her friends.
“What was the whole thing about, anyways?” Olivia asks.
“To Kill A Mockingbird,” I say, carefully glancing between the three girls. They exchange glances and I take that opportunity to start heading home, “Anyway, I’ve got to get going.”
“Wait,” Amber asks, hazel eyes burning into my skin.
I pause, drawing my mouth into a line.
“You could sit with us at lunch tomorrow, if you want.” Leslie proposes, re-adjusting her ponytail for what looks like the millionth time.
I almost let out a laugh at the proposition. They’re kidding. Just the thought of me sitting at a table surrounded by ALO and Brett’s group of White Bros™ makes me feel like either throwing up or just laughing at the absurdity of it all.
“I—I’ll think about it,” I finally get out. I’m ready to be completely done with this conversation when Olivia speaks up again, hands resting on her hips.
“Not to put any pressure on you or anything, but Mrs. Clark is kind of concerned about your well-being and asked us,” She gestures between the three of them, “to take you in.”
There it is.
Leslie gives my shoulder an awkward squeeze. “It’s not like a charity case thing.” It kind of looks like that’s exactly what it is. “Though, it would look good for Amber’s StuCo campaign, and it’ll help us all get into Mrs. Clark’s good books.”
I give her a slow nod.
“For the record, this doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re...” She pauses, eyes roving over me. “Well.” Amber finishes awkwardly, giving me a dainty smile, and informing me that it most likely has everything to do with my dark skin.
Their choice to recruit the only black girl in the entire school most likely has something to do with my race. The fact that Amber deemed it necessary to assure me that it didn’t only strengthens my assumption.
Olivia speaks up. “They’re also taking another picture for the school website, and the principal wants you in it.”
“It’ll be fun,” Leslie grins, “Like a little photoshoot.”
I bite my bottom lip.
I’m guessing Emory is going to be a part of the picture, and Yasmine, too. Not to mention a couple of the Asians from the Asian/Gamer table.
And that essentially makes up all the non-white people in this school.
Of course, it’s purely coincidental. Purely coincidental that 93% of the student body is white, and the 7% of everyone else is just coincidentally going to be in the shoot.
Purely coincidental that the representation is bound to make Elkwood look like the most diverse school in the state.
“Um, yeah. Sure. Maybe,” I manage to get out.
“We’ll see you at lunch tomorrow,” Amber says, then winks. “Maybe.”
I try to quash down my embarrassment as I hold onto the straps of my backpack, keeping my head down as I turn on my heel and speed down the sidewalks, willing myself to get home as fast as possible.
***
Walking home has always spiked my nerves. Sometimes it’s peaceful, other times my anxiety sky-rockets.
It probably doesn’t help that the first time I walked home from school, I got lost. I’d ended up at a house that definitely wasn’t my parents’. When a random couple had opened the door, I’d ended up murmuring some apologies before heading on my way.
However, I was lucky enough to run into some officer on duty. He asked me a ton of questions, had a vice-like grip on my arm. Any answer I gave him didn’t suffice, and he never stopped looming over me, never stopped grabbing onto me, leaving bruises.
Afternoon melted into night, and that’s when he received a call from my parents who were worried out of their minds.
I tilt my head to the side, my backpack swinging behind me as I kick at some pebbles on the sidewalk.
So, the officer drove me home, and I was shaking, literally shaking throughout the entire ride. When he dropped me off, he left me with a light warning.
Despite my mom attempting to gently explain the situation, no progress was truly made. After all, we didn’t belong.
We’d only moved to the neighborhood that year.
A dry laugh escapes my lips as I carefully cross the street, my shoes padding across a familiar path. The memory punctures through the air once more.
“Just wanted to make sure that there wasn’t anything off,” He had said to my parents with that patronizing half-grin that I’ve grown to recognize in this town.
Although, I always wonder how he saw any danger through the anxious tears streaming down my cheeks.
My house comes into view in its full ivory glory, and I walk up the front steps.
Slipping my key out of my back pocket, I unlock the front door.
I push it open, walking into the mahogany floored, lemon scented house that I’ve gotten used to over the past few years. Sure, experiences outside of the white villa have been pretty awful, but this is my home.
Running my hand across the walls, I kick the door shut behind me as I make my way towards the kitchen.
When I’m home, I can sing at the top of my lungs, fling myself onto my bed as music swirls in the air. I can breathe, let my breaths slip from my lips like wind, create playlists as my thoughts flow like currents.
As soon as I step through that white doorway, I’m untouchable.
Heading further into the kitchen, I rummage through the fridge. I end up making myself a bowl of cereal, taking a seat in the living room as I start to grab everything I need from my backpack.
The conversation that I had with ALO plays in my head over and over again. I shuffle through the sheets of paper, wondering if I was right about the school photo being some sort of diversity project. I’d ask the other people of color in the school, but we don’t necessarily talk.
Setting my cereal aside, I place some finishing strokes on my art project, letting my playlist fill the air as I layer stroke upon stroke. A few minutes later, I set the canvas aside, biting back a smile at my final painting, resisting the urge to layer more strokes because of how therapeutic it is.
Then, I’m grabbing my laptop from the floor and I start to type away, letting paragraphs upon paragraphs form on my screen. An essay for English. One that Ms. Daniels assigned the class before it all went to hell.
The essay to be flawless. Elkwood doesn’t do subpar, and if you’re me, mediocrity is never an option. Ms. Clark doesn’t need any proof to doubt me more than she already does.
At my last click, I hear the garage door opening, making my head shoot up.
In a second, I rise to my feet, making my way to the front door as it’s pulled open, opening my mouth to say just about a million things.
***
“So,” Dad’s laugh echoes throughout the house, “They’re using y’all to look more diverse?”
I drop my fork into my plate, raising a hand, “that’s exactly what I thought.”
We’re all seated around the table, forks stabbing into pasta and glasses being raised to our lips every so often. Both of my parents are seated across from me, home from work, and my younger sister’s seated right next to me, finally home after a day of school.
“Diversity’s nice,” Mom says from next to Dad, “but I’m not a big fan of using the non-white students as some sort of prop to aid that image.” She continues, black-as-night braids piled into a bun, Dad making a murmur of agreement.
“Especially since Elkwood is really racist,” My younger sister cuts in, grinning cheekily through bites of pasta.
Mom laughs, tucking a beaded braid behind the 8-year-old’s ear. “Who told you that?”
“I just... I just know,” Claudette emphasizes, giving us a knowing nod. “Plus,” She starts after a few moments, “You only let Amina go to Elkwood. Not me.”
Dad exchanges glances with Mom in the briefest of looks. “Well,” He says, “Elkwood’s also expensive.”
Claudie shrugs, poking a fork back in her macaroni, not knowing how right on the mark she was.
My parents seem less than eager to rush Claudie into Elkwood. After all, it’s competitive, an environment that can suck the life out of bright eyes.
I mean, Claudie’ll eventually have to go to Elkwood, but before she has to volunteer as tribute, she gets to relax in a public school for a couple more years.
It’ll be a better fit for her. The issues in Elkwood essentially surround race and class; two things that go hand in hand more often than not. So, Claudie’s better off by avoiding being thrust into that world too quickly. Or ever.
I shake my head, turning back to my parents, “We talked about To Kill A Mockingbird, today.”
“Oh,” Dad chuckles, twirling his fork, “That’s great.”
“Yeah. It was absolutely fantastic,” I say, echoing his tone as he exhales another laugh.
I lean forward in my chair. “Ms. Daniels asked me for my personal opinion on the novel and she wasn’t too happy with my response.”
Mom rubs her temples with a short laugh. “What did you say to her?”
“Uh, I kind of rambled about some of the issues in the way Lee portrayed race relations and the lack of characterization for the black characters.” I play around with my fingers, glancing at them with a semi-apologetic look.
Claudie looks up, fishing her fork out of her pasta. “You’ve done it now,” she shakes her head at me, not having any idea what we’re talking about.
I raise my hand to my chest in faux offense, and she scrunches her nose at me.
“I mean, I didn’t raise my voice or anything.” I say, turning to my parents.
Dad leans back in his chair. “Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah,” Mom purses her lips at me, “We want you to talk, okay?” she leans forward, one of those faint grins on her lips. “Just,” a pause as she tilts her head to the side, eyes softening, “be cautious and thoughtful.”
“I know,” I say with a nod.
“I mean, some teachers in Elkwood aren't your biggest fans.” Dad says, giving me a half smile.
“You sure?” I snort, Dad cracking one of those wide grins that he claims I stole from his gene pool. Wide, and hal- dimpled, stretching across his face like the sun.
“So, we don’t want to give them even the slightest excuse to try and target you,” Mom adds, giving me a soft smile. It’s semi-apologetic, as though any of this is her fault.
“Got it.” I say, fingers gently drumming the table as I attempt to quirk a grin.
“You only have two more years here, alright?” A wink. “You’ve got this.” Mom says, holding out her glass for Dad as he pours sparkling apple juice into it.
The bottle is passed around the table, and a few seconds later, all our cups are filled to the rim with the golden juice. Dad raises his glass, and the rest of us raise our glasses to his with a clink.
Mom meets each of our eyes. “To another year at Elkwood.”
“To another year at Elkwood,” The rest of us echo, and seconds later, I’m raising my drink to my lips, letting the apple sweetness dominate my mouth and erase everything else but this moment in time.
