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I turn into Brent’s driveway and give a quick beep of the horn. Labor Day Sunday. Last beach day before we start our senior year at Hamilton High. Brent comes out with his rolled-up beach towel, his mom close behind. She comes to my side of the car.
“Hey, Mama B.”
“Hi, Eddie,” she says, handing sunscreen and a straw hat through the window. “Make sure that clown uses these, will you?”
I take the hat and sunscreen from her and put them on Brent’s lap. “He won’t listen to me. Maybe you should come with us?”
“Hmmm. Maybe,” she says. We laugh.
Brent punches me in the arm. “Let’s go!”
I’ve known Brent since kindergarten. We used to be at each other’s houses a lot, back when we were still climbing trees and building Lego cities. I always had dinner at his house on pizza night, and when it was pizza night at our house, he had dinner with us.
Back then, we always sat next to each other in class, too—Brent Bruno, Eduardo Barajas, with no “B” names in between—so we knew each other pretty well.
Cameron’s waiting in front of his house, so busy with his phone he doesn’t even look up until I give him a loud blast of the horn.
Brent and I are kind of average looking. We probably weigh about the same, somewhere in the low 150s. We were the same height in the fourth grade, and we’re the same height now, except then we were 4’3” and now we’re 5’9”. I’m a little darker. His hair’s curlier. But, you know, pretty average. My mom, Max, says I can’t possibly be average looking because of my sparkling eyes and my “manly physique.” She goes overboard with that “manly physique” stuff though. I mean, yeah, I work out some and do the strength building kind of yoga, so I’m a little bit buff. Nothing special, though, except to a mom.
Cameron’s tall, probably six feet, and skinny, light hair with a face full of freckles and zits. And he dresses funny, always a long-sleeved white shirt with a tie, like he’s a 1950s TV dad, except his tie is always loose, and his sleeves are rolled up. And he wears Tough Skin Jeans. Tough Skins! The kind nobody over the age of eight would be caught dead wearing! But the thing is, Cameron’s always got a bunch of girls hanging around him. Popular girls, too, like the whole Hamilton High cheer team. I don’t get it. Brent thinks it’s because Cameron plays drums. He says girls like drummers. Maybe so. Brent’s got those four sisters, so he knows about girls.
I pull into the Gato Gas station at the edge of town. Cash only. Windshield cleaner and paper towel bins are always empty. The little window on the pump with the rolling dials that show how much gas you’re getting and how much money it’s costing is so scratched up you can’t read any of the numbers. But it’s cheap.
Cameron and Brent go inside to pay for gas. That’s the deal. My car. Their gas.
While they’re paying and pumping, I pull The Autobiography of Malcolm X from under the seat and find my place. William, my sort of stepdad, loaned the book to me. I usually like his books. It’s about a black guy who was a straight A student in junior high school. He was crazy smart, and he wanted to be a lawyer, but after some white teacher told him practicing law wasn’t a “realistic goal for a nigger,” he dropped out. How screwed up is that?
I was about halfway through ninth grade when William and his daughter, Imani, AKA the pest, moved in with us. She was in kindergarten then, and she always pestered me to watch “Frozen” with her, and to be Kristoff to her Anna. That, or I’d barely get off my bike in the driveway and she’d come running out, both arms lifted, yelling, “Swing me! Swing me!”
Anyways, the first thing William did after he got Imani’s room set up with her “Frozen” bedspread, and posters, and her giant stuffed Sven pillow, was to add another section of bookshelves under the dining room window, next to Max’s, where she had all of her books carefully arranged.
So I should tell you why me and my brother call our mom Max. It’s from a long time ago when we were both still little. I was probably about four, so Mario was around twelve. We’d been complaining, me mostly, but Mario, too, about how our mom was never around like other moms—Brent’s mom, or Mario’s friend Walker’s mom. I hated daycare and that she didn’t bring cupcakes on my birthday. Mario hated that he had to walk me home from daycare at 4:30 every day and stay with me ’til Max got home from work. On what I guess was a seriously whiny day, Max sat us in our triangle at the kitchen table and said, “Let’s get this straight.” Max is famous for her “Let’s get this straight” talks. At least she’s famous for them with me and Mario.
On that day, after one whine too many, it was “Let’s get this straight. I’m sorry I got you guys such a minimum dad. I wish he’d been the kind of dad who took care of you, who took care of us of all. He wasn’t a good dad to you, Mario. I know you still remember some of that. And he wasn’t any kind of dad to you, Eddie. Ever. He was just the sperm donor for you.”
I didn’t know what she meant by sperm donor back then, but Max never talked down to us. She went over her whole schedule, Macy’s, and the National Guard to make enough money to support us, Dental Assistant school so pretty soon she could get a better job that paid more.
“See, it’s because he was such a minimum dad that I’ve got to be a maximum mom.”
And from then on, we called her Max. But back to the bookshelves.
William’s shelves are the same height, but they don’t exactly match. Max’s are made of oak, a light tan, and William’s are Ikea-black.
It wasn’t planned that way or anything, but it’s kind of symbolic how Max-the-Mexican has brown bookshelves that hold a lot of brown people stories—stuff by Sandra Cisneros and Gary Soto, and about Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. And William-the-African-American has black bookshelves with a lot of black people stories, like about Martin Luther King and Booker T. Washington, and a book we read in 9th grade English, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, plus this book I’m reading right now, The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
Not long after William and Imani moved in, Brent came over to play video games. He looked at the tan shelves and read a few titles, and the black shelves and read a few titles, and said, “Where’re the white shelves?”
William called out from the other room, “The white shelves are in your classrooms, and your library, and every other damned place in this country!”
“Just asking,” Brent called back.
William laughed. “Just sayin’.”
* * * * *
TANK FILLED AND BACK on the 210, I switch the radio to 105.2, classic rock. Our compromise station. If Cameron had his way, it would be the jazz station. Brent? Hip-hop. Me? Probably pop-rock with a bit of Latin.
Triple digit heat and the air is heavy with L. A. basin smog so the beach is the place to be. But traffic is bumper to bumper on the 605, the freeway we’d take to the beach, so I stay on the 210.
“Traffic sucks,” I say. “Let’s go to the lake.”
“That’s cool,” Cameron says. “There’s always a lot of fierce girls at Arrowhead.”
Instead of going on to Arrowhead, I take the turn off to Lake Gregory. Closer and probably not as crowded.
“Not Gregory,” Cameron groans. “Too many rug rats.”
“Driver’s choice,” I say.
At the lake we strip down to our trunks, grab our towels, lock our phones in the car, run to the shore, plunge into the cold mountain water, and race to the dock. Cameron gets there first, then me, then Brent. That’s how it’s been since we were freshmen, like 99% of the time. Cameron’s always the fastest—fastest out of the car, fastest to the dock, fastest out of class, fastest to the lunch table. Maybe longer legs have something to do with it, but it’s like he’s always in a hurry, always has to be first in line, always has to be first to get wherever he’s going. He just got his license three months ago, and he’s already had two speeding tickets.
On the dock and shaking water from my hair, I see these four girls sitting near the ladder, watching. I dive back in and swim farther out to a buoy. When I look back, I see that Cameron’s already got the girls looking at him like he’s a god or something. Like I said, I don’t get it. Cameron’s so skinny you can barely see him when he stands sideways. And there’s the zits. But the girls hang around him like he’s Justin Bieber or something.
I duck underwater to cool off, and when I come up, I see this girl swimming toward the buoy, about five feet away. She takes another stroke and reaches for the buoy. I move over to make room for her. Awkward.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say, letting go of the buoy and treading water.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
I give her a closer look. I guess I’ve seen her around school, but remember? “No.” I’m not too good at this talking to girls shit.
“I’m Rosie. Fourth grade. Ms. Summers’ class.”
I tread water.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “You’ve changed.”
She laughs. “I hope so!”
I tread water.
“I remember those funny cat pictures you used to draw, and your jokes. It’s like you always had a joke, and you were so funny, Ms. Summers never got mad at you.”
I still tread water.
“Know any jokes?” she asks.
“Just, you know, little kid jokes.”
“Tell me a little kid joke. I’ve got a little sister who loves little kid jokes.”
I tread water.
The thing is, I do know a lot of little kid jokes because of Imani. We have a deal that if I tell her a joke, she has to not mention anything about “Frozen” for thirty minutes.
“Come on.”
“Yeah, so, well...Why does the elephant bring toilet paper to the party?”
“I don’t know...why?”
“No, you have to guess.”
“Ummmm. Because toilet paper was on sale?’
“Noooo. Because he was a party pooper.”
Rosie laughs like, I don’t know, like I’ve turned into that Bo Burnham comedian guy or something. Her laugh gets me laughing so hard I have to grab the buoy to stay up.
Brent dives from the dock and comes up in front of our buoy, wiping water from his eyes.
“Man, I could hear you laughing all the way from the dock! What’s so funny?”
“Hard to say,” I tell him, my laughter fading into the water.
“Try me,” he says. “What’s so funny.”
He looks from me to Rosie, whose laughter has also faded...but her smile hasn’t. I’m noticing she’s got a great smile.
“You had to be here,” I tell him.
“I am here.”
“But you weren’t.”
“Okay,” Rosie says, “Why does the elephant bring toilet...”
“NOOOO! Not the old party pooper elephant joke!”
Brent lunges at me, pushing my shoulders down. I sink under the buoy. Come up on the other side. Brent lunges again, and again I go under. This time when I come up, Rosie’s swimming in the direction of the dock, already halfway there. I don’t know a lot about girls, but I do know they get bored when guys start messing around.
Brent reaches for the other side of the buoy.
“Why was she out here talking to you?”
“I don’t know. She said she remembered me from Palm Ave. Fourth grade.”
“I went to Palm Ave. She never talks to me.”
“Maybe she doesn’t remember you. She remembers me because I was funny.”
“I was funny at Palm Avenue in the fourth grade. I was funnier than you. Besides, you were barely even in fourth grade at Palm. You were supposed to be master of ceremony for that Harvest Festival thing, and you didn’t even show up for it. You didn’t show up again until the ninth grade, so how can she remember you and not me?”
“Maybe I’m just memorable.”
“Your hand’s memorable. Everybody remembers Captain Hook. Maybe if I had a creepy Captain Hook hand, she’d remember me.”
“Doubt it,” I say, sinking under water and surfacing right before I get to the dock. We’re like that, Cameron and Brent and I, always raggin’ on each other. That’s what friends do. Guys, anyways. Brent’s “Blockhead.” He’s one of the smartest guys I know. He even did that Academic Decathlon thing last year. Except he could never take a math question. He can count to 100, add two and two, and say his times tables up to the fives. That’s about it. And get this: Brent’s dad wants him to be an engineer, like he is.
Cameron is “Zitter,” for obvious reasons. I’m “Captain Hook”, or mostly just “Hook”. On my right hand, I’ve got a thumb, two grown together stubs for my index finger and my middle finger, and just a glob of flesh where my fourth finger and pinkie would attach, if I had a fourth finger and a pinky. I came out that way. Not a problem. I can do anything anyone else can. Well, I didn’t take piano lessons, but I’m okay. My hand’s a mark of distinction. People who don’t remember my name say: “that kid with the hand.” Which is stupid because all the kids have hands, but everyone knows they’re talking about me when they say “that kid with the hand.”
I start up the ladder to the dock. Too many people. I mostly like people one or two at a time. Three’s about my limit. I slide back into the water and swim to shore.
* * * * *
LATER, WHEN I SEE ROSIE walk to the drink stand, I go scoot in behind her. I don’t want a drink—I just want to stand near her. I know it sounds crazy, but something happened out there at the buoy. At least, that’s how it felt to me.
We get drinks and go to a shady place beside the stand. I take a long swallow of lemonade and try to think of something to say.
“Did you get the classes you want?” I ask. What a dork! All of a sudden, I’m asking questions like your grandma would ask?
Rosie doesn’t seem to mind though. “Yeah. but I don’t have much choice. Between having to take AP English and History, French IV and AP Calculus, and staying with Peer Communications and Choir, plus playing soccer, my program’s set. How about you? Did you get the classes you want?”
“I got the two I want. I don’t want any of the rest of them. I’m not much of a school boy.”
“Why not? You were like the smartest kid in Mrs. Summer’s class. You were a school boy then.”
“Yeah. Well, that was back before they gave kids homework.” I take another long swallow of lemonade.
“Well, so, what are the two classes you wanted to get?”
“WriteLight and Yoga.”
“Zero period and 6th period?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you have in between?”
“Dunno. I’ve got whatever it says on my program card. I’ll look Tuesday morning.”
Rosie gives me a raised eyebrow look.
I focus on my lemonade. Is it my turn to talk? It was easier when we were in the water, like treading water made it okay to be quiet.
Rosie looks back toward where her friends are sitting. “I think Fiona’s ready to leave. I should go.” She tosses her soda bottle into the recycle bin and walks back to her friends.
“Bye,” I call after her. At least I know to say that.
She turns and flashes her toothpaste ad smile at me. “Bye.”
* * * * *
HOT SUN, COLD WATER, gritty sand, stop-and-go traffic. I zone out in the white noise that is Brent and Cameron worrying about AP classes, and college essays, and applications. I’m watching the road ahead, but it’s Rosie’s smile I’m seeing.
It’s after seven by the time we take the off-ramp toward Hamilton Heights. Turning onto Main Street, on the way to Cameron’s, I see crowds of people a few blocks down, in front of City Hall.
At the next block, there’s a barrier with two guys in fluorescent vests, waving their flashlights to move traffic off of Main Street and onto 2nd. Closer now, and barely moving, we see cops all over the place, some in riot gear. Some are on horses. There’s a crowd of people in front of City Hall with signs that say stuff like “Justice for Devon Parker,” and “Equality for ALL,” and “Black Lives Matter,” and other stuff I can’t read from here. Then there’s a barrier of cops between the Black Lives Matter group and another bunch of demonstrators with tiki torches and clubs, and signs that say “White Lives Matter,” and “America for Americans,” and “P8RIOTS,” and some with swastikas.
“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of one of those horses,” Brent says. “They’re huge!”
Traffic’s picked up again, and the crowd’s soon out of sight.
“I don’t get that Black Lives Matter shit,” Cameron says. “Like, doesn’t everybody’s life matter?
“Devon Parker’s didn’t matter,” I say. “Or Michael Brown’s or Tamir Rice’s or Stephon Clark’s, or a ton of others.”
“From what I saw on TV, the cop shot that Michael Brown guy in self-defense.”
“Really?” I say.
“Well, he’d stolen stuff from a store, like those cigarillo things.”
“Not a death penalty offense,” I say.
“William’s got you brainwashed,” Cameron says.
“More like brain expanded,” I say.
“Somebody’s got to get your brain expanded,” Brent says with a laugh. “With the amount of work you do at school, it won’t happen at Hamilton High.”
We all laugh at that. Smoothing the waters is one of Brent’s talents, maybe because there are so many people in his family to get along with.
When I get home, Max is at the kitchen table, staring into her laptop.
“I thought this was game night,” I say.
Max is glued to her computer, her phone face up, showing an unanswered text to William.
“Where’s William?”
She turns the computer screen toward me. City hall. Torches, horses, riot gear, signs . . . oh shit. William. Black Lives Matter. I sit next to Max and watch the screen, following the ribbon across the bottom, “Live news report from Hamilton Heights. White nationalist groups chanting racist slogans and hurling rocks threaten peaceful Black Lives Matter demonstration.”
Max turns to me. “Look at that bunch of P8RIOT guys with their clubs and torches! It’s like the Make America Great bunch is drawing all of the racists and haters out from whatever rocks they’ve been hiding under.”
Max’s frown is tight, and deep. Like her whole face is frowning—like the frowns she brought back from Iraq. “It’s all good guys versus bad guys,” she says, “and anyone who’s an immigrant, or Muslim, or doesn’t look like the guys in the MAGA hats is a bad guy. Fear and hate. It worries me.”
On the screen, there’re more guys with torches now, yelling, throwing stuff—I’m not sure what—toward the Black Lives Matter demonstrators, who are throwing stuff back. More police, with dogs, trying to keep the groups separated.
“Will you get Imani to bed?” Max says, not looking away from the computer screen.
“Sure.”
All I want is a hot shower and to fall into bed, but I know Imani’s bedtime routine as well as anyone, and Max’ll stay glued to the news until she hears from William.
I stand in the hall and call to Imani, “You want strawberry or lavender?”
“Lavender,” she says, not turning around.
I start the water in the bathtub, pour lavender bubble bath powder directly under the stream of water and watch it foam up. While the tub fills, I get Imani’s PJs from her top dresser drawer, set them on a stool at the end of the bathtub, squeeze toothpaste onto her “Frozen” toothbrush, and shut the water off.
“Bath’s ready,” I tell her.
“I want to see the rest of this!”
“Nope. It’s already way past your bedtime,” I say, shutting off the TV.
“No fair!”
“Go on. Get your bath before the water gets cold.”
She pouts.
“If you get your bath and are all ready for bed in twenty minutes, I’ve got a joke for you.”
“A bear joke?”
“Some joke,” I tell her.
I stretch out on the couch, thinking about Rosie, and about the start of my senior year, and Black Lives Matter, and Rosie, and...
“Joke!” startles me fully awake.
“In bed,” I say.
Once she’s all snuggled down in bed, I ask her, “Why aren’t Teddy Bears ever hungry?”
“Why?”
I wait for the guess.
“Because Mama Bear always feeds them?”
“No, because they’re always stuffed.”
“Not a very good joke,” she says.
“The best I could do,” I tell her. I gesture toward her bookshelves.
“Daddy’s going to read to me,” she says.
“Well, he’s not home right now. What book do you want?”
“I want my Daddy!” she says, sniffling. “I’m scared.”
“Do you want me to read to you or not?”
She shakes her head. I turn on her nightlight and switch the ceiling light off. “Goodnight, then,” I say.
I’m in the bathroom, so ready for a shower, when Imani calls, “Eddie! I’m scared!” I wait, hoping to hear Max on her way to Imani’s room. “Eddie!”
I go back to her room.
“I want my Daddy. I’m scared.”
“Try counting sheep,” I tell her.
“Stay with me,” she says.
I take my shoes off and lie down next to her, on top of the covers, feeling her hand in mine as I drift—or more like plunge—into sleep.
Sometime after midnight, William’s weight on the other side of the bed wakens me. He’s looking down at Imani. “Thanks, Eddie,” he whispers.
As I walk toward the door, I see William lean his face down beside Imani’s.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here, Baby.”
I fall into my own bed, showerless, and dream of treading water.
CHAPTER TWO
