Love Edy (5 page)

“Maybe you should chill out,” Matt said.

Edy sat back in a huff. Defeated. Pissed.
Outnumbered.

She could feel Hassan’s eyes on her. Fire,
Edy thought. More golden in fury, like flames.

“That dude just moved here the other day,”
Mason said. “So, you don’t know him. And if you want to get to know
him, you sure won’t be doing it in my car.”

“Hear, hear,” Matt said.

Hassan continued to stare. Edy looked
straight ahead, unwilling to meet his glare just yet.

South End High had the look of old New
England: three stories of blood red brick, stately, old and
resolute, stretching out for half a block. A sweep of concrete
stairs led to its heavy oak doors, propped open before and after
school. On its front, a legion of old, fogged, single pane windows
stared out like blinded black eyes. The above-door placard that
greeted them every day said what had been drilled into every South
End student at orientation: That the school grounds had three
centuries of history, it was a former meeting place for a chosen
few plotting against the British Crown on the eve of the
Revolution, and that the building had official recognition from the
National Historic Registry.

They arrived just as the old fashioned
liberty bell shrilled its ten minute warning. Ten minutes till
every tardy kid could count on a nose full of Principal Rhinecorn’s
sour breath, plus two days of detention.

Out of the Land Rover and scrambling across
the parking lot, Edy, the Dysons, and Hassan melted into the crowd.
Around them, conversations swarmed as a thousand angry bumblebees
all jammed in the same hive, and all buzzed the same buzz: party,
clothes, sex, someone dumped someone, new boy, new boy,
new
boy.

Edy wondered if Wyatt Green had found the
school okay, if he knew where to report, if he knew who to avoid.
Caught in the upward stream of students, she careened enough to
catch a glimpse of the open doors and the walkway of overflowing
peers, before the hand at the small of her back pushed her on.

Hassan.

Edy split from the boys at the start of the
day, taking homeroom with the jackal-faced Mrs. Rhodes. A trembling
surly old woman who could neither see through windowpane-thick
spectacles, nor hear on the days she forgot to power on her hearing
aid, she marked present people absent and absent people present
while conversations carried on unchecked. “Last year until
retirement,” she promised them every day.

Edy took a seat towards the front and
against the far wall, out of range for Rhodes’ blurred vision.
Behind her was Eva Meadows, the once plump, dark haired girl who’d
summered in Greece and came back for high school lean, sleek and
svelte. Even her eyes had darkened from apple green to emerald.
Rumor had it that 25k in plastic surgery had done most of the work.
But kids didn’t get lipo, did they?

“Name’s Wyatt Green,” Eva said. “He moved
into that condemned house across the street from Edy. Daddy says
they must be squatters.”

“Well he does dress like one,” the blonde
cheerleader, Sandra Jacobs, conceded.

Her mother, who had also been a cheerleader
at South End, was on her third husband, a business magnate who made
his home in Milan. People said that Sandra hadn’t seen her mother
in two years and that her mother and stepfather hadn’t been on U.S.
soil in three. She got the best sort of gifts from them though,
judging by that splash of a Marc Jacobs bag hooked on her
chair.

“The new kid looks like he smells,” Eva
said. “I think I heard someone say he does.”

Sandra stiffened, but said nothing. Edy’s
fingers curled into fists that she wished were bigger. She knew
these girls, knew their meanness from earlier days, younger days,
when their sting and the bitter dismissal were hers to own. She
could hit one, she knew, and put some real power behind the blow. A
lifetime of being the only girl in a clan of boys meant she could
land a wicked right. Their paranoia had ensured as much.

The flat screen at the front of the room
powered on and a freckled, peach-faced girl with rag doll curls
smiled till her cheeks reddened.

“Good morning, South End and welcome to
another wonderful Monday. I’m your host, DeeDee Bell, here to give
you the latest.”

Edy pulled out her e-reader. Around her,
others reached for similar distractions—cell phones, iPods, an iPad
in one instance, as DeeDee started in about the penalty for
tardiness. Then meetings. Half a dozen clubs were looking for new
members. The Historical Society had begun preparations for its
annual spring program and, as usual, needed volunteers. At that,
every head in the room swiveled to face Edy, teeth bared in gleeful
grins.

Of course. She hadn’t expected to go
unscathed.

Each year, Edy’s father volunteered for the
Historical Society’s evening production. He’d show up in a powdered
wig, monocle and black tights—none of it required—to read a line
attributed to his great, great, great grandfather, a freedman named
Jebediah Phelps:
“’Tis freedom we seek. Nothing more.”
He’d
scan the auditorium meticulously, gaze sweeping across row after
row, ensuring that the breadth of his message had been digested.
Once satisfied, he’d give a soulless lecture on political
philosophy, tying the lone words of Jebediah Phelps to the works of
a half dozen philosophers. Should jeering interrupt him, as it
always did, he’d pause long enough to stare down the culprit and
begin again, voice carrying even further than before. With each
octave he rose Edy sunk in her chair, all too aware of what would
follow. Her dad was Fredrick Douglas at South End High, Morgan
Freeman, or Harriet Tubman on a bad day.

It was definitely a Harriet Tubman kind of
day.

After a dreary compilation of A.P. classes,
Edy headed for her least favorite place, brown bag in hand. The
muted, buried dread she saved for lunchtime bubbled up to the
surface the moment she entered the cafeteria. She imagined at some
high schools, lunch really was just lunch, the place where people
gathered for food, a bit of people watching, and the last
scratching in of last night’s homework, answers borrowed from a
friend. But at a place where the children of powerhouse
politicians, athletes, journalists, and doctors coalesced, a
hierarchy emerged, built on money, looks, talent and parental
prestige. People were either in the light or the shadows; they were
either someone or no one at all.

“Brown Brahmins” was what the local
newspapers called them, a play on the Boston Brahmins, or
upper-class elites of the city who could trace their lineage to
Mayflower times. Brown Brahmins lived in Sci-Sci, a six-by-six
strip of streets that served as the city’s Hollywood Hills
equivalent for people of color. They shopped at the Sax in the Pru
and ordered duck confit at Hamersley’s and were generally held up
as the thing to aspire to for their downtrodden counterparts in
Roxbury, Dorchester, and elsewhere. Brown Brahmins summered in the
Hamptons or on the Cape, if they stayed in the U.S. at all, and had
homes of historical significance or undeniable luxury. “Brown”
designation aside, they were as diverse as they were insulated,
with little tolerance for newcomers. Kyle Lawson was still
considered the new kid and he’d moved there five years ago.

In her mind, Edy could never be one of them,
even as she knew herself to be the epitome of
them
. Hers was
the oldest house in Sci-Sci and the second oldest in historic South
End, just behind the William Porter place on Washington Ave. The
daughter of a celebrated Harvard professor, her lineage included
abolitionists, one of the first doctors of color in the city, and
two of the earliest professors of color to teach at Harvard—and
that was just her father’s side.

So, she had the lineage. And Lord knew she
had the prestige. But what she didn’t have was the stomach for what
came with it, the who’s who nonsense that meant she had to look the
part.

Edy never could figure out how to look the
part.

She ventured for the “it” table, not because
she belonged on her own merits, but because she went where the boys
did. No one challenged that, but the daily glares she earned said
they wanted to. Having the right sort of friends made her bearable,
or not worth the trouble.

First of the usual suspects to arrive, Edy
dropped her lunch on the table and lowered herself onto the
attached bench. She dug out a Tupperware dish and plastic utensils.
Thick, black hair in a ponytail, high and bushy yet again, wayward
wisps fell into her face, threatening her food. Her bowl,
near-bursting with the
rogan josh,
a lamb stew, was but the
remnant of an evening with Hassan’s mother.

Each day, she imagined herself in the midst
of a game for little ones, one where they were asked “Which one
doesn’t fit?”

Hassan’s redhead. Hassan’s redhead taking a
seat across from her. Blouse candy pink and dipped low, it hinted
at creamy white skin and attention-seeking cleavage. “Edy,
right?”

Edy knew of her, of course, the way country
folk knew all their neighbors. Aimee Foss, daughter of fashion
designer Michel Foss and his one-time girlfriend Bernadine Roe. A
junior who lived not quite on the cusp of Sci-Sci but still in
South End.

Edy clenched a hand around her spork and
trained her gaze down, on her food.

“Are you really going to sit here?” she
said.

The redhead clucked her teeth. “Hmm. I get
the impression you wouldn’t like that. Why is that, Edy?”

Edy shifted in her seat, unwilling to
entertain the burn of unease in her stomach. She didn’t trust
herself to speak, so she looked for Hassan instead.

“It must be hard, being you,” Aimee said.
“Being so close to guys like that, investing so much time, only to
watch girls like me swoop down and . . .
taste
so
easily
.”

Edy’s head snapped up, just in time to see
her lip glossed and triumphant smile. It burrowed away in a hustle
of teenagers swarming their table. Bright lights illuminated
hundred-dollar tees and couture jeans. But one thought ripped
through it all. The redhead had been with Hassan.

A finger swooped in from behind and dipped
knuckle deep in Edy’s food. She turned to see Hassan insert the
finger in his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said. “Just like Mom used to
make.”

Edy cleared her throat and willed away the
image of him and Aimee together. “Your mom did make it,” she
said.

“Oh, yeah.”

With a tilt of his head, the debutantes who
had gathered ushered themselves downstream, moving heartbeat fast
to make room. He had come into his own pretty quickly and his own
seemed to suit him rather naturally. People moved for him. Lawrence
sat down in the new opening first, completely ignoring Aimee, who
stayed. Only Hassan shot her an impatient look before opening his
mouth, pausing, and letting discomfort swallow his features.

He hadn’t noticed her. He hadn’t placed
her
.
Which meant what? That there were a thousand redheads
getting naked for him?

Edy looked from one to the other,
waiting.

“I forgot your name,” Hassan said.

Snickers announced the arrival of the
twins.

“Aimee,” she hissed.

“Aimee,” he said. “Can you move?” He jerked
his head, indicating that she should slide down like the rest. The
redhead jumped up, but instead of marching downstream, she stood
over Edy, just as Hassan took her old seat. Edy, who had begun to
dig into her
rogan josh
, froze with it inches from her
mouth, and looked up.

Aimee must have mistaken her for a mark.
“Edy,” she said. “Move.”

“You’re making a scene,” Hassan said. “I
wouldn’t recommend that.”

The redhead shot Edy a contemptuous look
before sauntering to the opposite end of the table.

“
Did you want me to make space for your
girlfriend?”
Edy asked, switching over to Punjabi so that only
Hassan understood.

His mother, who stayed home to care for them
both since they were in diapers, had spoken Punjabi at home. Edy
learned it right alongside English growing up.

“
I don’t even know her.”

“
That’s not what she says.”

Hassan set down his fork, a single muscle
working in his jaw.

“
Do we need to talk?”

“
Our mouths are moving now, aren’t they?
Anyway, I’m only commenting on how well high school is going for
you.”

She forced a smile to her lips and nodded to
the
rogan josh
. “Hungry?” she said in English.

Edy fished out a chunk of meat and slipped
it in her mouth, pausing to savor it with a few choice moans of
appreciation.

“Give me some already.”

When Edy looked up and found the redhead and
a handful of cheerleaders staring not at him but her, her face
turned molten.

It was only with the arrival of Wyatt that
she was saved. Sort of.

He stopped at the entrance, eyes sweeping
the room. Spotting the line, he power walked over, late for an
already short lunch. He grabbed goulash—
not safe
—instead of
tacos—
relatively safe—
and crossed over to an empty table
toward the back.

Wyatt had the attention of Hassan, the Dyson
brothers, and Kyle. It didn’t take long before the whole table
followed their glares.

“He looks healthier already,” Mason said.
“Bright sky, clear New England air, brisk mile-long walk in the
chill. Really gets the heart pumping.”

“Essential for cardiovascular health,” Matt
chimed in.

Edy scowled. “Not funny.”

“
Neither are you,”
Hassan said,
switching back to his Boston-sharpened Punjabi. He spooned great
heaps of her
rogan josh
atop of the filling in his chicken
taco. Once done, he slid her Tupperware down to Lawrence, who also
took a few spoonfuls, though neatly into one square compartment of
his lunch tray.