This Side of Home (7 page)

We squeeze through the crowd and make our way to our lockers. “Uh, I don't know. But you need it to get into Spelman,” I say.

Essence doesn't say anything.

“Spelman is still the plan, isn't it? That's always been our plan,” I remind her.

Essence says, “I have to be realistic, Maya. Portland Community College is cheaper than Spelman. Way cheaper.” She takes her phone out of her pocket again. She looks at the name, sucks her teeth, then sends the call to voice mail. “If I even go to college at all.”

“What do you mean ‘if'?” I ask.

Essence opens her locker, hangs her bag on a hook, and closes it.

The three of us have planned out every detail of our college years. Nikki, Essence, and I will be roommates in the dorm our freshman year and go off-campus on weekends to stay with my grandma so we can do laundry at her place and get some good home cooking. We've talked about moving out of the dorms and getting our own apartment our sophomore year, and by junior and senior year we'll be interning and thinking about where we'll go to get our masters'. Essence and Malachi will most likely be engaged by then, and Nikki and I will be her maids of honor at the wedding.

That's the plan.

That's always been the plan.

“We've been talking about going to college since we were in middle school,” I say.

Essence walks away, pulling her phone out again. “Plans change.”

So far, the first day of school has been full of icebreaker activities and free writes about what we did over summer break. It's lunch now, and sitting here in the cafeteria, I notice there are more white and Latino students here than last year. My freshman year, Richmond was mostly black, but in the past two years our student body has changed.

Kate and Tony are sitting with Nikki, and the rest of our crew is at a table across from the Goth girls who swear they're not Goth. Essence and I walk past their table, and I smile at one of the girls—the one with the tattoo of a star on her neck.

Essence says, “I really wish she'd let me do her makeup. That black lipstick and dark eye shadow is doing nothing for her complexion. She has such a
pretty face. And her hair—the things I could do with her hair!”

As we walk up to our table, I hear Nikki saying, “Things at Richmond are never going to change. That assembly was a waste of time.” She sips her flavored water. She's bringing her lunch to school now because she believes the food in the cafeteria is oppressive and damaging our bodies with each bite.

“It wasn't a waste,” I say. “Well, we could have done without Principal Green's fake pep talk at the end. But he kind of had a good point about being one another's keeper.”

“I don't have time to worry about nobody else,” Essence says. “I got enough problems of my own.” She eats a handful of fries.

Nikki says, “If people don't want to change, you can't make them. I'm here to get my education.” Her eyes survey the room. She sighs. “If they don't want to get theirs, that's on them.”

Every day Nikki becomes a different person.

Kate wipes her lips with her napkin. “What do you think the problem is?” she asks.

Something inside me begins to crumble when everyone at the table starts listing everything that's wrong with Richmond and nothing that is right—as if a place can't be bad and good at the same time.

Kate joins in on what's wrong with Richmond
(feeling comfortable, I guess, since everyone else is complaining). And I am wondering how it can be that a girl who has spent one day in a place can all of a sudden be an expert. “St. Francis has a multimedia literacy room with iPads and laptops that we could check out. We had a garden on our rooftop that our school lunches were made from. I don't understand why Richmond can't have those things,” she says. “My math teacher told me today that I couldn't take my book home because she needed it for her other classes. I—”

“We know how bad it is,” I say.

Kate's shoulders shrink. “I know you do, I just, I think—”

“Do you know why St. Francis is able to have all those things? Do you have any suggestions on how to make things better here?” I ask.

Nikki kicks me under the table, soft. I kick back, hard.

“Well, no. I, well, my, the organization my mom works for is partnering with Richmond, trying to help get more, uh, get more resources for the school.”

I don't say anything, because I know nothing I say will come out right. Instead, I am looking at Devin, wondering why he is not debating with her, why he is just sitting silently. He usually gets fired up in these kinds of discussions. I follow his eyes. They are fixed
on a group of girls sitting across the cafeteria. I try to see which one he is looking at, but I can't tell. I feel ridiculous right now, so I look away and try to focus on the conversation.

Then Devin turns his head, and I see him watch one of the girls get up from the table and realize that one of the new girls has caught his attention. Her name is Cynthia. She is a brown girl, but not black. She is thick in the hips with a thin waist.

Devin is so obvious.

I look away before he realizes I am watching him. I don't know where to put my eyes, so I just look right in front of me, where Tony is sitting. Our eyes lock into each other's, and I realize that while I was watching Devin, Tony was watching me.

Cynthia.

She won't tell us where she's from. It is the last period of the day and for the sixth time today, I am playing a getting-to-know-you game. When Cynthia is introduced as a new student and is asked where she is from, she just smiles and says, “I'm from many places.”

And then the guessing game starts: Is she Mexican? Indian? Hawaiian? She is a shade of brown I have never seen before. Cynthia, whose hair is the kind of curly that isn't kinky or nappy, who's thicker than skinny but not at all fat. Cynthia, who loves the attention she is getting from her guess-my-identity game. I have seen girls like her before. Back when Nikki and I modeled. Back when we were called beautiful.

We modeled when we were seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. Nothing major, mostly in catalogs for Fred Meyer and other local companies.

But at thirteen we found out we were just ordinary black girls. “You are not commercial enough,” the agency said. Nothing exotic added to our blackness to give us unique tones, curly hair. Nothing added to our blackness to make a just-right complexion.

I haven't modeled since. Haven't felt like a nothing black girl since. But now, with Cynthia whose black is beautiful and new and different, I am thirteen again and jealous of a girl I don't even know.

We have been in school for a month, and student council is having its first official meeting. Student council officers were voted on last school year. The official positions are:

So when Vince and Bags walk into the student council meeting, Charles turns to me and says, “Are they serious?” He shakes his head in disapproval—and maybe disgust.

Principal Green begins our meeting, saying, “I've opened it up to other students to join our student council meetings. Even though they don't have official titles, they will help plan events this year and support our officers. I thought it would be nice to add some diversity to the group.” Principal Green writes the agenda on chart paper and says, “We'll get started shortly.”

I look around the room. Vince, Bags, Cynthia, and Tony have joined us. I whisper under my breath to Charles, “This is going to be interesting.”

Ever since freshman year, Vince and Bags have been known as the king and prince of practical jokes. Last year, Vince put Vaseline on all the doorknobs of senior hall. Bags's real name is Noah, but we call him Bags because he always has a dime bag on him.

“Is Principal Green really going to let them be on student council?” Charles whispers in my ear. “I knew having him be our staff adviser was a bad idea.” Charles is known around the school as Preacher Man. He is always dressed in khaki pants and a tie. We all joke that he is an old man trapped in a teen's body. I have no doubt he will end up at Harvard and be CEO of something one day. “We cannot let these white boys come in here with their fraternity shenanigans,” Charles says.

“They'll be fine,” I say.

“Famous last words.”

Principal Green takes a sip of water from his plastic water bottle. “Let's begin. It's no secret that Richmond is changing. I mean, why even in this very room we can see that we have students of many ethnic backgrounds at our school. I'd like us to think of something we can do to promote diversity and celebrate all the cultures we have in our student body. Any ideas?”

No one speaks.

Not because we don't want to celebrate diversity; I just think we need time to come up with good ideas. Charles and Cynthia raise their hand at the same time. Principal Green calls on Cynthia.

She leans forward and says, “Well, Thanksgiving is next month. Maybe we could have a multicultural potluck.”

Joey agrees with her. “Yeah. We could call it Tastes of the World.”

Cynthia keeps adding to her idea. “And we can have food from Javier's Mexican Grill and Chinese food from Golden Wok.” She barely takes a breath. “And we could get food from that new Thai place and, well, I guess we need soul food, too. Maybe Popeyes?”

Popeyes is not soul food.

Charles scoots back from the table like he wants to be as far away from Cynthia's idea as possible. “I'd like to see our budget go toward something more meaningful,” he says.

I'm glad someone else said it before me. Principal Green asks me what I think. “Well,” I say. “I agree with Charles.”

Cynthia rolls her eyes at me. It's subtle, but I see the way she is looking at me, like she takes it personally that I don't agree with her.

“I mean, well, what does a buffet have to do with diversity?” I ask. “Most students will just come to eat. They're not going to learn anything.”

Cynthia rolls her eyes at me again. This time she's less subtle. “Well, we can have an index card at each dish that gives facts about the countries represented in the buffet.”

I blurt out, “You think someone's heritage can fit on an index card?” Now I'm rolling my eyes. I don't mean to be rude, and I really, really didn't mean to say it with an attitude, but is she serious? I look around the room hoping to make eye contact with someone else who might agree with me and Charles.

Tony speaks up. “But, well, isn't the school, uh, short on funds? I mean, we don't have a big budget so
maybe Charles and Maya are right. We should spend our budget on something more meaningful.”

Principal Green rubs his chin. “I actually think Cynthia and Joey are onto something.”

“But I thought the point was to learn about other cultures, to encourage community?” I say.

Charles joins the conversation. “Yeah, what is watered-down, Americanized Mexican or Chinese food going to teach us about Mexico or China?” Charles clears his throat and in his presidential voice says, “With all due respect, Principal Green, I believe it would be best to take a vote.”

“I appreciate that, Charles, I do, I do. But I think the multicultural lunch is a great idea.”

“But Principal Green,” I say, “we haven't heard from everyone.” I look at Rachel and Tasha.

Cynthia speaks. “Come on, guys. You know people like food. I mean, it will be a great first event. We'll get a good turnout.”

Principal Green adds, “And we want our first event to be inclusive. We want it to be something everyone feels welcome at and a part of.”

So much for Principal Green being the neutral staff adviser.

He looks at me, then at Charles. “So why don't the two of you do some research about the different
cultures that will be represented, and perhaps you can do a one-page write-up on each of them instead of the index cards. That way, it's more informative. Much more informative,” Principal Green says.

“So we're really doing this?” I ask. And now
I
have a homework assignment?

Principal Green asks for volunteers to take on different responsibilities for the event. “Tony, what would you like to do?”

“I, uh, I can help Charles and Maya,” he says. He looks at me. “The three of us can work together.” Tony smiles.

I smile back at him and get a nervous feeling. It feels like my heart has the hiccups. This is the feeling that usually comes when I make a speech or right before I sing. And here it is, now, as I sit across the table from Tony. I look away from him, but the feeling stays.

I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse that so many of us from student council are in Mrs. Armstrong's journalism class. Vince, Tasha, Charles, and Tony are all here. The best part of this class is that Essence has it, too. We're sitting next to each other, flipping through the thick packet of articles Mrs. Armstrong just passed out. “These articles need to be read by the end of the week,” Mrs. Armstrong says.

The class moans.

“I keep telling you all that this is not going to be your easy-A newspaper class.”

I notice a boy shift in his chair and wonder if he will transfer classes and take another elective.

“This journalism class is about investigating your world. Asking questions and doing something with
the information you discover.” Mrs. Armstrong has her stern voice on, but since I know her from last year, I know that, really, Mrs. Armstrong is one of the most caring teachers in this school. She's also one of the only black teachers. At the back of her classroom there's a secondhand sofa, a worn armchair, and a coffee table. If the coffee table were a person, it would walk with a limp.