Who Put This Song On? Page 16

  But she wanted to help me through it. She wiped my face and rubbed my back, and we shared a cup of Constant Comment while my breathing slowed. I wanted to let the dark cloud pass, just like I always do—and this time it worked.

  Antidepressants aren’t magic or anything, but six months ago I couldn’t get myself to stop crying no matter what. Once I entered a mood, I became the mood. Now, sometimes on good, bright days, I literally stop and notice flowers. They’re actually awesome.

  * * *

  —

  The next night, after epic turkey sandwiches and mounds of mac and cheese, I’m completely taken aback when Malcolm comes to my room and asks if I want to take a drive, like old times. A surprised laugh escapes as I toss down my book, Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism, by bell hooks.

  “Okay.” I shrug. “For sure! Right now?”

  “Yup. I made a mix.”

  * * *

  —

  Outfitted in flip-flops and hoodies, we hop into my car. The night is unusually chilly, almost like real fall weather, so I flip on the heater immediately, rubbing my hands together as the burned-popcorn smell wafts in our faces. Rudy’s signature musk smells especially sweet. I love Rudy.

  You can always escape.

  I turn to Malcolm. “The usual route?”

  “Sure.”

  As I back out of the driveway, Malcolm fishes a jewel case from the pocket of his basketball shorts.

  “What’s on it?”

  “You’ll see,” he says, turning up the volume and rolling down his window. I roll mine down, too, and light a cigarette, speeding on the dark road toward the quiet side streets we like. Malcolm giggles as the first song comes on: Maroon 5’s “Sunday Morning.” Our guilty pleasure. We pinkie-swore never to tell anyone how much we both secretly love it, how we can’t help ourselves from belting the chorus and the fake R & B intro. And that’s exactly what we do, wind at our cheeks and our hands catching waves in the night air. I let out a long, exhilarating yelp.

  We take the long way to Redlands, skip the freeway and drive over a creepy bridge we love to adventurously cross. We bypass the houses of our friends and classmates and take teeny roads as far up as we can. I have to give it to Malcolm: his playlist is damn good. Our guilty-pleasure songs are padded by Grizzly Bear, Beirut, Nico. I feel pretty proud, honestly. I taught him well, like a big sister should. We’re more alike than I remember. Maybe he could understand me, and maybe he wants to.

  As we near The Spot, I don’t know what comes over me, but I slow to a stop and park. For the record, I am fully aware of its sanctity and a firm believer in unwritten (and Yellow Notebook–written) rules, especially when it comes to my group, but when Malcolm looks over at me, puzzled, I say, “I wanna show you something. Come on.”

  Maybe I want to connect with him, or attempt to. (Maybe I want to be the antidote to David’s rejection. I’ll try again to love and be loved, and maybe this time I’ll be vindicated.)

  * * *

  —

  At the ledge, the view has the power it always does: we fall silent in reverence and reflection. I search my tote for a Black and Mild; I always keep a couple on hand for moments like this.

  “Want one?” I ask from one side of my mouth, cigarillo hanging from the other like I’m James Franco playing James Dean or something.

  “Nah, not during the season. Sometimes I’ll do chew with the seniors, though.”

  “Whoa, really?” I manage to laugh but feel a pang of disapproval.

  “Want some of this?” Malcolm—two years my junior, whose head my family teasingly refers to as a cantaloupe, whose birth angered me so much that I bit his infant forehead—produces, out of nowhere, a water bottle. One of those water bottles: undecipherable liquor bathed in Gatorade. I seriously almost choke.

  I know I can’t go all prudish on him, though I weirdly want to, so I stifle my shock.

  “Uh, maybe just a sip. Since I’m driving.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Where did you get this?” I take a swig and my mouth puckers at the sweetness. “And what is in this?”

  “I swiped a little vodka from Mom and Dad’s cabinet. It’s my recipe: vodka, orange Gatorade, and cream soda.”

  I laugh and shake my head, staring down at the few cars on the highway. I’m speechless. Finally, I manage, “Dude, you really love candy.”

  Malcolm takes back the bottle, grinning mischievously, and indulges in a nice, long drink.

  “So, what’s up, little brother? How’s life?”

  “It’s cool.”

  I shift on the ledge to adjust my butt. My flip-flops are filling with gravel, but I don’t care.

  “What about girls?” I nudge him goofily with my elbow. “How about Sarah Yates? She’s cute.”

  (Sarah and Malcolm have been tight since the fifth grade. She’s smart, kind, and it’s obvious she has a crush on him. Once, when they were studying together in the living room, I saw the way she giggled at him, and to my surprise, I thought it was sweet. They make a cute black couple. Maybe at least one of us can have a normal healthy relationship. She seems like the type of girl who would try to be my friend, too, try to blend in with our family. She wears these cute flouncy skirts and her hair is in long braids. She is so not punk, but cute for Malcolm, I’ve always thought. I’ve always been jealous of both of them.)

  “Naw, we’re just friends. She’s cool, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t like her like that. Besides, I’m not really into black girls.”

  He says the words so easily, like they don’t mean what they mean.

  Here it is: knife to my heart. The letdown. My whole stomach leaps into my throat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know…I guess I’m just not attracted to them. And they’re always so loud.”

  (What I know everyone is thinking when they see me: No. Or something even grosser, if they’re “into black girls.” “Black pussy,” Jake had whispered, spraying his saliva all over my neck. I don’t know which is worse.)

  I nod solemnly, quickly advancing through rage, embarrassment, horror, and finally settling on disappointment and grief. I swallow my pain and hold my tongue and try not to make everything so difficult.

  (Even Malcolm, I think, heartbroken.)

  Malcolm doesn’t seem to notice my wheel of emotions. He goes on.

  “I mean, there’s only two black girls in my class, anyway.”

  I laugh inadvertently. It’s more of a cough, really. “True.”

  “I don’t know, there is someone I’ve been talking to. Maddy Walker? I kinda like her. But I don’t know, we’ll see.”

  “Like, Maddy Walker like Jake Walker?”

  “Yeah, you know him? He’s in your class.”

  I grab the bottle and gulp the disgusting cocktail. Whatever.

  “Oh, I know him,” I say, nervously lighting another cigarette. I’m gonna have a sore throat tomorrow. “He is…he’s not a good guy.”

  “What do you mean? He’s always nice to me at football.”

  “Yeah. Nothing, never mind. Forget I said anything. Maddy’s nice! I mean I don’t know her, but she seems okay.” I stiffen. Dangit. The same word vomit and bad attitude that ruins every moment.

  “We should probably go after I finish this, I guess,” I sigh.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  * * *

  —

  “Are you better? Like, cured?” Malcolm asks earnestly on the drive back, lowering the volume on American Football’s “I’ll See You When We’re Both Not So Emotional.”

  “It doesn’t really work like that, Malcolm,” I say quickly. Then I add, “But, yeah, I guess I feel a little better right now.”

  “Cool, cool. You seem better than before.”

  At a stop sign, the van in front
of us has a license plate that says In Case of Rapture, This Car Will Be Unmanned!!

  “That was scary,” he adds, lowering his head. “No offense.”

  “I know. It was scary for me too.” I turn onto a residential street that looks almost exactly like ours and slow the car, glancing over at him. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I know I’m not an easy sister.”

  We’re quiet as the song fades, and the Velvet Underground comes on, “Candy Says.” We are almost home.

  “I hope you keep feeling better, sis. It’s gonna suck when you leave for college.”

  It’s so abrupt, I don’t know how to respond.

  “Ah, come on.” I smile slightly, cruising ahead and letting the achiness of the song wash over me. “At least you won’t have to deal with me bossing you around and being so intense all the time.”

  “Well, that’s who you are,” he snickers.

  “Yeah,” I sigh with a snort, “I guess it is.” I’ve heard some people talk about a part in the cycle after grief—acceptance.

  I sneak a look over at Malcolm and notice his eyes are welling with tears, his mouth slack. “I’ll just miss you,” he says quickly, wiping his eyes in one swoop of his sleeve.

  “I’ll miss you too.” I get a little smooshy—wind chimes sing in my chest. “But that’s not for a while. We have some time.”

  “Truuuue,” he sings, then busts up when I join on the highest note, shaking his head and begging me to close my mouth.

  I have no idea if I have the hypothetical and figurative balls to be a Black Panther, or Actual Rosa Parks, or to risk my life leading hundreds of slaves to freedom. I don’t know where I’m going when I die, and I don’t know where I’m going after graduation, and sometimes I don’t even know if I want to keep being alive. But as long as I’m here, and I’m me, I will definitely be intense, ridiculous, passionate, and sometimes hilarious.

  THE ROAD TO FREEDOM

  The Diaries of Morgan Parker

  Monday, December 1, 2008

  I’m in detention for the first time in my damn life. My whole life. And my life has been pretty long. I mean, you might not think so, but I do.

  I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do in detention. The only other people here are two fake-stoners that I’m pretty sure are here every day, and they’re just sleeping with their heads down on their desks. Mr. Howard is at his desk looking bored, grading essays about Thoreau. I know because he already gave mine back. A+. At the top, next to the title, “Solitude Is Better than Society: Thoreau Transcends at Walden Pond,” he wrote, “You are an excellent, talented writer!” It was a helluva good essay.

  I love writing, even though I never do it anymore. I used to, pages and pages of stuff like stories about girls my age with terminal illnesses. Most of it wasn’t stories, though. It was just about me and how I felt. So full of emotion. I loved it. I think I just like the way words sound and how you can make them do whatever you want. Reading beautiful words makes me feel like the world is so big and amazing and painful. That’s what I liked about Thoreau. That guy really knew how to talk about loneliness and how everything about modern society is so full of crap. But he was optimistic, which is more than I can say. I liked when he said, “I did not wish to live what was not life.” Dang.

  Am I supposed to think about why I’m here? Well, I’m here for no good reason. Technically, for being “disrespectful and disruptive” in Government class this morning. Well, you know what I think is disrespectful? Only teaching the parts of history that you like. Whatever. This is what happened:

  Harriet Tubman.

  Did you know Harriet Tubman carried a gun? I’ve never realized it before, or else I was not encouraged to consider it. But, you know, of course she did. You can’t escape slavery (several times!) armed with just quick wit and street smarts. (Or slave smarts.) It’s not like those footprints in the sand could do anything to protect her. The other guys had guns, so of course she did, too. In pictures she’s always standing still in her shawl, and the only thing in her hands is a lantern and some kind of walking stick—like she’s actually Moses from the Bible.

  White people really take things literally.

  * * *

  Pop quizzes on Mondays are perhaps the biggest treachery I have ever endured from a non-familial adult. It’s only something the asshole teachers do, and only when they’re feeling particularly lazy and spiteful. It’s an easy way to punish us without doing much work at all. They’ll begin the class with a pop quiz, feeling haughty as they pass warm sheets of paper down each row of desks, and basically chill until we’re finished. After that we’re instructed to stare at a horrible film or read the next chapter of our textbook in complete silence as they grade our haphazard answers. Totally unfair, and completely hellish.

  This one’s fill-in-the-blank, which, in Mr. K’s class, is obviously a complete trap for me.

  Here are some sample questions from today’s quiz:

  Harriet Tubman’s nickname was _________ because ____________. (Bonus points for Scripture memorization.)

  Harriet Tubman was a ________ during the Civil War.

  Slaves used ___________ to communicate instructions about the Underground Railroad.

  Slaves were freed in ___________, as a result of _____________________.

  Because I’m not an idiot, and I know exactly what the deal is, I resist the urge to write: “Harriet Tubman’s nickname was Minty because her real name was Araminta,” a fact that I only just learned. Must have gotten lost in all those years of “African American History” Months that drilled her abridged and approved biography into my memory.

  Just like with Rosa Parks, I’ve always weirdly assumed Harriet Tubman to be matronly and unassuming. Unsatisfied with the usual blurb on Harriet Tubman from our Christian school textbook, I decided to do some more research. Turns out she was a boss. In addition to being a fugitive during the civil war (the “Moses” Mr. K’s looking for, with extra credit for Exodus), Harriet Tubman was also a nurse, a cook, a scout, and a spy for the American government. She also carried a gun and vowed to use it on anyone in the way of her freedom. We never learn any of that in school.

  Anyway, I don’t write what I want to on the quiz. I don’t write anything on the quiz. I guess I do it out of protest. I’m just not in the mood to play along.

  I look around at all the diligent bowed heads and quickly try to put on a “serious” face, eyebrows all scrunched. Staring down at the half-sheet of printer paper, I try to move my pen around to make it look like I’m writing, but I’m not.

  “Time’s up!” bellows Mr. K, appearing smugly at the first row of desks. “Hand your quizzes up.”

  Pages flutter, and I sneak to mix mine in with some others so no one sees my blank page; the only markings are my name and the date. That’s gotta be worth something.

  * * *

  —

  For the remainder of class, we watch a movie called Amazing Grace which no one has heard of because it’s a Christian movie for distribution only in Family Christian bookstores and youth group movie nights. This movie is all wrong, dude. It’s not about American slavery at all, and Harriet Tubman is nowhere to be found. Instead, it’s about some white British Parliament guy. It’s so random and super boring, so I zone out for pretty much the whole time.

  The bell finally rings and I’m more excited than I have ever been to go to Calculus.

  “Morgan, can you please stay after class?”

  I stiffen, a notebook half into my backpack. “Uh, okay. Yes, yeah.”

  Shoot.

  Meg darts a worried look my way and I shake my head.

  “I’ll see you at lunch,” I say. I pretend not to notice how she keeps hanging out in the doorway for a few more seconds.

  I sling my backpack on my shoulder and suddenly Mr. K’s hovering right behind
me, creepily. He’s so tall, I’m just now realizing, as I stare up at the patches of prickly gray on his chin. I hate hovering, everybody knows that. I hate it almost as much I hate P.E.

  “So, let’s hear it.”

  “What?” I cross my arms, sigh heavy, and bend my head down. I’m prepared for a condescending, right-wing-tinged lecture.

  He sighs back at me and places a pale hand on his doughy waist. “Morgan, I know we have our differences.”

  I open my mouth to snap back, but he holds up a finger to stop me. I slump and try not to roll my eyes. I have learned from experience that rolling my eyes, even inadvertently, really sends pissed-off grown-ups over the edge. To curb my bubbling aggression, I try to think of something else. Assata, Harriet, David, the Curse of Ham, Jake Walker, my Bummer Summer…

  Turns out I don’t have very helpful material for Zenning out.

  “I know we have our differences, but you’ve always been one of the brightest students in your class. I would hate for you to jeopardize your grades just to spite me with some liberal protest. Now, tell me what’s going on. Why didn’t you complete the quiz?”

  I part my lips, but I have no words. I haven’t thought this through, so I just stare down at my shoes.

  “I’m trying to reason with you, Morgan. I know you know this material. These quizzes are worth ten percent of your grade.” He lowers his voice gravely. I can tell he’s trying to soften his face like one of those concerned and super-involved teachers on Degrassi. But he sort of looks constipated. “Is everything okay at home?”

  “Everything’s fine at home, yeah. I just…I didn’t do the quiz because…I didn’t feel comfortable.”

  (This my best impression of an adult sentence.)

  Clearly running out of patience, Mr. K tips his head back. “What could have possibly made you uncomfortable about these questions? I thought the African American History unit was one of your favorites! Is this a feminist thing?”