Who Put This Song On? Read online

  “No, it is not a feminist thing. It’s just…It kind of…wasn’t the whole story. So, for instance, did you know that Harriet Tubman was a SPY for the government during the Civil War?! And, did you know that Harriet Tubman wasn’t her real name, and that there was a bounty on her, and she was armed? We don’t talk about that. I know that wasn’t on the quiz, but I’m just saying.”

  “Exactly, young lady, you’re right. Those weren’t questions on the quiz.”

  “Well, they should have been.” As soon as I say it, do I regret it? Do I want to stuff my words back into my mouth while they’re still hanging in the air? Or does saying it feel good?

  “Excuse me? Miss Parker, I’m frankly very tired of your disrespect and sassiness in this classroom. It’s distracting and unacceptable.”

  He trudges to his desk and opens a drawer, still talking in a high-pitched, reprimanding tone. “You’ll go to detention today, and if we have another problem, it will be suspension. And I shouldn’t have to tell you that you will also receive a zero both for the quiz and for class participation today.” He scribbles something on a pad and hands it to me. “You’re dismissed.”

  It’s a detention slip. I’ve never even seen one before. It says Insubordination.

  “And, Morgan, you don’t know everything.”

  I stuff the paper into my back pocket and leave without saying anything. Neither do you.

  YEAH, BUT NOT REALLY BLACK, THOUGH

  I didn’t ask Meg and James to wait for me after detention, but when I’m released through the school’s double doors, there they are, my own Ponyboy and Sodapop rising from the steps to meet me.

  “Welcome back.” James slaps my shoulder.

  “Ugh, that was a waste of an hour of sunlight vitamins.”

  “Coffee Bean?”

  “Sure, okay.”

  While I drive, James riding with Meg somewhere ahead of me, I pout and stew. I feel myself sinking into the misfortune of the day, to a place I’m terrified I won’t return from.

  I’m so out of it that I go to the wrong coffee place, in the wrong plaza altogether, and it takes me forever to get to the Actual Coffee Bean, craning my neck to check every identical shopping center I pass. James and Meg are already at a table on the patio when I finally arrive, anxious and out of breath.

  “Sorry.” I slump into my chair with a grumble.

  “What happened?” Meg ogles.

  “I went to the completely wrong plaza.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s understandable.”

  (Every strip mall here follows a very specific and formulaic pattern: chain grocery store (Vons, Albertsons, Stater Bros., Ralph’s, Trader Joe’s); chain drugstore (Walgreens, Long’s, CVS, Rite Aid); chain coffee shop (Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Peet’s); nail salon; and one to two miscellaneous storefronts—usually a See’s Candies, a Mail N Copy, a pet spa, or a dry cleaner. It’s not uncommon for residents to misremember specific groupings, such that one might pull into an Albertson’s shopping center expecting a pet spa but be met with a Starbucks instead. It’s a lot to keep track of, with very few identifying visuals to help one discern any difference at all, which is another thing I hate about it here.)

  I stretch my legs, willing the sunlight vitamins to work their magic and repair my mood. Meg offers her drink, but I pass. I don’t feel like anything.

  “You okay, buddy?” Meg chirps with a long face.

  I snap, “I’m fine,” and look down at my Docs. I hate my stupid socks and I hate that I feel bad and I especially hate that Meg knows it. I wish I could “fix my face” as my mom would say—it’s like my attitude is tattooed all over me. I suck in a deep breath and when I exhale, I imagine that I’m lighter, chiller.

  “Um, what’d I miss?” I reach for Meg’s drink, trying to start over and just be normal. It’s too sweet for me.

  “Soooo,” James starts, smacking his lips after a sip. “It’s straight boy crush’s birthday next week and I have absolutely no idea what to get him. Like should I go super friendly, like a David Lynch DVD, or flirty like chocolates and essential oils?”

  “Okay well, first of all,” I snort, leaning over the table like we’re the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. “I don’t even know what essential oils are, so definitely don’t do that. Second, it’s amazing that you just called David Lynch ‘friendly,’ I totally agree obviously,” I chuckle, counting out my points on green nails. “But, this is a hard one. What does he like?”

  “I don’t know….He’s sweet, and straight….He has a nice broad chest.”

  Meg snickers, “And you’re saying we don’t know him, right?” There is not an inch of subtlety.

  “Maybe chocolate and a movie?” I squint, guessing in the dark. Meg lets out an Oooh.

  “That could be cute, and you could invite him to watch together? No, sorry.” I shake my head. “Don’t listen to me. I have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “Ugh, whatever. I’ll get him DVDs. Or maybe I won’t get him anything. It’s not like he’ll care.” He slumps back into his chair, and it is the slump heard around the Inland Empire. Meg reaches over to stroke the side of his face, what we call a “hard-pat.”

  “I’m super sorry he’s not into you, dude,” I say softly. “You should be with someone awesome. I wish we could all find someone awesome.”

  “Me too! My goodness, a relationship would be good right about now. Even a short one. But real boyfriends, not just Yellow Notebook conquests. Speaking of—”

  She slips the tome out of her tote with a pen, opens it to the inside front cover.

  Sometimes we fall for pricks.

  She glances at me as she dictates. It stings, but I let it.

  “Amen,” James agrees.

  “I know, I know,” I spit, raising my hand in concession. “I’m moving on. I just need a distraction, except everyone basically sucks.”

  “We need to meet new people.” James nods with wide eyes.

  “But what about Coco’s Waiter with the Hair? You never updated the Notebook.”

  “It’s not a big deal or anything.” Meg smiles down at her acid-wash jeans, suppressing excitement. “But he is very into me. Like, I am definitely hot right now.” I love Meg’s pleased-with-herself grin; it’s inspirational.

  James and I squeal dutifully, throwing jazz hands up. I almost lose balance in the unstable chair at the surprise of good news.

  “Um, we need to know everything!” (Truthfully, I’m a teeny bit stung that this is the first I’m hearing about the development. But I keep ignoring my feelings.)

  “Well, okay. So, when we played Halo that one time last month with his friends, it was super awk, he said basically seventeen words to me, but he’s been randomly texting me quotes from Gilmore Girls, which he apparently loves, so I think he’s pretty much perfect.”

  “Oh God.” Months ago, it was one of our little bits: me overdramatically complaining about Gilmore Girls; Meg offering spontaneous recaps of that week’s episodes. This time, for some reason when it leaves my mouth, it feels sour and cruel. Am I bitter? Just keep your mouth shut for once.

  “I know, I know. But I really like him. I think we could be good together. Don’t you think, Morgan? How good would that be?”

  “Yeah, totally, I know, it would be super good.” [(!)(?)]

  “We’re having lunch this week we decided.” She adjusts the child’s barrette in her side-parted hair—a penguin—and quickly adds, “I think I’ll make a move.”

  “Great!” I squeak, clapping my hands together. I can tell it sounds insincere, but it isn’t, I don’t think. “You got this!”

  “Definitely make a move,” James insists. “He probably has a huge crush on you and is intimidated.”

  To think—I once thought that about David Santos. I was so stupid. It stings, and I don’t want to let it. (“Whateve
r, I don’t really care” has been my official stance; all I have to do is keep repeating it until it’s true.)

  “You guys are right,” Meg swoons cheerily. “He’s gorgeous and when we hang out it will be fantastic. I don’t know why I always expect everything to go horribly.”

  “Ugh, I feel you. Lately I’m reaching mountaintop levels of misfortune.” I fake a laugh and cross my arms; the same move I pull in therapy to undercut the grief.

  When my friends don’t jump to refute and assuage me, I’m washed in relief—I don’t want pity, I just want someone to hear me. Meg looks over, offering her hand, and I take it. We braid our fingers together and wince into the sunset, like two middle-aged women at the end of a Lifetime movie. James hums the bridge of a Fiona Apple song and starts playing a game on his phone. I feel my exterior soften as the bad attitude relents.

  “I’m starting to feel kind of crazy,” I say slowly, hesitant to unleash who I was this summer. I could revert back to that raw, emo puddle any minute. “Not crazy—just, I can’t make anything go my way. Who gets detention? I don’t know why I didn’t just write the answers on that stupid quiz.” I shake my head at my shoes, sighing through my nose.

  “Yeah…,” Meg tries gently. “Why didn’t you?”

  “It’s not like me, right?!” We exchange wrinkled foreheads before I drop mine back in disgrace. “I don’t know. I guess I just got frustrated with how dumb our school is.”

  James snorts a smile, tips his head into his palm. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…” I loosen my hand from Meg’s and huff. “Do you guys remember last year, when Jenn Hanson said she thought the Underground Railroad was a real railroad?”

  Meg rolls her head, “Oh my LORD! Yes, that was completely ridiculous!” They cackle, and I grimace.

  “Shit like that,” I snap. “And it’s like everyone’s totally fine with being ignorant. The only people who get rewarded are the football players and the Popular Christians. And they’re just basically mean, conceited people in Abercrombie polo shirts whose parents go to church with all the teachers. Anyone who actually wants to learn stuff is labeled a freak. And it doesn’t matter what I do. I’ll never have blond hair, so I’ll never be cool enough.” I mumble the last part, leaning my cheek against a fist.

  “Those people are not cool,” James concludes definitively.

  “I like being weirdos!” proclaims Meg with fervor. “I don’t ever want to wear a dress. Or wear pink. Or be one of those girls who draws her eyebrows. Why do they do that? They look like cartoons.”

  I’m not in the mood to giggle. “It’s not the same, though, Meg.” I suck my teeth dismissively. “It’s harder for me because my skin color is different.”

  They don’t rush to placate or correct me, but now they’re just staring blankly. Relief has vanished; tension is thick in its place. Meg sits on her hands, looks down at her shoes, sniffs. James shifts in his chair and it creaks on the pavement, clucks his tongue, squints at the sun. I’m definitely not being heard.

  “You guys really don’t understand what it’s like to be black in this country. Even at our school! You know what? Especially at our school!”

  “Yeah but, you’re not really black,” scoffs Meg. “Not like ‘ghetto’ or whatever.”

  “I have black skin, so I’m black, okay? Black does not mean ‘ghetto,’ or ‘urban’ or whatever. I hate when people say that.”

  James chews on his lip, eyes ping-ponging between us.

  “That’s what I’m trying to say,” she says in her arrogant “practical” voice. She’s never used it on me before. “You’re not just black, you’re you. You know what I mean.” It makes me feel ridiculous.

  “I do, and I don’t agree with it!” I stand up, press fists against the mosaic tabletop, trying to formulate a final word. “It hurts my feelings!”

  “That’s not what she meant,” James says, reaching to rub my arm. “We’re just trying to help you feel better—”

  “And like, feel better about what? How I was born? Why should I always have to be the sad one?”

  “We’re sorry, Morg,” Meg pleads as I collect myself. I hate that she uses an unapproved abbreviation of my name, trying to tame me with fake intimacy. (I’m pretty staunchly anti-nickname. One thing I actually like about myself is my name.) “For real. I really didn’t mean to upset you so much.”

  “Whatever. It’s fine. I have to go.” I wave manically, mumbling “See you tomorrow,” and nearly crash into a sandwich board advertising eggnog lattes.

  In the parking lot, I lean against my car window. “Rudy,” I whisper, “sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me.”

  Without hesitation, I send a quick SOS text to David and fold myself into the front seat. I have zero desire to go home and face the parental shame of my detention or the reality of my suburban imprisonment. I flip through my CD case for something comforting, mashed potatoes for my ears. I put on Elliott Smith’s XO and skip immediately to “Pitseleh,” and I listen to the whole sad and elegant song while the car idles and the sun fades.

  At my last session, over Thanksgiving Break, Susan gave me a holiday-themed exercise to do. Gratitude. When I feel hot with frustration and angst, I’m supposed to think of five good things that have happened to me.

  Won essay contest ninth grade.

  Trip to Hawaii with Malcolm, Mom, and Dad when I was twelve. How Malcolm and I couldn’t stop laughing when Dad went crazy at that sushi buffet.

  TGIF sleepovers with my cousins when we were little.

  My fifth birthday party, the Beauty and the Beast cake.

  I stop at four. It takes effort to recall those good moments without attaching them to some horrible memory that came before or after them. It is actual deliverance when I look down to see a text from David: Say no more. Come to 7-Eleven parking lot on Florida Ave. Just finished band practice with some buds.

  He’s in a band?

  MAKE A LIST OF THINGS WORTH FIGHTING FOR

  David Santos is sitting in the trunk of his mom’s station wagon, red Vans swinging, drinking a Slurpee.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Pulling at the waist of my black skinny jeans, I hop in and scoot next to him.

  He slings a loose arm around my neck. “So, you had a tough day, kid?”

  I exhale, surprised to find that this—commiserating with my friend David in the back of a station wagon in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven—is exactly what I need right now, like I didn’t realize how pent-up I’ve been. I launch into the gory details of the day, glad to have a soapbox for my woes that isn’t Susan for once. Or my parents, or anyone I’d have to be delicate with, bend the truth with.

  I tell him all about how I got detention because of Harriet Tubman, about how I feel like the world is conspiring to keep me from the real truth about stuff.

  “Gnarly,” he replies gravely. “What are you gonna tell your parents? About the detention, I mean.”

  “I have no idea, dude. I don’t even want to. They’ll be pissed, but they can’t be mad. My brother’s had a million detentions and this is the first one I’ve ever gotten. They know my teachers are assholes to me. It’s not really that big a deal, I just wish I could stop doing the wrong thing.”

  “Oh, Morgan.” He grins. “You might not know it yet, but everything you do is the right thing.”

  I lean my head onto his shoulder and sigh. “Then this other thing happened…” I start to tell him about being “not that black,” but I don’t want to feel the words in my mouth. I just want to be glad the day is over.

  “Ugh, forget it. It’s not even worth talking about.”

  “All right…,” he says suspiciously. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.”

  I swat my hand as if at an obnoxious housefly. “It’s just, you know, white people.”


  “Gotcha,” he says quickly with a laugh.

  “Wait,” I gasp, sitting up to yank at the sleeve of his I <3 NY T-shirt. “Back up. Uh, where’s your band, and also, you’re in a band? What the hell?”

  “Okay, I mean, not really.” He puts his hands up, cowering in embarrassment. “I can play two and a half songs on the guitar. We’ve never played a show or anything, or even like in front of anyone. We don’t have a name. We just hang out every month and mess around. Anyway, they’re getting peach rings…and actually, here they come.”

  Two guys are approaching us from the illuminated oasis of the 7-Eleven: one kid with long blond hair on a skateboard wearing a wrinkled white oxford shirt and a wide dad tie, and the other—light-skinned with a short, unkempt afro—holding a skateboard under his armpit, and an open bag of peach rings in his other hand.

  “Morgan, meet the band without a name.” David gestures. “Overdressed here on the drums we have Matty, and the one with his mouth full, you already sort of met on the phone. This is my cousin Sean.”

  Yep. He’s as hot as his voice sounded over the spotty speakerphone.

  “Favorite cousin.” He flashes dimples just like David’s when he smiles. I laugh to myself—Coco would say the exact same thing, and just as immediately.

  Sean’s light brown eyes are flecked with amber, and they shine. It kills me. I stupidly grin and wave.

  “Hi, Morgan, a pleasure,” he croons as I shake his hand in a totally uncool way.

  (Confession: I love skaters. Not that I’ve ever dated one, or really know any, but in my mind, they’re somehow my people. I know they’re not too far off from the football guys, but they seem chiller and kinder, if not just too oblivious to be cruel. I can imagine no Jake Walkers among them. This is a simple class of bro, with simple needs and pleasures. Shaggy hair, lean muscles in their arms, a breeziness in the way they move. Like bro ballerinas.)