Who Put This Song On? Read online

  Supplies

  Two LARGE trays (pile high!); Hundred-pack of Smart ‘N Final paper plates; Fancy-seeming plastic forks leftover from an ancient Thanksgiving; Tongs; An emptied grape jelly jar; Scotch tape; Posterboard signs; old, rickety card table, scooped from the garage and likely not important.

  Playlist

  Couldn’t sleep so I just made this (Morgan—in your tote bag!). It is excellent. Starts with Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On,” and goes right into “I’m So Bored With the USA.” How good is that transition!

  CAUSING A SCENE

  I wash my hair. I don’t flat-iron it. It’s Chapel Wednesday, and I’m ready to raise hell.

  Fresh out of the shower, looking in the bathroom mirror at the soggy carpet on my head, I’m filled with melancholic regret. How can it be that this is the first time I’ve done this? Do I really not know how to wear my hair regular, naturally?

  I don’t even let myself ponder the metaphor. I find a comb of Malcolm’s and plow through the hair as it dries. If it doesn’t stand up in all the right places, no one will know the difference. Besides, the actual execution of the hair is way less important than the outfit.

  The outfit is and must be: black skinny jeans, black turtleneck, black boots. No compromises. I don’t have a leather jacket, so I put all the concert pins I can find on my jean jacket and flip up the collar for a little added rebellion. This part is less for the optics—(it doesn’t take much to stand out at school)—and more for me. For attitude.

  After I get dressed and get my eyeliner just right, I go back downstairs to the kitchen. Damnit—I’m too late. My mom’s already here in her bathrobe, an elbow propped on the counter, coffee mug in hand, basically waiting to chew me out. When we lock eyes, she clears her throat and slowly scans the disaster in the kitchen, making A Face. She doesn’t have to do anything more than that. I get it. She might as well save her breath.

  “I knowww,” I whine. “I’m sorry, I was gonna clean up!”

  I start rushing to secure tin foil on trays and throw pans in the dishwasher. She laughs, satisfied that she’s gotten to me. (It’s like she delights in rubbing her cheery morning disposition in my grumpy face.)

  “Is this a class project or something?”

  “Uh,” I grimace. “Or something?”

  “All right.” She raises her eyebrows and waves in surrender. “As long as you kids clean up after yourselves, I’m not gonna get into your business.”

  (In my particularly relevant experience, this means, I will almost certainly get into your business in the next four minutes. Besides me, my mom is the least subtle person I know. She’s a backseat driver, a backseat cook, a backseat launder, a backseat makeup artist—and all while chanting, “I’m gonna stay out of your business.”)

  “Your hair is cute like that,” she winks before turning toward the stairs. “Let me know if you want me to show you some natural styles.”

  “Oh! Cool. Thanks, Mom.” I smile, off guard. (My mom has a weave and it was my understanding that weaves, not afros, were the current Black Mom Political Stance.) “You had an afro?”

  “Hell yeah, everybody did. Your dad really did have the best one.” She throws her head back at the thought of it, cackling. “Have a good day, wonderful daughter.”

  * * *

  —

  I completely have the jitters driving to school. I take my time at every single stop instead of barreling through the intersections California-style. I know I should be doing this. This is what the end-of-year resolution is all about. It’s hilarious, and I don’t really have anything to lose. If I do, I clearly don’t know what it is. Six months trying to get unstuck, and all I do is keep adding layers and layers to the impossible math equation of myself. It’s like in A Beautiful Mind, when he steps back and is like OMG, I am nonsense.

  I sneak in through the locker rooms as planned. I’m carrying pancakes under one arm and the card table under my other, so I don’t get to hold my nose as I scurry through the B.O. and Axe-scented corridor. I’m a little shocked how easy it is for me to make it into the main hallway undetected and set up camp. The school is totally dead, lit only by the early morning light, misty and gray—for some reason, the quiet fills me with excitement.

  I station myself just across from the doors to the gym, where everyone will be funneling in first thing for chapel. (Today’s message is supposed to be about obedience—they’re gearing us up for the annual retelling of “the true story of Christmas.”)

  My posterboards are totally ridiculous, I know, but I love them. One says: FREE BREAKFAST. POWER TO THE PEOPLE. Then I veer off from the Panthers theme and enter “Morgan at Vista Christian in 2008.” The other posterboards say, in bubble letters taught to me by Kelly Kline in 4th grade: TOUCH MY HAIR: $1 and ASK A BLACK GIRL: $5. And then, just for good measure, I have one other poster with printed-out pictures of the Black Panthers—I just need everyone to know how incredible their outfits were.

  I hang up the signs behind me with tape and I set up my card table and all the pancakes (so many pancakes); I fluff my hair (it feels so weird like this!) and leave out the Smucker’s jar for cash. Then I wait. I eat a pancake. I think about going to make a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge, but it’s not a day for that kind of conspicuousness. I start to get nervous and consider scrapping the whole idea. I feel my heart pounding even in my ears. But I don’t expect anything too dramatic, and at least I’m doing something educational. This is going to be hilarious. Right?

  * * *

  —

  It’s a complete mob scene by the time the ten-minute bell rings. Some of the jocks and popular girls are at the back of the crowd making fun and taking pictures with their phones, but some of them are also eating pancakes, and most kids are actually listening to me as I’m telling them about the Panthers’ Free Breakfast program. The yearbook photographer starts to rush up to me with his camera around his neck, but I give him a stern look in the eyes and say, “No. We cannot do a story about this.”

  (I don’t know what I’m doing, if this is technically a protest or some kind of performance art or what, but either way I know it shouldn’t be documented in a school publication. I’ve slipped in some risky stuff before, much to the chagrin of our advisor, but politics is completely off-limits—even in an election year, and even with a black president.)

  After a fake stoner asked, “Why do black people like chicken so much?” I ditched the ASK A BLACK GIRL service, but I’ve already made sixteen bucks or so on hair touches. I should really charge for this all the time. (If I had a dollar for every time a white person has touched my hair without permission, I could buy a two-day pass to Coachella.)

  Jordan comes up for a pancake, and he can’t resist saying, “You’re so weird,” as he stuffs a bite into his mouth. Then, chewing, he says, “This is kind of tight, though.”

  When I spot my crew coming toward the gym, I stick out my tongue at them. Meg and James speed-walk over, their faces bright with giddiness, and James is even applauding.

  “So, explain!” he commands. He and Meg are both wearing white T-shirts, black Converses, and black jeans. Meg’s shirt has a dinosaur on it.

  “Welcome to the Black Panther Party free breakfast program. For a dollar, you may also touch my hair.”

  “It looks amazing,” Meg and James chime almost in unison.

  “Oh my gosh!” Other Black Girl Stacy Johnson pushes her way in, looking totally confused. “You are so crazy, Morgan! Did you just come up with this?”

  “No, it’s a real thing. Or it was a real thing, when the Panthers were still around. Before most of them got killed. They had breakfasts, and ran schools and community education programs, too! Isn’t it weird that no one talks about that?”

  “Yeah, I guess, um, if it’s true…Uh, are you guys going to chapel, though?”

  “What?” I’m barely l
istening to her, distracted keeping an eye on the growing crowd, and also, I sort of can’t believe I just revealed an epic piece of black history and she is asking me about chapel, of all things. Poor Stacy. She can’t be saved.

  Kelly Kline disbands a group of JV cheerleaders whispering and mocking me on their way to the auditorium. They roll their eyes as she shoves them and scans the setup, impressed and Class Presidential. She drops a five into the Smucker’s jar.

  “Keep the change.” She laughs. I nod in authorization. She runs her finger through my kinks and her eyes widen. “It’s really incredible! How cool!”

  The group around us is getting unwieldly and loud. I’m almost out of pancakes, but people just love spectacle. Any excuse to break up our routine for even a minute.

  Meg grabs me by the hand and heads for my spot behind the table. “Let me help.”

  James uses his theater voice to direct the crowd: “Please form a line, ladies and gentlemen. No peace, no justice; no justice, no peace. Thank you from the management.”

  I feel so close to my friends right now. They’re looking at me for the first time, a new version of me, and they’re not even flinching.

  (I’m surprised this is actually happening, that some uptight faculty member hasn’t already pushed through to shut me down. This is not the sort of chaos I imagined would spring from my plan. I guess I didn’t know what to imagine.)

  If nothing else, a group of nerdy freshmen are totally getting schooled, and it’s awesome. One of them croaks, “But I thought the Black Panthers were a terrorist group,” and I’m psyched to launch into a lecture about everything I’ve learned. I explain that they were the ones being terrorized, by the police, and their jaws drop so wide I can see their braces. I get louder, even though the kids from my class are pretending not to be listening.

  “They protected their people and their neighborhoods! They stood up for themselves and their rights! They wanted revolution because they were tired of getting so much less than anyone else, of being beaten and shot by the cops who were supposed to be protecting them. That’s why they had education programs and organized their communities. They had to protect themselves, help each other, right? Does that sound like terrorism?”

  I’ve got a little group of dedicated listeners—quiet kids from a bunch of different grades—nodding their heads and raising their eyebrows at all of my points. I’m energized by the attention, by my own command over the crowd. I can’t believe how good it feels to be heard instead of gawked at.

  One of my pupils, a blond girl even shorter than me and wearing a yellow polo shirt, asks, “But they were violent, right? I understand self-protection but…isn’t it always wrong to fight violence with violence? What about turning the other cheek?”

  “Yeah, I thought you were ‘little miss pacifist.’ Now that communist Barack Osama wins, you go all Malcolm X?”

  I’d know that new voice anywhere—of freaking course Tim would appear with his irritating air quotes.

  “You are absolutely right,” I respond as calmly and civilly as I can. This wretched asshole. “And listen, nonviolence is incredibly noble and amazing. But—”

  “Absolutely not!” A commotion. Kids scatter. Mr. K runs screaming down the hall, or jogs, whatever it is he can manage. Mr. Howard waddles behind him, trying to look serious, but I can tell he’s excited by the disturbance.

  “Everyone to the gym for chapel, immediately!”

  Mr. K waves his arms around as if he’s parting the Red Sea. Everyone scurries, my friends and a few other nosy folks hanging back on alert. Mr. Howard looks practically amused, but Mr. K is livid as he stares me down.

  “Principal’s.”

  A FIT, A SCENE, A RIOT, A PRAYER

  What I learn in the principal’s office: I’m suspended pretty much until Christmas break, which means I have to miss all the good-time movie-day class periods that teachers slide into their lesson plans in December. I basically just come to take my midterms. I also have to miss that final, glorious, sugar-filled afternoon when all the cool girls get in trouble for wearing sexy elf costumes and everyone exchanges gifts and even the teachers are in a good mood. The “insubordination” will be added to my transcript. I can kiss Columbia goodbye, the college counselor says, because even radical liberals wouldn’t want someone with behavioral problems. I am never getting out of this town. (“Figures—Ruth Bader Ginsburg went there,” Mr. K said to me once. “You’ll love New York City. It’s a disgusting pit of immorality.”)

  The principal’s office: you would think this would be the one room without a Footprints in the Sand ghost-story poster, but it certainly is not. I can’t take my eyes off it. But if I did, I would see Mr. K, the principal, the vice principal (literally Mr. K’s brother), the counselor, and, for unexplained reasons, Jenn Hanson. (Something about her being the class “morality monitor”? I thought that just meant she sang in chapel.)

  When I first sat down across from my judge and jury, the spirit of Footprints in the Sand hovering over us, I was riled up, fueled by inexplicable adrenaline, like after a punk show. I came right out and asked them to explain exactly why I’m being suspended (not that I’d want them to consult the code of conduct—that would be extremely thin ice). But all they did was stutter and flounder and spit out the words un-Christianlike and Disturbance and Inciting Speech. All of which does not sound like serving free pancakes to the student body and graciously supplementing the school’s lacking curriculum. I truly don’t get it. Last year a group of seniors wore Halloween costumes and started flash mobs pretty much once a week.

  * * *

  —

  Now, back at my car, reality is a bitch. The weight of my sentence is sinking in, and it’s like all the blood leaves my body. Like part of me just drains away.

  Fuck.

  I feel red-hot and tiny. The familiar slump descends upon my shoulders, and all my worst critics take the stage in my head. How could you be so reckless? What were you thinking? What is the point? Who do you think you are?

  I rip up my posterboards and shove them into Rudy’s backseat. I’m wrecked with fears and complaints and worst-case-scenarios. Part of me thinks I’ll never come back here, and the other, more terrified part knows I will.

  I’m so angry and harried that I don’t see Mr. Howard come up next to me, cartoon weasel with a heart of gold.

  “Oh, hi.” I’m out of breath, my eyes still misty and puffy.

  “Morgan, I’m so sorry—”

  “I know, it’s okay. I’m sorry, too. I guess it was a bad idea.”

  “I just wanted to say it’s bullcrap. Completely. But it’s not their fault. Honestly, I think you’re probably right, you’re probably smarter than them, but this is where we live. The black thing is just not familiar to these humble idiots,” he says dryly, sardonically. His mouth twists into a Cheshire cat smirk. “Don’t pay too much attention to them.”

  I can’t help but snort a little at that one, sardonic and bitter. “I’ll try. Thanks.”

  “Oh, and before I forget—”

  “Right, I’ll email you the midterm paper. It’s due on the fifteenth, right?”

  “No, I mean, yes, but what I was going to say is, this essay…” He holds out a rolled-up paper, and it’s dog-eared, not stapled, so I know it’s mine. “This is worth something. Merry Christmas, Morgan Parker.”

  As he saunters away like he has nowhere to go, I look down at the curled printer paper and cannot believe what past-me has done. I smirk in spite of my woe, rolling my eyes and shaking my head. It’s my poetry paper, titled “The Black Girl Speaks of Rivers: Finding Myself in Langston Hughes and Assata Shakur.”

  It is a tremendously excellent essay, even if it’s completely wrong for this place.

  If I were the school, I might kick me out too. The black thing, Mr. Howard said.

  The black thing. The black ele
phant in the room, the black swan, the ugly Oreo, the weird one, the difficult one, the drama queen, the loudmouth. (“You’re just unique,” everyone says, wincing.)

  And I can’t help it: As soon as I snuggle into the worn leather of Rudy’s front seat, I close my eyes, inhaling the thick scent of cigarettes and brand-new yellow air-freshener tree, and I start to cry. My heart clangs around in my chest cavity and into my stomach—I feel sick.

  I am not understood. I do not belong. No one can ever fully get my jokes or understand what I’m trying to say. Not even Susan, not even my parents, not even my invented versions of Harriet Tubman/my future self. They probably never have.

  Everyone probably takes pity on me, rolls their eyes when I leave the room, secretly shakes their heads about how it’s too bad I’m so weird and I’m not white.

  HOLIDAY FOR HELL-RAISERS

  Meg and James come by afterschool on Thursday and Friday, but I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m back at the bottom of my hole, my sadness womb, all Interpol and Elliott Smith and no one understands me. All week I’m in a depression—the dark, quiet, resigned kind.

  My parents were seriously pissed when I first came home with the official suspension notice, and as I sat at the dining room table and told them everything, they still had their stern faces on, but when they went upstairs to their room, I heard my dad muttering “fucking pricks” and my mom shushing him. Now they’re encouraging visitors, trying to lure me downstairs with movie-selection privileges.