Who Put This Song On? Read online

  “I don’t even know where to look. I mean, this is what we’re working with,” I wave my hand at the intersection: two churches, a bakery that’s always closed, a store called Tuesday Morning that sells who knows what if not orthodontist appointments.

  “Wait a minute, this is coming from the self-proclaimed nerdiest teenager in America?”

  “You’re so right, I did proclaim that.”

  “Yep. You’re gonna love this place.” He whips out of a cul-de-sac and heads to the freeway.

  David knows a bookstore that is neither Mormon nor a Barnes & Noble. (Do I mind taking a little ride? Abso-freaking-lutely not!)

  In traffic on the 91, I’m chastising myself for not preparing conversation topics when David turns down the music and blurts, “So—” He says it so loud we both laugh uncomfortably. “Uh, so, we go to a Catholic church once a year, when my grandma makes us. It’s definitely pretty boring.”

  “That sucks.” I cross and uncross my legs. “Is she super religious?”

  “Kind of, yeah. Well, no—” He flip-flops his hand, thinking aloud to himself. “She likes tradition. Saying the rosary, Ash Wednesday, stuff like that.”

  “Yeah…like the rituals?” He nods empathically and in spite of myself I keep talking. “I was really into the holy water. I liked feeling special; I always liked the idea of communion. The symbolism, I guess. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

  I badly wanted to drink the sip of juice and eat the wafer. I wanted in on the whole ceremony. My favorite part of Catholic church was always leaving—crossing ourselves with holy water and shaking the hand of the sweet old priest before being let out into the warm sun, a procession of the blessed.

  “Yeah, exactly. The symbols, the rituals. My grandma’s really spiritual about that stuff, which I think is cool. She’s not like You’re gonna burn in hell or anything like that.” He snorts. “She’s, like, a grandma.”

  “Ha,” I laugh softly. “No, that would be everyone at my school.”

  “Dang.” His dark brow furrows; those eyes have the nerve to look silently into my hurt. “That’s wild.”

  “It’s…yeah, it’s something. It’s like everything is about judgment. Or about being ‘pure.’ I don’t…feel like that.” (Maybe I don’t even want to.)

  “Have you ever thought about Buddhism?”

  “Hm. I mean I know Allen Ginsberg was into it, and I did get really into Siddhartha,” I remember, then roll my eyes. “But I don’t want to be like one of those white girls at Coachella who wears…” I gesture to my forehead.

  (I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I hate how little I know about the world. How few histories and cultures I get to learn about, too bombarded with all the missionary narratives at school. How little I’m allowed to know.)

  “A bindi?”

  “Yes, that’s it! I’m sorry, they don’t teach us much in White People Studies.”

  He laughs; it’s throaty and exhaustive.

  “Sorry, that was messed up. I actually love white people.” (If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said I love white people in my seventeen years of life, I would be able to buy an original press edition of Sonic Youth’s double LP Dirty on eBay.)

  “I mean, I’m not white”—he grins in my direction—“so we can keep it between us.”

  I don’t know what to do with the beat in the conversation, so I just sit there and wait for him to speak. Susan has me trying “stillness” and “mindfulness,” even though I told her I’m not built for it, that it actually increases my anxiety.

  “My mom’s Mexican and white, and my dad’s black. He’s light-skinned, though,” he says, by way of explanation for his own particular shade, hints of butterscotch in coffee ice cream.

  “Oh, cool.”

  “Yeah, I like them all right.”

  “Are they religious?”

  “Not really. My mom grew up Catholic, but my dad’s an atheist.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m nothing. Maybe I’m somewhere in between. But I mostly think…we’re alive, and then we’re dead.”

  His phone buzzes loudly in the cup holder, clinks against some loose change.

  “Oh, it’s just my cousin. Do you mind?” He puts it on speaker. They have a little choreographed greeting, where one goes Wasssuppp and the other goes YoYoYoYoYo, like in a buddy comedy.

  “Before you say anything,” David shouts into the phone, “you are on speakerphone right now, and I have a friend in the car and yes that friend is a girl, so just—”

  “Oh-ho! Well, hi, David’s friend.”

  “Hi,” I squeak, tilting my head as if it would have any bearing on the quality of the phone call.

  “That’s my friend Morgan,” David establishes. “So what’s up, buddy?”

  “K, real quick, are you coming over for Rosh Hashanah?”

  “Oh, I totally forgot about it.” We hit another stretch of traffic, ending our six minutes of smooth sailing. David’s head flings back like the top of a Pez dispenser and he emits a quiet groan. “When is it?”

  “Saturday the eighth. Just write that down. Actually, I’ll just text it to you. Will you remember to bring those Vonnegut novels?”

  “Already in the glove box.”

  “And my Freaks and Geeks DVDs, and my Joy Division T-shirt?”

  “All right, all right, I get it.”

  “Sorry, I’m going. Nice to meet you, Morgan!” Not gonna lie, his voice sounds pretty hot.

  “Love you bye,” David says, ending the call, which is adorable. He smiles apologetically at me across the sticky console. “So, sorry about that.”

  “No, don’t worry about it!” Too eager, always so eager. I try to lean back in my seat coolly, but you can imagine how that went. David’s not paying attention anyway—he’s pumping his fist because traffic is moving, finally.

  “So that’s my cousin, he’s cool. Also, he’s Jewish. Hence, Rosh Hashanah. We always have dinner at his house for Jewish holidays.”

  “That’s cool. I actually just realized—I don’t know any Jewish people.”

  “Seriously? How is that possible?”

  “Where would I meet them? Not at a school thing. There are no Jewish people at my school—zero, even less than black people.”

  “I thought it was ‘nondenominational.’ ”

  “Oh, they just say that.”

  “So, you really don’t believe any of it?”

  “I don’t think I believe in sins, or at least not the sins in the Bible. Sins sending you to hell.” (Or maybe I do. I just want to find out for myself.) “Who is this?”

  “The Microphones.” He keeps quickly turning his face to mine, and I do not think I am imagining how it keeps softening, becoming more…something. More knowable. He does this squinty smile thing that I am obsessed with; it makes me want to know everything about him.

  “This mix is really, really good, David, I love it!”

  “Yes! I’m so happy. I hope you like this bookstore too, I think you’re gonna. Wanna get some coffee after?”

  “Totally.”

  The next song is one of my favorites, “KC Accidental,” from Broken Social Scene’s You Forgot It in People, which is another album I think is pretty perfect. I feel special. (And this is what I mean—the part of me that makes it impossible to enjoy this feeling, to live this feeling without ruining it with the terror part of my brain—that’s the curse I need to lift.)

  “Hey.” He nods toward the glove compartment. “Open it. Check it out.”

  Shoved in there with a broken pair of aviator sunglasses and an empty Milk Duds box are two paperbacks. “Oh cool. I’ve actually never read any Kurt Vonnegut.”

  “He’s so great! In that one, Cat’s Cradle, he actually invents his own religion. It’s bonkers.”

/>   “Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s called bokononism. It’s a whole thing; there’s something about feet? It’s hilarious, and it kinda points out how, you know, all religions are random, anyway. It’s just people believing whatever lies they need to in order to deal. Basically ‘ignorance is bliss’ or whatever.”

  “Whoa.” I squint. “Not the worst idea. Maybe I’ll invent my own religion. I didn’t think you could just do that but, why not, I guess.”

  David slaps the dashboard in exclamation. “Genius!”

  He lightly jabs my arm and steers us toward the exit lane.

  “This really is the beginning of something,” he says, and I laugh a little bit, because I don’t want to say anything to ruin the perfection of the moment, the airiness, the comfort I completely forgot is even possible.

  On You Forgot It in People, there is the incredibly satisfying sequence of songs following “KC Accidental,” so unstoppably beautiful that by the time you get to “Looks Just Like the Sun,” you believe it.

  This is a story about my day with David. He is amazing and we hung out for like 6 hours. We went to a cool bookstore in downtown Riverside and sat on the floor and read and laughed really loud, then we went to Coffee Bean. I got iced green tea and he got some kind of frozen chocolate thing and I told him he messed up. (But later he was like: next time I’ll get tea, so I was like hmmm next time?) So anyway, we just walked around there for 2 hours talking. We talked about everything and I’ll fill you guys in more later but he doesn’t like eggs! Isn’t that weird. It wasn’t mega awkward, but it was a little bit. I don’t know! AHHH! Could I fall in like? I don’t think he really likes me like that. When he dropped me off at home, he was like “You’re not so bad, Miss Morgan. This was fun.” And then…he shook my fucking hand. Sadface.

  HOW TO BE BLACK AND MILD

  “I know, right?” says one pretty-much-my-age white girl on TV to another, looking over the middle console of a convertible. They are discussing sunglasses. For at least seven minutes. A gust of night breeze whooshes and puffs at my open window.

  I am at my desk starting a fresh new notebook. The Black Notebook. I cut out a story title from NYLON that says “Black Magic Woman” and collaged it on the front with photos of Langston Hughes (basically one of the only poets I like) and Zora Neale Hurston. I don’t know what to write on the first page, so I’ve mindlessly been doodling patterns of lines and circles. A new notebook is always so much pressure, and I want this one to be special. I want it to be dedicated to truth and discovery.

  I wonder if I need organized religion at all. Like, if it were up to me to choose, not my parents or my school. I don’t want to send myself to hell or anything, but Christianity hasn’t made me feel at home, only guilty and afraid. There must be some other way to be saved, protected, forgiven. To eliminate the constant threat of hell.

  Notes for the Beliefs of Morgan Parker: Religious & Otherwise

  —Darkness isn’t a bad thing.

  —Don’t follow rules you don’t understand.

  —You can escape.

  —There is a lot of stuff that no one knows. (Like what happens when you die.) Don’t trust know-it-alls.

  David texts just then: Yo what’s up?

  I lunge for the Yellow Notebook and scribble: ADDENDUM: HE JUST TEXTED. I go back to the Black Notebook and write

  —Anything can happen.

  I’m about to craft my witty, chill response back to David, something like “everything and nothing” or “will you marry me,” when I’m startled by a loud rapping at the front door. It’s a little weird for the time of night, but our neighbors are always coming over unexpectedly to “gently” complain about where we park our cars or sell wrapping paper for their kid’s whiffle ball team, or whatever other boring thing. My mom’s already asleep, but my dad’s downstairs watching Sunday Night Football, so I am off the hook for getting the door.

  The knocking gets harder and louder. Which means it can’t be Linda from down the street, no way. I peek through my dusty blinds, careful to keep my face hidden. Is that a cop car? Either something isn’t right, or something exciting is happening. Butterflies swim laps in my belly, and I rush to the top of the banister as my dad answers the door.

  Facing him is Malcolm, his Abercrombie polo shirt collar in the hands of a uniformed policeman. The man has a round face and a red mustache. His eyes are slits, obscuring any emotion. He and Malcolm have almost the exact same height and shape (tall, lean, and strong), but one’s figure exudes threat, and the other, submission.

  “Is this the Parker residence,” the guy bellows.

  “Yes, sir. What’s the problem?”

  My dad, usually so affable and casual, looks robotic and dimmed, like a video game character losing one of its lives.

  “This your son?” the cop grunts. Malcolm peers upward, likely searching for me. (I am a known busybody in the family, but this time I’m trying to spy and remain unseen.)

  My brother’s arms are stiff at his side, his eyes glossy with tears. He sniffles.

  My dad is saying yes and okay and the cop is gesturing with his free hand and saying something I can’t quite make out, and the cop is still clenching Malcolm’s collar. His grip looks uncomfortable, even painful, and I get mother-hen protective. I think about shouting down to the entryway asking if my brother’s under arrest, but I stay quiet and let my dad say whatever he says to get the cop to finally release my brother into the house with a little shove.

  “Thank you, Officer,” my dad says, closing the door. He locks it, which is rare. (Why do we always thank people for no reason?)

  The patrol car peels away and I dart down the stairs in my socks, gasping.

  “What happened?! Malcolm, are you okay? What’s going on?”

  “He’s okay,” my dad says. “It was a misunderstanding. Let’s give him a minute.”

  Malcolm is completely shaken, stunned even, and my dad’s leading him calmly to the dining table. I pour a glass of water in the kitchen and place it in front of my brother. I sit. I’m quiet, but anxious. I consider taking a Xanax but snap my attention back to Malcolm. He gulps the water and presses his palm to his chest, still trying to stop crying.

  After a few minutes, I try my calmest concerned voice. “Did you get hurt?”

  “No.”

  Malcolm takes a deep breath.

  My dad turns to me, jaw clenched, whole body clenched.

  “The officer said he saw him ‘looking suspicious.’ ” He sucks his teeth. Now I can see that behind his composure, he’s pissed. “Bullshit. They saw a young brother outside of the hood and assumed he didn’t belong.”

  I hold my mouth agape. “Where was this?”

  I scoot my chair closer to my brother’s. I can’t believe he’s been through a whole drama, just like that, just tonight while I was watching The Hills or whatever, Malcolm was experiencing the real horrible world. I’m his big sister. I’m supposed to be the sad one. I’m supposed to feel all the awful things so he doesn’t need to.

  “I was walking home from Tony’s.” Marissa’s brother. They live a few blocks away, a five-minute walk.

  “I thought you were supposed to spend the night there. You and what’s-his-name. The silly dude with the little pin head.” One of my dad’s charms is how he never remembers anyone’s names, even kids we’ve gone to school with since kindergarten. Instead, he qualifies everyone with some distinctive quality or feature; most frequently someone is referred to as “that dude with the big ol’ head” or “that guy with the little pinhead,” respectively.

  “Yeah, but they were bugging me!”

  “Like how?”

  “First, Tony said the n-word. He said he was just kidding, cause it was in the song we were listening to, and I asked him not to say it. I asked him nicely. I said ‘Hey, that’s racist if you say i
t.’ But he kept saying it. Like over and over. And he kept saying it was okay because it was in the song. But then later he told this joke, he said it was this messed up joke his grandpa said, and he used the n-word again. It wasn’t funny at all. After that I just had to get out of there.”

  I know lots of people like Tony, who can’t stand that they’re not allowed to say the n-word, so they keep trying to find loopholes, any excuse to trespass. They repeat racist things they hear and ask, “Isn’t that bad?” when really, they’re excited for the chance to say it. And us, the black kids, we’re supposed to be like, Yeah, that’s crazy (as if we’re surprised), or Oh yeah, I know you don’t mean it that way. We’re not supposed to say how it makes us feel.

  * * *

  —

  Once, when I was maybe five or six, I was at Albertson’s with my mom. I sauntered through the aisles trying to be helpful, grabbing cans of green beans or sleeves of crackers and holding them up to her face asking, “Do we need this?” “Should we get this?” “Did I pick right?” We creeped down the cereal aisle, where a young white mother in a Ralph Lauren polo was taking in the way-too-many options. Her toddler snacked on grapes in the cart’s child seat. And as we got closer, I realized he was staring at me. Wide-eyed. It wasn’t a glance, it was a leer. As our cart passed theirs it was like slow motion—the baby pointing his chubby white finger at me and screaming some gurgled syllables in terror; the young mother giving me the stink eye and hurrying their shopping cart away. My mom pulled me in close to hip, kept pushing down the aisle. Under her breath she said “bitch.”

  “Mom, what did I do?” I asked with my outside voice when we rounded the corner to the meat aisle, rows of red beef nestled in shrink-wrap-and-Styrofoam sleeping bags. “Why did they look at me like that?”

  She shushed me, bent down to look me in the eyes. “I think maybe they were prejudiced. You didn’t do anything at all. Some people are just prejudiced.”

  “Oh.”

  The code word—prejudiced, not racist, or bigots—conjured images of rich, unsmiling white people, and my developing understanding of civil rights, of injustice and fairness. They were large, serious ideas that didn’t make any sense to me.