If You Come Softly (5 page)

“I’ll talk to her. Would you come?”

“Of course, Anne. I
miss
you.”

“I miss you too. Your turn, prep schooler. I can’t believe an Eisen child is in prep school. What is this world coming to?” She laughed. I missed her laugh, the way the edges of her gray eyes crinkled with it.

I pulled a strand of hair into my mouth and chewed on it for a moment. Maybe one day me and Jeremiah would have a commitment ceremony. What vows would I make-that if we ever met for the first time in the hallway again, I’d remember to tell him my name?

“I don’t really have anything. I mean not like yours.”

“You met someone, didn’t you?” I could tell she was smiling.

“Yeah. Kind of.” I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.

“Boy or girl?”

“A boy.” I smiled, relieved. “This guy named Jeremiah.”

“Jeremiah,” Anne said. “I like that. Like the bullfrog.”

I laughed.

“What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you guys sound
real
serious.”

I cradled the phone between my head and shoulder and started chewing on a cuticle. Outside, a baby was crying. I missed Anne sitting across the table from me, missed her pulling my ponytail every time she passed me. And other stuff too-the long-ago things, like how she’d read to me at night, tuck me in, and kiss that ticklish place right where my forehead stops and my hair begins.

“You think you’ll ever move back to New York, Anne?”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not. I just wish you were here. I wish you could meet him.”

Anne was quiet for a moment. “Tell me what’s so special about him.”

“I don’t know. I mean, he probably doesn’t even know I exist. I forgot to tell him my name when I met him. Isn’t that silly? I‘m—like obsessing about this guy and he doesn’t even know my name.”

“That’s not silly. Something about him caught you—off guard. It was like that with Stacey. I knew the first time she said a word to me that I’d want to spend my life with her. It’s not silly. It’s just—I don’t know—another strange part of living. What does he look like?”

“Well, I only saw him once, really—we bumped into each other—literally. And he helped me pick up my books. And then he looked at me and smiled. And it was like something inside of me went crazy.”

Anne laughed. “I bet I’d like him. Anybody who makes something inside of my stable baby sister go crazy must be amazing.”

“He’s taller than me,” I said. “He has locks and these bright brown eyes—”

“Locks?”

“His hair. You know.”

“Ugh. That’s kind of a bummer.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like white guys with locks. I mean—it’s so obviously an appropriation—”

“He’s
black,
Anne.”

She didn’t say anything. I could feel the air between us getting weird. Maybe a minute passed. Maybe two.

“Really?”

“No,” I said, growing annoyed. “I’m lying.”

“Sorry, Ellie. I just thought Percy Academy was so chichi and
white.”

“Well, it isn’t.” I wanted her to say something different. Something smart-the way she always did.

We were silent.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

I sighed. “Nothing. I gotta go. I have to study—”

“Ellie. Don’t be like this. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“You were all excited before. Before I told you he was black.”

“Well, I’m still excited. I can be surprised and excited at the same time. Geez. I just never thought about it—you know.”

“Well, maybe you should ask yourself why. It’s not like you don’t see black people every day.”

“I just never thought about it ... for myself. Or for anybody else in our family, really. That’s all. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I just think to have a boyfriend or girlfriend from a different race is really hard. I want to do the big sister thing and tell you to ... I don’t know. I don’t want you to hurt, Ellie. That’s all.”

I stared down at my cuticle. It was bleeding now where I had chewed too deep. “That’s what Marion told you, Anne,” I said softly.

“I know. And I can’t believe it’s coming out of my mouth now. I can’t believe I’m sitting here understanding how Marion felt.”

“That’s not right.” I felt old suddenly. What had I expected-that she’d cry with happiness, that she’d come right home to meet him? No. Just that she’d ... that she’d be there for this. The way she’d always been there.

“I gotta go,” I said again.

“Listen, Ellie. I know you’re pouting—”

“I’m not
pouting.
Don’t do that, Anne.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t make it seem like I’m being a baby, okay.”

“Okay,” she said. “Look. I know it’s New York, and I know things are different from when I was in high school and blah, blah, blah. But I have to be a big sister for a moment and say don’t do something just ‘cause you’re mad at Marion or want to be radical—”

“You’re such a jerk,” I said. “When’d you get to be such a jerk?” I hung up before she could answer.

A long time ago, Anne used to talk about energy—how that was all love was—ions connecting across synapses of time and air.
Don’t rationalize,
she’d say.
None of it will ever make sense.
I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, not wanting to cry. Anne was right. None of it made any sense.

JEREMIAH SAT ON THE SIDELINES, EYEING THE GYM. IT was newer than Tech‘s—bigger. With fiberglass backboards, padded poles, and one of those floors that made you feel like you were bouncing when you jumped. In the center of it, a maroon and gray panther leaped over the Percy insignia. He watched Rayshon and Kennedy move with the rest of the team. Kennedy moved easily, the way he moved through the school. He was a junior and had been at Percy since his freshman year. He was friendly and popular. Rayshon was a sophomore. Mostly he kept to himself, sitting a bit away from the rest of the team during time-outs and leaving right after practice. His game was a little weak, but on the floor, he always smiled and slapped Miah five whenever one of them made a nice move. On their first day of practice, Rayshon had leaned over and whispered, “Just call us the three black musketeers.” Jeremiah had smiled and nodded. It was a joke, but there was something deeper to it too. Something he and Rayshon and Kennedy understood.

“Move it or you’ll be eating splinters for dinner, Joe,” Coach Avery yelled to a freshman.

Jeremiah shook his head now, remembering his first practice. “You related to Norman Roselind-that filmmaker guy?” a kid named Braun had asked him.

“What you think we’re all related?” Kennedy had said, smiling.

Braun looked embarrassed. They had been sitting on the bleachers waiting for the coach to show up. Jeremiah grabbed the ball from Kennedy and started dribbling. “Not related to anybody,” he said, moving the ball back and forth between his legs. “Shoot! You think I’d be at this tired school if my daddy was a filmmaker?”

Everyone laughed. Braun slapped him five and smiled. He liked Braun. And there were a couple of other cool guys on the team. But he missed Tech and Carlton and the homeboys he had played ball with since he was a little kid. He closed his eyes now. There was a picture of him and Carlton on his dresser. In the picture, they were both about eight, their arms around each other’s shoulders, a basketball on the ground between them. A long time ago, he thought they’d always be playing ball together.

He scanned the team and sighed. These were his boys now—his team. And if he wanted to be part of the team, to make it work, he had to like them, had to respect them—no matter how weak their game was.

“Get your shirt off, Roselind,” Coach said, pointing to the floor. “Joe, sit down.”

Jeremiah lifted his sweatshirt over his head and jogged out onto the floor, slapping Joe’s hand as they passed each other. He wasn’t the tallest guy on the team, but in the week of practice, he had realized that he was easily the fastest and the best shot.

Kennedy passed him the ball and he took it down court, faked the guard, and took it up. It sank easily into the basket.

“Way to go, superstar,” a sophomore named Peter whispered.

Jeremiah eyed him but didn’t say anything.

“You got the moves, Ice, know what I’m saying?” Peter held his hand up for a high five. “My tag’s Peter, Peter Hayle, remember? We kinda hung tight that first day.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jeremiah said, slapping Peter’s hand. He hated when white guys tried to sound black.

“I got to learn to get my shot on like that. Get nice on the court like you do.”

“It’s all in the game,” Jeremiah said.

They jogged down the court together. Rayshon looked over at them, shook his head, and smiled.

“Get my game on like you, I’ll be like amped—know what I’m saying,” Peter said, missing a pass.

“Get your head back in the game, Hayle,” Coach called. “Concentrate!”

Jeremiah stole the ball, took it back down the court, and sunk it.

“What’s this,” Coach yelled, his face growing red. “A one-man team. Hit the showers! I’m through with you for the day.” He picked up his clipboard and stormed out of the gym.

“Later,” Rayshon said, slapping Jeremiah five. “You looked good out there today, man.”

“Thanks,” Jeremiah said, smiling.

Rayshon held his hand up for Peter to slap. “Later, lightskin.”

Peter blushed. “I ain’t lightskin, man,” he said, slapping Rayshon’s hand.

“I know.” Rayshon grinned, winking at Jeremiah. He grabbed his bag, waved again, and headed out the gym.

“That homeboy’s got a train to catch,” Peter said. “I’d be stepping like that too, know what I’m saying?”

Jeremiah shook his head.

“Rayshon’s paying his own way,” Peter said, jogging beside him to the locker room. “Works two jobs. Last year, Percy finally hooked him up with a bit of cash but not the full ride.”

Jeremiah pulled his T-shirt over his head, wiped the sweat off his neck with it, and opened his locker. “Must be some high-paying jobs,” he said.

“My father hooked him up,” Peter said. He ducked his head into the shower, ran water over it, then came back over to the bench and sat down, letting the water drip down his face. “My pops does a bit of advertising, know what I’m saying? Last year he hooked Rayshon up with a gig at his firm. Just like a trial thing, but Rayshon stepped to it and my pops was like, ‘Man, I’m going keep this cat on.’”

“How come he doesn’t have you working there?” Jeremiah asked.

Peter frowned at him. “I don’t do the work thing. Gotta get my schooling on.”

Jeremiah slammed his locker and headed toward the shower without saying anything. He hated that Rayshon had to run off to work and Peter got to sit here talking junk. Even if Peter’s father
did
hook Rayshon up with a job, it didn’t seem fair.

“You come ‘round my way, we could get a nice game on,” Peter said, smiling. “They got the fly courts over by me.”

Jeremiah turned, feeling evil suddenly. “Why don’t you come ‘round
my
way?”

“Where you be crashing?” Peter asked, leaning against the locker. “I’m game.”

“Fort Greene. Brooklyn.”

Peter looked thoughtful for a moment. “Nah, man, I don’t do Brooklyn. Strictly East Side ball is my game.”

Jeremiah shook his head. “That’s probably why it’s so weak,” he said, stepping into the shower stall and closing the door before Peter had a chance to answer.

He soaped up quickly then let the warm water run over his face and down his back for a few moments. In another stall, he could hear someone singing, loud and off-key. He bit his bottom lip. What was he doing here?

Change is a good thing,
his grandma used to say.
Think of it like seasons. You don’t want to stay one way all your life and have moss grow under your toes.

He let the water run over him a few minutes longer. When he stepped out of the shower, Peter was gone. Jeremiah sighed, glancing at himself in the mirror. He was dark, dark and tall and wild haired. In the background, he could see his teammates moving around the locker room. He should have told them that first day who his father was. It would have sent them all packing. They thought he was just some regular guy from Brooklyn, but he wasn’t. He was Norman Roselind’s son. He was Nelia Roselind’s son. He’d been all over the world. Had probably seen places a lot of these guys couldn’t even
spell.
Kennedy caught his eye and waved good-bye. Jeremiah watched him leave. Two black musketeers down, one to go.

What was he doing here with all these white boys around him?

He stared at the mirror, lost. That girl in the hall. “She’s white too,” he whispered, the words sinking in. He could hear someone laughing. It sounded like the whole world-pointing at him ... and laughing.

MONDAY MORNING, LIKE EVERY MORNING SINCE ANNE and I last talked, I stood in the kitchen with my hand on the phone. It was three hours earlier in San Francisco, but I knew Anne would be up. She had always risen at dawn, for as long as I could remember.

In the living room, I could hear Marion and Daddy talking softly.

This was stupid-all of it. I had only seen Jeremiah once since that first day-darting into a classroom, his hair bouncing behind him.

Jeremiah.

I tried to imagine us side by side. He was taller than me and skinny. Or at least he looked skinny with his pants hanging off of him. And his eyes. I had never seen eyes so light on a black person—almost green. Who’d he get them from? Who’d he get everything he had from? His dark smooth skin. His smile with the tiniest dimple right below his eye.

I swallowed. “Call me, Anne ...
please,”
I whispered. “Say the right thing.” After a moment, I turned away from the phone, lifted my knapsack to my shoulders, and walked into the living room.