The Cake is a Lie (16 page)

But credit where credit was due, Oakley
was without a doubt, officially, the coolest sophomore girl.
Although that spoke more to the class of sophomore girls at
Shorewood than to the social genius of Oakley Carter. She might
have gotten rid of those hideous thick black hairs on her arms and
lip, but I still remembered.

She finally saw me. “Marco!” She pried
herself free of Pacey’s death grip and ran to greet me. Then we
looked at each other and shared something way more meaningful than
the lip licking she was doing with Pacey, an understanding, we’d
made it. Out of every other sophomore, we’d made it. If only Jonsen
and Avi could see me now, I beamed.

Driving home in the back of
Dan’s truck I looked up at the stars and knew life had meaning.
Things happened for a reason. Who knew my pipe dream to play
football would be the random key to finally becoming super popular?
After all these years, I’d finally done it. All that worrying had
been for nothing. My childhood had been hard to make me tougher,
better. My academic record was perfect and my social record only
had the smallest blimp on it, losing Jonsen in
7
^th
grade. But I’d resiliently found another way to the top. I
always knew I’d catch up to Jonsen eventually.

I’d finally achieved my greatest
ambition and my body was dumping feel good stuff. Life was
perfectly wrapped up in a bow. It was enough to reaffirm my belief
in fate. Dan could’ve crashed and we could have all died that very
night and it would have been okay because I’d experienced true
happiness. [12]

Oakley and Pacey were in the truck bed
with me, getting rides home from Dan too. Oakley was cuddled up in
Pacey’s arms, sleeping like an angel. She’d snuck out that night.
She’d been sneaking out a lot. She’d go off about her parents, how
much she hated them. How controlling and strict her lawyer dad was.
Her parents must have eventually done something right though
because after that night I never saw her sneak out again. Maybe
that night was the very night she decided to change, who knows, but
she did change. She still went to the parties, but she started
abiding by her curfew. I never saw her that wasted
again.

[12]
I saw Dan again
a few years later, he looked awful, skinny, withered, I didn’t even
say hi.

Shorewood’s “Career Center” was a
cramped little room in the library made even smaller by the ring of
bookshelves lining the walls. There were never enough seats at the
six tables crammed inside, so some kids had to stand. The only
amenity was one wide tinted window that faced into the library so
you could watch the students walking by without them seeing
you.

I had a seat and was making good use of
it by hiding the book I was reading under the table.

“
Here’s our scholarship
binder everyone, over ten years we’ve collected 200 scholarships in
this file with tips on what they’re looking for in applicants and
keywords to use in your letters.” I looked up to see the Career
Center counselor waving around a big file book. I thought back to
my mom forcing my brother to write his scholarship letters for
college. We’d be watching T.V. when she’d come into the room and
stand in front screen while she spent five minutes trying to find
the off button.

“
Alright Carlo, time to
write your Italian Club scholarship letter. Where is that dang off
button? Marco, can you turn this off for me?”

“
You can’t just do that.
We’re right in the middle of a show. I’ll do it after the show, I
swear.”

“
Come on Giancarlo, right
now, I’ll help you.”

“
Go get your work done,
Carlo, it will take you a whole hour,” I’d chime in
provocatively.

They’d leave, still arguing, and I’d
jump up to turn the T.V. back on as quickly as I could, ecstatic
that I didn’t have to worry about writing scholarship letters for
years, an eternity.

“
We recommend that you
initially start contacting scholarship commissions as sophomores so
you should be starting now. Contacting a member of the commission
increases your chances of getting the scholarship and usually they
will give you inside tips.” The counselor holds up a white handout,
“Here’s a Q&A questionnaire we recommend you use when you call
them.”

The counselor didn’t like me, for our
first assignment we had to write a short one page essay about
something we wanted to be when we grew up. I wrote about how I’d
always wanted to be a Janitor as long as I could remember. How the
world was one big trash pit everywhere I looked. About my
compulsive needs to clean up this filthy repulsive world inch by
inch. She didn’t think it was funny.

The counselor put the sheet down and
picked up a clipboard, “If you want help finding a scholarship to
apply for, remember that you can sign up for office hours with a
counselor.”

I was so bored that I was physically
getting agitated. I tapped my foot rapidly while I examined my
nails over and over again, frantically looking for a spot that
needed biting, a piece of skin that needed peeling. I had to get
out of this chair. My whole life passed before my eyes if I were to
just get up and leave, I saw myself as a homeless man curled up
under a freeway. I looked at the clock, only a half hour more. I
looked around the room to see if anyone was paying attention. There
were a few ugly nerdy girls in front that looked pretty focused.
What was the point of applying for a scholarship if you had to
compete against girls like that? They had no choice but to be
smart, they were hideously gross.

Thank god I wasn’t going to ever need a
scholarship anyways, my dad had already saved up the money for my
college. Scholarships were for poor kids like Liam, I looked over
at Liam sitting at the table across from me. Growing up everyone
knew he was going through a rough time because his mom had M.S. and
his parents were divorced. He was in the nutrition club at our
elementary school which meant he was certified poor. Liam was
leaning over reading a graphic novel with his friend Terry, they
weren’t even attempting to hide the fact that they weren’t paying
attention. Liam was wearing his favorite Super Mario shirt. He was
one of those kids that wore the same shirt two weeks straight. He’d
just never get it.

There was a noise at the window and
everybody turned to see two black hands curled up like binoculars
against the tinted glass. Around the hands I could make out
cornrows and a thin black mustache and goatee. Everyone waited
while the intruder scanned the room. Once he found what he was
looking for, he pulled back with a huge, pearly white smile, while
tapping on the window with his pointer finger directly at Kace.
Kace started laughing loudly like it was some big inside joke no
one got. Kace was standing by himself against the wall. Kace
sparingly showed up for the class, let alone socialized with anyone
in it. The G-thug then opened up the door and leaned his body half
way in, revealing a big black leather jacket and a sagging jean leg
barely kept off the floor by a beige boot. He gave one quick
upward-jerking “what up?” nod to the Career Center lady.

“
Yo Chops, you left this,”
he said, extending a large, half rolled brown paper bag into the
room. Kace smugly beamed as he walked over and took the bag,
putting it quickly in his backpack.

“
Aw ya, my bad,
thanks.”

As the door slowly closed behind him,
the G quickly shouted back into the room, “Call me.” He then walked
out of the library like he was in a rush, taking big, wide strides
and looking all around as if he expected to see someone he knew at
any moment.

Who was that? I was absolutely baffled.
How could he be friends with Kace and I didn’t know who he
was?

The counselor resumed class like she
wasn’t just interrupted by a gang banger.

What was in the bag? I looked around at
everyone in the room, everyone had moved on. Even Kace, the cold
distant look had returned to his face. The counselor started
talking about internships again. Liam was back reading Pete’s
graphic novel. Why couldn’t they see? What the f, what was in the
bag?

I peeled back one of my cuticles until
it bled.

“
Who’s Mike?” I asked in
vain for the fifth time, no one was listening to me.

I was standing around with Jeff, John
and a few others in Shorewood’s bigger but less popular courtyard.
Jeff was going to buy a bag of weed from his brand new connect,
Mike, and those of us with money were trying to throw up on
it.

“
I got ten on it, but I want
to come with you to get it,” Jon said. Jeff had been adamant that
he was going alone to buy the weed, making everyone very suspicious
that he was going to “pinch” some bowls before it got equally
divided up.

“
Naw, I’m getting it alone.
I’m telling you, Mike’s hella sketchy about who he deals
with.”

“
Who’s Mike?” I tried
again.

“
He’s black, older. You were
at Kylie’s party two weeks ago right? He was there.” Jon finally
answers me.

“
Dude I have no idea who
you’re talking about,” Could it be the guy from the career
center..?

“
Alright fine, I got ten on
it.” Even if Jeff was gonna pinch some, there wasn’t much I could
do, I wanted to hangout and smoke with everyone.

A tall, swaying black kid came walking
into the courtyard from the junior parking lot. He was on his
cellphone talking loudly, taking wide bow-legged steps while
holding his jeans up by the front of his belt. I recognized his big
black leather jacket.

“
Aight, I’ll roll SVP after
I’m done handling this biz.” The whole courtyard could hear Mike’s
conversation.

Jeff started walking in a hurry to go
get Mike’s attention and Jon followed him, then another one of the
skaters followed them, and soon our whole circle was following
Jeff. Mike saw the group coming and took a sharp turn away from us
towards the field. Eventually we all caught up to him and converged
in a circle around him.

He ignored us for a second, “Shiit,
hold up yo.” He put down his phone.

“
What the fuck are ya little
bitches doing getting all up in my shit? Ya’ll are trying to get me
busted I swear. All ya’ll lil youngins need to back the fuck off
except for lil dude I need to speak with.”

I was startled, it wasn’t every day
someone snarled at you so nastily.

“
My bad Mike, I tried to
tell them. Everyone get the fuck out of here.” Jeff
spat.

We all backed off to a safe distance.
Everyone complained about how Jeff was ripping us off as we watched
Mike and Jeff walk off across the field. I still had more questions
than answers, did Mike even go to Shorewood? Was he a senior? How
come I’d never seen him before?

Winter, 2004

The Crack Shack had gone downhill fast
over the last two years. There was no power anymore. Everyone sat
around putting pieces of wood and newspaper in the open furnace
that served as a fireplace. Big and small candles were spread
around the living room providing a dim ambience. I was a
silhouette, one of the dozen teenagers sprawled out amongst the
living room. Sitting on the brim of the futons, posted up against
the walls. It was Mike’s show, he was center stage.

“
Call me agent double O
deuce 4 blocc”

Mike had left three giant bags of weed
and a large scale as a work in progress on the heavily scraped up
and inscribed computer desk. Mike messed around with the station
occasionally but he was in no hurry to put it away. He had a
crisply rolled swisher clamped between three fingers. Every time he
inhaled the blunt he made a quick loud sucking sound.

“
Siiippp.” He moved around
frequently. He went from leaning back for a second to walking back
and forth. Adjusting his jean leg, then his belt. Pulling up his
dangling watch, only staying a second in each pose. Always
inspecting his blunt over and over again.

“
Three days ago I sold three
zones in two hours,” Mike bragged loudly to no one in
particular.

“
Aint nothin my
nigga–siipp–shit’s EZ, no problemo, A-OK.” Mike changed up the way
he spoke. He changed up the order of words, pronounced words
differently, left whole words out. His speaking style was so
different; a total rejection of everything taught to me. It was so
strange, so fresh. In doses, I couldn’t be best friends with
someone that spoke like him.

“
I done jus’ started slangin
big time bro, and I’m already da best. I got this shiit on lock,
I’m on a three year plan, my nigga.” This got a laugh from
everyone.

“
No lie, I got it blue
printed out, my nigga. Imma fuck with this shit right here for
another minute then Imma start fuckin with that nina,” He tapped
his nose for effect. “Start stacking some real paper. Real shit
doe–siiiippp–I know some cholos from way back mang, they gon’ hook
it up once I got enough to front half. I was just talking to them
niggaz and them niggaz was talking real good to me.”

Mike didn’t pause when he spoke, he
only hesitated for the slightest second until the next thing popped
into his head. “But I’m da best doing this shit right now. Gotta be
da best at somethin my nigga–siiippp–gotta hone your craft
knumsayin’. Straight QB’in it. Jus’ call me agent double O deuce 4
blocc, I got that 9mm glock ‘n I’m ‘bout to put one in ya knot.”
One in three times the thing that popped into Mike’s head was a
lyric from his current favorite rap song. Socially I’d come farther
than I ever imagined, but in the face of Mike I was nothing. I
wished I were black.