Welcome to Braggsville (3 page)

He's just joking, he's Malaysian, not Indian, explained D'aron. To Louis, You'll cut your tongue talking that way.

Really? The blonde sniffed. Screw you! She flipped off Louis, though she didn't thank D'aron. But she did look him over.

What's the difference, asked the black guy. Welcome to the club.

The difference, Louis explained, is miles and miles, but that's about all.

D'aron laughed and removed his dot. They all followed suit, except Louis, who pantomimed looking in a mirror, dusting his lapels and arranging his hair. How do I look?

They replaced their dots.

The Prayer,
an old Bloc Party song, played in the background, the band's prerecorded clapping in rhythm with the strobe light. Their faces flashed in unison as the lyrics drifted out to D'aron, one line catching his ear:
Is it wrong to want more than is given to you, than is given to you?
For the first time at Berkeley, he felt at ease. He half hummed, half sang the lyrics.
Is it wrong to want more than is given to you, than is given to you?
No, it's not.

Excuse me? hissed the blonde.

My, you're sensitive . . .

The blonde glared at him. You mean a mite sensitive? She drawled out
mite
.

How's that?

How?

How, Tonto!

The blonde cranked her middle finger up for Louis. I resent that, especially coming from you. I'm part Native American.

Aren't we all?

Thus they became the 4 Little Indians. D'aron, Louis, Charlie, and Candice. It mattered not that Louis swapped statistics for film studies only to be near Candice, and she swapped theater for rhetoric only to be near Charlie. D'aron was just glad to be close to her, and to have friends who were also uncertain about their place at Berkeley, and who were nerds, not that anyone could be a nerd at Berkeley. Besides, he had heard that it was easier to get a girlfriend when you had a girlfriend, so being seen with Candice could only further his cause with Kaya (who that night was nowhere to be seen). When D'aron muttered his frustration, Charlie confirmed his theory: The most important lesson I learned in high school was that banks loan quickest to those who don't need money.

But first they reentered the party, and, as Indians are wont to do, were promptly relocated. One by one, D'aron, Candice, and Charlie were tapped on the shoulder. One by one they were beckoned outside by strangers mouthing entreaties in tones too polite to be heard over the music. One by one, one little, two little, three little Indians followed their interlocutors—new friends, they thought—to the exit, where they could be better heard. Once reassembled at the outer door to the basement commons, in the sunken courtyard where they'd first met, the 3 Little Indians faced a brave detachment of revelers—a cobbler's dozen threatening to give them the boot—a hodgepodge of both upper- and lowerclassmen, both humanities and science majors, both athletes and scholars, both males and females, students tall and short, brunette and blond, stout and slim, sober and drunk-it.

Their leader? A feisty blonde who wielded her index fingers like
a two-gun cowperson, a blonde who stood offended by, Your savage insensitivity, who exclaimed in a voice inflated by indignation, Only freshmen could disgrace a simple dot, a blonde who had the decency to wear her own ornament politely left of center, Where the heart is actually located, a blonde who suggested that they do the same and, Show some empathy for other people. Some respect, too.

There, in that umpteenth year of our Lord, at Dormitory Door, a historic treaty was proposed: Remove the dots and you can stay.

During the blonde's speech a cluster grew, not chanting Fight! Fight! Fight!, but listening intently, as in a lecture, cupping ears and shushing and frowning as each new outflux burped though the dorm doors with the sonic aftertaste of thumping bass. The cluster was soon a crowd, and the crowd soon a congregation constellating in concentric circles around the 3 Little Indians: In the buildings students at their dorm room windows watched like wary settlers wondering how their wagon circle had been breached; within the ring of buildings, passersby perhaps expecting a juggling show or puppetry performance milled at the outer edges of the courtyard, popcorning on tiptoe; within them was a ring of polka-dotted partiers; within them were the blonde's foot soldiers (that cobbler's dozen Louis later referred to as Satan's Anal Army). Our Tribe in the center, fidgeting, with the exception of Charlie, who stood lock-kneed a couple feet apart, and whom no one directly addressed or approached, as if he both was and wasn't there, a secret at a family reunion, in the same way that no Braggsvillian ever mentioned how Slater Jones was born near the end of his father's uninterrupted fifteen-month tour of duty. (Everyone just lamented how he was a preemie, and that's why he was shorter than a Georgia snow day and so Old Testament angry at math.) Yes, Charlie stood there like a secret, if such a thing was possible, which obviously it was. Candice, for her part, was as beet colored as a real red man.

The offer was repeated: Remove the dots and you can stay.

Around this time Louis wandered out, with his collar prepped up and pop-star sunglasses on, and stood next to D'aron.

The blonde pointed to Louis. Except for you! Looking puzzled, she asked, Why are you even out here?

I'm with them. Louis tipped his sunglasses up and mirrored her puzzled expression. The better question is why are you wearing yoga pants?

The blonde blinked as if rebooting. Why are you even out here?

I'm with them, repeated Louis. He again mirrored her puzzled expression. The doors belched two stumbling students and a few bars of a tricky beat. The even better question is why are you blasting that Jay Z and Punjabi MC joint?

Blink. Reboot. Repeat: Remove the dots and you can stay.

Louis began speaking. Candice interrupted him. I'm Candice Marianne Chelsea. I am part Indian. She tapped her forehead. Not the kind you were looking for, but the kind you found. One-eighth to be exact. And I'll be damned if you get to tell me what to do anymore. She shouldered past the blonde and the foot soldiers and walked in the direction of the door. The crowd parted like the Lord was drawing her finger through water. Charlie followed. The crowd parted wider, eyes to feet. D'aron and Louis followed, but were rebuffed, drowned in the confusion like the Pharaoh's men after Moses.

When Candice looked back and saw D'aron and Charlie floundering, she huffed and shook her head like a disgusted parent. She pointed to the nearest courtyard exit, put her hands to her mouth like a megaphone: Let's go. Where I'm from, women don't need to wear stickers for guys to know where to touch us.

She huffed and marched in the direction of Bancroft Avenue. The other three followed, and 4 Little Indians laughed hee-hee-hee all the way home, never more so than when Candice again claimed to be part Native American. For real!

A
FTER HIS ABYSMAL FIRST SEMESTER,
D'aron's academic advisor suggested a meeting, her e-mail as disconcerting as Quint blasting Dio in that stolen ice cream truck. (When Sheriff appeared at his door worn by rue, Quint told him, Grand theft audible: possibly six months. Selling Good Humor wherever the fuck I want, including the Gully: priceless. Sheriff handed him the cuffs. You know how these work.) The good humor of the advisor's letter, sprinkled with words like
informal
and
independent,
was offset by underlying chords of words like
probation
and
tête-à-tête
and
self-directed learning
(all of which had for D'aron become slang for watching Oprah, itself slang for porn, itself slang for the visiting German professor's stats class, itself slang for beer, itself slang for a few drinks, itself slang for bar crawl, itself slang for . . . You get the point). When he finally summoned the nerve to meet her, it was nearly spring break, nearly midterms, and at every desk in the César Chávez Center students turtled over laptops. He had applied himself with determination in the few weeks since meeting the other Little Indians, and carried to the meeting those few recent assignments on which he had earned a B or better.

Mrs. Brooks occupied a small inside office whose only window was the sidelight beside the door. On her desk, family photos greeted all who entered. D'aron always found it hard to imagine people in authority with a family, arguing over Netflix and ice cream. She sat with her back to the hall, boxes of tissues piled high on her credenza, her face only inches from the computer screen displaying . . . was it MS-DOS?! When D'aron knocked she spun around and waved him in with a smile and a How-do-ya-do. Seeing that she was black, he turned to leave. Sorry, I'll make an appointment. He wasn't in the mood for an ass-chewing. No, no, no, no. Come in. He thought he detected a faint accent, but couldn't be sure because once he gave his name, her expression grew stern and officious. I've been busy and stressed and am trying to do better, ma'am. She softened a bit,
leaning back in her chair and sighing as if there was a big decision weighing on her, one she regretted being charged with making, like a soccer ref giving a red card to a favored player.

Let's start at the beginning, D'aron. Is it Daron or
Da
ron or Da
ron
?

Daron, ma'am.

What about this apostrophe?

The name's . . . Irish, he started to say before catching himself . . . The name's misspelled. I never figured why it's like that or how to git 'em to change it.

Where are you from, Daron?

He told her and she smiled. I'll bet Berkeley has more students than there are people in your entire town.

Yes'm.

It was the same for me when I first came here from Tennessee, too long ago to tell you. I'll just admit that when I was an undergrad here, twittering was for the birds. Even now, back home anyone who tweets too loudly is likely to end up plucked, stuffed with spicy pork sausage, and served with cornbread.

They both laughed.

She leaned forward and whispered, I'm from a holler.

My backyard backs right up to one. Daron settled into his seat. It was the first time he'd met anyone in California who was from a holler. Most people didn't even know what it meant, and he'd stopped explaining because too often they'd ask why he couldn't be like everyone else and call it a valley.

Look, Daron, it's a big school. It's an achievement and an honor for you to have made it this far, so don't sabotage yourself. If you need help, ask. There are too many students in some of these classes, and it's only going to get worse; however, the school is committed to seeing first-generation college students succeed. But you have to ask for help. No one is going to offer it.

Yes'm.

And you have to stay on top of your work. It's not high school.

It sure ain't. I didn't even have to study much in high school. I could show up for the test and—

—A lot of students fall prey to that mistake. It's not as easy as you thought, so then you kind of check out. You start asking yourself crazy questions about your intellectual abilities.

Daron's face burned and he looked away.

Then your grades plummet, and you start to wonder if you even belong here, or if it's a mistake, or if you were a sympathy admit.

Daron looked at his shoes, unable to hold her gaze. He had wandered up to that idea on many occasions, but never explored it at length, treating it like a street he mustn't cross. Why had Berkeley accepted him? Candice had gone to a small public school in Iowa, but her parents were professors. Louis was Asian, so he possessed the magic membership card. Charlie was black, but he went to some fancy boarding school on a football scholarship. Then there was Daron.

If you were accepted, you deserve to be here.

At that, Daron started to cry, and as he did so, he admitted that he sloughed off for the first couple months of each semester, planning to pull it out of the bag at the last minute, but also thinking that if he failed at least he couldn't be blamed because he hadn't studied. He knew it was crazy, and couldn't explain how he knew, but he knew nonetheless that somehow his ego had tricked him into adopting this strategy so he wouldn't be disappointed. He had seen this as clearly as a drive-in movie screen against a starless sky, the insight cruelly ambushing a fine Friday-night buzz, and so he refrained from sharing with Mrs. Brooks the specific circumstances surrounding a revelation she deemed preternatural. He told her about high school, which he had burned in effigy shortly after graduation but now missed terribly because he had been on top, at least academically, while here he
was average at best. She handed him a tissue. How his entire high school graduating class would jeer—Faggot!—if they saw him all snotty-nosed in California in this black lady's office, except Jo-Jo, who wouldn't have laughed at all, who woulda told D'aron, in that regretful tone he used for both bad and good news, I warned you, they ain't like us. And if Daron didn't succeed, after flaunting UCB back home, after defying his father's wish that he become a Bulldog, after applying to Cal in secret, he would never be able to return home to B-ville, and would end up like those homeless kids on Telegraph—wouldn't he?—with only other homeless kids and mangy dogs for friends, and he saw how people looked at them. He felt idiotic admitting this, especially when she chuckled.

Mrs. Brooks stifled her laugh. Daron, honey, those are not ex-students. Those are people getting an early start on an unusual career. Don't you worry; no matter what, you'll never end up like that. You come from a good family.

A line had formed in the hall while they were talking. Mrs. Brooks pushed the box of tissues across the desk. Take a minute to get yourself together. I know it's hard, sugar, I know it's hard.

I just want to fit in.

I know, dear. You said they spelled your name wrong?

Yes, ma'am. All wrong.