Black Enough Read online

  Maybe I was wrong—maybe kids back at home did that, too. Maybe me and my friends were the only ones stuck inside.

  I followed Myron down the hallway and into the den. Grandma sat in front of the TV, flipping between stations. She worked at the small community college—she was still in her slacks and a button-up shirt, though she’d left her heels at the door. She eventually settled on a news show, then turned to us.

  Or rather, she looked at our feet.

  “Cameron, you’re buying those horrible shoes, too?”

  “They’re retro, Grandma,” I said.

  “Hmph. Some things probably need to stay in the past.” She shook her head. “But I’m betting those new clothes and shoes have more to do with trying to impress Eileen Thompson’s granddaughter than anything else.”

  “Grandma . . .” I could feel a goofy smile forming on my face. I turned to try to hide it. “Jessica and I are only friends.”

  She waved her brown, wrinkled finger at me. “Boy, you’ve had a hankering for that girl ever since you first laid eyes on her,” she said. “Might as well have it stamped across your forehead. Your nose is so wide open, you can smell Jessica’s perfume from all the way across town.”

  Grandma was always spouting out those old sayings. I had tried to use some at school a few years ago, but my friends had no idea what I was talking about.

  “I already told Cam that he doesn’t even have a shot with Jessica,” Myron said. He bent down and whipped an imaginary smudge from his shoe. “She’s a feminist now, always wanting to argue. Before you know it, she’ll have everyone in dashikis, eating kale, and giving up pork.”

  “First, there’s nothing wrong with being a feminist,” Grandma said. “Don’t you two want women to have the same rights as men?”

  Both Myron and I nodded.

  “Good, then you’re feminists,” she said. “That being said, ain’t no way in the world I’m eating kale. And I’ve been eating pork chops for too long to give them up now.” She finally turned back to the television. “Y’all have fun. Be back home by midnight.”

  We nodded. We’d take a midnight curfew any day. Myron’s mom was way stricter than Grandma. She’d have us back at home by nine and tucked into bed by ten.

  “And be safe,” she yelled to us as we stepped outside. “Don’t go walking around like you ain’t got no common sense.”

  As soon as we got to the car, Myron switched out his sneakers for a pair of slip-on athletic sandals. “Driving causes a crease in the shoes,” he said. “Gotta keep them fresh for as long as I can.”

  That was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. What was he going to do—walk like a duck?

  With his shoes safely stashed in the back seat, Myron pulled out of the driveway and cranked up the radio. An old-school rap song thumped out of the speakers. Myron leaned back in his seat and started bobbing his head to the beat. I rolled my eyes, then opened the center console.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “What are you—”

  “Just looking to see what else you have in here.” I pulled out a CD. “Guys and Dolls?”

  “It was for a play,” he mumbled. “Plus, the theater chicks at school really dig Broadway.”

  “Yeah, right.” I was sure that if I searched his phone, I’d find a lot more show tunes. Not that it was even a big deal. Myron was a really good singer, actor, and dancer. When he was younger, he bragged about wanting to be a “triple threat.” Last we talked, he was even considering majoring in theater in college—if Uncle Greg let him.

  I returned the CD and closed the console. “Okay, so tell me about Jessica again.”

  He groaned. “Man, how many times do I have to say it—you ain’t got no shot with her. I bet she doesn’t even like guys anymore. Especially not guys like you.”

  That last sentence hung in the air for a moment.

  Especially not guys like you.

  Myron turned down the radio and cleared his throat. “Cam, what I mean is—”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said. “I get it.”

  And I did. I knew what kids called me behind my back. An Oreo. A Black boy trying to be white. I wasn’t hard enough. Hood enough. Woke enough. If anything, Myron should have said “guys like us.” With his love for musical theater, he fell in the same group as I did. He could try to wear fancy shoes and blast rap music, but he was who he was.

  “Anyway,” he finally said, “you should be more focused on Tiffany. You know she’s been asking about you all year. And you know she’s into smart, high-yellow dudes. Even corny, no-game fellas like you.”

  I just laughed. I liked Tiffany a lot—as a friend—but she was a little too wishy-washy for my tastes. Always into the newest fad—whether that be shoes, clothes, music, whatever. But she was also crazy smart. She’d only finished her sophomore year and had already damn near aced the SAT. She was planning to major in engineering in college. If Dad caught wind of that, he’d for sure try to set us up himself.

  I opened up Facebook to see if the guys from home had liked my photo. They had, along with a few other people from school. No lie—it felt pretty good.

  I went to Jess’s page, but she hadn’t posted anything in a few days. Then I went to Myron’s page. It took a minute or two to scroll through the usual junk that he stuck on his page before I finally found his post about the party. Jess had mentioned that she was going to be there in the comments, but she hadn’t added anything more to her original message.

  Myron had told me that Tarik lived on the other side of the city. But as we pulled into the gated neighborhood and passed all the McMansions, I realized I was totally wrong about where I thought we were going.

  “Let me guess,” Myron said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You thought we were going to the hood just because my boy’s name is Tarik and he’s Black.”

  “No . . . ,” I mumbled, clearly busted.

  Myron quickly parked, opened his door, and began to switch shoes. He acknowledged a few kids as they passed by—a head nod to a group of Black dudes, and a more subdued hand wave to a group of white kids.

  The house was full of people. The music was turned up loud—booming bass with rapid-fire rap lyrics on top—and I swear I could feel my teeth rattling with each thump of the tower speakers. The large, wall-mounted flat-screen was showing the game—Golden State against Cleveland. The Warriors were way up in points, and it was only the second quarter.

  “You sure she’ll be here, right?” I asked as we stepped farther into the den.

  “She’s here,” he said. “Anyone who’s anybody will be here. Just don’t start whining and begging to leave when you crash and burn at Jess’s feet.”

  I followed Myron and joined the group of Black kids we’d seen outside. Myron gave them daps.

  “Nice kicks, my man,” one of the guys said to Myron.

  “’Preciate it,” he replied. “Gotta step up my game for the ladies.” Then he nodded toward me and introduced me to the group.

  They looked me up and down. “Those are the Jordan 1 Mid Retros, right?” another boy said. “Nice.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Thank you!? Who said that? Why couldn’t I say what Myron said? Or even something like plain old Thanks.

  “Y’all hooping at the park tomorrow?” Myron asked.

  They nodded. Myron wasn’t a great basketball player, but he understood the game way better than I did. Me and my friends weren’t into sports.

  The conversation switched from basketball to football. The other guys would ask me a question every now and then, but I mostly tried to keep my mouth shut.

  “Why you so quiet?” Myron whispered as everyone turned to watch a replay of a dunk on the television.

  I shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to say to Jess when I see her.”

  He gave me a look but didn’t say anything. Then he and I were pulled into a nearby conversation, this time with a group of mostly white kids.

  “Nice shoes, man,” on
e of them said.

  “Thanks,” Myron replied. “We picked them up today. Have y’all met my cousin, Cameron?”

  The change in his tone was immediate. Less bass. More enunciation. I wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.

  I quickly introduced myself. Most of them shook my hand, but one overeager guy leaned in to give me a dap-hug, saying, “What’s up, brother.”

  And I said the same thing back, just like it was natural.

  Because here was the thing—it was natural. This was how I interacted with kids all the time. I didn’t have to code switch at my school. There weren’t many other Black kids to code switch with. We lived in a very affluent neighborhood. (“A white neighborhood,” Grandma would say whenever Dad said this.) Even though most of my friends were white, a few weren’t. Arpit was from India, and Oscar was from Brazil. But it wasn’t like I talked differently around them than I did with my white friends. Honestly, we didn’t want to code switch. We were trying to sound like all our other . . . affluent classmates.

  After a few minutes, Myron tapped me on the shoulder. “To your right,” he whispered. “But don’t turn too fast.”

  I waited for Myron to pull away, then slowly shifted my gaze. There was Jess, looking as good as ever. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing one of those summer dresses that made all us guys go crazy. As our eyes met, her lips faltered for a second, before she finally offered up a small smile and waved at me. I did the same.

  Before I knew it, I was crossing the room.

  “Hey Jess,” I said once I’d reached her group.

  “Hey,” she said back. No kiss. No hug. Not even a handshake. “Guys, this is Cameron. Myron’s cousin.”

  “Hey.”

  “Wassup, man.”

  “How’s it going?”

  I took in each person’s greeting, thinking how Jessica must like being around kids like this. Once the last person in the group introduced himself, I took a deep breath and said, “Wazzup, peeps.”

  God, did that sound as horrible out loud as it did to my ears?

  Everyone else nodded back at me, but I noticed a flicker of a frown cross Jess’s face.

  The discussion turned back to—what else?—basketball. I waited for a lull in the conversation, then threw out the little bit of basketball knowledge I had.

  “That cat Steph Curry is amazing,” I said. “Best playa on the court. Breaking ankles with each step.”

  “Yeah, but no one has a crossover as sweet as AI, right?” one of the guys replied.

  “Um. Yeah,” I said. I had no idea who they were even talking about. Was there a person with those initials on the Warriors?

  I caught sight of Jess again. This time the frown was full-on across her face.

  “Cam, can I talk to you for a second?” But with the way she took my arm and guided me away, it was clear she wasn’t really asking.

  At least she was finally making physical contact. Progress, I guess.

  She led me outside, but as soon as we stepped off the front steps, she let go of me and crossed her arms.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Um . . . talking?”

  “You sound like a fool,” she said.

  “I’m just . . .” I shook my head. There was no way I could explain what I was trying to do. It sounded too stupid to admit.

  “And those shoes?” she continued. “Since when did you start wearing Jordans? You think that makes you hood or something?”

  “Myron said they looked good.”

  “Myron is an idiot with too much of his daddy’s money to spend.” She swiped a bang away from her face. “You don’t even like basketball. Tell me the truth—did you know that AI stood for Allen Iverson?”

  This was not the reception I was expecting when I’d dreamed about seeing Jess again. I mean, I hadn’t been holding my breath for love at first sight, but I didn’t think she’d be so upset. “Jess, are you mad at me?”

  “Cam . . .”

  “Just tell me what happened,” I said. “Why did you stop texting me? What did I do that was so wrong?”

  Her eyes were warm. Kind. But not loving. More like how our vet looked when she told us we had to put down our dog. “We really shouldn’t talk about this now,” Jess said.

  No way was I letting this go. “Just say it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my summer wondering what I did.” I stood up taller and steeled myself for her response. “Is it because I’m . . . me?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know,” I said. “I don’t talk the right way. Or dress the right way. Most of my friends are white. I’m not good at basketball.” I glanced at the ground—I couldn’t look at her while saying the words. “Did you stop talking to me because I’m not Black enough?”

  She actually laughed. Doubled over, even.

  “It’s not that funny,” I said.

  “Sorry,” she replied. “It’s just— Cam, what does that even mean? Not Black enough?” she finally said. “Does your birth certificate say you’re Black?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Your school records?”

  I nodded again.

  “And is your momma or daddy Black?”

  “Of course they are.”

  “Then congratulations. You’re Black.” Her words sounded a lot like what Grandma had said earlier about being a feminist.

  I thrust my hands into my pockets. “Then what did I do to make you stop talking to me? I had to have done something.”

  Now it was her turn to look away. Those lips that were so perfect a year ago were now taut and pursed. “Do you know what happened in December? When I went ghost and fell off from all the messages?” She waited for me to shake my head. “Linton McCants was shot by the police.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A kid from the neighborhood,” she said. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong. You know, other than being Black in the wrong part of town.”

  “I didn’t know him,” I said.

  “You’ve met him before, but you probably don’t remember. Anyway, he was shot in the leg, and everyone in the neighborhood was real shook up about it. I posted about it online. Everybody posted about it. It was all over Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.”

  I thought back to her Facebook page from around that time. I had seen something about a shooting. But I hadn’t realized the kid was from Franklin.

  “And do you know what you had on your page on the same day?” This time she didn’t wait for me to respond. “A photo of you and your all-white Academic Bowl team, everybody grinning like the damn Cheshire cat.”

  I started to reach out to her, to try to comfort her, but I stopped when she pulled back. “Like I said, I didn’t know him,” I replied.

  “But you knew me. You had to have seen what I posted—you were on my page every day. Hell, even Myron put something on his page.” Her voice was beginning to shake. “I wasn’t looking for you to start protesting or anything. Just a simple acknowledgment of what happened would have been okay. But you were so geeked about your stupid win over whatever yuppie school you played against, you didn’t even realize what happened.”

  “I just . . . if I had known he was from here—”

  “Oh, so you care if he’s from here, but you don’t if he’s from some other place?”

  I rubbed my face. “Jess, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I don’t know if she was even listening to me. “I mean, I knew we were different. But I didn’t care about that stuff. I liked that you were so easygoing. So goofy, even. And smart. It was all really cute.” Her eyes hardened. “But unlike you, I live in the real world. I can’t just ignore stuff.” She started pacing, twisting her hair around her finger with each step. “I mean . . . God! Aren’t you mad?! Even a little bit?”

  “I am!” Now I was yelling, but I didn’t care. “I paid attention when Trayvon Martin was killed. Same with Philando Castile. And all the others. And I noticed when all t
heir shooters—”

  “You mean murderers.”

  “Whatever. When all their killers got off. But after a while . . . it happens so much . . . you just stop paying attention.”

  “Hmph. Not paying attention. That’s real dangerous coming from the guy living in an all-white neighborhood. I know you think all those white boys are your friends, but I’d bet anything that—”

  She stopped talking as the front door opened, allowing all the noise and fun from inside to spill out. A group of kids stepped onto the porch, then closed the door behind them. They passed us, and then it was just me and Jess and the night and the silence stewing between us.

  “And now you show up after a year with all the white folks. Trying to talk like you’re from the hood. Wearing a pair of shoes that you don’t even like. And it just pisses me off that you’d be so shallow to think that how you talk and how you dress would change my opinion of you.”

  She took a step away from me, moving toward the house. “As much as I like you, I can’t be with a guy who doesn’t understand where I come from. But look, we can still be friends.”

  She took another step.

  She was almost at the door.

  “I’ll see you around, okay?”

  And then she was gone.

  I stood there, watching the door where she disappeared. I could feel my heart still pumping fast in my chest, in my ears, a thump loud enough to rival the music inside the house.

  Was this a test? Should I follow her back into the house?

  But even if I did that, I had no idea what I would say to change her mind.

  Once my heartbeat had settled—or more like, once my heart had sunk all the way to my toes—I walked over to Myron’s car. I sat down on the hood, pulled out my phone, and went back to Myron’s Facebook page. Sure, it was full of stupid video clips and pictures of all his shoes, but he also included some real stuff. Lots of information about Linton McCants, the boy who had been shot. Myron had even helped to raise money to cover Linton’s hospital bills.