by Kennedy Ryan
“Yeah, later.”
With one final glance at the vice principal, I push through the restroom door. Thank God I’m the only one in here. I stumble into the very last stall.
Shoot!
I have no supplies. My bag is still in the classroom. I have no quarters to buy a tampon or pad from the machine. Mortification and helplessness bring tears to my eyes, but I swipe at them impatiently. The bathroom door swings open, and I stiffen, listen.
“Kimba?” It’s Mona’s voice. “You in here?”
“Last stall.”
I open the door to find her standing there holding my backpack.
“Thought you might need this,” she says with a tentative smile.
“Thanks.”
I accept the backpack and close the door again, rifling through the bag to find a tampon and pad. Once the business is done, I come out to wash my hands. Mona’s leaning against the counter.
“Everyone was laughing at me?” I ask, rubbing in soap under the water.
“Not really.” Mona shrugs. “I think everyone was just surprised and kind of reacted at first, but then it just died down and we moved on when Mrs. Clay made other people start reading.”
I hold my hands under the forced air to dry them.
“I’m not sure who was more traumatized,” Mona continues. “You or Ezra.”
Our eyes catch in the mirror. By some miracle, our lips start twitching simultaneously. And then the tension that’s held my shoulders stiff and my back too straight for the last twenty minutes snaps, and I’m giggling. Mona giggles, too, hopping up onto the counter and leaning against the mirror.
“He hauled you out of there like he was the Secret Service or something,” Mona says.
“I know, right?” I chuckle and shake my head. “That’s Ezra.”
The air dryer stops and I grab my backpack and head for the door. The hall is empty, a stretch of muted voices behind closed doors.
“I saw him as he was coming back to class.” Mona lets the bathroom door swing closed behind her. “Told him this was girl stuff and I got it.”
“Bet that went over great,” I say dryly.
“I know you guys have been friends a long time.”
“Literally since we were babies,” I say, smiling as memories over the years run through my mind. I’ve always had Ezra and he’s always had me. I can’t imagine it any other way.
“Yeah, well, he’s a guy, and he’s gonna have to get used to sharing you with friends who are girls. I mean, he’s got Hannah now, and you don’t have a problem with it, right?”
“Hannah?” My smile dims then fades to nothing. “Ezra barely knows her. They don’t have any classes together or anything.”
“Weren’t they in that Bar Mitzvah thing, or whatever together at the synagogue a lot?” Mona nods even though I don’t respond. “That’s when it started. He didn’t tell you?”
“Um, well, I’m not sure there’s anything to tell.”
“From what I heard,” Mona says, looking around like the empty hall might be bugged before looking back to me, “her brother was mad about it.”
Stay away from Hannah.
That’s what the boy yelled that day they attacked Ezra.
“Ezra better be careful,” Mona says. “He might be all ‘Bar Mitzvah,’ but this is still Georgia, and Hannah is still white and Ezra is still black.”
Mona’s grin tips to one side, and she leans against a locker. “Well, semi-black. Her daddy would say he’s black, though I doubt she’ll be taking him home to meet the parents.”
“He’s black when it’s convenient for other people, and white when it’s not,” I say. “If Hannah can’t introduce Ezra to her parents, then she doesn’t deserve him.”
She doesn’t deserve Ezra, period.
“I’m gonna go.” I shift the backpack on my shoulder and tug on the sleeve of Ezra’s coat. “I need to call Mama and have her pick me up. These pants are ruined.”
“Okay.” Mona’s mischievous smile returns with a vengeance. “What are you gonna tell Jeremy?”
An image of Hannah comes to mind, a memory from Ezra’s Bar Mitzvah. Hannah dressed in pink, her face pretty and smooth and sprinkled with freckles. Her long, curly hair had been loose and hanging down her back. Is that what Ezra wants? Someone who looks more like his mother than like me? A lump burns in my throat like lit coal, and I have trouble swallowing past it.
“Yeah.” I turn and head toward the office to call Mama. “I’ll go to the dance with Jeremy. Whatever.”
I call and leave a message at the elementary school front desk since Mama’s teaching.
How long will she take?
In the hall, I lower my eyes every time a student walks by. Even seated and with the safety of Ezra’s jacket, it feels like they can see my stain.
“Kimba,” Mrs. Stern says from the office door. “You ready?”
I grab my backpack and tighten Ezra’s windbreaker at my waist. She climbs behind the wheel of her green Camry and I take the passenger seat. Mrs. Stern pulls carefully out of the school parking lot like she’s testing for her driver’s permit.
“Your mom’s in class, obviously,” Mrs. Stern says. “So she asked me to come.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
We ride in silence. It’s not awkward exactly. More like the kind of quiet where you don’t have to say anything and it’s okay. Mrs. Stern often makes me feel that way. Maybe that’s where Ezra gets it.
“So I heard you had a little accident,” she says, shooting me a quick glance when we come to a stoplight. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but if you do…”
I shake my head and fix my gaze out the window, staring at the trees dressed in their brightest colors, celebrating spring.
“Well, just know it happens to all us girls at some point,” Mrs. Stern says. “Anyway, having just Ezra, I don’t get to deal with the girl problems. I thought we’d have another, but we haven’t been able to.”
She doesn’t sound sad exactly. I can see how Ezra would be enough for anybody.
“I do have a question,” I say after another few seconds of silence.
“Oh, of course.” Her voice is eager, and she flashes me an encouraging smile. “Anything.”
“Why do you want to move so much?”
The smile slips and falls, and she presses her lips together like she’ll only let so many words out at a time. “I miss my family, Kimba. I want to babysit my sister’s children. I want to be in the synagogue where I grew up. I want meat from the deli around the corner and all the things that made New York not just a city, but my home. I want the little part of it where my faith and my community and the things that made me who I am all live.”
She looks at me with sad eyes, with Ezra’s eyes. “I was so glad to leave, to set off and do my own thing, go my own way, but my mother died and I wasn’t with her. I want the wandering to be done.”
I think about my grandfather, my parents, our huge family having dinners together every Sunday. Borrowing Kayla’s things without asking. Cleaning the house together on Saturday mornings with my siblings, music blasting, and Mama singing Earth, Wind and Fire’s “September” at the top of her lungs. Daddy’s secret stash of cigars. The gazillion-piece puzzles Mama insists we do together sometimes when we’ve been going our own way and haven’t been at the same table at the same time all week.
“I get that,” I say. “But I don’t want Ezra to go.”
We pull into her driveway, and she stares at the garage door, the flowering bushes standing guard at the bottom of her porch steps, a hard little smile on her lips. “Don’t worry, Kimba. I doubt we’ll ever leave.”
Chapter Five
Kimba
It’s been two weeks since my cousin came to town unannounced and showed out in Mrs. Clay’s class right through my white pants. Ezra came over that night to get his windbreaker. There was a time when he would have barreled up the stairs and barely knocked before barging into my
room. That night I faked cramps, asked Kayla to take his windbreaker down to him and say I’d see him later. She looked at me strangely. It was the first time Ezra had ever come over when I’d refused to see him. Maybe growing up means growing apart. And maybe it’s other people meaning more to you than the ones who used to mean the most.
Like Hannah.
Jeremy is kind of taking me to the dance. Technically, Daddy isn’t having it, so Kayla’s driving me, Mona and Ezra to the dance, and I’ll meet Jeremy there.
“Your hair looks good,” I tell Mona in my bedroom while we get ready.
She peers into the mirror and pats her new asymmetrical haircut. “Ya think so?”
“Better than mine.” I blow out a long breath, rustling the frizzy bangs hanging past my eyebrows. I should have waited to get it done. I got a fresh relaxer yesterday, and even slept with my head hanging off the bed to preserve the curls our hairdresser put in, but they’re still kind of smushy. They have frizzed and retracted with the humidity.
“Maybe Kayla can help?” Mona asks, but doubt colors her voice. We both know Kayla can’t be bothered half the time.
I wish Mama was here to do it, but she and Daddy are at an event with the mayor. As usual.
“Worth a shot,” I say and hope Kayla’s in a good mood.
I walk up the hall to Kayla’s room. Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” floats through the door. Kayla still records the Quiet Storm from the radio to a cassette tape. She’s probably listening to one of her mixes. I bang on the door.
“Who is it?” she asks over the music.
I roll my eyes. She knows who it is. Our parents aren’t here and only the good Lord knows where Keith is. You can bet Friday’s paycheck it involves some fast tail girls and a six-pack. He’s got no business messing with either, which only makes them both more appealing.
“It’s Whitney Houston. Who do you think it is? Can I come in, Zee?”
The door flies open unexpectedly and I stumble forward, head first.
“What do you want?” Kayla asks, arms folded under her breasts barely contained in a skimpy tank top. “Is it time to go already? I thought the dance doesn’t start ’til seven.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” I take my life into my hands and sidestep her, entering her inner sanctum. “I was hoping you could help me with my hair?”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing in assessment. Anita Baker serenades us while I wait, tensed and ready for rejection, until she finally shrugs.
“Meet me in the bathroom.”
Thirty minutes later, not only has she restored my curls to their former glory, but she’s even applied a little makeup for Mona and me. Mama still doesn’t like me wearing makeup yet, but one night won’t hurt.
“This red looks good on you, Tru,” Kayla says. She pops her lips at me. “Do like that.”
I imitate her lip pop and glance in the mirror.
“Wow.” My eyes, fringed with mascara-lengthened lashes and lined with black pencil, look bigger. Darker. Older.
“Right?” Kayla leans back, studying her handiwork. “You gonna kiss it all off tonight?”
Even though I know a blush wouldn’t show through my skin, I’m still glad for the color she applied to my cheeks.
“Um, I dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe.”
“I bet Jeremy will want to,” Mona sing-songs. “He’s kissed a lot of girls in our class, and they all say he’s great at it.”
“You’ve kissed a guy before, right?” Kayla asks, staring at her reflection in the mirror and combing her eyebrows.
“Not exactly,” I mumble, rubbing my lips together. The glossy color feels sticky now and I’d love to wipe it off.
“Shit.” Kayla goes still, her hand pausing mid-air, her eyes shifting to me. “You never been kissed, Tru?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, defensive. “Lots of girls in eighth grade haven’t.”
“Have you, Mona?” Kayla asks.
“Yeah, last year.” Mona slides an apologetic look my way and shrugs. “Sorry.”
“So this Jeremy will want to kiss you,” Kayla says. “Let me show you the basics.”
My sister instructs me on French kissing using her hand, doing weird things with her tongue, moaning and closing her eyes in fake rapture. I just stare at her, confused and slightly alarmed and probably traumatized.
Fast tail.
The doorbell saves me from more fake French kisses.
“That’s probably Ez,” I say. “Lemme go put my dress on.”
I leave the bathroom and dash to my bedroom.
“I always thought Ezra would be her first boyfriend,” I hear Kayla telling Mona.
A scene plays in technicolor through my memory. Ezra and me in his backyard when we were six years old. He’d been to a wedding the week before and decided we should get married. Being Ezra, he had memorized all aspects of a Jewish wedding, and we reenacted them under his elm tree. When we got to the part where the groom could kiss the bride, he pecked me on the lips and we both giggled. My heart aches a little for that day. We’re only thirteen and I know there is a lot more innocence to lose, but somehow, I, too, thought we’d save all our firsts for each other. I blink back hot tears thinking of him kissing Hannah tonight with her freckles and long, curly hair. I run a careful finger under my eyes so I won’t mess up Kayla’s hard work and head downstairs.
“Forget you, Ezra Stern.”
Chapter Six
Ezra
This is the worst night of my life.
I take that back. The night they called to say Bubbe died—that was the worst. We knew her time was near, and Mama wanted to go to New York right away, but Dad had a meeting and asked if we could wait one more day. Through the wall, I heard Mama crying, yelling it was his fault she didn’t see Bubbe one last time. I know she was just lashing out, but I know it hurt Dad, and after a few minutes of her shouting at him, he started shouting back.
Yeah, that night was definitely worse, but this one’s bad, too. Neon strobe lights illuminate the dark school gymnasium, and inflated rainbows dangle from the rafters. I guess there’s a theme, but I wasn’t exactly on the decorating committee so I have no idea what they were going for.
Tacky teenage?
Nailed it.
Chaperones and tables of punch line the edges of the room. I press my shoulders harder into the wall at my back, unable to tear my eyes away from the dance floor.
From them.
Mona settles on the wall beside me. “They look good together, right?”
Dragging my gaze from Jeremy dancing with Kimba, his hands resting low on her hips, I shrug. Arms folded across my chest, I pull one knee up and dig my heel into the wall. I sat in the front seat with Kayla when she drove us here, and Mona sat in the back with Kimba. Maybe I’m wearing my invisibility cape over this stupid shirt and tie because they definitely forgot I was in the car. They coached Kimba the whole ride here on how to kiss Jeremy. I dropped my forehead to the cool car window and tried to block out phrases like “his tongue in your mouth” and “just suck on it.”
I glance over at Mona and notice for the first time she’s got one of those weird haircuts that’s longer on one side than the other.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, a knitting between her pencil-darkened brows. Why do they always think layers of paint and stuff make them look better? I do have to admit Kimba looks really pretty tonight, though I like her lips without the red stuff. They’re naturally this brownish-pink color. I stare at them all the time.
“I’m not looking at you any kind of way,” I lie.
“I got lipstick on my teeth?” she asks, running her tongue over them.
“No.”
I can’t not look any longer, so I find Jeremy and Kimba on the dance floor again, still swaying back and forth. If I’m not mistaken, his hands are a little closer to her butt now.
“Ooooooh.” Mona nudges me, her sharp little elbow punching my ribs. “Kyle is over there all by himsel
f.”
She pats the longer side of her hair and tugs at the hem of her short dress. “I’m going to ask him to dance.”
I wish I could be that bold—could just walk out onto the dance floor and tell Jeremy to let Kimba go. I’d remind her that when we were six years old, she married me, and that it should count for something. Even though everything’s different now, and we’re about to enter high school, and our bodies are changing and I feel weird around her most of the time, some things should always remain the same.
“You gonna be all right by yourself, Jack?” Mona asks, squinting at me in the dim light.
She calls us the Three’s Company crew. I’m Jack, she’s Janet and Kimba’s Chrissy. It took me a while to let Mona in. It’s always been just Kimba and me. Sure, I resented that there were “girl” things Kimba told her that I don’t know about, but Mona’s good people. It seems like the way I feel about Kimba is scrawled all over my face, but Mona’s never picked up on it, so I guess I’m better at hiding it than I think I am. Kimba certainly doesn’t know.
“I’m all right, Janet,” I say wryly.
“It’s called a dance for a reason. You’re supposed to…ya know, dance.”
“I don’t dance.” I shudder at the thought of forcing my lanky limbs into some kind of rhythm. “No one wants to see that.”
“Guess that’s your momma’s side, huh?” she teases.
I roll my eyes, grin and give her the finger.
“I gotta go before somebody snatches Kyle. You sure you’ll be–”
“I’ll be fine.”
And I am fine through another song and a half. I’m not so much a wallflower as a potted plant, stuck and stiff, unmoving in a corner.
I’m considering walking the two miles home when someone steps in front of me. “Wanna dance?”
Hannah.
She’s straightened her curls and her hair hangs to her waist. Her freckles hide behind a dusting of powder. Who told her to do that? The freckles are kinda cute. She looks me in the eyes, but there’s something shy on her face, like she has to make herself do it.