“Race you back?” he asks, and we both throw our cups out and run.
On my way home from school, I send Jasmine a slew of texts:
First of all, my legs are insanely sore, because I ran (walked) two miles.
And do you know who I ran/walked with?
JAMES BRADFORD
That’s right. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am in love with him. Who knows!?
Where are you? We gotta talk.
Come to my apartment on your way home from after-school.
I have plans. Big, big plans.
She texts that she’s on her way but says nothing about my confession, and this is exactly why I didn’t tell her. I didn’t want her to judge me for falling for some jock like James.
My dad is home early from teaching, and I can already smell roast chicken in the oven when I walk in. “Smells so good,” I call out, unraveling myself from my jacket and book bag. “Jasmine’s coming over.”
“And hello to you too,” my dad says, coming over to watch all my things pile up in the closet. “Is Jasmine staying for dinner?”
“No clue. We have work to do, though.”
“Work? Ah, I see, I will stay out of your way,” he says, starting to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Chelsea, nothing. You are so sensitive, you know that? I was just thinking that it’s nice that you are so focused . . . all the time.”
“Yeah, we have to be, and sensitive is a good thing. It means I feel things.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. You go. Work. I will stay out of it. Don’t bother your sister, though. She had a rough practice.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the shower,” my dad says.
“Are you kidding? Living with one bathroom is the worst situation of my life, ahhhh.”
“Really? It’s the worst situation of your life?” my dad asks.
“You know what I mean.”
“Listen, kid, when you grow up and get your own apartment in New York City, you can get all the bathrooms you want.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, heading for the remote control and the couch. I watch two terrible episodes of the Real Housewives of L.A. Mia joins me for the second, and we laugh at the fights the women get into, and then hate ourselves for getting caught up in the ridiculous drama. Jasmine shows up just as we’re about to start our third episode.
“Tell me you’re not watching this trash,” she says, always taking the high road.
“It’s research,” I say. “It’s so I can make sure we rage against the system so that no one ever has to see a Botoxed face ever again.”
Jasmine laughs, teasing me. “But you do see that you’re watching it, so that’s sort of like telling the network you love it, and you always say that you have to consume the world the way an activist does, and that we need to support the kind of projects that show women in powerful positions, and . . .”
Mia joins in, “And you also always say that this kind of misogynistic dialogue is exactly what puts women at odds with each other. This is the kind of garbage that paints women in a very unflattering and superficial way,” she finishes, smiling at Jasmine and making room on the couch.
“Oh my God! Shut up, both of you,” I say. “I don’t need to hear myself repeated back to me. I sound like the worst.”
“Not the worst. It’s just . . . it’s all complicated,” Jasmine says.
“Yeah, this kind of women’s rights stuff is real,” Mia says. I look up. Mia hardly ever stays around when Jasmine comes over. It’s not that she doesn’t want to hang with us, but I never think she’s interested in the kind of things we are. “Today at practice, Coach Murphy gave us all a talk about playing overseas and in the WNBA. I mean, she basically said that if we wanna go pro, we’re gonna make a fraction of what the men make, and you can’t make any money unless you put your whole life on hold and play in Poland or Germany or something. I mean, nobody even respects women—and if the WNBA can’t respect us, then . . . I don’t know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking!”
“Last year in our Battle of the Sexes unit, I learned that in most careers women make less money than men and aren’t put into positions of power nearly as much. The percentage of CEOs who are women is like one percent or something ridiculous like that,” Jasmine adds.
“This is what I’ve been saying.”
They both look at me.
“I know I go overboard sometimes, and I know I talk too much, but somehow I just feel like women’s issues and women’s rights are just getting buried at Amsterdam Heights. It’s like the whole world is focused on women’s rights now, and sexual discrimination and sexism, so why is it that our classes aren’t talking about it? Our school is more focused on basketball—no offense, Mia—and freakin’ music and dance, and a poetry club that is rooted in the eighteenth century,” I say. I’m on a roll, so I decide to push ahead. “That’s why I’m thinking we quit all our clubs, and . . .”
“You already quit yours,” Jasmine interrupts.
“No, I know. But what if you quit yours too, and we start a women’s rights club? And we talk about the things we want, and we write about the issues that matter to us. How has Amsterdam Heights gone this long without a club specifically for women?”
“We did have the Equal Rights for Everyone class,” Mia says.
“Yeah, but that was for . . . everyone. You’re right . . . there hasn’t been anything,” Jasmine says.
“Dinner’s ready,” my dad calls out, totally messing with my persuasive flow. “Jasmine, are you staying?”
“Oh, thanks, Mr. Spencer, but I can’t tonight. I gotta get home. My dad’s cooking,” Jasmine says.
“You tell him I’m thinking of him,” my dad replies.
“I will, thanks. Chelsea, we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
When I walk into science class I notice that Mrs. Curtis has rearranged the room. She’s put the desks into a circle, and on the walls are big sheets of chart paper with words in the middle: Ethics, Race, Poverty, Research, Cancer. There are more words on the other side of the wall, all having to do with the unit we are studying, “The Use of Human Subjects in Medical Research.” We’ve been listening to interviews and reading excerpts from The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks for the past few weeks to learn about the story of Henrietta Lacks, a black woman whose tissue was used for medical research without her consent.
Mrs. Curtis gives us each a marker and asks us to move around the room to respond to the words on the walls. “This is a silent activity,” she says a few times. “As you write your responses, please take a moment to read what your classmates have to say.” I look at the sheet that says Race, and I write: a social construct with real disadvantages and advantages.
I step back and make room for others to write. I stand for a moment and read the other comments.
HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH HENRIETTA
LACKS. THIS WAS ABOUT CLASS.