“Thanks,” she says a little uneasily. “Listen, I’m sorry about what my sister said back there—”
“Oh! Don’t worry about it!” Her “sorry” is my cue to immediately shake my head and wave it off. Knee-jerk polite black friend.
“She didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t want you to be offended.”
“Oh yeah, totally. No way.”
“Cool.” Meg nods, genuinely smiling. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. James and I are trying to settle an argument.”
Out on the patio, James is sitting with Kelly Kline, freshly initiated to varsity cheer, and eternal student council president since eighth grade. (Who could deny her the title? She seriously takes pleasure in planning stuff, in like a scary way. I did a group project with her on The Outsiders for eighth-grade English, and she made like a million useless spreadsheets for the whole team.) Kelly is everyone’s friend. There’s nothing to really hate on her about. She’s careful like that.
James and Kelly are sipping from teacups, pinkies out. On the table is a full tea set, doilies and tiny sandwiches and a cupcake stand. Meg’s chair is decorated with feather boas, like she’s a bride-to-be. Someone’s iPod Shuffle deejays; it sounds like the Mountain Goats are playing.
“Help yourself,” Meg says, pointing to a pair of empty plastic chairs. I weirdly panic, then sit next to Kelly, start to panic about—chill.
I ask about their summers, and they all say “boring” at the same time.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Okay, so, Morgan”—James turns to me and returns his cup to its saucer—“yours will be the tie-breaking opinion.”
Kelly throws back her dirty-blond curls. “Are we still talking about this? Morgan, ignore them. Did you hear the new Weezer?”
“Kelly, we heard the Weezer, we talked about the Weezer, the Weezer is bad. I’m sorry, but it is just no Green Album and doesn’t even begin to touch the Blue Album. Anyway, the question of the day”—he narrows his eyes at Kelly—“which you very rudely did not answer, is: would you rather be raptured before losing your V-card, or do it with any musician living or dead BUT get left behind AND become Kirk Cameron from the Left Behind movie.”
“Wait, why do I have to be Kirk Cameron? That’s so random.” I smirk at the absurdity.
“It is! It is ridiculously random, and that is why it is not a legitimate would-you-rather.” Meg presses her palms to the table to restore order.
James slurps his tea and shrugs, self-satisfied. “Just to spice things up.”
“You guys remind me of Seinfeld,” Kelly blurts, a pitch too high.
“Which episode?” (I have legitimately seen all of them, so I could coast on this chatter for the entire afternoon if necessary.)
“Um, all of them, kind of.”
I snicker because I cannot help myself, and Meg snorts too.
James stands up for no reason. “Guys, let’s do something tonight.”
“Only in Dreams” winds to its crescendo, the last song on Weezer’s Blue Album. The best Weezer, obviously.
“I can’t.” Kelly is taking stock of some butterfly clips in her tote bag. “I’m going to youth group. You guys should come!”
“Why would we want to go to school when there’s still a solid two weeks of summer left?” groans James. “Let’s go to the movies.”
“Yes!” Meg chirps. “And cheese fries at Denny’s!”
I’m mostly quiet, studying them, letting the conversation swirl around me. I’m totally overcome with how difficult it is to just, like, be. In my first therapy session, Susan asked me, “What brings you pleasure?” and I was horrified that I couldn’t answer. Writing in my journal? Screaming Bright Eyes lyrics in my bedroom? Bette Davis marathons on Turner Classic Movies? I don’t think these are right, healthy answers. I’m too busy trying to level up to survival to even consider pleasure.
Anyway, they can’t possibly want me to tag along on their weekend plans.
“Consider it while I visit the loo,” James says with a bow, pushing in his chair.
“What are you doing tonight, Morgan?” Kelly scoots in. “Wanna come to youth group?”
“Oh, I’m not sure, I might have to go—”
“Oh my gosh, Morgan, I can’t believe I’ve never asked this! Do you and your family have a home church?”
This has to be one of my favorite questions from youth pastor types and other people’s moms. The simple script of my Personal Faith Narrative has been delicately crafted over the years to halt a lot of annoying conversations. I was baptized Catholic as a baby. I accepted Jesus into my heart at the age of five. And the magic line: I go to a black church. That one always shuts them up.
“Oh, awesome. That’s great.” Kelly doesn’t ask for the name. No one ever asks for the name. It’s not like they would know it, anyway.
(For as much as I’m made to feel like an outsider because of my race, sometimes I think this is my superpower: watching white people’s comfort and cool slide off their faces when I mention anything black. How fast they go from peppy and smug to terrified. I don’t know what they’re so afraid of.)
I look over at Meg and smile, pressing End on this missionary interrogation. “What movie are you guys gonna see?”
“No clue. James just wants to flirt with this cute guy who works there.”
“So,” Kelly inches closer to Meg and lowers her voice, as if James will hear from the bathroom inside. “Is James, um, seriously gay, or does he just kind of act like it and go along with it?”
“He hasn’t admitted to anything, so who knows. He’s just an attention whore.” She rolls her eyes lovingly.
Kelly laughs, so I chuckle too.
“He’s funny,” I say, and they nod. It’s all very polite.
“I just thought I’d ask because…well, you know the Bible is very clear-cut on this issue. And even the law in some states.”
As lifelong Christian-school kids, I know this is our party line, the approved and agreed-upon message. But it’s Saturday, and I wish Kelly would just turn it off. I didn’t grow up believing that gay people are sinners—we even have some in our family. (Of course, as is our way, we never talk about it. My cousin Richard’s boyfriend is still referred to as his “friend,” and he’s been coming to Christmases for seven years.)
I genuinely like Kelly, but this sucks. Like, who put this song on?