Plus, one of the major tenets of Christian schools, right after gossip and abstinence, is “I don’t see color.” Everyone acts like there’s nothing different about my race, but they’re just going by the script. We say the words, but it doesn’t really matter who they’re for or if we believe them.
Anyway, I was never a very good token, like Lisa Turtle in Saved by the Bell, or Gabrielle Union in 10 Things I Hate About You. I’m too weird. If I was white, I could come across as a knockoff ScarJo in Ghost World, or maybe the girl in Girl, Interrupted. I might even be cool or cool-adjacent, a manic pixie dream girl that guys go crazy for. But no one gives a shit about the black version of that.
STILL LIFE WITH ANXIETY ATTACK
At the suggestion of Susan and all the books (Living with Your Depressed Teen, or whatever), my parents have been aggressively trying to get me to be active, even though they learned long ago that I am not big into activities. (Here is a list of activities I endured as a child, my parents always offering a new idea, desperate for one to stick: soccer, softball, ballet, tap, gymnastics, swim team, diving, karate, voice lessons, acting classes, debate, cheerleading, modeling, volleyball. Shame after damn shame.)
The compromise this summer has been an introductory art class at a community college in Grand Terrace. Populated almost entirely by White Moms with gray hair and cargo shorts (two out of eight are named Susan), the class consists of painting freaking watercolor sunsets while Adult Christian Contemporary music bores you to death.
But there is a cute guy. David. He’s the only other person in the class who’s under forty and not white. And in the parking lot before our very last class, I finally talk to him. He comes up to me while I’m sneaking a cigarette and brooding next to my car.
“Hey.”
Dark messy curls shape his brown face, almost olive in the sunlight. His hair is an awkward length and frizzy, like he can’t decide how long he wants it to be. A worn-out Billabong T-shirt and navy church pants. Like he can’t decide on anything.
“Hey.”
“Whatcha listening to?”
“Sunny Day Real Estate.”
“Oh. Never heard of them.”
“Most people haven’t.”
“What kind of music is it?”
“Um…kinda indie emo.”
“Oh.”
The rest of the strip mall is mostly a ghost town, but I dart my eyes around anyway, as if even the storefront of the frozen-yogurt place is more interesting than talking to him.
He thrusts his hands into his pockets and scuffs his Vans on the pavement, carabiner jingling from his belt buckle.
“Should we go in?”
“K.” I smile weakly.
As we walk the few strides to the studio, I try not to let him see me glance over at his jawline, his arm swinging so close to mine. Me interacting with boys is excruciating, just disgraceful. I’m always crossing and uncrossing my arms; trying to hide my boobs or tugging at my jeans; trying to simultaneously come off as the ideal girlfriend and one of the guys; forgetting and then remembering my face and the rolls of flesh that make up stumpy, unsexy me.
In class today we’re doing still-life drawings with charcoal. The objects for everyone’s still life, positioned hurriedly on a card table before us, stare into me, garish and weird. I have arranged a tableau of stuff from my purse: a bubblegum-pink lighter, a bruised apple, the stub of a green crayon, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris.
It’s a weird day because it’s raining, but it’s that humid, almost-steamy summer rain. The dampness awakens something in the stale paints and dried brushes in the classroom. There’s a musty fog over everything. A quiet smell. The stillness makes me nervous and self-conscious. The room is a cocoon around me, everything pointed at me. The nineties posters of the color wheel and Matisse cutouts are closing in.
Then this dumb rom-com thing happens: as I reach for an eraser, my shoulder brushes against David’s. It’s a brief moment, but he turns to me and smiles, the teeniest bit of flirtation.
I picture all the boys from my class in the locker rooms before PE, changing into their sweat-stained Vista Eagles T-shirts, naming all the girls they think are hot, then landing on me and: She’s weird. The nice ones I grew up trading burned CDs with might be gentler: I could only really see her as a friend or She’s not really my type. The message is the same: gross.
And here’s the thing: I’m not even sure I think any of them are cute, with their white-boy freckles and spindly arms. That bland, all-American flatness. But I know I’m supposed to want them, and so I do. Am I immediately out of the running simply because I’m not just like everybody else? (Isn’t it weird what gets trapped in your head like a splinter? The little voice you hear so long it sounds like yours?)
In the parking lot, a Camry zooms by blasting Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” and a Susan giggles on cue. I can’t even muster the fake smile she wants in return.
I try to focus all my attention on my drawing but struggle with the apple’s contours. My wrist’s movements are totally out of my control. Annoyed, I look at the clock: still fifty minutes left in class.
Slip in my earbuds, attempt to get into a zone. Kim Gordon sings You can buy some more and more and more and more, and I smudge and smudge my charcoal lines. Nothing is recognizable. I don’t hear David or the White Moms, but I can see them laughing, breathing easily. Go for the book, a straight line, fail. Lick my finger and try to smudge more. Get embarrassed. Clench my chest. What the fuck am I doing here. Am maybe going to scream. Can’t move. Inhale and gasp for air like I’m in a pool. Eyes pin prick at my body. Abruptly zoom to the door. So awkward. Am I going to die. Will I pass out. Crouch on sidewalk, wring hands together.
* * *
—
After a few minutes my mind stops racing, and I come into focus. I’m still breathing like someone in a movie who’s going into labor. The rain has stopped, but the world is beginning-of-Wizard-of-Oz gray. My butt is wet.
“Heyyy.” It’s David, singsongy but tender, plopping himself next to me. “You okay?”
“I just need a minute,” I manage, probably snapping at him, probably being rude. I’m just so totally unfit for social contact right now.
“You, my dear”—he rubs my back—“are having a panic attack.”
“Huh?” I wriggle away, press my flat palm to my chest and neck and inhale deeply. “Yeah,” I breathe, glancing at him. “How do you know?”
“My girlfriend gets them sometimes.”