“What’s this?” Malcolm finally holds up a burned CD labeled in fading black marker:
THIS AL
BUM IS
PERFECT
My handwriting. It’s Neutral Milk Hotel, In the Aeroplane over the Sea.
“It’s perfect.” I grin cheesily. (I make a lot of jokes to myself.)
We don’t say anything, just listen to the first song uninterrupted.
“Pretty good. What’s the band again?”
“Neutral Milk Hotel. I know—the name makes no sense.”
“Cool, maybe I’ll check it out.”
“Take the CD! I’ll burn another copy. Besides,” I kid, “you need my whole collection, anyway, before I go to college.”
“Okay,” he laughs. “I don’t know about all that.”
Banter! I turn to him and we bust up with the giggles; we temporarily laugh it up. I roll down the windows and turn up the music. A moment of escape. My eighties BMW, Rudy, putts along, boxy and stale-smelling and glorious.
The brisk morning all around you, the perfect soundtrack, a long road, and someone riding shotgun you trust more than yourself: it could be the way a movie starts.
We pull into the parking lot for Vista Christian School and Vista Christian Church, the singular buzzkill. “Alllll right,” I exhale as I park between two identical Honda Civics. While Malcolm collects his stinky football pads and almost-empty backpack from the trunk, I glare at the giddy nerds scurrying around all enthused about their Christian education.
Malcolm gives me an ingrained hug goodbye when some buddies howl at him from the entrance, and before he jogs off, we dab each other with goofy smiles, like no one can see us.
“See ya.”
“Have a good day, sis.”
I made it. September. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true. I have infiltrated high school once again, and triumphantly, kinda. I count to five and summon every grain of energy in my body, preparing myself for a day of normality. Normality, which I wear like a too-tight hoodie. Maybe I can make it work. All I have to do is pretend. Say my lines. Let the day blur around me.
But now I’m standing before the doors of my unfortunate, awkward reality. I’m not in the mood to pretend to care about God. I am totally not in the mood for all these awful smiles and idiotic people. Hordes of chipper white kids rush past me, reeking of Axe and sickly-sweet Victoria’s Secret perfume. I’m flooded with dread at the thought of all the months ahead—all the weird dramas I won’t see coming, all the possibility, the rumors and fights, the boys, the shame of PE, the pro-life, the African American History Month, the election stuff, the dances, so many freaking worship songs, not to mention keeping my antidepressants a secret. I won’t see any of it coming, just like last year, and I won’t be prepared.
“Excuse you!” someone says under their breath. A jab at my elbow sends all the noise of the hallway rushing back to me.
Some senior guys scowl as they push past. I mutter “Sorry” and a voice bellows, “What’s up with her outfit? Hey! What are you supposed to be? Are you in a play or something? Hey, you!”
(It’s like I’m freaking Ruby Bridges or something. Why is this my existence?)
(By the way, I’m wearing a very good outfit. I usually am. A vintage navy polka-dot shift dress and my high-top canvas Chucks. No one around here has style.)
And, of course, following behind their snickering is Marissa, my old best friend, and Jordan Jacobsen, a generally terrible person who was once a nice-enough kid. Marissa’s just grinning at nothing in her little bubble, holding Jordan’s stiff, bored arm, wearing some terrible tank top. We notice each other at the same time, and my eyes pretend to dart around.
“Hey,” her voice squeaks haltingly.
I wave and grimace back. Suddenly a paw claps at my shoulder and I jump, startled. “Miss Morgan Parker!”
I spin around dramatically. “Hi, Mr. K.”
As tall and gray and corny as ever.
“Can I look forward to you torturing me again in class this year? You’re in the AP section, right?”
“Yeah…second period, I think.”
“Bright and early, uh-oh!”
I side-eye back at him. I get the sense he thinks our little rivalry is cute; I do not find it cute. He’s super annoying and obsessed with Reaganomics.
“Don’t worry—they let me caffeinate in the teachers’ lounge now.” It’s true: I’m terrible without coffee.
(All my teachers, so familiar with me and my whole thing, have no idea what to do with me. On the one hand, I’m consistently an excellent student. On the other hand, I’m a pain in the ass, I talk too much, I crack jokes freely and flippantly, I have one of the loudest laughs in America, and I blatantly disavow rules and decorum. The short, little black girl in the weird outfit, who you can hear cackling from all the way across the hall, who will never just do what she’s told, will never just smooth down the edges, assimilate better.)
“Lucky me, and in an election year! You must be excited,” he says with a Grinch smile. “You’re probably loving all this Obama stuff.”
“I mean, I can’t vote yet.” I shift my weight, consider screaming something about my time of the month and flying right back to my car. Instead I say my lines. “But, yes, for the record, I would be voting for the Democratic Party and the first black president of the United States. Like, duh!” Now I’m talking with my hands and everything, doing my shtick.
“Of course! I have to admit it’s an interesting election cycle. So get ready!”
Maybe I’m hallucinating: he does some kind of shoulder shimmy, flicks his fingers at me like liver-spotted guns. Ugh.
Looking for my first-period classroom, I try to be anonymous, but it’s impossible. There are sixty of us in our class, and we’ve been together since seventh grade, some of us since pre-K. I forgot how exhausting and repetitive this day would be, with all of the How was your summer?! and Oh my gosh, hi! I’m not in the mood to catch up. It takes a lot of energy to fake-smile and lie through your teeth all day.
My first class is Honors American Lit with Mr. Howard, who I had last year for Creative Writing. I pretty much won his heart with all my writings in that class. He’s the one who granted me teachers’ lounge access—he usually asks me to refill his cup, too.
I’m a pain in the ass and all that, but I’m objectively a good student, and I mean well. I care about learning, I love reading, I’m passionate about writing, I don’t mind helping explain things to other students, and I genuinely want to be good, despite all the ways I don’t fit the usual profile. Something I’ve learned to do, at the very least, is be helpful. So my teachers enlist me for little tasks—grading, photocopying, note-taking—just to keep me busy. The school part of school is basically chill. The problem is that I’m here, and I’m me.