“Tye, you’ve got to start doing things that aren’t about speaking up for anyone, aren’t about learning about someone else’s culture—just fun. It’s summer. You can’t waste it being so serious all the time.” I take a big bite of food. So far, the greens and chickpeas are my favorite. Maybe being vegetarian isn’t so bad. I swallow, then say, “I’m going to teach you how to have fun.”
“And what do you want me to teach you?” Tye asks.
He looks me in the eyes, and I think he might be putting a spell on me. I can’t talk or move. I want to lean forward, kiss him, and tell him something provocative about all the things he can teach me, but instead, I take a long drink of water.
“What, you don’t think I can teach you anything?”
I try to think of something clever to say. I flirt back. “Well, what do you want to teach me?”
“Do you have any questions about Inspire Harlem?”
Oh, wait. He’s being literal. He really wants to teach me something.
“I thought maybe you might want to continue the conversation we were having the other night when we were all talking about music and the messages we get from media. Seems like you had a lot more to say.”
This is not a date.
“I, um, no—I don’t have anything else to say about that.”
“Oh, because, you know, if you ever, um . . . if you ever want to talk about stuff or ask me questions or just, I don’t know, tell me what’s on your—”
“Are you trying to recruit me for Inspire Harlem? Is that why you’re spending time with me?”
“What? No. No—why would you . . . no.” Tye is sweating a little, so he wipes his brow with his napkin. “I guess I’m not good at this. What I’m trying to say is, I want to get to know you. I just—I don’t know, you seem like you have a lot you want to say but you don’t say it. The other night, I really wanted to hear your thoughts. You can, um, if you want, you can talk to me.” Then, Tye starts laughing. “I guess I could have just said that instead of trying to be cool with the whole what can I teach you thing.”
“Um, yeah.”
We are laughing, and my nerves settle a bit. And I realize Tye is just as nervous as I am.
Maybe this is a date.
“I want to get to know you too,” I tell him.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” He picks up his glass and offers a toast. “Here’s to a new friendship.”
Friendship?
Then this is not a date.
I slowly lift my glass, clink it against his. To friendship . . . for now. But by the end of summer, I’ll figure out a way to get him to want more, to want me.
We start eating again, and Tye says, “The other day Ms. Lori had us working on our college applications. There’s a series of workshops Inspire Harlem is offering—financial aid, writing the personal essay . . . have you started yet?”
“Um, yeah. I’m trying to get early decision too.”
“Let me know if you ever want to work on your essay together. Maybe we can write together and swap to give each other feedback.”
“Sure,” I say. I’m not as far along as I should be, so it might take a while. And by not as far along, I mean I haven’t started. I have no idea what college I want to go to. I don’t even know what I want to do, who I want to be. I get good grades and all, but I think I should do a community college first, then a university. I don’t know if Aunt Ebony is going to go for that. One of the agreements I committed to when I moved in was to keep my grades up and excel in school. Going to college was implied.
Both Aunt Ebony and Aunt Liz have master’s degrees. My mom doesn’t even have her bachelor’s. No one in the family has ever outright said it to me, but the unspoken hope is that I don’t turn out like my mom. That alone is one reason that makes me want to go. I might not enroll to a big fancy school right away, but I’m going to one day. Even my mom wouldn’t have it any other way.
Our conversation goes on and on. The server has taken our plate, given us hand wipes, and refilled our glasses so many times, I’ve lost count. Tye is full of questions, asking me what movie I last saw, what my favorite thing to do on a Saturday is. We talk about our childhoods—favorite cartoons we watched, games we used to play, and then Tye says, “Okay, so Nala Robertson loved Rugrats and Dora the Explorer, used to be the double dutch queen of her block, loves the singer Blue, is a vegetarian, and works as a program coordinator at Sugar Hill Senior Living.”
“Yep. That pretty much sums me up.” Well, kind of.
“Any pet peeves?” Tye asks. “I’ve got to know what not to do.”
I laugh. “Um, I don’t know. Smacking,” I say. “I hate when people chew with their mouths open, you know? It just really annoys me.”
“Um, is this your way of telling me I was chewing with my mouth open?”
“Not at all. You have perfect manners.” Perfect everything. “What about you?” I ask. “What are your pet peeves?”
“People who randomly sing out loud.”
I laugh. “Really? What do you have against music?” I tease.
“I just—come on! No one wants to hear an off-tune version of a stranger’s favorite song.”
“But what if they can sing?”
“Nope. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even want to hear music through someone’s headphones. If a person’s music is so loud that I can hear it, that’s a problem. It’s so annoying.”
“Got it,” I say. “I will never burst out in song when I am with you. And I will keep all music I am listening to, to myself. Anything else I should know about you?”
“Liars,” Tye says. “I can’t stand it when people lie to me.”
And this is when I remember who I really am.
“So,” Tye says. “About this fun you are going to teach me to have . . . where to next?”
5
I tell Tye to meet me at Riverbank in two hours. That’s enough time for me to get ready—to change out of my regular, I-didn’t-know-I-was-going-to-see-a-fine-boy-today clothes into something more suitable for a date. Riverbank overlooks the Hudson River and has an Olympic-sized pool, a wading pool, tennis courts, basketball courts, and an eight-lane track with a field that is sometimes for football, sometimes for soccer. But to be honest, I don’t really care about all of that. I come for the skating rink. Now that it’s summer, the rink has ended its ice skating hours and is strictly for roller skating. Tonight is Teen Skate Night, where the lights are dark and everything glows bright and fluorescent and the DJ plays all the best songs, one song leaning into the next like falling dominoes.
I open my closet, stand in front of it, and try to find an outfit that’s perfect for both roller skating and turning a guy-friend into a boyfriend. I decide to keep it simple and change into my cute, fitted jeans (taking off the I’m-just-going-to-see-Grandma jeans) and I look for a top. Everything I have is cute—I’d even say fly. But Tye seems like the kind of guy who likes a more casual look. I mean, just about everyone in Inspire Harlem wears graphic tees with some kind of message and I don’t have any. I go into Imani’s closet. I slide her hanging shirts, looking for one that’s close enough to my style but still says I’m socially conscious. The first three graphic tees are of faces of women I don’t even know, so I pass on those. And then there are two that are just a little too intense for me. But then I see one that’s a perfect fit. A black shirt with white lettering that has a list of four names.