1
We’re never going to make it. This is it. My life is over.
In the days and months that follow this tragedy, when they speak my name, they’ll say in hushed tones, “She died as she lived: full of complaint and bile, mere inches from her goal.”
Mom twists to smile at me in the back seat.
“See, June? The doors aren’t even open yet!” she says.
My best friend, Imani Choi, is riding shotgun, and it’s good because this way my mom can’t get the full force of my eye roll.
“I know they’re not open yet, Mom. That’s not the point.”
Outside the convention center, there’s already a snaking line along the sidewalk up the street and around the corner. A milling press of hundreds of early birds waiting to get in.
ZombieCon! is the biggest thing this town has ever seen. For the first time, it feels like the new convention center might reach its capacity, at least in the exhibit hall and ballroom. They’re saying up to ten or even fifteen thousand people are projected to attend the con!
“Look at that line,” I moan.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Imani says.
I take a deep breath.
It’s not Imani’s fault we’re not already in line for Zombie-Con! Even though we’d arranged to spend the night together, and said we’d get here before sunrise, and even though I’d texted Siggy last night, to remind her again of the importance of getting here early. And even after I had set two alarms, and set my mom’s alarm as well.
We’re still running late.
It’s Mom’s fault. She laughed this aren’t-you-cute indulgent laugh when I told her to get moving this morning, that the early bird catches the worm, the world isn’t going to wait for you, rise and shine, all those nagging things she says to me every morning to go to obnoxious school. But now the one thing that I really want, the one thing I’d worked for, well, the one fun thing, and Mom had the nerve to say, “Hold your horses, I need coffee.”
Then she moaned and complained, leaning against cabinets and counters, imitating me on school mornings. Paying me back for how hard I am to get going most mornings, and laughing like it was so original.
And as if that wasn’t annoying enough, after coffee, and after Imani finished putting on her makeup (which she doesn’t even need because her brown skin is flawless), on top of all that, I had to listen to Mom ask Imani about the colleges she would apply for if the early decision one didn’t work out. Which, I know, is the single issue that stresses Imani out so much, even if she’s used to parents asking about it because they all ask.
Then Mom continued asking about other scholarships Imani might apply for (she’s already got one sponsored by a local law office) and Mom kept going, Do you know if Siggy is planning to take the SAT again? June is, you know that already, next Saturday, and maybe if there’s time while you’re standing in line, you could help quiz June on the test-prep app . . . on and on and on.
I just kept quiet in the back seat. We were almost there; I’d worked for this day all summer, saving all my summer jobs money that didn’t go toward gas. Between summer school and my jobs, my white skin barely even tanned, because I barely went outside during daylight, it felt like.
So I’m determined. Nothing but nothing is going to ruin today, not even the Math Booster app.
And not the fact that I’m retaking the SAT for the third time next weekend.
And not the fact that I’m not sure any college is going to admit me if I fail math again.
Someone has to let me in, right?
Right?
And not the fact that it doesn’t really matter if I do take the SAT again. My score isn’t going to improve. We all know I have a learning disability. In math and math-y things. So why do I have to keep banging my head against this wall?
And not even the fact that there’s a massive zit in the crease of my right nostril—and it looks horrible and hurts, too—on this day, this one day, when I’m going to take a million pictures and when I even have a coveted photo op with one of the stars of Human Wasteland.
The photo is the pièce de résistance of this, my first con experience.
The car line for the drop-off circle creeps forward, and Mom finally changes the subject from college and the SAT.
“Has your mom had a longer commute with all the protesters?” she asks Imani.
Imani’s mom, Naomi, is a civilian contractor on the nearby army arsenal test range. There’s been talk recently that USAMRIID (the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) has established a field office at our arsenal, which would make sense if it’s true, because Senoybia is also within an easy commute of the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.
But a lot of people don’t like the idea of the army medical research field office on a test range, and so there’s been an influx of protestors outside the arsenal gates.
“No, Mom says the drive time is about the same,” Imani answers. “But last week she dropped off two boxes of donuts on her way in: one for the protestors, and one for the military police at the gate.”
“I just love that,” Mom says. “So diplomatic and thoughtful.”
Imani quirks a smile at Mom.
“Well, everyone also waves and gets out of the way for her now,” Imani says.
Mom laughs and turns onto the road that runs along the front of the convention center drop-off circle. She whistles low. “Wow. That’s a lot of people.”
“I told you it was a big deal,” I say, the words snapping between my teeth sharper than I mean, but would you look at that line?
“I know,” Mom says. “I mean, I knew. But still. Wow.”
Outside the car window, the rising sun tinges the silhouette of the convention center a pinkish gray, like a Hollywood backdrop only not in LA but here, in basic, boring, nice-place-to-raise-kids Senoybia, Georgia.
I’m not joking, they actually put that in the tourism brochures and on, like, the town website and stuff. Not that it’s dull, just that it’s a great “family town!” And stuff like “Slow down! Give Senoybia a try!”
It’s a nice place, sure. But I can’t blame anyone, Imani especially, for looking forward to graduation and college. Our high school is like only 10 percent students of color. It’s embarrassing how white it is.
So, I am excited for Imani next year, no matter where she goes, or how far away, because I know she’s really looking forward to a larger city, and being around more people like her, black or Asian or biracial, and being in a town that isn’t quite so Mayberry.
I mean, I’m looking forward to that, too! For my own self. It’s just . . . I’m not entirely sure I’m graduating. Or getting into a college.