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  “Typical,” she spat, as if she was the one who was dumped. “But that’s how it should be. I can’t stand when I see white chicks with black guys or black chicks with white guys.” She punched a fist into her hand to enforce her point.

  “Why?” I asked. I thought about Jill. I thought about Matt.

  Before Vivica had a chance to defend her prejudice, A&I turned down the Motown soul that was playing throughout the cookout and asked for everyone’s attention.

  “Thank you all for coming. It’s so wonderful to see all of us together. It’s been years since we’ve done this. Now that we’re back, we have to do this more often.” My mother ran her fingers through her graying dreadlocks and looked at my father to continue.

  “When we moved to Rainhaven almost fifteen years ago, we knew that one day we would come back home. It took longer than we originally planned, but timing is everything. We are just so blessed. We were able to purchase this building just blocks away from where both Annie and I were raised. I can’t tell you how good that feels.” My father placed his hands over his heart in a rather dramatic gesture.

  “Yeah, you sure can’t,” Aunt Lena snickered.

  My father handled his sister’s comment like he always did—he ignored it. My mother grabbed his hand in an act of solidarity.

  “Anyway, now that we are back, we want to be closer to each and every one of you. There’s nothing more important than family. And with that, I ask that you raise your glasses and toast to family.” I think he meant plastic cups, or for some, beer bottles.

  “Who toasts at a cookout?” Aunt Lena frowned. “That’s some of that uppity-black-folk crap.”

  “And with that, let’s party,” my father yelled to avoid any confrontation. My mother let out a shrill laugh and clapped her hands together, making her bangles the background music for her festive mood. Frankie Beverly and Maze—A&I made sure I knew all the classic soul music—blasted from the waist-high speakers my cousin Mikey brought over. Uncle Cleo and Aunt Lena danced like old people with hip pain. Aunt Lena dropped to the ground, legs wide open, and slowly came up like an intoxicated snake.

  “Ma, stop droppin’ it like it’s hot,” Sondra yelled at Aunt Lena. Even though her callous comments could make grown men cry, I loved my aunt. But I was also thankful I didn’t have to call her Mom. Sondra got up to reprimand her mother.

  After Vivica finished her grape soda, she pulled out a compact mirror and reapplied fuchsia lipstick. Her wavy lips and green eyes were the extroverts of her face, while the rest of her features faded into the background.

  “So what’s Maplewood like?” I asked.

  She made a movement with her mouth like she was about to laugh, but didn’t. “I’ma tell you right now, Maplewood ain’t nothing like that rich white school you went to.” I assumed she’d found out about Clearview through the parent grapevine, with the roots being my mother.

  “I know it’s more diverse.” I really didn’t know how to respond. She said it with such judgment.

  “Diverse?” She released a wicked laugh. “We ain’t got no white people. It’s black, all black. You sound like one of those white girls on TV. You need to do somethin’ about it.”

  Like what? Take out my pink magic wand, wave it from side to side, say “Kazaam,” and instantly I don’t sound like Lindsay Lohan anymore?

  “And you can’t come lookin’ all crazy like you do now. Maplewood’s about bringin’ the hotness, not bein’ a hot mess.” She shook her head as she pulled one of her curls with her fingers.

  “You one of those black girls with a white-girl mind that thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t think I’m better than anyone.”

  “We’ll see.” That’s all she said, before finishing a piece of pound cake and leaving without saying goodbye.

  I was glad when everyone finally left. The last few days left me tired and injured. I sat for a few minutes on the cracked steps in the dark. I didn’t want to move.

  CHAPTER 2

  I woke up the next morning feeling that I’d rather spend the day under my down comforter. My mind drifted to the days when I used to play ship on A&I’s queen-sized bed. It was a stupid game, the point being that I lived on a mattress and couldn’t leave because I’d die in the water. At this moment I wished I could make my bed my living quarters for the remainder of my existence in Baltimore.

  But I was unprepared to do that. My stomach was rumbling and the smell of cinnamon toast seeped under my bedroom door.

  I maneuvered around the cardboard boxes in my room and banged my toe on one that contained books. I finally found the white poodle slippers that Jill had gotten me for my birthday as a joke.

  I hadn’t taken a shower last night. I was too depressed to clean my body. I walked into the kitchen wearing the same clothes and stains from yesterday.

  A&I were engaged in their Sunday ritual: reading the New York Times and discussing the world over a meat-free meal.

  “Lena hasn’t changed one bit,” my father said.

  “She’s still outspoken,” my mother agreed. She was wearing an oversized Howard University T-shirt from her alma mater, the same college that A&I wanted me to attend in three years.

  “I was just telling your mother that Vivica agreed to show you which bus to take to get to school. You can meet her out front at seven-fifteen tomorrow. I know you were nervous to take the bus alone.” My father removed his eyeglasses and looked ten years younger. He was wearing a gray tank top that showed that he still exercised and maroon sweatpants that were dusty from doing work on the remaining apartments.

  “So did you and Vivica hit it off yesterday?” my father asked.

  “Not really,” I revealed as I buttered my toast.

  “These things take time,” my mother said without looking up from the Style section. “Barry says that Vivica is a very smart and ambitious young lady. Sounds like you two have a lot in common.”

  I looked around the bright banana-colored kitchen. I was never a fan of yellow. It always reminded me of puke. In three days, my mother managed to unpack all the common living areas, including the living room, which had built-in bookcases to house their hundreds of books. She neatly arranged all of her kitchen utensils and apparatuses, although she was far from a chef. She had a repertoire of ten or so dishes, five of which I actually liked.

  “It must be so hard to be a single father in this day and age,” my father said. He was telling Vivica’s personal business. “Especially when raising a daughter.”

  “Did her mother pass away?” I felt sorry for her. That would possibly explain the attitude.

  “No, her parents are divorced.” My father freely provided more information.

  “I know, but he seems to have it under control,” said my mother. “Vivica seems to be heading in the right direction.”

  If that direction was going toward Viciousville with a stop at Cruelty, then she was indeed on her way. I didn’t feel like eating. I left half of my toast soaking in syrup.

  “I miss Rainhaven.” I leaned on my elbow and attempted to twist my hair, but it was too matted from last night’s sleep.

  “Hey, missy, cheer up,” my father said as he rubbed my arm.

  I thought about crying. A&I hated to see me in tears. If I was one of those opportunistic teenagers, I would have used their guilt to score money and other gifts.

  My mother got off her stool and gave me a hug that only mothers know how to give.

  “Sweetie, in life sometimes, there’s change,” she said. “We all have to learn how to embrace it. Just because we moved doesn’t mean you have to completely leave your life in Rainhaven behind. You can still visit Jill and you two can talk whenever. I’m sure you’ll make new friends at Maplewood in no time.”

  A&I’s unwavering optimism annoyed me.

  CHAPTER 3

  I didn’t shower until three o’clock in the afternoon. After spending forty-five minutes daydreaming in hot water that turned
lukewarm, I spent too much time thinking about how I would spend the rest of the day. Boredom hit me hard.

  Usually the day before a new school year, Jill and I would play tennis or listen to Amy’s outrageous plans for ruling Clearview.

  I needed to talk to someone who knew the old me. I grabbed the cordless from A&I’s room and dialed Jill’s cell phone. Maybe she would have some words of wisdom, some grand insight, or at least she would listen to me whine about my dismal life.

  I was nervous she wouldn’t answer, but she picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey, Jill,” I said enthusiastically, “it’s Nina.”

  “Oh, Nina, I was going to call you today, but I wanted to give you time to get settled.”

  It was good to hear her voice, although it was hard to make out what she was saying above the commotion. It sounded like she was watching the New Jersey Nets play live.

  She told me she was at the mall with Amy. Apparently all of Rainhaven was there.

  “I didn’t want to come but Amy insisted. I had to pick up a sports bra for cheerleading tryouts. How’s it going?”

  A pang of disappointment hit me. Jill and I were going to try out for the cheerleading squad per Amy’s urging. My coordination was deficient and Jill wasn’t very athletic, but as captain, Amy guaranteed spots for us.

  I never needed a sports bra to hold up my swollen pimples, but Jill on the other hand was a favorite among the guys. She was more everything. More busty. More glamorous. More attractive. She made it all seem effortless. I was a chocolate Hobbit to her five-foot-eight stature.

  But never once did she make me feel less.

  Jill’s the daughter of a black father and white mother. She resembled Mariah Carey with golden blond hair. I always forgot that she was biracial because she never made a big deal about it. She was just Jill.

  Her parents are like a black and white version of the Huxtables. Her father is a psychologist and her mother is a lawyer. They were two of the few adults in Rainhaven who my parents associated with.

  “It’s going,” I replied. Where to? I wasn’t sure.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” she said. Jill was always perceptive about my moods. Plus it was her shoulder that I’d cried on when my parents told me we were moving.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. I heard Amy chatting loudly in the background. Jill laughed. She was occupied.

  I wanted to say, “Everything.” I held back the tears by biting my lip and closing my eyes tightly. I didn’t know why I was ashamed to cry in my room. I was alone.

  Instead, I said, “Nothing, just tired.”

  “Amy wants to say hi.” Jill put her on the phone.

  “How’s your new place?” Amy asked in her high-pitched nasal voice. “Fabulous or what?”

  “Or what,” I responded. “No more house. We are squished into a three-bedroom apartment.”

  “An apartment? Wow, that’s a bummer, sorry to hear that. But guess what? Andrew went to the movies yesterday with Wendy. Can you believe that?”

  Amy was a brunette-turned-dirty-blonde because she was convinced that blondes do have more fun. Her world was filled with boyfriends-of-the-week, cheerleader narratives, and superficial fantasies of being the most popular girl in the United States.

  A&I couldn’t stand her. When Amy’s parents found out that my mother was the same woman who had penned the controversial national bestseller Fear of a Black Parent, they forbade her to see me for three months. A&I reluctantly went to the Goldsteins’ minimansion, drank very expensive tea, and convinced Amy’s parents that the book was not racist.

  But Amy and I had been friends since the second grade, when she’d defended me against that troll, Erica, who had kicked me in the stomach. Amy pulled her by her hair to the ground and told me to get a hit in. I did, and it felt good. We’d been friends ever since, despite our differences.

  To reflect said differences, we classified ourselves by what we ordered at Starbucks. Amy was a latte, Jill was a hot chocolate, and I was an apple cider. Amy always maintained a separate clique, a mixture of cheerleaders and athletes, but she once told us that we kept her grounded.

  “Did you break up with him?” I was only partially interested. I positioned myself stomach down on my bed with my feet intertwined in the air.

  “Well, not yet. He is the cutest guy at Clearview and I want to take him to the back-to-school dance and rub it in that slut Wendy’s face. Then maybe I’ll break up with him.”

  I always marveled at Amy’s reasoning, because it never seemed to make sense to me. But her plans always worked in her favor. She was my sinister alter ego. All the things I would never do, she did.

  “Have you met any new people?” she asked.

  “A girl just moved into one of my parents’ apartments and she goes to my new school.”

  “Is she ghetto?” Amy asked.

  I hated when she used that word. To Amy every person who didn’t live in Rainhaven was ghetto. Saturn cars were ghetto (her father’s buying her a BMW when she turns sixteen), Target was ghetto because it sold things at discount, and Marsha, one of the few black girls at Clearview, was ghetto because she had a scholarship.

  “So have you seen Matt?” I changed the subject.

  “No, thank God. It’s good that you’re away from that scruffy boy. I never knew what you saw in him.”

  I was hoping she would have some news to report, like he was torn up over my move and couldn’t get out of bed because he was too distraught.

  “It’s so different here, you know?” I said. “I really miss Rainhaven.”

  “Why did your parents want to move to the ghetto anyway? Too bad you are missing cheerleading tryouts. You should see the tacky freshmen that are trying out. They are pathetic.”

  Cheerleading was Amy’s life. She wanted to become a professional one with some pro sports team. She thought it would increase her chances of marrying a rich athlete.

  “Ohmigod, is that Mike? I have to go.” She handed Jill the phone.

  “Let me go and try to stop Amy from doing something crazy,” Jill said. But I wasn’t ready to get off the phone and return to my empty life.

  “I am so glad you called. Maybe you can visit soon. You know you can stay with me.”

  “Thanks,” I said, although I knew that visiting would be too hard right now. I wouldn’t want to leave.

  There was some banging downstairs that I didn’t notice until I hung up with Jill. My parents were still renovating the last few apartments. I looked at my alarm clock, which was sitting on the radiator that made noises during the night. It was seven-fifteen.

  I decided to pull out an outfit for tomorrow since the majority of my belongings still occupied boxes.

  The thought of unpacking was too much to bear. I rummaged through the cardboard, which held my entire wardrobe. Limited didn’t begin to describe my clothing selections. Maybe deficient or void would be more suitable. Years of private school wreaked havoc on one’s options.

  This is what I owned:

  Three pairs of jeans, one of which was severely ripped at both knees.

  Tons of T-shirts, mostly souvenirs from my family trips around the world. They all looked similar: some pale color, with Jamaica, South Africa, Italy, or some other country prominently displayed in the middle.

  A few dressy outfits: simple skirts, dresses, and blouses.

  Tons of sweatpants and workout clothes. But not the cute kind. The practical kind.

  A few sweaters, most of which I’d gotten on sale from J.Crew.

  Hardly any shoes. Nike cross-trainers, scuffed Hush Puppies, leather Jesus sandals, and a pair of black formal shoes with a block heel that I wore when I had to dress up.

  I looked at the clothes that were in a pile in front of me and I sank down to the floor. I didn’t have anything to wear. Nothing. Vivica’s words echoed in my head. I was going to be a hot mess tomorrow.

  I wanted to smack myself for not thinking about it until today, when it was too late
to do something.

  I decided on my favorite pair of ripped Levi’s jeans and a Port-au-Prince T-shirt that my father’s Haitian friend had given me. It was far from glamorous, but so was I.

  CHAPTER 4

  Last night I should have been nauseous from all the tossing and turning. It was a frustrating sleep. Before I got a chance to wipe around my eyes and the cracks of my mouth, A&I came into my room with tropical fruit salad that my mother had assembled, pancakes topped with strawberries, and a glass of orange juice.

  “Good morning, Queen Nina,” my father said. “It’s your big day. How do you feel?” he inquired with that proud-dad smile.

  “I feel like I don’t know what I’m getting into,” I said honestly.

  “It’s natural to feel some uncertainty, everything is so new,” my mother said. “New city, new school.” She searched for a place to put the food and chose one of the boxes.

  “I know, but I don’t know how to handle all the newness.”

  “Don’t handle it, just continue to do what you do and be who you are,” my father advised.

  I hardly touched my plate even though I would have chosen fruit salad as my last meal. My stomach was a bundle of nerves. Its low rumbling told me that food might not be a good idea. What if I got some sort of stomach thing on my first day of school? I didn’t even want to think about running out of class, down the hallway, and into the bathroom because my insides were on fire.

  It only took ten minutes to shower and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I scrutinized myself in the mirror. My shirt was a little too big, my jeans a little too worn, my hair a little too bushy for a ponytail. I needed something to give me a boost, but I didn’t know what. I opted for lip gloss that Amy had left at my house one day. It tasted like strawberries and made my lips look like I’d just eaten a plate of greasy chicken.

  I tucked a notebook, pens, and my schedule into my denim book bag, which was probably the most fashionable item I was wearing. I distributed kisses to A&I and headed out the door.