We veered onto the highway ramp and started the journey. The landscape beyond my window blurred together for just under two hours. Bright greens and healthy browns most of the way—surprise explosions of color from wildflower fields along the journey. This ride felt different than earlier trips to and from Broadlawn. As we sped past all the nature, I thought about how much time we spend rushing from thing to thing, skipping over what’s in between. I made myself a promise to be better about that.

  When we got to my home, where my parents had lived, loved, and waited almost eight months for my return, I hesitated. Aunt Mel and Smith would spend the night in my old room—I mean, my real room—and then head farther north for their vacation in the mountains the next day. This was our last time together as the family we had become. A different kind of family than I had ever had. Smith pushed the gear into park and exhaled.

  “Man, I’m hungry. I wonder if Mimi or Keith cooked.”

  “Don’t get in here calling her that. You know she gone trip and I don’t feel like doing this with y’all today,” Aunt Mel said. “This is the start of my break from school. I got two weeks before classes start back up and I don’t need y’all kicking off my vacation on a bad note.”

  “Congrats on your 4.0, by the way, baby.” Smith batted his eyelashes and leaned over to smooch Aunt Mel. She blushed and presented her cheek for the smooching.

  “Why, thank you, baby.”

  “Hey y’all?” I squeaked. They both turned over the shoulder of their seats and peered at me in the back.

  “I, um. I just—wanted to say thank you. Thank you. For everything.”

  Smith opened his mouth slightly, then closed it. He looked over at Aunt Mel and smiled softly. Maybe whatever he had to say didn’t mean as much as that smile. Aunt Mel glanced at him, then back to me.

  “You’re welcome, baby,” she said, reaching back and patting me on the leg. “We’ll miss you. Come back and visit whenever you feel like it. Maybe you can even hang out with Feven.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said.

  “Shall we?” Smith urged, his stomach gurgling loud enough for me to hear.

  “Let’s, my dear,” returned Aunt Mel. We hopped out of the car, and I walked up to the duplex with bags in hand. I inhaled deeply and waited, heard feet shuffling behind the door.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  * * *

  “Good luck in there,” my pops called as I walked down the pathway into the YMCA. Smith had given me a couple of his shirts to keep before I left Broadlawn—ones I had worn for special occasions during my stay with them. “They look better on you anyway,” he had said, chucking them into my room from the hallway. He bit down on his bottom lip, contemplating much too hard for it just to be about collared shirts.

  “You good, Smith?” I asked, noticing his sober expression.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, nephew. Just, uh. Hope you enjoy the shirts. You go up there and look sharp. Not that you need it to impress them people. But, uh … yeah. I’m just happy I could give you something, you know. That I had something I could give you before you leave.”

  I stood up from the bed and walked over, wrapping him in a tight hug. He froze, then slowly moved to rest his hand on my shoulder. Smith—an extraordinary feeler—a floodgate of emotion, and so conscientious. Always trying to prevent spilling too far over into unwanted territory. I finished the hug with a big squeeze and faced him.

  “You gave me a lot, Unc. And I appreciate it all.”

  Now I was headed into the city’s biggest YMCA to “impress them people”—namely, the programs director and the after-school coordinator. I had applied to work as a part-time tutor for the middle schoolers in the summer program. If I landed the gig, summer would be sweet. The Y was only ten minutes away from our duplex.

  I wanted to focus on social studies and English, but I had been to the Y enough times to know that there were always two million kids and two and a half staff members. I was sure they’d have me tutor whatever I could remotely grasp if I got hired. That was fine too.

  I’d learned most of what I knew about college applications from Feven over the last eight months. I still wasn’t sold on college, but if I wanted the option, I’d need to add a little more to my résumé. Before I got expelled from Central, I hadn’t been very involved in extra curriculars. My grades were good, so I had that going for me. Aside from the expulsion, my disciplinary record was pretty clean. If I could just get myself some meaningful experiences, then I could definitely get admitted to one of the state schools.

  Tutoring was just the beginning. I had already looked into a bunch of different volunteering opportunities around town, plus I could do hours at the detention center when I visited Aunt Mel, until she got her new job, that is. Probably join some clubs too.

  I felt hopeful. I had time to be hopeful.

  The programs director was a chubby white lady with messy brown hair and rosy cheeks. She smiled wide, like she needed to convince you of her excitement. How do white people always get in charge of stuff in the hood? The coordinator was a young brown-skinned woman, maybe a few years older than me, with colorful nails that matched her makeup, and jet-black hair. The coordinator did most of the talking, and most of the talking she did was with her hands.

  “So, Mr. Rogers, have you ever worked as a tutor before?” the coordinator asked.

  “Not officially. But, um. I kinda ran my own business for a while. And I help out almost all of my friends with their work, even some of the older ones. And … I also tutored one, um, student outside my school last year for most of the semester.”

  “Well, hey now, that sounds like some experience!” The director nodded encouragingly with a serious expression. “What grade was the student from the other school you tutored? And what subjects?”

  “She, um. Well. She wasn’t a student, really. I’m sorry. She was an adult. And I was helping her get ready for a citizenship test. You know, like, for a green card.”

  “Wow!” the director held her hands over her cheeks. “That is … different! Serious stuff. What sort of material is on those tests? Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever even thought about one, much less taken a look-see for myself.”

  “Yeah, I hadn’t either before I met her. But, um, it’s mostly stuff about history, and politics, and the government. Some geography too, I guess. So, that’s what I’d really like to focus on. Social studies—maybe some English. But I’m open to whatever, of course.”

  “Well, it’s good you’re open, because there’s no telling what kids will need, and we sort of have to be ready to handle whatever they bring in,” said the coordinator.

  “As long as there’s no physics homework,” I joked. Neither of them laughed.

  “Did she pass?” the director asked.

  “Huh?” I responded.

  “Your citizenship student. Did she pass the exam?”

  “Oh.” I shifted in my seat. “Um, yeah. She did, actually. And working with her inspired me to make these.” I reached into my bag. “And I could make more of them, or different ones, you know, depending on what students need help with.”

  I produced three of my new storybook-style study guides from my bag. One for the major historical events in the United States during the twentieth century, one about the evolution of the government and its branches, and one specifically for the citizenship test. I had planned to mail that one to Feven and Aunt Seggie once I got the job.

  “Wow!” said the director again. I guess that was her signature phrase. “Very impressive. These look so professional.” She swapped study guides with the coordinator. “Did you bind these at the print shop downtown? That place is amazing.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Um, no. I bound them in Broadlawn. They have a print shop there.”

  “Broadlawn?” Her smile suddenly shrank away. She cast a worried look over toward the coordinator, who looked a bit unsettled herself. “The Broadlawn two hours south of here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What on earth were you doing there? That’s not a very safe place, is it?” the director asked, continuing to bore her gaze into the coordinator.

  “I, um. Well, I was there to attend school.” I stopped short.

  “Hold up a minute. Do you even live here?” she asked. “Because we’ll definitely need someone local. Someone who represents our community. Not somewhere … like that.”

  My heart beat faster. “Yes, I do live here,” I said. “I go to Central. Well, I’m about to go there again.” I saw their patience waning in their expressions. I inhaled and decided to confess.

  “I got expelled from Central last year and completed my year at Broadlawn Alternative School. I put it in my cover letter—I figured it might be a problem, so I wanted to be up-front,” I choked down guilt. A hot flash of anxiety blanketed me. “But I passed my requirements for reentry and I’m starting my senior year back at Central in the fall.”

  “Let me see those.” The director outstretched her hand and took the copies of my résumé and cover letter from me. She pored over them, scanning, flipping the pages with a fast thumb and forefinger. The coordinator wrung color into her paling hands.

  “How did this make it through?” the director asked the coordinator, right in front of me. The coordinator, as caught off guard as me, stammered before pulling it together.

  “We-we’re still collecting applications!” she began. “But not many have come through … um, I believed this was a strong one from the first applicant pool. It made sense to bring him in early and start the interview process.”

  The former Director of Wide Smiles guffawed and rose from the table. “Xavier, can you give us a moment together? Thanks.” I sidestepped her awkwardly and maneuvered out of the room, turning my back to the massive window in the wall to give them privacy. I rocked back and forth from heel to toe. Nothing about the way I had been treated differently once the director found out about Broadlawn struck me as odd.

  When you grow up in a place like where I grew up, you get pretty used to people finding any excuse to keep you where you’re at. I thought about Feven and her secrecy—her family’s aversion to sharing too much. Once people know things about you, they infer and assume other things. They create a version of you they feel entitled to make decisions for. You talk too much, they judge you. You talk too little, they count you out. I’d learned from watching Kenny that sometimes you gotta hustle in silence. The world will see you shine eventually.

  “Mr. Rogers?” The coordinator poked her head out of the door after a few minutes. I turned to face eyes full of apology, a mouth turned down with just the slightest hint of sympathy.

  “I wanted to thank you for coming in. You can go now, okay? We’re going to be calling you and letting you know.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I frowned. “Thank you.” I turned to go.

  “Do you want these back?” She held out the study guides as I scurried away.

  “It’s okay. They’re copies,” I called over my shoulder.

  I made my way down the hall and turned out the door and into the light. My pops was still parked at the curb, leaning up against the car smoking a cigarette. He put it out with his heel when he saw me approaching. I yanked the door and plopped myself into the bucket seat.

  “Less than stellar?” he asked after a quiet moment, leaning back, controlling the steering wheel with one hand. The car engine murmured just a bit quieter than his speaking voice.

  “They’re gonna ‘call me.’” I made the air quotes with my hands.

  I hung my head and felt the tightness in my throat, the stinging behind my eyes. My pops took one of his calloused palms and squeezed the nape of my neck, moving down into my shoulders. I exhaled deeply and offered him a weak smile.

  “Hey, maybe they will, son. Maybe they will.”

  We pulled off the curb and cruised down the middle of the narrow one-way. The sun was high in the bright, clear sky. A few wispy clouds spread themselves through the atmosphere—birds flew to reach them, but never could. I let my feelings come and eventually my nerves settled. My pops drove slowly, the long way around the block, making time for me. Making time for us.

  “Are you having this kinda trouble, Pops?” I asked.

  “What kind, son?”

  “Like, getting a job. Now that you’re out … and people look at you differently.”

  He rubbed his chin and leaned back in his seat, steering with a commanding, heavily tattooed arm. He bit the inside of his cheek as he thought of what to say. Ma always said I looked just like him when I did that.

  “I think, um. I think folks like us—that don’t come from having a whole lot—are always looked at differently, if that makes sense. Prison or no prison. But havin’ a record sure don’t help. Right now, I’m just trying to be patient and go through the steps.

  “But you have a different challenge,” he continued. “Even though you’re my blood, people not gonna see the same thing when they look at you as when they look at me. Because of the color of your skin. I know your mother has had a lot of talks with you about this. I wish I had something more I could really say—”

  “It’s okay, Pops,” I cut in. “I just wanted to know how you deal with … the rejection, I guess. Knowing that you can do something. That you might even be the best at it. But it’s, like, nobody believes in you. Nobody wants to give you a chance.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He rubbed his chin again. “I think … that if you’re the best, then you’re the best no matter what anybody else believes. Even if they never see it. It’s enough that you know. Either way, don’t let anyone tell you what you can’t do.

  “If someone doesn’t want to make space for you, make your own space. Be grateful for everything you’re given, but be courageous enough to go after what you deserve. Nothing worth having is ever easy to achieve.”

  I nodded as we turned to circle the block again. Kids played, running and jumping over each other, shouting and smiling, full of hope and unaware of all the people and systems in the world working to keep them in the undertow. Innocently unaware. It terrified me, for their sake. There was so much coming for them to fear.

  But for now, they were just kids playing.

  Running and jumping over each other.

  Shouting and smiling.

  Full of hope—the way it should be.

  LESSON 5.5

  Something like Right

  Time crawled slower than a snail the next two weeks while I waited on pins and needles to hear back from the YMCA. Kenny called me every couple of days to keep my spirits up. He said something about watching pots that never boil or something. One of his country idioms that I was too anxious to understand.

  “Enough about you and back to me,” he said over the phone. “I been saving up. I got about a quarter of the money for the medical bills. Alyssa pulling all A’s this semester. This rate, I’ll have the hospital paid in full way before she graduates.”

  “That’s awesome, bro,” I said. “You’re really doing it. It’s gonna work out. It’s gonna be just like you said it would.”

  “’Preciate that, city boy. I gotta thank you too, you know. I know how to make things happen. Fast money. Quick success. Right to the top. But that’s not your style. You like to move a little slower. With Feven, with school, with your folks. And watching you do it … well, I guess I realized taking your time ain’t so bad. Sometimes it’s perfect.”

  I gasped mockingly. “Oh my God, did I teach the exuberant Kenneth Cardoza a life lesson?”

  “Aye, aye, settle down, man,” he said. “First of all, don’t be calling me words I don’t know, I’ll just assume they’re insults. Secondly, chill out with the government name. You don’t know me like that. And finally, you ain’t really teach me nothing. I just observed you and learned. You basically like a science experiment.”

  We both burst into laughter.

  Another week passed, and I did chores around the house. I made more study guides on more topics. Fed the ducks in the park next to Central High School. I even mowed a few lawns in the neighborhood for extra cash.

  The days crept on.

  My pops came up with the bright idea of selling my study guides online. Not to my classmates—we figured that would be some sort of honor code violation (look at us, two convicted criminals, worried about the rules)—but maybe to students at other schools or independent tutoring centers. If nowhere had the space for me, then I’d start making my own space. Like Pops had said.

  I’ll never forget it—it was a Thursday. The night was sort of muggy and thick. The kind of night where frogs and crickets argue back and forth beneath the darkening sky. My ma grilled a few hamburgers while my pops sliced up some tomatoes from a little garden he had started keeping on the side of the duplex. They weren’t quite ripe enough, but they were still good. Our neighbors came over to our side from their porch and Ma threw a few more burgers on the grill. The adults were having wine. I had sparkling cider. We celebrated nothing in particular. My favorite kind of party.

  I helped my folks wash up the dishes and they disappeared into the back room. When they came back out, they were dressed for the evening. Ma had on a cream T-shirt with a graphic peach on it and some khakis with sandals. My pops had on his finest linen shirt—super breathable—with cargo shorts and a panama hat.

  “Well, what do we have here?” I chuckled. “Are y’all headed somewhere?”

  “Yes, yes. We’re headed out.” My ma smirked. “You got something to say?”

  “Naw, I meant are y’all headed to the same place, together? ’Cause I can’t tell by the ’fits,” I snickered. She threw a dish towel at my head and elbowed my pops for laughing with me.

  “We’re going to drive up to the riverfront and take a walk. It’s a nice night,” said my pops. “May have a little more wine. You know there are restaurants and shops all along there.”

  “You kids be careful,” I joked. “If you have one too many and need me to drive you home, just call. I’ll catch a ride up there.”

  “You? Drive us home?” my ma started. “I’ll be sure to behave accordingly so it doesn’t come to that.”

 

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