Everyday People by Stewart O’Nan

thought it was important to know. She hoped someone would ask about it.
    â€œI’d like each of you to read at least one book from this list this semester. History isn’t something that’s done with, it’s what’s happening right now. The purpose of studying history is to influence history. To
make
history. Every person in this room is going to make her or his own history.”
    Vanessa wrote this down, even though it seemed obvious. She wrote down everything Professor Muller put on the board, which wasn’t much. Mostly the professor leaned back against the desk and went on and on in these long, perfect sentences about oral traditions in different African cultures and how it was important to take these into account before looking at decidedly American texts.
    â€œAmerican in what sense?” the big guy behind Vanessa said, and she turned to look at him. He was fat and kind of Sinbad-looking and had a leather jacket and a Black Power pick in his hair like Ice Cube. He glared at the professor like he was debating her.
    â€œIn that their authors resided here and were influenced by the dominant culture, whether they were of this country or merely in it.”
    â€œIn it,” he insisted.
    â€œThat’s what we’ll discuss next time.”
    She assigned the Du Bois, and then it was time; everyone started putting their backpacks together. “And I want you to have arguments for both sides,” she ordered, “not just the one you agree with.”
    In the hall, waiting for the elevator, Vanessa overheard Sinbad saying, “Thesis-antithesis. Completely European concept. It’s another form of brainwashing.”
    It was true, Vanessa thought on the bus, but what other way was there to think? How did you even think at all, all the different factors that went into it? It seemed too huge a concept to grasp, and she shook it off and studied the plastic ads above the windows. Be All You Can Be. Learn Computers at Triangle Tech. Like her mother would ever let her. Outside it was nice, the light still lingering, pretty. And it was just her first day. It was only going to get worse.
    Rashaan was in the living room, gnawing on his plastic snap-together blocks in front of the TV. She picked him up and nuzzled him—pudgy and so smooth. Those big cheeks. He giggled and then hiccupped. “Did you miss me? Did you miss your mama?” He smelled of fabric softener and curdled milk, and she set him on her hip.
    Her mother had kept her supper in the oven. Vanessa thanked her, and her mother just said, “Uh-huh,” meaning she’d have to thank her again later, at length. She looked tired; she still had her nametag on and the white Nikes all the nurses wore. Vanessa sat Rashaan on her lap and picked at her chicken.
    â€œEverything go okay?” Vanessa asked, meaning with Miss Fisk. She watched Rashaan, and they were lucky—she always did a good job, it was good for her after Bean—but the other day she’d left a cake in too long and the fire department ended up coming.
    â€œShe’s fine. How was class?”
    â€œGood,” Vanessa said.
    â€œI hope you had fun, because I wasn’t having any fun here, let me tell you. First thing I did when I came home was make supper. I’m still not done cleaning up and I haven’t even started the laundry.”
    â€œI can do that.”
    â€œYou’ve got to eat, and then you’re taking care of him. He’s been a little devil since I picked him up. Oh, and his father called. Twice. He wants you to call him.”
    â€œThanks.” She kept eating.
    â€œAre you going to call him?” her mother asked.
    It was none of her business. All she knew was that they’d broken up a month before the accident, and Vanessa wanted to keep it that way.
His father
—she was the only one who called him that. Vanessa looked up from her string beans, and her mother looked away, all salty, like