about.”
I look back toward the circulation desk. Rebecca is scrubbing the counter with a dust rag. I can almost see the varnish rising from the counter, and the steam rising from her head.
“She don’t have anything to worry about. Like I said, I have a boyfriend.” She glances at Rebecca. “She’s nice. Everybody thinks you two would make a nice couple.”
“Really?” I ask. “Everyone?”
The way she looks at me, I know she understands what I’m trying to ask.
“Don’t date her if you don’t want to. It’s a free country. But she’s got it bad for you. And from the way it sounds, you’re jonesing for her, too.”
That’s all she says. No jokes about the other white meat. No teasing about the black man’s kryptonite. No jabs about Mr. Oreo looking for a glass of milk.
She picks up her earbuds. “I’d better get back to work. This essay ain’t going to write itself.”
I take a scrap of paper and scribble my number on it. “Just in case you need to get ahold of me. About anything.”
She takes the paper. “Hey, whatcha got going on this weekend? Want to hang out with me and Jazzy on Saturday? It might take her mind off of home and that sorry boyfriend of hers.” She pops her knuckles. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to bring out the dominoes. And now that we have a third player . . .”
I think about lying or coming up with some excuse, but after the conversation we had, Violet deserves better. “I don’t know how to play.”
She blinks twice, like she’s processing the data. “Oh. Okay. We’ll teach you.”
I sit there, not sure what to say.
She’s already got her nose back in her book. “And if you want, bring Rebecca. That way we can play spades, too.”
I head to circulation, which smells of wildflowers and ammonia. And oranges and mangoes. “Thanks for getting me to talk to Violet.”
“No problem. I forgot you guys were even in here.”
Sure she did.
I reach across the wide desk and place my hand on hers. Mrs. Whittaker would have a heart attack if she saw, but who cares? “What are you doing for lunch?”
She glances at my hand. “You don’t want to go to the caf with Evan and Callie?”
“No. Let’s walk over to Pat’s.”
“Just us?”
“Yeah. Just us. Like we used to last year.”
She gives me a smile that grabs me and refuses to let go. “You’re buying.”
I squeeze her hand, smile one last time, and head for the exit. Right before I open the door, I look back at Violet and give her a head nod.
She sees me, and she nods back.
In high school, my friends and I owned two words — we were Black, and we were geeks. We had the soundtrack to prove the first: classic Nina Simone and Aretha Franklin renditions of “Young, Gifted and Black.” That song was as much a part of my regular diet as the lumpy and not-sweet-enough porridge I had for breakfast many mornings. My mom was an Excellence for Black Children mother, which meant that she battled for Parent-of-a-High-Achiever supremacy at monthly meetings and was quick to whip out the dashiki and boom box so that I could dance interpretively alongside my equally gifted and well-mothered friends at the annual Martin Luther King Jr. breakfasts.
We were on display at family gatherings, too — some evil auntie or uncle got the idea to have “the young people” perform every Thanksgiving before dinner. If we did not slouch to the center of the living room to recite a little Langston Hughes or perform a painful excerpt from our last piano recital, we could forget about eating. My cousins and I grumbled and threatened revolt, but . . . miss out on more codfish cakes and mac and cheese? We performed.
But let’s be honest. My friends and I didn’t need
that
much prodding to put excellence on display, especially the academic variety. We were serious geeks. Second proof: we voluntarily joined (and were the only members of) the math and debate teams. We brought
all
of our textbooks home daily (just in
I look back toward the circulation desk. Rebecca is scrubbing the counter with a dust rag. I can almost see the varnish rising from the counter, and the steam rising from her head.
“She don’t have anything to worry about. Like I said, I have a boyfriend.” She glances at Rebecca. “She’s nice. Everybody thinks you two would make a nice couple.”
“Really?” I ask. “Everyone?”
The way she looks at me, I know she understands what I’m trying to ask.
“Don’t date her if you don’t want to. It’s a free country. But she’s got it bad for you. And from the way it sounds, you’re jonesing for her, too.”
That’s all she says. No jokes about the other white meat. No teasing about the black man’s kryptonite. No jabs about Mr. Oreo looking for a glass of milk.
She picks up her earbuds. “I’d better get back to work. This essay ain’t going to write itself.”
I take a scrap of paper and scribble my number on it. “Just in case you need to get ahold of me. About anything.”
She takes the paper. “Hey, whatcha got going on this weekend? Want to hang out with me and Jazzy on Saturday? It might take her mind off of home and that sorry boyfriend of hers.” She pops her knuckles. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to bring out the dominoes. And now that we have a third player . . .”
I think about lying or coming up with some excuse, but after the conversation we had, Violet deserves better. “I don’t know how to play.”
She blinks twice, like she’s processing the data. “Oh. Okay. We’ll teach you.”
I sit there, not sure what to say.
She’s already got her nose back in her book. “And if you want, bring Rebecca. That way we can play spades, too.”
I head to circulation, which smells of wildflowers and ammonia. And oranges and mangoes. “Thanks for getting me to talk to Violet.”
“No problem. I forgot you guys were even in here.”
Sure she did.
I reach across the wide desk and place my hand on hers. Mrs. Whittaker would have a heart attack if she saw, but who cares? “What are you doing for lunch?”
She glances at my hand. “You don’t want to go to the caf with Evan and Callie?”
“No. Let’s walk over to Pat’s.”
“Just us?”
“Yeah. Just us. Like we used to last year.”
She gives me a smile that grabs me and refuses to let go. “You’re buying.”
I squeeze her hand, smile one last time, and head for the exit. Right before I open the door, I look back at Violet and give her a head nod.
She sees me, and she nods back.
In high school, my friends and I owned two words — we were Black, and we were geeks. We had the soundtrack to prove the first: classic Nina Simone and Aretha Franklin renditions of “Young, Gifted and Black.” That song was as much a part of my regular diet as the lumpy and not-sweet-enough porridge I had for breakfast many mornings. My mom was an Excellence for Black Children mother, which meant that she battled for Parent-of-a-High-Achiever supremacy at monthly meetings and was quick to whip out the dashiki and boom box so that I could dance interpretively alongside my equally gifted and well-mothered friends at the annual Martin Luther King Jr. breakfasts.
We were on display at family gatherings, too — some evil auntie or uncle got the idea to have “the young people” perform every Thanksgiving before dinner. If we did not slouch to the center of the living room to recite a little Langston Hughes or perform a painful excerpt from our last piano recital, we could forget about eating. My cousins and I grumbled and threatened revolt, but . . . miss out on more codfish cakes and mac and cheese? We performed.
But let’s be honest. My friends and I didn’t need
that
much prodding to put excellence on display, especially the academic variety. We were serious geeks. Second proof: we voluntarily joined (and were the only members of) the math and debate teams. We brought
all
of our textbooks home daily (just in
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