8
Marcus
She was ten minutes late, I thought as I glanced at my watch for the third time. I stood in front of the entrance to the pool, pacing back and forth, debating whether I should go back inside, call it a night, watch some BET. I was happy to see Rena heading my way, a colorful beach towel folded in her arms. She’d changed clothes and was wearing a swimsuit cover-up that just barely covered her thighs and was tied around her neck. Underneath, she wore a white bikini that I could see through the flimsy material. A pair of flip-flops on her feet, she walked briskly toward me.
“Sorry I’m late, Marcus.”
“I was about to leave,” I teased. “I don’t have all night to be waiting on you, girl.”
“Shut up, Marcus.” She grabbed my arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Rena led the way to her little Hyundai Sonata that was parked in the lot. She unlocked the power doors and we both hopped inside. I let my window down to catch a cool breeze as we pulled out of the complex and onto the main road. As we merged onto Interstate 45 headed south, I started messing with the buttons on Rena’s radio in search of a hip-hop station.
“Try 104.9, Marcus.”
“Thank you,” I said, and tuned the radio to 104.9. When I heard Keyshia Cole crooning, I knew it was the right station.
As we got closer to the beach, I could smell the salt water. We parked in a nearby lot, and I was the first to step out of the car. I waited while Rena sat in the car and refreshed her makeup. What was the point of putting on makeup when you were about to go for a swim? I thought about it for a moment but didn’t bother to try and understand. It was just one of those silly things that girls did.
When she was finally done, Rena and I walked along a dirt trail that led to the beach, our towels in tow. I was prepared for a nice swim in the ocean, dressed in a pair of swimming trunks and an old T-shirt. Finally, I could feel the warm sand between my toes and the blue water stretched as far as the eye could see. Jet Skis raced up and down the ocean, and sailboats slowly made their last journeys across the water. It was getting late, and most people were packing things up and heading home.
Rena spread her beach towel out on the sand, and I stretched mine out next to hers. She plopped down and I sat beside her.
“Isn’t it beautiful out here, Marcus?”
“It’s cool.”
“The beach is a very romantic place,” she said. “I love coming here.”
“You come here very often with your boyfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said.
That wasn’t the picture I had. I’d seen her with the dude in the Monte Carlo and he might as well have been wearing a T-shirt that said RENA’S BOYFRIEND across the front of it. But I let it go, changed the subject.
“So what grade are you in, anyway?” I asked Rena.
“I’ll be a senior when school starts. Planning to go to FAMU when I graduate,” she said. “What about you, Marcus?”
“I’ll be a junior. Thinking about either Yale or Harvard.”
“Yale or Harvard? Those are schools for nerds,” she said.
“According to who?”
“According to the African-American population, Marcus. News flash…black kids don’t go to Harvard or Yale.” She laughed. “What about an HBCU like Morehouse or Clark Atlanta?”
“I had a white coach tell me once that I wasn’t good enough to go to Harvard or Yale. So it’s been my sole purpose in life to prove him wrong. Why can’t black kids go to an Ivy League college just like white kids? What makes them better than us?”
“It doesn’t make them better than us. It’s just the way things are, Marcus. They go to white schools, and we go to black schools,” Rena said. “I’m not interested in a school like that. I want to go to a school where I can learn about my heritage…and where other students look like me.”
“I hear you,” I said, and then stretched out on my beach towel, placed my hands behind my head and gazed
Marcus
She was ten minutes late, I thought as I glanced at my watch for the third time. I stood in front of the entrance to the pool, pacing back and forth, debating whether I should go back inside, call it a night, watch some BET. I was happy to see Rena heading my way, a colorful beach towel folded in her arms. She’d changed clothes and was wearing a swimsuit cover-up that just barely covered her thighs and was tied around her neck. Underneath, she wore a white bikini that I could see through the flimsy material. A pair of flip-flops on her feet, she walked briskly toward me.
“Sorry I’m late, Marcus.”
“I was about to leave,” I teased. “I don’t have all night to be waiting on you, girl.”
“Shut up, Marcus.” She grabbed my arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Rena led the way to her little Hyundai Sonata that was parked in the lot. She unlocked the power doors and we both hopped inside. I let my window down to catch a cool breeze as we pulled out of the complex and onto the main road. As we merged onto Interstate 45 headed south, I started messing with the buttons on Rena’s radio in search of a hip-hop station.
“Try 104.9, Marcus.”
“Thank you,” I said, and tuned the radio to 104.9. When I heard Keyshia Cole crooning, I knew it was the right station.
As we got closer to the beach, I could smell the salt water. We parked in a nearby lot, and I was the first to step out of the car. I waited while Rena sat in the car and refreshed her makeup. What was the point of putting on makeup when you were about to go for a swim? I thought about it for a moment but didn’t bother to try and understand. It was just one of those silly things that girls did.
When she was finally done, Rena and I walked along a dirt trail that led to the beach, our towels in tow. I was prepared for a nice swim in the ocean, dressed in a pair of swimming trunks and an old T-shirt. Finally, I could feel the warm sand between my toes and the blue water stretched as far as the eye could see. Jet Skis raced up and down the ocean, and sailboats slowly made their last journeys across the water. It was getting late, and most people were packing things up and heading home.
Rena spread her beach towel out on the sand, and I stretched mine out next to hers. She plopped down and I sat beside her.
“Isn’t it beautiful out here, Marcus?”
“It’s cool.”
“The beach is a very romantic place,” she said. “I love coming here.”
“You come here very often with your boyfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said.
That wasn’t the picture I had. I’d seen her with the dude in the Monte Carlo and he might as well have been wearing a T-shirt that said RENA’S BOYFRIEND across the front of it. But I let it go, changed the subject.
“So what grade are you in, anyway?” I asked Rena.
“I’ll be a senior when school starts. Planning to go to FAMU when I graduate,” she said. “What about you, Marcus?”
“I’ll be a junior. Thinking about either Yale or Harvard.”
“Yale or Harvard? Those are schools for nerds,” she said.
“According to who?”
“According to the African-American population, Marcus. News flash…black kids don’t go to Harvard or Yale.” She laughed. “What about an HBCU like Morehouse or Clark Atlanta?”
“I had a white coach tell me once that I wasn’t good enough to go to Harvard or Yale. So it’s been my sole purpose in life to prove him wrong. Why can’t black kids go to an Ivy League college just like white kids? What makes them better than us?”
“It doesn’t make them better than us. It’s just the way things are, Marcus. They go to white schools, and we go to black schools,” Rena said. “I’m not interested in a school like that. I want to go to a school where I can learn about my heritage…and where other students look like me.”
“I hear you,” I said, and then stretched out on my beach towel, placed my hands behind my head and gazed
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