The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson Page A

twenty-four-hour journey.
    â€œI thought about making Japanese lunch for welcome home,” Hoshi said shyly. “But then I thought, Marcus and Michael would like something truly American.”
    â€œPizza!” the boys yelled in unison.
    â€œYou didn’t.” Nony rolled her eyes.
    Hoshi nodded with a guilty smile. “With do-it-your-self toppings, all lined up on the kitchen counter, ready to go.”
    Denny and I were invited inside to partake of the do-it-yourself pizzas, but we declined, knowing it took energy to chat, even with friends, and they all probably needed a good nap. Amanda was a convenient excuse. “We have to pick her up at the Metra station,” we said, giving every-body one last hug and climbing back into the minivan—leaving out the itty-bitty detail that her train didn’t get in till almost five.
    AMANDA POPPED OUT OF the Metra train, lugging her backpack. “You both came to pick me up?” She seemed highly amused. “Good grief. I was only gone one night.”
    â€œTwo days,” her father reminded her, taking the bulging backpack and giving her a big squeeze. “Two long, gloomy days. The house was quiet, the phone never rang, no snack dishes stacked up in the living room, no undies left in the bathroom—”
    â€œDad!” she screeched, but he made her laugh.
    I opened the sliding door and climbed in the middle seat so Amanda could sit up front—a ploy Denny and I once figured out if we actually wanted to talk with one of our offspring while in the car. “Did you have a good time with Patti?”
    Amanda shrugged and looked out the window. “I guess.”
    That got a sidelong look from Denny. “You guess? I thought you girls were best buddies back when.”
    Another shrug. “Yeah, guess so. Once.”
    This wasn’t what I expected. “Did something happen, honey?”
    â€œNot really . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I thought she was going to leave us guessing. But suddenly she whipped her head around, eyes flashing. “It’s just . . . Patti and her new friends are so . . . so ignorant. They were, like, telling me all about the cute boys at school, and all the R-movies they sneak into, and they asked if I liked anybody, and I said kinda and told them about José—”
    I pressed my lips together.
    â€œâ€”and they, like, got all weird because he’s Hispanic and started asking all sorts of embarrassing questions, like if we’d, you know, done it yet, and what’s the matter, don’t I like white boys anymore? And is it true Latino guys just want weird sex—”
    â€œAmanda!” My mouth flopped open in spite of myself. “Patti said things like that to you?”
    â€œWell, not exactly Patti. It was some of her friends we met at the mall. And she laughed, too, and didn’t seem to get it. I mean, I tried to tell them he’d been shot last spring—and right away, they started making jokes like, ‘Ooo, Manda’s sweet on a gangbanger.’ They made me so mad! ” By now Amanda was practically yelling. “So I just walked away.Who cares about them, anyway?”
    Denny pulled into the garage from the alley. “You walked away? What did Patti do?”
    â€œShe, like, ran after me, and we took a bus home. But I think she was upset that I’d made her leave her friends. Later she tried to ask me about José—trying to make it up to me, I guess—and I really wanted to tell her how he told the drug dealers to butt out of the park that day so his kid brother and sisters could play, and he plays a tight set of drums at Iglesia, and he wants me to have a quinceañera, and that he’s one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met.” By this time Amanda was climbing out of the car. “But it felt like . . . like throwing pearls to the pigs. So I just told her to forget it!”
    She slammed the car door.A