or from anywhere else. At least we the only two with this major that I’m seein. You seen somethin different? Nahright. You see what I see. What you think about that?”
“I think it’s not true.” He pointed at one black boy here, one mixed girl there. “There’s, like, several.”
But in fact the black boy and mixed girl weren’t even freshmen. The boy, Erycha remembered from the student speaker’s opening address, was an editor for the school newspaper. And the girl was the chief coordinator for the ASU, Asian Student Union, and MSU, Minority Student Union (the BSU having been dissolved into this more embracing exclusivity).
Erycha explained these facts and watched him think it over for a second before nodding, conceding. “A’ight, now you know to trust me.” She smiled. “So, what you think about that?”
“About us being the only two?” Touissant weighed his options, his fabrications: he didn’t want to tell her that his choice of major was passing, false and solely contingent on her presence, but on the other hand telling the truth would require less thought. “I think you make up for the scarceness,” he finally said.
Erycha narrowed her eyes into slits and shook her head: “You still gotta mack, huh?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well I’m just askin. Seriously.”
The newspaper editor visited them where they sat on the stone bench along the spacious walkway beneath the sunlight and heat. He informed them that it was 2001 the Year of the Lord and yet in the state of California, at one of its premiere universities, he was still the only field Negro on the staff of the college’s supposedly representative newspaper. His voice echoed down the empty walkway like down a funnel. And as he preached on, his red, black and green beads clinked like dice against his neck.
Touissant listened and thought what it would be like to write for or edit the school newspaper. His goals hovered vaguely round the possibilities of writing books, speeches, closing arguments. Writing for the paper would be a great way to find his literary voice. But for now he was a dance major. He shook his head, no.
The editor looked to Erycha, his beads rattling like a gambler’s last chance. “What’s your black gift, sister?”
“Ballet.”
The mixed girl had hazel eyes and mocha-colored skin. Erycha looked at her and saw the earth rotating, fucking and birthing. The girl smiled and waved and approached. She was wearing a clingy, tie-dyed dress that sort of lilted right over her breasts in the attractive way that only a garment made with individual care could. Intricate lace-stitching, clearly hand-done, ran along its sides, fringing each moment of her form.
Erycha could tell that the girl wasn’t going to leave her alone until she said whatever it was she had to say.
“Heyyy,” Erycha drawled, not sure what to make of the girl but figuring it was probably best to speak first.
“Hi! Hi there!” The girl’s voice was a chime struck by a champagne glass. Defiant of the slow summer day, she broke quickly into an introduction. “My name’s Kai Jefferson. I coordinate the MSU, Minority Student Union. The Union motto, Teach, Educate, Organiiiize.” Her voice broke over the word. “Just so exciiited, sorry. It’s my personal slogan, too: Teach, Educate, Organize. You probably already know that this is a majority-minority school and a majority-minority state, California, so we are an important institution on campus and in our many diverse communities. Although the minority population is increasing, our population as African-Americans on campus is shrinking. Dropout rates for African-American students are increasing, 35% now. GPAs and other academic indicators are trending distressingly. I’m one-eighth, Granddaddy is St. Lucian, or whatever you call it, so I know the intimidation, the real isolation of the black experience at the university. But that’s where MSU comes in and saves academic lives.”
“Coo’,” Erycha said, cutting Kai off.
“Ballet?” Touissant asked.
“Yeaaah,” Erycha sighed, “Yeaaah. What about you?”
“You’re a ballerina,” he said, evading the question. “Tell me more.”
She didn’t seem to notice his dodge. “Ballet,” she began, then paused self-consciously, as if choosing her words more carefully than she knew she should. “I’m tryin. Tryina get on pointe, so it’s all about the shoes right, the ballet shoes. Cain’t be on pointe without ’em. But they cost.”
“But you need them, so you’ll get them.”
“Hopefully you’ll be correct. But they cost.” She looked away at the sun or something. “And somebody went an’ stole my old pair so it’s not like I can just be payin for the same thing twice, na’mean?” Her fierce eyes came back to him. “What about your struggles, though, that’s what I wanna hear about.”
Right then, a white kid who Touissant recognized from the guided tour appeared in their view. His shadow fell across the stone bench and rippled along the heat waves above the concrete like risen black water. “What’s up, you guys.” He smiled.
“Hey.”
“Heyyy.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting something.”
“Nah.” Erycha shook her head. She tucked her arms in against herself and smiled up at him: “What’s up?”
“Yeah. Um, I think they’re about to get into the next thing, whatever it’s gonna be. Anyway, you guys were way over here, and I didn’t think you’d hear so . . . ”
“Thanks.” Touissant nodded. He tapped Erycha’s knee and stood.
She stood slowly, unfurling herself in elegant little sections. She moves with real grace, he thought, like every dancer I know.
They started back toward the center of campus. The white kid was talking, making background vocals to Touissant’s thoughts. The white kid said that he had noticed how the MSU girl and the guy with the red, black and green beads had both so rudely interrupted Touissant and Erycha’s conversation and how people could really get on your nerves when they did shit like that. Terrible, truly. Especially agenda people, people with gender and racial agendas. As far as the white kid was concerned, there should be no unions or alliances or fraternities or sororities or group identities whatsoever. He was an individual, he said, and individuals didn’t conform. All organizations and groups were formed by conformist minds, he told them, especially the organizations and groups founded on college campuses.
These were the kinds of things a white kid would say, Touissant thought. The kind of things whiteboys had been telling him for years. Probably why he had never had a white male friend. His mind wandered to the late lunch he was supposed to have with his parents and with his sisters, who attended USC and were in town only briefly. There was no getting around the commitment. He would either need to take his chances on running into Erycha later, or interrupt the whiteboy and invite her to lunch right then.
Erycha’s hands opened and closed upon an imaginary razorblade. Her weapon was back at home, where she left it
