her brown, wrinkled finger at me. “Boy, you’ve had a hankering for that girl ever since you first laid eyes on her,” she said. “Might as well have it stamped across your forehead. Your nose is so wide open, you can smell Jessica’s perfume from all the way across town.”
Grandma was always spouting out those old sayings. I had tried to use some at school a few years ago, but my friends had no idea what I was talking about.
“I already told Cam that he doesn’t even have a shot with Jessica,” Myron said. He bent down and whipped an imaginary smudge from his shoe. “She’s a feminist now, always wanting to argue. Before you know it, she’ll have everyone in dashikis, eating kale, and giving up pork.”
“First, there’s nothing wrong with being a feminist,” Grandma said. “Don’t you two want women to have the same rights as men?”
Both Myron and I nodded.
“Good, then you’re feminists,” she said. “That being said, ain’t no way in the world I’m eating kale. And I’ve been eating pork chops for too long to give them up now.” She finally turned back to the television. “Y’all have fun. Be back home by midnight.”
We nodded. We’d take a midnight curfew any day. Myron’s mom was way stricter than Grandma. She’d have us back at home by nine and tucked into bed by ten.
“And be safe,” she yelled to us as we stepped outside. “Don’t go walking around like you ain’t got no common sense.”
As soon as we got to the car, Myron switched out his sneakers for a pair of slip-on athletic sandals. “Driving causes a crease in the shoes,” he said. “Gotta keep them fresh for as long as I can.”
That was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. What was he going to do—walk like a duck?
With his shoes safely stashed in the back seat, Myron pulled out of the driveway and cranked up the radio. An old-school rap song thumped out of the speakers. Myron leaned back in his seat and started bobbing his head to the beat. I rolled my eyes, then opened the center console.
“Hey!” he yelled. “What are you—”
“Just looking to see what else you have in here.” I pulled out a CD. “Guys and Dolls?”
“It was for a play,” he mumbled. “Plus, the theater chicks at school really dig Broadway.”
“Yeah, right.” I was sure that if I searched his phone, I’d find a lot more show tunes. Not that it was even a big deal. Myron was a really good singer, actor, and dancer. When he was younger, he bragged about wanting to be a “triple threat.” Last we talked, he was even considering majoring in theater in college—if Uncle Greg let him.
I returned the CD and closed the console. “Okay, so tell me about Jessica again.”
He groaned. “Man, how many times do I have to say it—you ain’t got no shot with her. I bet she doesn’t even like guys anymore. Especially not guys like you.”
That last sentence hung in the air for a moment.
Especially not guys like you.
Myron turned down the radio and cleared his throat. “Cam, what I mean is—”
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I get it.”
And I did. I knew what kids called me behind my back. An Oreo. A Black boy trying to be white. I wasn’t hard enough. Hood enough. Woke enough. If anything, Myron should have said “guys like us.” With his love for musical theater, he fell in the same group as I did. He could try to wear fancy shoes and blast rap music, but he was who he was.
“Anyway,” he finally said, “you should be more focused on Tiffany. You know she’s been asking about you all year. And you know she’s into smart, high-yellow dudes. Even corny, no-game fellas like you.”
I just laughed. I liked Tiffany a lot—as a friend—but she was a little too wishy-washy for my tastes. Always into the newest fad—whether that be shoes, clothes, music, whatever. But she was also crazy smart. She’d only finished her sophomore year and had already damn near aced the SAT. She was planning to major in engineering in college. If Dad caught wind of that, he’d for sure try to set us up himself.
I opened up Facebook to see if the guys from home had liked my photo. They had, along with a few other people from school. No lie—it felt pretty good.
I went to Jess’s page, but she hadn’t posted anything in a few days. Then I went to Myron’s page. It took a minute or two to scroll through the usual junk that he stuck on his page before I finally found his post about the party. Jess had mentioned that she was going to be there in the comments, but she hadn’t added anything more to her original message.
Myron had told me that Tarik lived on the other side of the city. But as we pulled into the gated neighborhood and passed all the McMansions, I realized I was totally wrong about where I thought we were going.
“Let me guess,” Myron said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You thought we were going to the hood just because my boy’s name is Tarik and he’s Black.”
“No …,” I mumbled, clearly busted.
Myron quickly parked, opened his door, and began to switch shoes. He acknowledged a few kids as they passed by—a head nod to a group of Black dudes, and a more subdued hand wave to a group of white kids.
The house was full of people. The music was turned up loud—booming bass with rapid-fire rap lyrics on top—and I swear I could feel my teeth rattling with each thump of the tower speakers. The large, wall-mounted flat-screen was showing the game—Golden State against Cleveland. The Warriors were way up in points, and it was only the second quarter.
“You sure she’ll be here, right?” I asked as we stepped farther into the den.
“She’s here,” he said. “Anyone who’s anybody will be here. Just don’t start whining and begging to leave when you crash and burn at Jess’s feet.”
I followed Myron and joined the group of Black kids we’d seen outside. Myron gave them daps.
“Nice kicks, my man,” one of the guys said to Myron.
“’Preciate it,” he replied. “Gotta step up my game for the ladies.” Then he nodded toward me and introduced me to the group.
They looked me up and down. “Those are the Jordan 1 Mid Retros, right?” another boy said. “Nice.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Thank you!? Who said that? Why couldn’t I say what Myron said? Or even something like plain old Thanks.
“Y’all hooping at the park tomorrow?” Myron asked.
They nodded. Myron wasn’t a great basketball player, but he understood the game way better than I did. Me and my friends weren’t into sports.
The conversation switched from basketball to football. The other guys would ask me a question every now and then, but I mostly tried to keep my mouth shut.
“Why
