you would have thought you could depend on the mercy of christ, or at the very least, the sense of the superintendent, to protect us from the current affliction that is the sun by cancelling all classes until i can walk a foot forward without my flesh melting off bone — but i swear to god they hate us up in the glass offices, up where decisions are made, suspended somewhere between heaven and earth. none of those rich white people up there even knew what sweat felt like rolling down your cheek here in king's city, but they tore off and wore our face like make up in council meetings, on tv, kicked down dominoes in our name, with our phantom fingers. it's a corrupt kind of system, but it's best to just works towards leaving it rather than beating it. one of these days i'd steal my face back and walk somewhere better. this is the only optimism i can afford.
on account of uncle munro — whom i love like a little boy does his cool older brother, bless his arrhythmic heart — earning barely enough to keep the upstairs lights on, we have one car, a beige cadillac chimarron, which cass got to use the most because she's a witch and casts spells on munro to make him love her more than me, and because she sinks her head into her bowl of soup and prays with him at dinner, but that is different.
as a result, i am forced to walk the half mile to deon gregory's house—this used-to-be scrawny sophmore kid that gained something of a school-global prescence when he started injecting fluids into his biceps and smoking grape-flavored e-cigarettes in the bathroom—every single day. his mother knew uncle munro from grade school, where they were the only kids interested in things other than building blocks and freeze tag, and bonded over this facts. she drives deon and me, and sometimes his big brother, tobias, when he woke up on time, to school, in this big, ugly pick-up truck i was embarrassed to be seen in some days. but i liked mrs. gregory because she subscribed to only the best radio stations, and asked me daily about how i was doing in a way that i felt was considerably more genuine than the average adult.
i sit directly beside deon in the back seat, who goes on and on about a dance happening tonight, and how his girlfriend, anelle — this sincerely beautiful and intelligent girl who i personally couldn't believe would ever be interested in a guy like deon — was bailing on him to go sing songs for the elderly in her neighborhood nursing home.
"it's bull-shit, if you ask me," deon says. "she's probably tryna cheat on my ass, but incognito-like. who sings for old people on a friday night when there's a party happening, when you're seventeen?"
"good people do, deon, that's who," i and him, sighing. "listen, man, you ever thought about doing some of the stuff anelle does or wants to do with you? i've heard rumors—and they're only rumors 'till she confirms them—but it looks like the future for you two isn't too bright if you keep on keeping on like this."
there were no rumors. deon was popular, and the generic handsome that garnered the mothlike attention of girls and quiet admiration of guys. pink, full lips, his mother's lips, and a bleach-white smile, which masked the fact that each tooth jutted out like a hip from his gums, more shark grin than human.
"yeah, i'll be thinking about that, jordan."
deon looks reasonably ashamed and perturbed by my statement, and i feel confident that i've done my part in salvaging his relationship. he nods and thanks me for the advice, and when we split our separate ways at the school door, i believe i leave him a changed man.
if only i could say the same thing for my psychology teacher, mr. lin—a brilliant guy in many lights but a sadist in every other, who, one: assigned new seats every single day except wednesdays but, two: insisted on putting myself and the girl behind me in the same spot every single time. it wasn't even the location that was bad — the back row, yeah, but in the middle — it was the girl. veronica taff, something fictional-sounding like that, and the way she was curious about everything and anything, asking enough questions to hold the class up for years, pestering me to death when i gave her half the time of day.
i slouch into my seat, breathe—but only for a second before veronica imbues her pencil eraser into a muscle in my back and whispers in my ear.
"hey, jordan," she nasals. veronica was the type to speak exclusively through her nose.
"good morning, veronica," i responded, only because i rarely ever did, and when i did, it usually satisfied her for the rest of the week.
not today, however — in the next moment she pokes me again. i switch my head around fast.
"hey," she says again smiling, like she hadn't just said it and it wasn't just annoying.
"what is it, veronica?" i ask. she rolls her eye and pouts her lips non-seductively.
"i was just wondering whether you were free tonight," she drawls. "there's a party at my best friend natasha's boyfriend's house, and i was hoping you could be my plus one. the guy's in college, but he's cool with most juniors and up."
the only thing on the menu for me tonight is bachelor-made beans and store bought rice with uncle munro, and maybe a little bit of good natured conversation about politics and spanish folk music, if he's up for it — nothing important, but i can't say that to veronica, so i rack my brain for a quick explanation for why i most definitely could not attend tonight's party, no matter how cool the host was with juniors and up.
but veronica's a clever person in her undetectable, slinky own way—and the lie i was about to tell reminded me of cassandra in a fashion thoroughly unsettling to me, so i humor her instead.
"i don't know, veronica," i say. "i'm totally swamped with homework."
i had no homework. i had finished it all in a study hall yesterday. and even if i did, veronica, who's central knowledge consisted of the most noxious perfumes and worst ways to attract boys, was the last person i would ever ask.
"i'll help you with it, i promise, i'll help you with everything, jordan, if you just come," veronica offers enthusiastically. i smile, trying to keep the rivers of regret running through my eyes at the shoreline.
"alright. see you then, okay?" i tell her. she blows me a kiss so intensely i can't say for sure i didn't feel it.
i spend the rest of psychology half wondering about the correlation of childhood trauma with mental health issues in adulthood, and half wondering how on earth i was going to get through a party with veronica taff.
time seems to slow down into an excruciating crawl until about lunch break, when i meet up with my closest accomplice, aman — who seems way too interested in the details of veronica and i and our new found 'relationship', as he named it.
"how interested did she seem? like, really interested? deeply interested? or only a little bit?" he queries. poor aman is shit at hiding emotions. i know that behind his undying support for me as my friend are some hard, broken-hearted feelings. i got the one girl he had ever properly wanted.
"she seemed kind of interested, i guess. really interested, actually,"'i reply, because we are honest with each other to a fault. "and as delusional as usual."
aman shakes his head slowly. "don't call her delusional, jordan. love does the craziest things to your rationality," he mumbles bitterly, before smiling again. aman wasn't the type of guy to get sad easily, even over depressing lady problems.
"it's going to be fun, though. we're going to have fun, jordan, alright?" and i know he's saying this because parties have a tendency to drain the very life out of me if they've got the wrong feel to them. he has my back, aman does, even when he doesn't have to. i promise him i'll at least try, so long as the food's okay and the water's pure. i always knew when it was spiked, and it would ruin my night if i drank vodka by accident.
YOU ARE READING
CALIFORNIA DAZE
Short Story'-he's always going to be there at the back of your mind.'
