Forty-two Minutes Page 10

  I remember Dad teaching me to drive. He said, “Let the other car go first. Even if it’s your turn. You’ll wish you waited a second longer when everyone else wants to go first too.”

  Jaxon didn’t stop. He always went first.

  We stopped to grab breakfast from a corner store and Jaxon gave a homeless man three dollars. He turned to me and said, “did you get that?” I got it. Oh, I got it Jaxon.

  Jaxon’s Advanced History class was a fucking joke. First of all, they held the advanced classes in a separate wing of the school. I’ve had no reason to enter this wing of the school, so today with Jaxon I was mind blown by the difference. My side of the school ran out of paper for the printers, and our walls were littered with “Join the Army” and “Save a Life, Be a Nurse” posters. I stopped in front of a sign-up sheet for engineering camp. Engineering! I don’t know any engineers, and I don’t even know what they do. That wasn’t a word I heard too often unless I went looking for it for a story I was writing. I wrote about engineers from what I had read—but for this side of the school, it was a real option.

  With one word they segregated us—advanced. What was an Advanced History class, anyway? Did someone know more history than others, and that made them advanced? Made no sense to me. I saw a poster encouraged girls to consider chemistry as a career choice. Chemistry! Another flyer called for tryouts for a poetry slam! That one stung the most. At seventeen, they weren’t told to join the army or become a nurse. They could explore their creativity, while the other side of the school had to hit the ground running with vocations and skills that ultimately still benefited them.

  The bell rang and students took their seats. “You can sit right here, Ms. Lewis. I’m Mrs. Fagoli. I think it’s so nice you’re taking the time to do this for Jaxon. You know he has some struggles,” she nodded her head at me and raised one eyebrow.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh nothing,” she hesitated. “Is there anything we can do for you while you’re here?”

  “I’m not even here,” I waved my hands at her. I didn’t want to be noticed—I just wanted to get the information I needed, and then my letter of recommendation from Jaxon, and be done with it. Mrs. Fagoli sat me in the back corner of the room, and although I wasn’t a part of the classroom, I had a bird’s-eye view of everyone.

  The class was comprised of juniors and a few seniors who needed the extra credits. Jaxon was one of those seniors. I wasn’t familiar with many juniors; hell, I wasn’t familiar with this wing of the school. Everyone’s privilege was on display in this class. iPhones, car keys, and varsity jackets lined the student desks. Speaking of the desks, theirs were larger, and they had more space to place their expensive water bottles.

  Jaxon sat at his desk and laughed with a female student. His hand landed on the small of her back while she stood next to him. One of the girls wore jeans with slits at the knee, and I remembered when Mila and I were on our side of school, they often sent her to the vice principal’s office for knee slits. Mila got sent home and one day of in school suspension. These girls got a warning. There was even a whole separate entrance for these students to enter, one that we never noticed. Wait until I told Mila about this. Crazy thing was when I looked around the room, Mila resembled some of these girls, and she would probably fit right in—if given the chance. And even though we did attend TRHS and not the other high school in town, Mila still lived on the rough end of our town in a double wide widow trailer. I guess home really is where the heart is. Or it could be your quicksand.

  “Settle down, class, let’s get started,” Mrs. Fagoli said from the front. “There’s a lot going on in the world right now. Can we agree on that? I found this article, which gave an interesting editorial piece on current events. Let’s read together and then discuss,” Mrs. Fagoli passed a copy of the article around the classroom.

  “I’ll take one too,” I said as she passed me by.

  I skimmed the article.

  To the man in the red brick house:

  Every day, I take the same route to work, and every day, I pass the police station. Then further up the road is the fire station. Half a mile later, I hit an intersection, and I make a left at this corner. On the right-hand corner sits a red brick house. A man lived in this red brick house, and some days when I drove to work, I caught glimpses of a large, red, Republican flag. It wasn’t there every day; some days he took it down. I always pondered his reasons for taking it down. Did a neighbor oppose it? Was someone messing with it through the night? The questions remained as time went on because the flag always re-emerged, brighter than ever. So did my curiosity.

  Now—let’s talk about this flag for a second. The man had the type of flag post that needed to be mounted into the wall. Yeah, he had that one.

  He meant business.

  That told me he was the real deal and about that flag life. Along with the flag proudly perched on his stoop, sat a Veteran’s yard sign. Deducing that he was probably a Vet, I was curious. I rode by this house every day for two years. The weather changed and transitioned from fall, winter and then spring. His red, white, and blue stars stayed in place. What made him put it up or take it down? Did kids come by and think it was funny to torment him by ripping it from the post? Did he have to buy new ones often? I made up wild stories in my mind trying to put logic to his actions—all based on a flag. Does anyone remember seeing the flag displayed this much? Unpopular opinion: I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never seen a more proud American, until another movement decided to ask for basic human rights. But I digress . . .

  Election day came and went and we’re aware of what happened. Justice prevailed and Blue took care of business. We jumped for joy—it felt like a new day! If this had been the 1940s, we’d be kissing in the streets, celebrating the end of World War II with our feet kicked up. In my happiness, the man in the red brick house ran briefly across my mind. I wondered when he would remove his flag and how he would feel. Was that the humanity in me? Or the crazy? I figured his mood was in dark contrast to my happiness and excitement. A few days later, I drove past his house once more and the flag was still there and again the next day. The next day, yep, you betcha—it was there again. Finally, one Friday morning, there was no flag. Is it wrong of me to say I was excited? I had so many thoughts and had pictured this moment in my mind. What had been the tipping point? Did someone come and take the flag down—angrily snatching it away from his house? Or did he come to his senses and realize his dashing dreams for a red nation were over? Did he even care, or did he want all this nonsense to be over? Did he indeed believe that Black lives mattered? Finally?

  I questioned myself during this time. I kept asking why do you look for his house every day? What makes you pause? I wondered about the man in the red brick house. I had tons of questions, but I knew one thing for sure. No matter which side of the coin we fell, we needed healing. Most of us needed to heal from that red flag. The world had been operating at 50% and ready to boil over at any moment. The bandage was ripped off, and it forced the country to tackle racism head on. How can we do that when people still deny that it even exists, and they fly their flag proud?

  To the man in the red brick house… I’d love to sit down and talk? My stoop or yours?

  “Thoughts, anyone?” Mrs. Fagoli gave a sly smile, glancing up from the article.

  “Whatttt?” A girl said from the front of the class. She shook her head and tossed the article back on the desk. Her friend next to her slapped her arm and snickered.

  “The man in the red brick house removing his flag means he now believes that Black lives matter?” A student questioned. His face was turned up like he just heard the most ridiculous thing ever.

  “So, let’s talk about the Black lives and why they matter,” Mrs. Fagoli urged.

  Sitting up straighter, I was keenly aware of my melanin today. I crossed my feet under the desk and rested my hands under my ch
in. They held their conversation and didn’t notice the one melanated person in the back of the room. Unseen and unheard. I was still subservient, and they didn’t notice. Just like at Jaxon’s house.

  “I get it man, I really do, but why do you have to take down the statues? What did they do to anybody?” A boy said aloud. A few students snickered.

  “Yea, like they want us to like, kiss their ass because of slavery? Dude, I didn’t do that shit,” the boy said.

  “Language!” Mrs. Fagoli warned.

  You let me say ‘shit’ out loud. Off to the VP’s office I would go, I huffed.

  “I just don’t get it.” A soft-spoken girl from the front added. Her voice was so low I could hardly hear her. “I mean, if you break the law, shouldn’t you be held accountable?”

  Jaxon remained quiet throughout the conversation, and a few times his eyes connected with mine. Something inside told me had I not been in class that day, he would engage with his friends and tee-hee about the article. He briefly cut his eyes at me and because my presence was a service to him, he remained quiet. He needed me, and at this moment, we both knew. That thought settled me, but I still crossed my arms and exhaled slowly.

  “It’s like you can’t say anything nowadays without being called racist,” someone said. The class grumbled and nodded their heads in agreement.

  Another girl said from the left side of the room, “My parents raised me to not see color. I don’t care if you’re Black, white, purple, or blue; if you treat me good, I treat you good.”

  The class clapped for her, and even Ms. Fagoli applauded.

  I gritted my teeth so hard my neck hurt, and my body twitched. I relaxed my shoulders, but the heat flushed over my body. What was I even doing here? I was used to being the only Black girl in class. These were things that were a given and I knew to expect at some juncture in life. Being the minority. But sitting here through this conversation and knowing that I was just a tool to help them get to where they wanted, hurt. I steadied myself on the chair and locked my ankles tighter. I fought for everything I had all my life and they mocked it. Their half-assed stories about why the statues depicting slave masters and rapists who brutalized my ancestors were important. They were angry that their families paid money on their summer vacations to visit a slave plantation and when the tour guides wore costumes and actually discussed slavery, they were aghast. They just wanted to ‘see the land,’ and not be burdened with the truths of history they claimed they wanted to experience. Experiencing it real time was almost too much as I listened to their half-ass stories. The reasons to help them justify the dumb things they did. And what was my justification for sitting there and listening? Was it because I needed them like Jaxon needed me at this moment? We were using each other, that was for sure. But this, this felt different.

  If Ez was here, he’d slam his hands on the desk and get up there and tell them about the time when he was a young boy and two white boys kidnapped and waterboarded him.

  When he first told me that story, I said, “Why do you stay on the water so much then, Ez?”

  “I got to stay on the water so it don’t stay on me,” he replied.

  I was a kid then, but now I understood.

  If my dad was here, he’d quietly rise and leave the room. Never one to make a scene, he would exercise his right to choose, and he would choose to walk away.

  My mom, she’d be up there raising holy hell—this I know for sure. Out of those three, I sided with Mom right now; but, I did nothing. I cringed and listened to it all.

  My hands were still clenched, and I glanced around, fantasizing different ways to hurt any student who found humor in what was said. That one over there had long hair… it could be chopped off in her sleep… him over there… he palmed his varsity jacket like it was his lifeline. What if it mysteriously disappeared? And Mrs. Fagoli, never choosing a side and preferring to play the grey area. Yeah, her too… I seethed with rage at her for not checking her students. Checking them for what though? They didn’t think they said anything wrong.

  Stop Indigo, what are you even thinking? My breath quickened. Don’t even joke like that.

  Before I let the rage take over my thoughts again, Mrs. Fagoli asked, “and how can we make ourselves better?”

  The class hushed, and Jaxon finally spoke. He cleared his throat. “We fight, for our right, to paarrtayyy,” he sang and played an air guitar with his hands.

  The class erupted into laughter, and Mrs. Fagoli chuckled.

  Hot tears sprang to my eyes as I brushed them away. My heart pounded, and I hoped they didn’t see me wipe my face. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing my eyes red. Jaxon and I weren’t close by any means, but even with me sitting here at his request, battle lines were clearly drawn, and he chose his side. Race existed in my world because I had to exist in theirs. I was not okay.

  CHAPTER 12

  After Jaxon’s history class, my stomach was in knots. I never even filmed anything I was taken aback by the assignment. Stopping in the girl’s bathroom before lunch, I burst through the door and glimpsed myself in the mirror. What was the purpose of this? Why was I doing this? It helped Jaxon get into college, but how was it helping me? The newspaper loved the idea of following ‘one of their own’ before his college journey. Funny, I worked there part time for two years and they never considered me one of their own. But Jaxon—his status came without thought. Everyone knew where he stood and what he could attain, just because of his skin color and gender.

  Jaxon didn’t remind me of any man I knew, not that I had too many men to look up to. Ez was Ez. And Dad, I tried not to give him any trouble, so he didn’t have to worry about me. Going to college was his greatest wish for me, and I wanted to give him that. I wanted to be the first to go to college and get a degree. Mom was in the army for a short time before she got sick. She said she always regretted attending the army and not college, if only for the experience. I didn’t want any of those regrets, and I looked forward to the sleepless nights and endless schoolwork. College would get me where I needed to go, and I was ready.

  This morning before I left for Jaxon’s, I couldn’t sleep and woke up early, staring at my computer. I reread my essays and glossed over the applications once more. I filled them out and agonized over every word. Now it was real. The date was here, and I couldn’t force myself to press send. Dad inquired about the application fees and when I told him how much they were, he didn’t fuss and didn’t even suck his teeth. He said he’d work on it. I told him not to worry, and that they had waived the fee. I didn’t tell him how many hours I spent at the funeral home and writing extra articles for the Tunica Rivers Times. Working two part-time jobs and holding down an editor position at school was still not enough, but I made it work.

  “Let’s talk Spring Fling!” Jaxon sat on his lunch table next to his latest fling, McKenzie. “It’s going to be so lit. My mom got The Bordeaux Mansion as planned. And guys, my parents won’t be there,” he grinned. McKenzie grinned too.

  I’m sure this would excite Will and Mila. Hell, I wanted to check out a mansion too.

  I gawked at Will, Malachi, and Mila from across the cafeteria. Will was shooting chicken nuggets into Malachi’s mouth as they laughed.

  I swallowed. We sat together every day. The four of us. They were having fun without me and not even concerned that I was over here with Jaxon. And Jaxon. He only noticed my presence while we were alone. When his friends came around or a girl he flirted with, I soon became invisible.

  I stayed by myself in another corner of the table. They sat with their backs to me. I nibbled at my sandwich and ate a few potato chips at the same time. When the anger built up, I wasn’t hungry, and when it settled, I was ravenous.

  “Have I introduced you to Indigo?” Jaxon interrupted the laughter. He made his way towards me while I was in mid-chew. I gulped and a lump of sandwich stuck in my throat. This was n
ot happening.

  “H-h, hi-,” I stammered, reaching for a drink of my iced tea.

  “Indigo, that’s an interesting name,” Jaxon’s friend said.

  “Indigo. Is it like, Indian or something?” Another one of Jaxon’s friends teased.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. What was so interesting about my name that made people say it twice now?

  “You sit over there, right?” The same girl asked. She pointed to the table with Will, Mila, and Malachi. Now the three of them were taking selfies without me.

  I nodded.

  “You and Will are dating?”

  “No, Malachi and I are dating. Will and I are just best friends,” I corrected.

  “Humph,” she grunted.

  “Do you have classes with them?” I asked.

  “Yes, Technology class with Will. He’s a nice guy,” she nodded.

  “He is.”

  “Do you listen to Lil’ Baby?” a boy asked, standing next to Jaxon.

  “Umm, sometimes,” I said. What the fuck?

  “He’s my man,” the boy nodded his head in approval.

  “And?” I pressed, with major attitude.

  The boy crinkled his nose and said, “Chill, I just wanted to know what kind of music you listen to. I listen to everything.”

  My breathing was shallow, and I blinked back tears for the second time that day. Dammit. I was madder at myself for letting them get to me. I had to be on point with these people; their racism showed back up whenever I let my guard down.

  “But why would you come out and ask me if I listen to that one rapper? Because I’m Black, so I listen to all rap music?” The words flew from my mouth and the more I talked, the more I heard my Mom’s voice.

  “Take them out,” she whispered. “Run them down, they want you to.”

  The thought brought goosebumps to my arms.

  “Indigo, chill,” Jaxon squinted.

  “I’m cool,” I said. “Back in your place they want you to go,” I heard a voice within me murmur. I shot a look at Jaxon before turning my head. I hadn’t taken my camera or my recorder out during lunch. There was nothing here to see, folks.