The Black Kids(11)

“This is great,” I say. “Who knew you could do all this with a Crock-Pot?”

“Harrison did all the real work.” Jo looks over at Harrison adoringly. “He’s a great cook.”

“You chopped up all the vegetables!” he says, and squeezes her shoulder. Blech.

They keep their hands on each other under the table. It’s as though she has to keep touching him, and he her, or they’d be lost. My sister the sock.

“Yes. It’s quite the culinary experience you’ve created here,” my mother says. This is not a compliment. The sweat beads like pearls along her collarbone. Jo’s apartment lacks air-conditioning, and the whole place is already stuffy with the weight of everything unsaid.

There’s a fridge and a sink with some cupboards, but no stove. There’s an archway that separates the art deco kitchen from the living room, but the living room is also a bedroom. It’s a studio, but it gets a lot of light. The sunset feels warm on its walls. Nothing has been remodeled since at least the 1930s or ’40s, and so there are the ghosts of would-be actresses and writers and singers and dancers, of all the people who moved back home, or moved on, or up. Jo and the construction worker have decorated it so that it looks like the inside of a genie’s bottle.

Jo seems more relaxed in her skin around Harrison. Maybe it’s because Harrison sees Jo—not who she used to be, not who she could be, just who she is right now in front of him. Maybe he makes her feel like that’s enough.

Jo retrieves a bottle of champagne from within one of the cabinets. “In honor of our special day.”

My mother purses her lips as Jo pours the champagne into mismatched glasses.

“Ashley’s underage,” my mother says as Jo pours for me.

“I’m pretty sure Ashley’s had a drink or two by now.” She continues to pour.

“Don’t encourage bad behavior,” my mother says.

“You know French kids don’t binge drink. Because it’s not a big deal there.”

“Last I checked, we weren’t French.”

Jo sets the bottle down on the table and raises a glass that reads “Hawaii: The Aloha State.”

“Ohana!” Harrison says, and together we clink.



* * *




“So, who are you, Ashley Bennett?” Harrison runs his tongue over the bit of chicken stuck in his crowded teeth. Jo reaches over and scrapes it off with her nail. My mother looks like she’s going to vomit.

“I’m her sister… and her daughter.” I laugh. “Um… I’m gonna graduate this year.”

Harrison looks at me intently. His eyes are the color of dirty ocean water, refracting blue and green and brown all at once. His hair can’t decide if it’s red or brown. Everything on his head is indecisive. Also, he has three big red pimples on his left cheek that I know my mother will mention as soon as we’re alone.

“What do you like? Who do you want to be?”

His probing seems earnest, but I don’t have answers for any of it. My mother and sister look at me expectantly, like they’re waiting for answers, too.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “A doctor, maybe.”

That answer usually gets adults off my back.

“It’s okay. I didn’t know at your age, either,” he says.

“How old are you again, exactly?” my mother says.

“Twenty-one, same as Jo.”

“A regular font of wisdom.” My mother finishes her second glass of champagne.

“Have you been following the trial?” Harrison asks me.

There’s only one trial to be following right now.

“Not closely,” I say. I haven’t really been following it at all.

“There’s no way they won’t convict them,” Harrison says. “The evidence is right there, on video camera. That’s the best thing about this new technology: It’s so small that it democratizes the act of documentation. You can’t just cover things up and lie to the people. Thank goodness that dude went to KTLA with it.”

I nod. It’s a very enthusiastic way to talk about grainy camcorder footage. The wound on my foot is starting to pulse like it’s got its own heartbeat. If before it felt like a dull ache, now I’m convinced there’s a chance I might have to amputate the whole thing.

“If they don’t convict them, all hell’s gonna break loose,” Jo says. “The people are angry.”

“The people?” My mother squints and somehow also raises her eyebrow practically all the way up to her scalp.

Jo ignores her and continues. “We have friends who are already planning on protesting if they don’t convict those assholes. ’Cause, like, it’s not just about the cops, right? It’s all of it. Yes, the LAPD is racist as hell, and black and brown communities get policed differently than white ones. That’s a fact. But also, the schools suck. There’s no jobs. You don’t give people any opportunities to make something of themselves or to see a way out of the shit they’re dealing with every day. There’s no hope. And when kids turn to gangs or drugs, people act all surprised. Like, what the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

She pauses for emphasis, and I’m pretty sure she threw the “fuck” in there just to fuck with our mother. I think my mother’s gonna say, “Language, Josephine!” but she doesn’t. After a sufficiently dramatic length of time, Jo continues.