The Fight (4 page)

The cars parked in the driveways in the South Bay are either Range Rovers, Volvos, or Mercedes Benzs. The kids that live here are balling out of control and don't even know it. Most of the cars also have ski racks and boat hooks on the back. These are the folks who have weekday cars and weekend cars.

As I look at these homes, I wonder about how the families living in them operate. I'm sure they all have their fair share of skeletons. It may be a different neighborhood, but the same kind of drama happens everywhere. Well, maybe not exactly the same.

I see some of my schoolmates' parents outside leaving for work. These White folks hate seeing my Black self walk up the street. They probably think I'm gone steal one of their lawn ornaments or key their car or something. Sometimes I'll slow down and stare at the White people coming out of their houses in the morning to put some fear in these snooty people. I know it's wrong, but so is stereotyping. I don't need any extra drama this morning, so I just keep walking down the hill to South Bay High.

4

The First Day Back

—
MARY J. BLIGE

I
t's my junior year and things will be different. “No more drama.” Ain't that what Mary said? That's what I'm going for, a smooth, drama-free year, unlike last year, my first year at Drama High, and believe me, after last year, this school has earned its nickname.

As I enter the school I think I don't want to see Misty this morning. She's certainly a large reason this school has so much drama. I had enough of that girl over the summer. It's weird she wasn't on the bus this morning. Maybe she'll miss today altogether. That would make today an ideal first day, along with not seeing KJ's punk ass.

This morning just before I left, Mama prayed I would have a peaceful year. She also gave me a special tiny bag filled with crystals and other good-luck charms. It's supposed to go in my purse, but I got one of them little fake Coach bags from the Swap Meet, so it wasn't gone fit in there. I had to put it in my backpack instead. So let's see if this “No More Drama” charm bag will work from my backpack. Hopefully this is the beginning of a peaceful day at Drama High.

 

As I walk down the main hall reading the schedule I had printed out two weeks ago at registration, I notice the walls have been painted a bright, bright white this year and the gray-colored lockers are now blue. It looks hot compared to last year. That's the difference in the schools on the White side of town. Every summer they get all kinds of improvements.

My locker's in the middle of the main hall this year—the most crowded locker space of all. I hate going to the main hall. Before I get to my locker, I realize my schedule is wrong—again. I'm annoyed with myself for not having noticed sooner. When I first came to this school, they did the same thing. They put me on the R.E. track, instead of the A.P. track. I just don't have the patience for this today.

My very first day at South Bay High last year was just as confusing and drama-filled. My mom didn't want me to go to the schools in the area she lived in and my dad, out of spite—even all these years later—because my mom left him, stopped paying for my education. We couldn't afford the private school my father had enrolled me in for sixth through ninth grades, so I couldn't go back there.

I put up a big fight to at least stay in the same area so I could be with my homies, but Mama was not having me going to Compton or Centennial High School. And all the other schools between Compton and the South Bay were full. So, for a while I didn't have anywhere to go to school.

Mama was upset and told my mom to find me somewhere to go to school “come hell or high water,” one of Mama's favorite sayings. So my mother found a girlfriend who has an address in Redondo Beach and, like magic, I'm a proud student of South Bay High.

Misty's the very first person I met. She's an office aide. Lucky for Misty, her mother is the secretary for the Attendance Office. Otherwise, with her grades, she would never have been any kind of aide.

 

 

Already Misty and I were cool because she was straightforward and friendly, like me. She talked with a slight Spanish accent and looked like she could be J. Lo's short, plump cousin. She told me her mom was Puerto Rican and her dad was Black. I could already tell she was mixed.

At 4 feet 9 inches and 170 pounds, Misty was a ball of energy, and because I liked her I decided to answer all her questions—even the last one, which was still quite complicated.

I couldn't believe it. This sistah lived right around the corner from me and I had never before set eyes on her. Not at the park, the nail shop, or the liquor store. She must have not come outside much. Mama says there are no coincidences in life, and I think she's right. Misty and I were destined to meet.
“Yeah, I do know where that is. It's my hood too. I live on Gunlock, where do you live?”

Cousins from hell is more like what we became.

 

 

As I approach the Main Office, I notice that it got a fresh coat of white paint as well.

“Good morning and welcome back to South Bay High. What can I help you with?” Mrs. Cole, the school secretary, says.

“I was given the wrong schedule and need to know where to go this morning.”

“I can help you with that,” she says, taking my schedule.

“This shouldn't take too long. Why don't you go ahead and have a seat while I make sure all your papers are in order, and then you will go to the Counseling Office and see Mr. Adelezi. He'll help you pick out your classes and put you on the right track.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cole.”

At least this year I don't have Misty trailing behind me asking me a bunch of questions. Her nosey butt is probably just waiting to annoy another new girl this year.

There are five counselors, one for each grade and one for “special circumstances,” whatever that means. Mr. Adelezi is the eleventh grade counselor. His office is a small, cramped space with only enough room for his desk and two tall file cabinets. I sit in the only available chair for guests.

“Good morning, Mr. Adelezi. My name is Jayd and I need to change my classes,” I say as he looks at me through thin-framed, out-of-style glasses. He's smiling like something's funny.

“Well, Jayd, let's take a look at your paperwork.” Mr. Adelezi seems pretty cool, for a counselor.

“I would like to continue on the A.P. track,” I say, handing my schedule across his desk.

Mama told me to be firm when choosing my classes because sometimes people don't have my best interest at heart. When we registered at Family Christian, my old school, they almost refused me entry into honors classes. They only let me have my classes after Mama came up there and took care of business. Not at South Bay though; it's too far. So when problems arise, I have to handle them myself.

“All right, Miss Jayd, here's your schedule. Now all you need to do is pick a P.E. elective.”

Now this is new. A P.E. elective? What other electives are there in P.E. other than physical education?

“I don't understand—a P.E. elective?”

“Yes. Now that you're in the eleventh grade you can pick from a wide range of activities to participate in for your physical education requirement—if you're on the advanced placement track. There's general P.E., swimming, surfing—where you actually walk to the beach . . .”

“I can leave campus for class?”

“Yes, Jayd. Now, as I was saying, there's surfing, synchronized swimming, track, cheerleading, flag, spirit squad, football—but that's for boys only—soccer, softball, baseball—but, that's also for boys only—gymnastics, and dance class. That's about it.”

I can't believe this—a choice of P.E. classes. This school does have some perks after all. If my hair wasn't pressed, I might take up that surfing class just so I could walk to the beach every day. Coming from Compton, the beach is like a field-trip destination, but I love the ocean. I have a natural—shall we say—respect for the ocean. It's so powerful and unpredictable. But, nah, a sistah can't be getting her hair wet every day. Mama would kill me. So, dance class was of course the natural choice.

“I'll take dance class.”

Mr. Adelezi prints out my schedule.

“OK, Jayd. Just take this temporary schedule. Make sure each teacher signs your schedule and that you get it back to me at the end of the day so I can put your classes into the main system and print you a permanent schedule. You can pick it up in the morning.”

“Thanks, Mr. Adelezi.”

 

 

As I walk back toward my locker I see the cliques already starting to claim their territory. This year I hope to avoid them all, especially South Central, the Black clique. I know KJ and Misty are already hangin' with the crew, inspecting all the new students.

A lot of mess—dramatic-type stuff—always happens whenever I venture to South Central. I swear you hear all these bad stories about Compton and just as many about South Central. All the Compton and South Central stories aren't true, but Ice Cube had it dead on in
Boyz from the Hood
. South Central ain't the place to be caught after dark.

All my life I've lived in Compton and nothing violent or crazy has ever happened to me—outside of my own family drama, that is. But, the minute I step foot into South Central, there is some drama going on like the drive-by down the street from my mom's house last weekend. So, why would I want to hang out there voluntarily, be it the real South Central or the clique? And why would they name it that, anyway? Even when Black folks have a clique it has to be ghetto. My people, my people, I tell you.

5

The Cliques

—
A TRIBE CALLED QUEST

I
quickly learned about the cliques here at South Bay High my first year. Misty, of course, was my personal tour guide, giving me the 411 on South Bay, including which cliques were cool and which were to be avoided. She also showed me where the bathrooms were, introduced me to the cool teachers and administrators, as well as pointed out the most popular and least desirable people. You know, the usual new student info.

During my first year at Drama High, learning about the cliques was my first real education, as it's always important to know who is who and where they “belong.” Not much has changed in the year I've been here, at least as far as the cliques are concerned.

As I reach my locker and fumble with the combination lock, I see the cliques gathering to recruit new members. There are too many to count, but five main cliques run this campus. You have the athletes and cheerleaders, the Drama Club clique, which is the one I belong to, the Associated Student Body and followers' clique, the Latino clique—which they call the Barrio—and then there's South Central, which is made up of the thirty-five or so Black people attending this school. The Barrio and South Central cliques hang right next to each other in the main lunch courtyard.

The athletes and cheerleaders are of course the most popular kids around and get the most perks like getting to leave campus early at least once a week for sporting events. They also hold the most events on campus, and because they control the main schedule, they're the most powerful clique. For example, if the Drama Club clique wants to host a picnic or something, they have to go to the student activities coordinator, who just happens to be a cheerleader, and ask for an available date. More than likely, all the good dates are already reserved for the athletes and cheerleaders events, and the Drama Club will just have to settle for whatever date the cheerleader/student activities coordinator gives them.

But, the Drama Club has their own kind of power. Last year, I guess they got tired of being teased for their dark goth look and put on a spoof during lunch of the athletes and cheerleaders. It's the funniest thing I've ever seen at this school and that's why I joined the club. We had the girls with pink hair and eyebrow rings in cheerleader outfits imitating all the popular girls. And the drama guys, whose voices are still a little too high for high school, wore football uniforms, pretending to be the cool jocks. Oh my God, I laughed so hard. The Drama Club wore their costumes for the rest of the day, just to rub it in.

To say the least, the athletes and cheerleaders didn't like this little stunt at all. They didn't laugh not once. They're just too uptight and popular for their own good. Well, they got even with the Drama Club by canceling their programs for the rest of the year, due to “scheduling conflicts.” Whatever. They just have too much power to be students. In my opinion, no clique should have any real power over any other clique. That kind of power gets dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as I near my locker, I hear a familiar Spanish accent calling my name. I turn to see my girl Marguerita Lorena Santa Cristina Franco—or Maggie as she goes by in class because the teachers butcher her name. “What's up, chica? How was your summer?” Marguerita says. Maggie hangs with El Barrio. This group is not to be played with. They're hella cool, once you get to know them. They're probably the largest clique of them all. That's because they don't discriminate, as long as you can speak Spanish—or at least make an effort to learn, like I do—then you're in.

“Marguerita, girl,
¿qué pasa?
My summer was cool, working and whatnot. How about you?”

“Girl, we just kicked it all summer in Mexico
con mis abuelita y mis tías
.”

“That's cool, chica.
¿Dónde es tu novio, Juan?”
I ask, wondering where her other half is. Juan and Marguerita are one of the most popular couples in school.

“Here comes my man now,” Maggie says, looking past me. Juan is just a few steps away. He nods in my direction while putting his arm around Maggie. I can't help but smile at them. They're such a cute couple.

Speak of the devil; here he comes strolling up the hall with his crew right behind him.

“
¡Hasta luego!
Jayd. I'm going to let Juan have the pleasure of walking me to class.”

“See you later, Marguerita.”

The Barrio clique is hella tight. They believe in “one for all.” If you step to them disrespecting, you know you better watch your back because they don't play.

Like last year, this White boy rolled up shouting all kinds of racist BS at them and South Central. The White boy, Chris, was a skinhead—they have a clique too, if you can call it that—and decided it was White Power Day at South Bay High. So, he walked up to Marguerita's man Juan, the leader of El Barrio, and told him to go back to Mexico and called him a “
mojado
,” or wetback. Not good at all. Juan told Chris he wasn't from Mexico, but Costa Rica, and that Chris better step out of his territory before he gets hurt.

Next thing we knew, Chris pulled out a knife and said, “To hell with all the Blacks and Mexicans ruining the White South Bay High,” and tried to shank Juan. Juan beat Chris's ass so bad, they had to take that boy to the emergency room. Yeah, you don't mess with the brothers and sisters from the Barrio.

The only clique that really doesn't get into too much mess is the Associated Student Body, or ASB, clique. They try to unite everyone. They truly have the school's best interest at heart, or so they say. The president, Reid Connelly, is a little George W. Bush in training.

The ASB clique does have the most clout with the principal and other administrators in the school, however. They're always going to conferences representing the school here and there. It's like they're our public relations clique, keeping the South Bay High name intact. And here's the president now, to pitch his promises for the year, I assume.

“Hey, Jayd. Are you interested in renewing your membership with the ASB this year?”

“Reid, can I get my locker open before you start handing out pamphlets?”

“Oh, sure, Jayd. My bad. Let me help you with that.”

Reid's an okay guy. He's also a member of ROTC and is dressed in uniform today. He's not a bad-looking dude, just not my type. He's a little too anal for my taste. It's one thing to date a White boy, a whole other thing to date one whose family is in the military. They tend to be a little too patriotic for me.

“There you go. The locks are a little sticky because of the new paint, so you have to pull it hard until it loosens up.”

“Thanks, Reid.”

“No, thank
you
. And, I hope to see you at the ASB meetings this year. First one's next week.”

“You never give up, do you?” I say, half-flirting. It's good to keep it light and friendly with powerful people.

“Never, Jayd. Surrendering is for the weak, unless you surrender to ASB.”

“Go harass someone else, Reid,” I say, laughing. “And, thanks again for getting my locker open.”

“No problem.”

I've been a member of most of the cliques at one time or another, and continue to be an honorary member of most. Even though my Spanish is sketchy, they still let me hang in the Barrio when I feel like it. I can't help it if I cross over, though I don't really like the idea of cliques to begin with. I remember when Misty first introduced me into South Central. It was just like I thought it would be.

 

“Dang, Tony, you need to control your girl. She act like you can't speak for yourself,” says this tall, fine, brown-skinned, gorgeous piece of something sweet.
I thought I would pass out right there, but I managed to stay on my feet long enough to meet KJ for the first time.

“Well, actually, she isn't,” I interject. “The first Black millionaire is this other sister named Madame C. J. Walker. She invented the pressing comb, so you can see why she became a millionaire,” I say, trying to make a joke.
As soon as I said it, I knew I shouldn't have. Everybody just got kind of quiet and looked at Misty, and then looked at me like “who the hell are you again and where did you come from?”

“Thank you, Encyclopedia Britannica for that lovely and helpful information,” Shae says.
She sounded pissed, especially because Tony and the other boys were smiling at me, particularly KJ.

“Well, it looks like we got ourselves a brain in South Central. Where did you say you're from, Jayd?” asks Del.
He turned out to be the joker of the crew.

“
Yeah, me too. But you don't sound like you're from Compton. Sistahs I know don't go around quoting Black history and stuff.”

“And, what exactly should I sound like?”
I hate when people make generalizations about me and where I'm from. This happens all the time, and it always gets me hot.

And, just like that, I made my first enemy in Shae.

Why did Misty have to open her big mouth and tell everybody that? Looking back on it now, it was a typical hater move. But at the time I was just embarrassed and wanted to roll out. That's the problem with cliques. If you don't fit their narrow guidelines, you're not one of them. And in this case I was glad to be an outsider.

“Yeah, let's give Miss Smarty a medal or something.” There is Shae again.
What was her problem with me? I had just met the girl and already she was just asking for it. Shae's little nasty attitude was enough to make the ghetto come out in me.