This Side of Home (11 page)

Tony gets up from the sofa. “I, uh, you should get home,” he says. He takes his arm from around me and gets up. “Sorry. Didn't mean to keep you here so late.”

I am already getting my story together for Mom and Dad. I'll tell them I was with Essence, that Malachi dropped me off. I get my stuff together and follow Tony upstairs. Instead of walking up both flights of stairs, Tony stops at the back door and opens it. “I'll walk you across the street,” he whispers.

“That's okay. I'm fine.”

He gives me his “are you sure?” look.

“Really. I'm fine.”

Tony kisses me once more. Soft.

As soon as I step outside, the cold hits me and what happened tonight feels exposed. My feet crunch the snow as I walk from his backyard to the front. The streetlights create shadows on the leftover snow,
and I can tell that a cat has walked this way. His paw prints create a path toward my driveway. I cross the street.

I tiptoe in my house and make it to bed without waking anyone. Once I'm in bed, I am wide awake. All I can think about is Tony, his lips, our kiss. And I feel really silly admitting this, but as I wait to fall asleep, I whisper his name over and over.

Tony Jacobs
.

Tony Jacobs
.

Tony Jacobs
.

And I like how the
n
kisses the roof of my mouth. How my lips open wide to pronounce the
o
. His name is a sweet lullaby.

Tony Jacobs
.

Tony Jacobs
.

Tony Jacobs
.

I'm supposed to see Essence today. On my way to the bus stop, I walk past Devin's block. I stand on the corner, knowing I need to turn right, walk to his house, tell him. But before I do that, I stand a bit longer. It is raining, and the slushy snow that was piled at the curb is dissolving even more. I breathe in, out, turn right.

Devin lives on a dead-end street. Cars accidentally turn onto this block, and the drivers soon realize they can't get where they want to go. It is a street of mistakes, a disappointment. His house is at the end of the block, hidden behind untamed bushes. The grass is stiff. Even though there's a gate around his house, the latch is broken, so I just walk up to the porch and knock on the door because the doorbell doesn't work.

I knock a few more times but no one comes to the door. And I know it's the cowardly thing to do but I go into my purse and take out a piece of paper. Yes, I could call or wait until I see Devin face-to-face, but this is easier. I write him a letter, telling him that I can't be in a relationship with him. I leave out the part about me thinking we don't have much in common other than being black and growing up in the same neighborhood. I leave out the part about having so much fun with Tony, about how we laugh and how we both are motivated to make a difference at Richmond. And I definitely don't tell him about the kiss. For all Devin knows, I'm busy with school and college applications and I just don't have time. He'll understand that.

I fold the paper, put his name on it, and slide it in his mailbox. A car drives onto the street. I think maybe it is his aunt coming home. But I am wrong. The car pulls into the driveway and backs up, turning around so it can go back to Jackson Avenue.

I walk away, leaving this dead-end street.

On the bus, halfway to Essence's house, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out, see Devin's name flashing on the screen. I don't answer.

I am in the den when the doorbell rings. Dad calls out, “I got it!” So I don't bother to get up. But then I hear Devin's voice, so I go to the door and crack it open, just enough so I can peek through to make sure it's him.

Just as I'm about to close the door and hide, Mom sees me. “Devin's here,” she says. “Your dad is finally finishing my sewing room today. They're painting the walls.”

“Oh, uh, that's, that's good. 'Bout time, huh?” I haven't told anyone that I broke up with Devin. This probably isn't a good time.

Mom looks at me like she's trying to figure something out. “You're not going to come and say hello? I hear he has good news.”

I come out and walk with Mom to the kitchen. Dad is smiling so hard, I am sure his cheeks will hurt later. He kisses me on my forehead. “I can't believe you kept this from me, Maya.”

I look at Devin.

Devin stutters, “Oh, uh—no, she, I didn't tell her yet.”

Dad steps back, looks at both of us. “Sorry I ruined the surprise.”

Devin says, “It's okay.” He looks down at the floor.

Mom looks at me, her face confused. “Well, aren't you going to congratulate him? It's not every day a student gets a full ride to Morehouse College.”

I don't even realize the tear rolling down my cheek until she hands me a napkin. I hear her whisper to Dad that they should leave, and when they do, I reach out to Devin, take his hand. He pulls me into himself and we hug. Tight. “I'm so proud of you,” I whisper. “And I'm so sorry I—I still care, I just—”

Devin wipes my tears. “Don't apologize. I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I mean, I'm busy with school, too. Senior year is hectic,” he says. “But maybe we can try it again in Atlanta.”

I don't know if I should ruin this moment for him. It's not fair to make this about me, about us, when
really it should be about him accomplishing the thing he worked so hard for.

Devin knows me, though, and so he steps back and says, “It's not about school. We're not getting back together, are we?”

“No,” I admit. “I'm sorry, Devin. I should've been honest with you. I just, I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to stick to our plan.” I feel like I'm just babbling, so I stop talking. Then I take a deep breath and say what I think I've been feeling this whole time. “Devin, I think I wanted to be with you because everyone else wanted me to be. But really, you're my friend—in every sense of the word. We're like—”

“Like best friends?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Always?”

“Always.”

Christmas is in three days. Tony and I meet outside in front of my house and walk over to Jackson Avenue. He is shopping for Kate. It is cold today, December cold. No rain, no sun. Just an ordinary gray day. The shops along Jackson Avenue are decorated with Christmas lights, and the sidewalks are full of shoppers walking in and out of the boutiques.

There are cars parked at every inch of the curb, even on the side streets. I don't know if I will ever get used to my neighborhood being the place where people flock
to
instead of flee from.

Tony takes my hand. This is the first time we've been out together since I broke up with Devin. When we turn the corner, I see Tasha and Cynthia sitting in Daily Blend. I don't even think about what I'm
doing or why, I just slip my hand out of Tony's, rub my hands together, and put them in my pocket, pretending to be cold.

I hate myself for this.

“It's your turn,” Tony says. “What's your question?”

I have a question. But I don't ask it out loud.

Star and Charles have been camped out with me all day at Tony's again. I think Charles is onto me and Tony, but he doesn't say anything. When they leave, Tony says, “I have something for you.” He runs upstairs, then comes back down with brochures in his hands. “Okay, so before I give you these, just know that I'm not against Spelman. I just care about you, and I want to make sure you're making the best decision.”

When he hands me the brochures, I realize they are college catalogs.

“These are the top journalism schools in the country,” Tony says. “I know your dream is to write for a big-time paper or magazine, so I just thought, well, I just don't want you to sell yourself short.”

I bite my lip, try to hear him out.

“I mean, Columbia University is the top ranked—”

“Tony, I know that. But that's not the point,” I tell him. “And isn't it too late to apply?”

“You have till January first.”

“Wow, you actually checked?” I set the brochures down on the coffee table. “It's more complicated than just choosing based on rank, Tony. You wouldn't understand.”

“Don't just tell me I wouldn't understand. Explain it to me,” Tony says. “Why Spelman?”

“Because at Spelman, I'd learn about black history in a way that I just can't get anywhere else,” I explain. “And for once—for once!—being a black woman who is successful will be the norm, and I'll have plenty examples of strong black women right in front of me.”

The more I think about it, the more excited I get.

“Because my grandmother and mother went there. Because it was founded on the belief that every black girl deserves to be accepted and educated. Because it has produced thousands of successful black women. And because, because it's not just Spelman, it's Atlanta. There are all kinds of blacks there. I want to live in a place where there's a variety of black people, doing all kinds of things. I've never had that. You get to see and experience all kinds of white people all the time.”

I stop talking because I don't think I'm doing Spelman justice. “I can't articulate all my reasons, Tony, but, well, let me ask you this. Did you look up anything about Spelman? Or did you just think since you've never heard of the school it must not be worth going to?”

“Maya, that's not fair—”

“Did you know that Spelman produces Fulbright Scholars consistently? That it's one of the top-ten female universities?”

“I'm not saying it's not a good school, I was just wondering if it's the best school given your goals.”

I look through the rest of the brochures. Just about all of them have mostly white people on the cover smiling or posing as if in deep thought, with a few token people of color in the photo, too. I put them on the table. “Well, it might not be the best for journalism, but it's the best for me,” I say.

“I get it, I think. I mean, I don't know what it feels like, but I understand why it's important to you.”

Tony is sitting on the edge of the sofa.

We don't talk for a while and then Tony says, “Sorry, Maya. I didn't mean to offend you.”

“No, don't. Don't apologize. I'm actually glad we can hear each other out. One of my fears about dating you was that we wouldn't be able to have honest conversations. Thank you for, for listening.”

Tony scoots back on the sofa. Gets comfortable and turns the TV on.

The front door opens. Tony sits up, takes his arm from around me.

“We're home,” Mrs. Jacobs calls out. Mr. Jacobs is behind her, carrying two tote bags full of groceries. Mrs. Jacobs smiles at me. “Hi, Nikki. How are you?”

“Mom, this is Maya,” Tony says.

Mrs. Jacobs looks at me. “I'm so sorry. Forgive me.”

“It's okay.”

Mr. Jacobs mumbles a hello. He looks like the day has worn him out.

“What are you two up to?” Mrs. Jacobs unpacks the bags and puts the perishable food in the fridge.

Tony helps her. “Not much now. We were doing something for school, but now we're done.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Maya?”

I look at Tony. “Stay,” he says.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Sure. No problem at all,” Mrs. Jacobs says.

Mrs. Jacobs takes out ground turkey from the bag. “Hope you like spaghetti.”

“I do.” I smile.

Mr. Jacobs goes to the fridge and grabs a beer. He cracks it open and comes into the living room and changes the station. “I haven't seen the news all day.”
He flips channels and stops on a local station that is broadcasting live from a bank robbery. Mr. Jacobs turns the volume up. “Isn't this over by your school?” he says.

Tony comes back to the living room. “Yeah.”

The reporter goes over the details. Customers and bank employees are being held hostage. Police cars surround the bank. The reporter looks into the camera and says, “We have reason to believe that there is more than one suspect in the bank.”

Mrs. Jacobs whimpers. “Oh, no. Oh, God.”

Tony picks up the remote. “This is depressing, Dad. Can I turn it?”

Mr. Jacobs says no.

The more the reporter says, the more anxious Mrs. Jacobs becomes. She is standing over the stove, cooking and praying. “Dear God, please don't let anyone get hurt. Please protect everyone in there.”

The reporter standing outside the bank says, “We've just confirmed the identity of one of the suspects. He is believed to be—”

Oh, God, I think to myself. Please don't let him be black. Please.

I hold my breath.

Tony changes the channel before the anchor-woman finishes her sentence. “This is just going to
drive you crazy, Mom,” he says. “Let's watch something else.” He flips through the stations.

Mr. Jacobs takes his beer and goes to his bedroom. “Let me know when dinner is ready, will you?”

I hate that the first thought that came to my mind was if the suspect was black. But ever since I was a child, I've carried the shame and pride of my black brothers and sisters. When a black person fails or succeeds it means something. All my life strangers have come up to Dad in a store, at the mall, or at church just to tell him how proud they are of him. “It's good to know that there's a good black man taking care of his family and doing something positive,” they say. They never just call him a man. He is always a
black
man. I wonder, if he were white, would his accomplishments seem so significant?

I can't remember when I started to have these feelings of pride and shame. I guess they've always instinctively been there. From my earliest memories I remember feeling pride when a black person succeeded at something—anything. It was like part of me had succeeded, too. And if a black person failed, I felt embarrassed. Ashamed. Like when I'm on the bus and there's a group of black teens being loud and acting rowdy. I know white kids do this, too. I know whenever a big group is anywhere—a bus, a
restaurant—they tend to act like it's just them, like they're in a bubble, like no one can hear them, like it doesn't matter how ridiculous they are being.