Into White (15 page)

While Jesus was up there, he brought two of his dead buddies along—Moses and Elijah. Moses was the first of God's prophets, and Elijah was a great prophet, too. Both Moses and Elijah performed mighty works back in the Old Testament days, and they'd both experienced rejection from their own people. That was the connection. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that I was as awesome as Moses or as fabulous as Elijah. From my brief research, I surmised that Jesus had a soft spot for the rejected.

I clapped my hands and shut off the computer.

*   *   *

“Man! Did you pay the water bill?” Mom yelled from downstairs. When Dad didn't answer, I knew that he hadn't. Mom's intentionally heavy steps echoed from one bathroom to the next, and finally up the stairs toward my room.

“Toya,” she said, banging on my door like the police. “Let me in, I need to tape your commode. Your daddy's already dropped loads in two of the downstairs bathrooms, so y'all have to squeeze your butts closed till you get to school. I can't take this shit!” She paused. Wait for it … wait for it … “Lord forgive me.” Mom rarely used curse words that weren't in the Bible; when she did, she'd spend ten or so minutes asking for God's forgiveness. “Lord, Lord, Lord, please forgive me.” As she walked away begging for God's clemency, I heard Alex urinating into our unflushable upstairs toilet.

While I was certain Mom would let me take another day off, the pong of morning urine and downstairs double doo-doo began permeating my muggy bedroom. Besides, Alex elected to take the day off from ISS, and I didn't want to deal with his awkward energy. I threw on a knee-length blue jean dress with two oversized pockets large enough to hold on to my hands if they began shaking, when I heard a knock coming from the bathroom.

“Toya?” Alex said softly.

“I'm sorry,” I answered. “Oh, and thanks for the whole Josh thing. I was so proud of you. You turned him into a big pile of pitiful. I couldn't believe—”

“Look at this on your way to school,” he interrupted before sliding a booklet under the door. “It's for Roseland's pop quiz.” I heard his bedroom door closing.

“Alex?”

The door stopped before meeting its latch. “What?” he asked.

“Has anyone said anything to you about Toya?” I asked. “I know it's a long shot, but I was just wondering if someone, I don't know, misses her.”

“They don't matter,” he sighed. “Why don't you get that?”

“Does that mean no one asked or—”

“No,” he snapped. “No one.” His door slammed.

Skimming through the booklet, I saw he'd highlighted the especially important sections—Alabama's state bird, tree, and flower. The yellowhammer, Southern longleaf pine, and camellia, respectively. A single tear fell from my right eye.

*   *   *

In the Fiat, I sprawled across the entire backseat.

“You okay?” Mom asked. “You didn't eat any of the black-eyed's in the refrigerator, did you? I think they went bad.”

I ignored the question and squeezed myself into a tight backseat ball.

“I ate the whole pot last night, and I feel just fine,” Dad replied.

“You didn't see the green film floating on the top? That was mold. What you trying to do, man, kill yourself?”

“Tasted good to me. I thought it was okra.” Dad shrugged. “Humph, maybe that's why I had to go twice this morning.”

I plugged my ears, but I could still make out the
damn fool
s, and
shut up, woman
s all the way to school. When the car slowed, I unblocked my ears.

“Okra is more Kermit green; mold is a brownish green. You been living in Alabama almost fifty years, and you don't know the difference between mold and okra? You crazy, man.”

“You know that I'm color-blind, you mean ole mule!” Dad missed a gear and stalled out.

“Dad!” I yelled, almost involuntarily. “Why do you always have to stall out at the entrance of school? Everybody's looking.”

He readjusted the stick shift toward neutral. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'll try to—”

“He just can't drive worth a damn.”

“Mom!” I shouted. “Stop treating Dad like shit all the time! Can't you see he's trying?”

Dad spun his head toward me, completely shocked. “Latoya, don't you ever—”

Mom held her hand in the air, shutting him up. “Lord forgive her,” she said to the ceiling of the Fiat. “You can take a day if you—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I can do this.”

 

GRIDIRON

Edgewood prided itself on Josh, the most popular, handsome, talented, and kind football player in school. He volunteered at the food pantry, was elected Student Government Association treasurer, and dominated not only football but track and field and swim, too.

On the surface, he was impeccable. Edgewood's very own Prince Charming. The perfect height, the perfect build, and Lord knows, the perfect color for Edgewood. I'd imagined us married, sharing a last name, a home, and the responsibilities of his father's dealership. Sharing children with lightly sun-kissed skin and loose curls. I'd scribbled his name on the next-to-last page of all my notebooks, filling the empty white spaces with hearts and arrows and fat-legged cupids. I'm sure every other girl at Edgewood High School had done the same. My pulse raced when he asked me to pass the honey mustard. His lowly condiment request possessed the power to improve my day, and that's too much power for anyone, especially Josh.

Meanwhile, I'd reserved a special place in hell for Deanté. Deanté—the opposite of everything I'd held dear. The predetermined villain of my story. Granted, Deanté earned much of my disdain, but I was in no way faultless. Honestly, I knew that I was no better than Lucy and the rest of the Gus Von Marchers. I'd prejudged him in the same way they'd prejudged my big brother. Deanté was right. No matter what he did, or said, or wore, he was still black. And in Montgomery, Alabama, black is a threat, even to other black people.

I hated Edgewood High School. I hated Lucy, I hated the twins, I hated my own self, but most of all, I hated Josh. The blood in my veins began to heat up at the hopelessness of it all. There was no remedy, only a slew of unsuspecting girls to be led into that upstairs bedroom, and not nearly enough Deantés to save them.

I gulped, remembering the pea-sized chunk of saliva he'd lodged into the back of my throat. The memory of it wouldn't go down, and I wasn't sure if it ever would. I still tasted his sour, aggressive tongue; its texture was coarse and harsh like a Brillo Pad extracting baked-on grease from a dish.

I stood in the frenzy of changing classes, but I heard nothing. The noisy, chaotic hallways of Edgewood High went completely quiet around me. A freshman girl dropped a handful of papers, the Jordans pointed and laughed, Mrs. Roseland waved, but I was no longer there. It was as if I'd developed a force field that filtered out everything except Josh Anderson. My own world of Josh where all I could see was his smirk. All I could smell was his funk. And all I could feel was his erection forcing its way into places I didn't want it to be. I felt trapped by him, cornered by his repulsive existence.

I needed to break free from the bubble of Josh, and I knew the only way to do that would be to expose him. But exposing him seemed like an insurmountable task. He was their golden boy, their …

*   *   *

“Fuck it,” I said.

I shouldered my way through the hallway toward the no-pay pay phone. If I didn't find a way, I might never rid myself of the lump in my throat. The only idea I could come up with was to call and report Josh to the principal's office. The media center was empty with the exception of the helper, who was fast asleep as usual, so I called the principal's office, hoping they did not have caller ID.

“Edgewood High School. May I help you?” said Ms. Wade, the Gatekeeper. To my surprise, she had a pleasant phone voice. I guessed it was a put-on for parents or upper-level management, but I had a straight-shot view of her through the library window—lo and behold, she was flipping a damn catalog.

“I would like to report an attempted rape.” When she lowered her catalog, I knew I had her. Those eyes grew so large I could see her pupils clearly through three sets of thick glass.

“Hold, please.” She rose from her beloved swivel chair and banged on Principal Smith's office door. She burst through, disappearing into his office and reemerging seconds later. “The principal is in a meeting,” she said as Principal Smith peeked at her through his cracked door.

No offer to take a message, just lies. Big white lies of Edgewood High.

A flicker of anger sprinted up the center of my spine. “Look, lady. If you don't transfer me to the principal, I'll call Birmingham news and report you for institutional neglect.” Birmingham was the most progressive city in Alabama.

She stuttered something unintelligible, eyeballed the principal, and said, “You're calling
Birmingham
news, you say?” They exchanged hectic sign language. I watched her lower the phone. At first, I thought she was hanging up, but after a click, I realized she'd placed me on speakerphone.

“Yes, Birmingham,” I said, sensing their fear. “I know Edgewood has Montgomery media in their deep pockets, but Birmingham has the Southern Education Desk at their NPR station.”

After a whispered exchange with his Gatekeeper, Principal Smith quickly shut his office door.

“I'm going to transfer you to the principal's line.”

I'll be doggoned, so that's how you get transferred back there. “Principal Smith speaking,” said the stately gentleman's Atticus Finch voice, which I'd only ever heard over the intercom.

“Yes, I need to report an assault. It happened at a party Saturday night, and it would have gone further if someone hadn't walked in on us,” I said, barely pausing to breathe. “He held me down. I'm pretty sure I still have his handprint on my forearm. He was so strong. Too strong for me to handle, and I think he may try this type of thing again.” Something occurred to me that I hadn't thought of. “I'll bet he's done something like this before.”

“Does this boy attend Edgewood High School?” His voice simmered like a teakettle about to squeal.

“He does,” I said, trying not to break down, but the thought of Josh's hands wrapping around my forearms, his breath on my neck, and his sour spit in my throat made me want to rip the phone from the wall and throw it through the glass.

“I need a name.”

“His name is Josh Ander—”

“Of Anderson Toyota, Jeep, Dodge?” he asked before a panicky chuckle. “Our quarterback? Oh, no, ma'am, I assure you he's not that type of boy.”

“Not that type of boy?” I shot from the stool with such force that I could barely stay on my feet. “He nearly fractured my arm, dumbass!”

“Well, there's no need to use that type of language. What's your name, young lady?”

“Why do you need my name? I gave you the name of the bastard who tried to—”

He interrupted, “If you don't give me a name, there's nothing I, or anyone, can do.”

“I will not give my name,” I said firmly before hanging up in his face.

The principal stormed from his office, flailed his arms back and forth, and went back to his desk. I watched in utter disbelief as the Gatekeeper recrossed her legs, picked up the catalog, and resumed her flipping. I gave them a few moments to reconsider. Then I gave myself a few more moments to understand: understand that being a girl comes with much responsibility. Not just a white or black girl, or a hot or not-hot girl, but any type of girl. The responsibility to fiercely protect our bodies from monsters who think they can take what they want and get away with it. And then, as final adornment, they spread the rumor that
we
initiated it, effectively checking the slut box for us.

There was no textbook or class period dedicated to living with the burden of being born with a vagina. No dummy's guide to avoiding bellicose penises attached to entitled boys with Edgewood clout. Only trial and error, and hopefully true friends to confide in. When I thought about it, the only true female friend I had in the world was my mother.

My mother could never know I'd been attacked, because I didn't want to be lumped into what she referred to as the “running-in-the-woods girls.” Whenever a white girl went missing on
Unsolved Mysteries
, my mother would say, “I bet she was running in the woods by herself in butt-out shorts.” Usually, Mom was right. Not that she blamed them for their
Unsolved Mysteries
–worthy predicaments, but her tone suggested that some responsibility fell on the victim. I wanted my mother to think I was smarter than that, even if I wasn't. Besides, Lord knows I didn't want to be responsible for her heart attack, or the prison sentence she would receive from cutting off the quarterback's wiener. So I resigned myself to finding another way.

*   *   *

By lunchtime, my head pounded. Though I'd chosen the table farthest from the Chosen Table, the whisper clusters throughout the lunchroom created one giant whisper-holler, defeating the purpose of whispering altogether. Most of the chatter was about Josh's fat lip and black eye. But some were talking about me.

Trolling the cafeteria, I saw the black people arrive. If I hadn't been watching, I would have heard them, as they were by far the loudest group in the lunchroom. One of Deanté's friends, Andre, pointed directly at me and said something into his girlfriend Tiffany's ear. I picked up my plastic spork and began poking my wayward green peas, but that didn't stop them from snaking their way to my table.

“So what you got?” Andre and Tiffany slid into the empty seats across from me. “I Googled some pics of STDs, and that shit is crazy. You got the one that looks like yellow broccoli?” he asked. Tiffany was stifling a laugh. I sank my head forward and tried to ignore them. “Hey! Over here, y'all.” He waved four more of his friends, including Deanté, toward my table. “I'm just asking this chick what she got going on in her
draws
.”