Little White Lies (5 page)

My prayers to become a morning person went unanswered.

I’d been inspired to write a post last night for reasons I couldn’t remember now. At least my parents were smiling from behind their respective iPad and newspaper. I stared into my cereal bowl for what could have been three days or three seconds. I grabbed my phone just to remind myself that I was actually awake and not in a dream state. I made my rounds on social media. Facebook, Twitter, Tumblrrrrrrrrr—WHAT?!
Little White Lies
had 30,027 followers—wait, 30,157—wait, 30,200 …

As I was watching the number of followers climb, my mother was watching the cereal pour out of my mouth. She stopped smiling. “Coretta, that’s not cute.”

“I, ummm … yeah, sorry. Mornings, huh?”

My father folded his newspaper and set it down. “You
wouldn’t be salivating over the amount of new followers you got overnight, would you?” he asked gently.

“Oh, no. I just love rice-based cereal products, you know—”

“Coretta, honey, stop.” My dad put his hand on my shoulder, which could only mean something really good, or something really bad. “You don’t have to hide your successes from us. We are very proud of you and of this blog. You never told us you were such a great writer.”

I wanted to say that I never told them because I never
knew
I was such a great writer. I once wrote a short story in eighth grade. I was supremely pleased with it. When I read it to my parents, they asked me why it didn’t have an ending. They weren’t being facetious. Until now, that had defined my writing career.

“Oh, you guys, thanks. Yeah, it’s nothing, I mean it’s something, but thanks.” Call me a Kardashian; I managed to say nothing while using all those words.

My mother was smiling again. “Well, colleges are going to be taking notice, Coretta. It seems you’re on your way to becoming a voice of your generation, whether you like it or not. You keep doing you, and be proud of that.”

Now I was worried. My mother was given to overstatement and ridiculousness; that was the whole point of the blog. But not when it came to
me
. Since when did she use the phrases “voice of a generation” or “you keep doing you”? I ran out of the house even faster than the last time I’d posted.

This morning couldn’t get any weirder—right?

Don’t worry, dear reader. That’s a rhetorical question.

As I walked up to school I noticed that a lot of the kids were smiling at me the way Mom and Dad had.

Let’s get one thing straight: I’d been the center of attention plenty of times. I admit that I’ve suffered from delusions of grandeur. But this was different. People really
were
looking at me differently. I made sure I hadn’t forgotten a major article of clothing. Pants, shirt, shoes—okay, I was covered. But once again, I felt like I was in a teen movie. This time it wasn’t so much a Tyler Perry teen movie as much as a generic
I was in the montage where everyone looks at the girl in a different way
 … and as embarrassment consumes her and she makes her way to her locker,
BAM!
There is her knight in shining armor (letterman’s jacket), ready to whisk her away to homeroom.

Mike grinned from one perfectly symmetrical ear to the other. He walked right up to me and kissed me. Like,
kissed
me. Again with the PDA. His hand was on the back of my head; the other was on the small of my back. This was not Mike, and this was especially not Mike in school.

“What’s going on?” I asked point-blank, once I could get ahold of myself.

“Coretta, I read your Tumblr this morning. Correction: my parents and I read your post. They are so impressed by you, which is saying a lot.”

I tried to smile back, but couldn’t.
Here we go with the parents again
. What was his and Rachel’s problem? Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ms. Schuster, my AP English teacher, walking straight for us. Speaking of grown-ups, here came one who was about to lecture us on Mike’s use of his tongue to check my tonsils for strep.

Of course it had to be Ms. Schuster, who hated PDA more than the average teacher. Rumor had it that she’d never had a single human relationship in her entire life. On her desk there was a framed 8×10 portrait-studio photo of her with three
German shepherds in choke collars. The dogs, not her, but still, she was wearing a turtleneck—both in the picture and right now. She always wore turtlenecks, as far as I could tell.

She didn’t look angry, though. In fact, she beamed at me.

“Ms. White, I’ve been reading your blog,” she said as Mike backed away from me. “Very interesting commentary. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to include
Little White Lies
as part of my creative writing exercises next week.”

“Creative writing. Yes, uhhh, yes, okay, do as you see justice to your course … Ms. Schuster.”

So those words did not come out as planned, but they were enough to get her to nod and walk away.

Can we all please process that she knew the name of my blog? I’d been publicly befriended by the Booker T. Washington High School equivalent of Professor Snape from
Harry Potter
.

“Wow, looks like you’re making friends with the enemy,” Mike mused, enjoying himself.

Before I could respond, Rachel appeared. The morning kept getting better.

“The enemy? Who is friends with the enemy? Wait, who is the enemy? Is it me? No, it’s not me. Never mind. Hi! Good morning, superstar!”

I leaned against my locker, exhausted. “Hey, girl. Mike’s just talking about Ms. Schuster.”

“Oh, right. Well, I wanted to see what time you wanted to meet tonight to work on the plan for the Spanish club party. It’s the first party of the year, and you know how I feel about first impressions. I have a storyboard already outlined.”

Shit
. My stomach dropped. I slapped my forehead. “Oh, gosh, Rachel, I’m sorry. I totally forgot. I have two papers due tomorrow that I haven’t even started—”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

I shook my head. “I’m not joking.”

Rachel’s smile grew strained. She shot a quick glance at Mike. “But Coretta, you’re the president. You
have
to be at the party-planning meeting. I can’t be in charge of all of this.”

“No, I know, I know. Let me ask Jessica if she can help out—”

“Jessica doesn’t even know how to conjugate the infinitive of a verb,” Rachel interrupted.

I wasn’t sure what to say. Rachel took cancellations very personally. Two years ago, I had to cancel a Saturday afternoon plan to make friendship bracelets. We were on the phone for eighty-seven minutes on Sunday to smooth things out. I always try to keep my plans with her because it really isn’t worth the cell-phone minutes not to. That being said, I couldn’t afford the setback of not turning in two papers on time.

“Rachel, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

By now Mike was staring at the floor. His smile was long gone.

Rachel shrugged. “Forget it. Have fun writing your papers.”

I went through that day feeling like a jerk about Rachel. And feeling excited that my Tumblr was becoming a sensation of sorts. And feeling appreciated by Mike—more than ever, actually. And feeling proud that my parents were so impressed with me.

I was feeling a lot of weird and contradictory things.

But in the end, the feeling that took over was impending doom. I had way too many commitments piling up.

Whatever. Don’t think about it. It’ll all get done. It always does
. I stayed up all night and finished those papers.

Two weeks had passed since my sort-of fight with Rachel, and I hadn’t slowed down. I’d done the opposite: I’d put up a LWL post every night. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t going to post
every
night, that I was going to focus on my college applications, or hang out with Mike, or show up at Rachel’s and apologize in person … but something inevitably came up. Some issue, some celebrity, some political injustice—hell, even some newfound beauty tip—all of it made me jump to my computer.

Tonight would be different. No blogging.

I’d vowed to start on my first personal essay for Howard University. It was Friday. I was missing Mike’s home football game, which I could justify. I was staying home to further my academic future. (Besides, when was the last time you heard of an NFL wide receiver from Brooklyn?) But then … 
Oh, look at that, someone sent me a message on my blog
.

I could read a message. That wasn’t
writing
a post; that was reading a message, and that was allowed. I’d been getting messages from random readers—mainly just encouraging words, and the occasional disturbing sexual weirdness, which I reported. I opened it up, expecting one or the other.

What?
What?!
My stomach sank as I read each word. Why did Becca think that I was the one she should confide in?

I’m only seventeen years old. I still wash all my clothes in one load. Becca, I don’t sort my colors!
I took a deep breath and repeated my new mantra:
Stay calm. Stay calm
. It didn’t help.

I needed to write her back. I couldn’t just send this one to the trash.
I
was bullied, after all (Coretta Cock-Ring, anyone?), but once I’d made it out of the nightmare that was middle school—and gotten my headgear removed—it all worked itself out. Becca needed to know that. Howard University could wait.

A few days later, I found out that Becca did take my advice. She received the help she needed. I also doubt that she will ever be bullied again—because the way I found out was on a local news segment.

On television.

The word was out:
Coretta White will give you personal advice
. After that, my inbox was flooded. Hundreds of deeply troubled people of all ages reached out. A forty-seven-year-old (presumably) white male from Indiana asked me whether he should surprise his wife with NASCAR tickets for their anniversary. Ummmm … ask the group of middle-aged (presumably) white men who are your friends? A fourteen-year-old girl asked me if she should get an IUD or low-dose estrogen birth control pills. Ummm … ask a gynecologist? A person asked if they should get rid of their dog because of its aggression or try to retrain it. Ummmm … ask Cesar the Dog Whisperer?

Saturday I got a text from Mike. He forgave me for missing the game. Ah, my sweet Mike. Also, his parents wanted to have me over for dinner. When I read that, I began to sweat.

I spent two hours picking out a dress that I felt was worthy of their home. I practiced looking at expensive things in magazines and not acting flabbergasted.

Dinner was great, but an anxious blur, as expected. Now we were all just sitting at the table, lingering over dessert, and I couldn’t help but feel like something was up.

Mike’s mother, Esther, broke the silence. “Coretta, I’m sure Mike has been updating you, but both Douglas and I have been very entertained by your Tumblr.”

She reminded me of someone, and I just couldn’t place it …

Mike’s dad chimed in as if this was planned. “Yes, we’ve been talking about it quite a bit lately.”

It was Claire Huxtable. She reminded me of Bill Cosby’s TV wife, updated from the 1980s to 2013. High cheekbones, eyes that had seen a thousand lifetimes, graceful but could easily put someone in their place with a bat of her eyelashes.
If I tried to put someone in their place with my eyelashes, people would ask if I was having a seizure.

“Thank you so much.” What else was I supposed to say? Mike was just sitting there. I felt like he was supposed to chime in with a deflection.