Spilled Ink, page 9
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I mutter.
My mother pokes her head into my room right then. I know our house isn’t the biggest, but it seems like she’s always one step away from my door, which I have to leave open so she won’t freak out and barge in.
“What are you doing with what?” she asks, her eyes wide. Her anxiety has leveled up and I’m sure not the only one who can feel it.
“Oh, Mona was supposed to send me our AP Government homework, but . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. “I don’t think this is the right one.”
She looks over at my phone and I can see the effort it must take for her to resist the urge to pluck it out of my hands and check for herself. Instead, she just nods, tells me to call her if I need anything, and taps the doorframe a couple of times before she retreats.
Another text comes in from Keith.
Hello?
I put my phone facedown in frustration. I once splurged on an indigo sweater with a big-eyed llama embroidered on the front in cream and fuchsia threads. But for as much as I’d paid for it, the sweater still snagged on every little thing—the bristles of my hairbrush, a clothes hanger, a belt buckle—and unraveled a bit every time. That’s how I’ve felt lately, like even my best days get snagged on big and little things that I don’t see coming. I like talking to Keith but I can’t unsee him talking to Larson and I certainly can’t coo over his new dog without addressing the elephant in the parking lot.
Why were you talking to Larson?
I’ve typed and sent the question before I can delete it again. It takes a minute for those three dots to appear.
Can I call you? he writes, but I tell him I can’t talk now. I want an answer, not a conversation.
Danny worked with him over the summer mowing lawns and stuff. Tried to talk some sense into him.
I don’t know what explanation I was expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it. I feel a bit guilty for assuming the worst. I hated the way it felt to think that Keith might have found what Larson said to be funny or justified.
Appreciate him doing that, I reply.
But I can’t say it worked, Keith added.
Of course it didn’t. I doubt Larson would have heard anything said to him, and not just because all our ears were buzzing from the volume of the music that night. In science talk, Larson was on the other side of an impermeable membrane.
Effort counts, I reply, then tell Keith I’ve got to go. I look at my sketchbook and feel too exhausted to even pick up a pen. I tuck my phone into my nightstand because I need the world to hush, to let me hear myself through the noise.
By Monday morning, I wonder if I was too insistent on quiet. The house is thick with silence. There’s no race to the bathroom, and I couldn’t say the word prank much less plan one. Yusuf and I move through our morning rituals and join Mom in the kitchen. With her supernatural optimism, she’s made strawberry-banana-kale smoothies with her new nutritional find, some kind of immune-boosting mushroom that has a tragically shrimpy taste.
“Come on, guys. Not everything has to taste like apple juice,” she says, slurping a spoonful from the blender to prove us wrong. She turns, but not in time to hide her puckered face. I see candles on the counter and remember that today is Yalda, and I bet she’s hoping tonight’s celebration of the winter solstice will reset everything.
Coats zipped, my brother and I leave the house, our smoothies barely touched. Our feet move in and out of synchrony as we head down the sidewalk. I’m glad I cleared things up with Keith before this morning. Yusuf and I have brought this gray cloud from our house out with us and I am hoping Keith will change the mood.
The door swings open and Keith steps outside. Even from the sidewalk, we hear Keith’s mother call his name inside their house.
“Did you hear me?” she calls after him. “This is not the time.”
He lets the screen door clang shut behind him and walks across the lawn with his hands in his pockets. I wonder what his mother is worked up about. By the weight of his sigh, I can tell he’s not thrilled.
“How’s it going?” Yusuf asks, throwing Keith a nod.
We hear barking from Keith’s house and spy a dog’s face in the bay window. Keith closes his eyes briefly, then shakes his head and grins.
“Hey, you got a dog?” Yusuf asks.
“Yeah,” Keith confirms. “Yalda didn’t tell you? That’s Fisher. Picked him up from the shelter over the weekend.”
“That’s cool. I didn’t know you wanted a dog,” Yusuf says. He looks at me and I see in his eyes the surprise at hearing I’ve already heard the news. I look away to hide the flush creeping up my neck.
Keith looks back at the window, which Fisher has now partly fogged up with his panting.
“He’s technically my brother’s dog but I think he likes me better,” he says, and as if to agree from inside the house, Fisher barks. His bark becomes more urgent seeing Keith with us, un-sniffed strangers. “My mom isn’t too happy about the barking but she says it’ll make people think twice about breaking into our house.”
“Think that would work with Dad?” Yusuf asks me.
I just laugh. Yusuf and I begged for a dog when we were in elementary school but Dad said he would only consider it if we did all the yard work for a whole summer. After twelve minutes of weeding in the front yard, we decided we were probably allergic anyway and didn’t really need a dog.
We fall into our usual formation on the sidewalk. Fisher’s barking fades as we grow the distance between us and Keith’s house. I keep my feet close to the grass so Keith can have more room. Today, Keith seems to edge a little closer to Yusuf, and I get the sense he’s trying to make more space for me.
Maybe I’m reading too much into things.
We don’t talk about the night at WhereHouse or the horrible comments people have made about Yusuf since then. We don’t talk about it but we’re all thinking about it. Keith fills the space with more details about their visit to the animal shelter and Fisher’s first night with the family. Things almost feel normal by the time we get to the entrance, where we part ways. I find Asma and Mona waiting for me at my locker. Mona looks relieved that I’ve finally appeared, while Asma seems rattled.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s bad is what it is,” Mona says.
12
“Someone drew a bunch of hate stuff and wrote ‘terrorist’ on Yusuf’s locker,” Mona says.
“No. Oh, please no,” I say, as if I can beg this news away. Asma links her arm with mine.
“I’m so sorry, Yal, but it’s true. People can be such shits,” Mona declares.
“It’s so awful. He was just trying to do the right thing,” Asma says. “How are your parents reacting?”
“I don’t really know how to describe it,” I say. My parents were upset, but it was unclear who they were upset with. Yusuf hasn’t been grounded or had his driving privileges taken away, though the heavy look on Dad’s face and Mom’s fidgeting are punishment enough.
The bell rings and forces me to move with the routine of the day. In class, I struggle to follow my teachers. I keep rereading the minefield of comments on the appetizer post and remembering all that happened at WhereHouse. I wonder what will happen to Yusuf. What will this do to my parents? Every time a teacher or a student or even the custodian looks my way, I wonder what they’ve heard and what they think of my family. Did Ms. Martin really need to check the time on her watch or was she avoiding me? Was Leonna giggling because she’s read some of the trolling comments online about Yusuf? Between classes, I search the halls for Yusuf but I don’t see him. Maybe he’s avoiding everyone.
It’s not until I’m on my way to history that I pass Yusuf’s locker and see for myself what Asma and Mona were talking about. There’s a large sheet of white paper taped over his locker to hide the graffiti but I can see right through it. It’s even worse than my friends let on. Someone’s also drawn a pig’s face above two letters in thick black marker—F and U. Asma comes down the hall from the opposite direction and finds me paused in the middle of the hallway looking at the locker.
“Don’t look at it,” Asma says.
But I can’t take my eyes off the pig’s face. It’s cartoonish and almost cute, which infuriates me because nothing about this is goofy or charming. Asma takes me by the elbow and leads me into our AP Government class.
Graffiti. “Was this Wyatt again?” I ask. “How stupid could he be?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what I heard some other people wondering, too.”
“Eff him,” she whispers in my ear, which is out of character for her but matches my mood. I slide into my chair feeling like the day is upside-down. Mr. Dempsey stands at the front of the class, watching us enter and open our notebooks. He’s wearing a beige sweater with leather elbow patches. The plaid collar of his shirt pokes out from the neck. If he ever got tired of talking about voting laws and the separation of powers, he could teach a class on how to dress like a history teacher.
“Welcome back,” Mr. Dempsey says once the fidgeting dies down and the last notebook has been opened on the last desk.
I look at Asma, who’s staring into the open mouth of her pencil case. We’re not supposed to bring our phones into the classroom but mostly that means we keep our phones out of sight. I touch my back pocket and realize I’ve left my phone in my locker. She pulls a pen out of her case before she zips it up and looks over at me. She offers a sympathy smile.
“Plessy v. Ferguson,” Mr. Dempsey says. “Let’s start where we left off. Asma, can you give us a summary of the incident?”
I breathe a sigh of relief that Mr. Dempsey didn’t call on me. I can’t get the word terrorist out of my head and have the sudden urge to look around the classroom to see if the person who drew the pig is sitting somewhere near me. I look at my hands, which always reveal whether I’ve been drawing lately. Mine have not a hint of ink. Does the person who drew the graffiti have smudges on his hands? Does she have smudges on her hands? The handwriting isn’t very distinctive. It could be anyone.
“. . . but when Homer Plessy refused to sit in a car for Black people he was arrested,” Asma says.
“Good. Now, I’m going to pull up the Fourteenth Amendment so we can have that for reference as you summarize the implications of the seven-to-one ruling in this case.”
I did read ahead to prepare for today’s class but it seems I’ve retained nothing. I flip open my book to an ink depiction of a Black man wearing a suit and a top hat sitting on the tufted seat of a train. Plessy looks like he’s on his way to a wedding, the chain of a pocket watch hanging between the buttons of his vest. He has his hand over his bags and looks unamused and unfazed by the white man standing over him, a representation of the person who tried to get Homer Plessy to leave the train car. The artist used linear strokes, short and vertical for the most part. There are some curves—Plessy’s eyes and the round head of the baby in the arms of a white woman looking at Plessy with interest to see if he’ll comply. I trace over the drawing without letting my pen touch the page, reimagining the sketch in my own lines. I wonder if I could draw something like this but with more curves. I am fascinated by the pocket watch that is just out of view, counting the moments Plessy remains fixed in place. In my mind, an image flashes—a dozen watches and clockfaces floating into a sky like balloons light with helium.
But Plessy’s sense of style and floating clocks won’t be on the test, so I write today’s date in the top corner of my notebook and try to bring my attention back to this assignment. Something in the hallway catches my eye and I look up to see Yusuf walking past our open classroom door. Where is he going now that we’re five minutes into the period? I want to jump out of my seat and ask him, but Mr. Dempsey clears his throat in a way that convinces me I should stay where I am and keep my eyes toward the front of the room.
By the time the bell rings I have written only a single paragraph on the Fourteenth Amendment and the separate-but-equal doctrine. Asma must have noticed because she shoots me a concerned look as we close our notebooks and rise from our seats.
“Girl, are you okay? You usually run out of ink on these assignments,” Asma says.
“Just didn’t know what to write,” I say. I look up and down the hallway, hoping to spot Yusuf and check in with him, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask Asma. “I want to call Yusuf.”
Asma frowns.
“Sorry, I left mine in my locker,” she says. I could have sworn she snuck a look at her phone while we were in class. Was she just staring into her pencil case? Maybe I was wrong. “I’ll walk with you to yours if you want. We can make it if we hurry.”
“Then we’ll both be late,” I say. “Can you tell Ms. Kupfer that I had to use the bathroom?”
“Yeah, sure,” Asma says. She looks relieved to be able to do something for me. I’m glad to have Asma in most of my classes. I don’t know where my classmates stand on what happened at WhereHouse the other night, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining the charged air around me.
I double my pace. My locker is at the other end of the school, which means I have to go past the main entrance. There’s a bathroom a couple doors down from Ms. Kupfer’s class so if I take too long, she might not be all that forgiving.
I lengthen my stride, turning my shoulders to slip between the students filling the hallway. I pass by the school’s main office and am sure someone will notice I’m walking away from where I’m supposed to be right now, as if the staff have memorized my schedule and can spot me in the swirl of students walking between classes. If I ever committed an actual crime, I would probably turn myself in so I could stop panicking about being caught.
I steal a quick glance into the principal’s office, which is attached to the administrative office. Thankfully, the principal is busy talking to a couple of students. I get just past the office when I halt mid-step. Is that Wyatt in there? I hope so.
Someone steps on my heel, and I yelp.
“Whoa, sorry!” the girl says, and stoops to pick up the book she’s dropped.
“My fault,” I say, stepping closer to the wall to get out of the way of traffic. She shakes her head and hurries off down the hall.
I take two steps back and peek through the glass window.
Principal Tordoff is leaning against the front of his desk with his arms folded. Yusuf, Chris, and Liam are sitting in three chairs across from him, their backs to the door. The guys are arranged the way they would be onstage, with Liam in the middle, his seat a few inches behind the two others’. Chris sits on his right, closest to the door.
I spend the next two minutes trying to look like I’m not eavesdropping. My eyes scan the hallway while I stand with my shoulder to the wall, trying to catch any part of their conversation, but the stragglers are still filling the hallway with their chatter. When the bell signals that class has started, I know I should get going. Walking into the classroom late will mean all eyes on me. But I can make out a few words and am too curious to walk away.
“Irresponsible . . . music doesn’t . . . disappointed.”
I move in closer and focus all my energies on listening.
“What about my locker? Have you even talked to Wyatt?” Yusuf’s voice is clear. He’s upset, which automatically dials his volume up.
“. . . a separate matter . . . assumptions . . . middle school . . . wrong influence.”
“That’s not fair!”
I know how much Yusuf loves teaching those kids. I want to go in there, to tell Mr. Tordoff that this is all one huge mess but Yusuf wasn’t the one to start it.
While I’m wondering if I should, the door opens. I spin, turning my back to the office and trying not to look like I wasn’t just eavesdropping.
Chris comes out first. He looks at me, his face unreadable.
“I’d hate for this to mark your senior year. Yusuf, we can talk more tomorrow.” The principal’s voice floats into the hallway as Yusuf emerges. He’s jostled by Liam, who storms out behind him, his jaw set and his lips pressed into a thin, grim line.
“Liam,” Yusuf says. But Liam doesn’t turn around. He’s down the hallway and around the corner without a word. Yusuf turns to Chris, who shifts his backpack onto his shoulder.
“Not now,” Chris says to Yusuf before he can get out another word. “Just . . . not now.”
When Chris has rounded the corner too, Yusuf turns to me. He looks defeated.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice low. “What did he say?”
Yusuf purses his lips.
“That actions have consequences. And that I should apologize in the school paper.”
“And about the middle school lessons?”
“This was a warning. The middle school music teacher doesn’t want upset parents calling in.”
“That’s ridiculous. They love you as a teacher. And WhereHouse became hostile because of that guy Larson. Did he even hear about what Larson said?” I ask.
Yusuf nods.
“And?”
“He told me it’s poor citizenship to blame others for our own actions. And he also said, ‘Sometimes cornflakes are just cornflakes’ or something like that.”
“Wow, deep thoughts. What about Liam and Chris?” I ask.
“Pissed to be having this conversation but they’re in the clear. They weren’t on the mic that night.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “If they’re not in trouble, then they’ll get over this in a couple of days. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that. The manager of WhereHouse called Liam and told him we’re not welcome back there.”
Liam’s anger makes more sense now. Playing at WhereHouse wasn’t the endgame. It was supposed to help them book spots there and elsewhere as real, paying gigs, which is nearly impossible for high schoolers to get.
“And what about your locker?”
“My locker,” he sighs. “He said they’re going to give me a new locker down the hall and paint over this one. Could have happened anytime this weekend so they have no idea. Wyatt denied it and he was three hours away at his grandfather’s house all weekend.”
