She’d moved to L.A. a couple of weeks ago when her father got a new job. Both he and his husband seemed to be fitting in just fine, but Sunday was terrified of Los Angeles. It was just so different from what she was used to. The city was slower, more relaxed than Chicago. Here, people who were forty looked twenty, and it wasn’t all cosmetic surgery.
“Six months of winter ages you,” her dad had said as they dodged moms in yoga pants and college students buying kale in the natural foods market. “Life’s a lot easier when you don’t have to spend half of it shoveling snow and avoiding frostbite.”
They lived in the San Fernando Valley—what everyone called the Valley and what she soon realized was considered very uncool by half of Los Angeles. Sunday didn’t mind it. Her school was over the hill, in West Hollywood, so she got to see plenty of the city during the week. It seemed busier there—more traffic and people. Their street in Sherman Oaks was peaceful, so quiet and manicured it felt like a storybook neighborhood.
“Sherman Oaks is cool,” Micah said after asking where she lived that first day.
They had second period together too, so they ended up walking next to each other across campus. Sunday was grateful for it. The campus wasn’t particularly big, but it was clear that everyone knew everyone else. They kept looking at her, and she wondered if it was because she was new or because she was with Micah. Maybe both.
“Where do you live?” she asked, taking in his profile.
He was cute enough to warrant the stares of the other students. Micah was one of the few other black kids she’d seen since she got there. He had brown skin a couple of shades darker than her own coppery complexion, a lanky build, and a dimple in his cheek. The only looks she’d received so far had been curious at most, but she was still glad to have someone else around who looked like her.
“I stay over in Beverly Hills,” Micah said quickly, then: “What are you studying here?”
Brinkley was an arts-and-sciences school. Sunday had gone to private school back in Chicago, but it had a more basic curriculum. Looking at the roster of classes on the website when they were filling out her application, she’d been almost intimidated by the selection here.
“Visual arts. You live in Beverly Hills? Is it as fancy as it is on TV?”
He shrugged. “Parts of it, yeah. What type of art?”
“A little bit of everything. I mean, I want to study art history in college, so I’m taking those classes. But I’m signed up for studio art and sculpture this semester, too. Why are you being weird about living in Beverly Hills?”
“I’m not,” he said. “It’s just . . . people kind of judge you by where you live here, and I hate that shit.”
“People do that in Chicago too.” Sunday paused and then decided to change the subject. She didn’t want to piss off her first and only friend or acquaintance or whatever he was. “What are you studying?”
“Guess.” He led the way down the path to the building where their honors history class was located.
Sunday looked at him closely, tilting her head to the side and squinting her eyes like she saw people do when they wanted to look smart in art galleries. “Math?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I fucking hate that shit.”
“Hmm . . . English?” Maybe he was an undercover literary genius.
Micah laughed. “You probably won’t guess. It’s dance.”
“Dance? Like ballet?”
“I take classes in everything, but I want to choreograph. Contemporary. My piece last year won first place in the choreography showcase,” he said with a small smile.
“That’s really cool. I’ve never known any guys who dance.” It was all sports all the time at her old school. And in the Midwest in general. If you didn’t watch sports, people looked at you like you were absolutely un-American.
“Well, you’re in L.A. now. Everybody here does everything.”
They walked through the bustling hallways, and every few feet, people would wave or grin or fist-bump Micah to say hello. She wouldn’t have guessed him to be popular; maybe because he was so low-key. The people in the popular crowd at her old school were all virtually interchangeable. They wore the same expensive clothes and made appointments at the same expensive hair salons, and their families went on the same extravagant vacations, sometimes together. You could spot them by the glow of superiority that practically radiated around them.
A guy in a hoodie with surfer-blond hair shuffled over just before they walked into their classroom.
“What’s up, man?” Micah said easily, slapping hands with him.
“Not much, just uh . . .” He glanced over at Sunday and nodded, but didn’t finish his sentence.
Ah. The universal signal that her presence wasn’t wanted.
“I’m gonna go in,” she said to Micah, feeling the self-consciousness that had engulfed her when she walked up the front steps that morning flooding back in full force. It had started to dissipate once Micah introduced himself in first period.
“Save me a seat?”
And just like that, the warmth in his voice convinced her that she was going to be okay.
*
Sunday settled easily into their new friendship. She didn’t feel particularly desperate for friends; she would have happily blended into the background for a while. But Micah was nice, they had three classes together, and she’d been eating lunch at his table since he’d invited her on the first day.
She wondered if the other students thought they were dating. At her old school, people seen talking too long, too closely, or too often would be immediately questioned. But here, nobody seemed to think anything about her hanging around. And she didn’t feel anything for him—not really. It was almost like they’d known each other their whole lives, but there wasn’t a spark. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever had a spark with anyone, but she hoped she would know when it happened.
On the first Friday at her new school, Sunday showered and got ready a bit earlier than normal. She had to make sure she caught her dad and Ben before they left for work. Well, only her father would be leaving. Ben did his graphic design projects out of the spare bedroom they’d turned into an office. But they both got up early and had coffee and breakfast together each morning, even on the weekends.
“Morning,” Ben said from the stove where he was poaching an egg. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.” Sunday made herself a bowl of instant oatmeal and sprinkled blueberries on top. Fruit was one of the things Los Angeles did better than Chicago. Her father had seemed positively delighted the first time he’d seen the produce all lined up in the market, practically sparkling in the bins. “Where’s Dad?”
“He had to go in early.” Ben’s back was turned toward her, and she noticed that his ash-blond hair was starting to get a bit long. He was older than her father, but he acted younger; less serious, anyway. “What’s up?”
“I’m going out with some friends after school, so I don’t need a ride,” she said. “I mean, if that’s okay.”
It was always okay in Chicago, but they knew all her friends back there. And no one was worried because she was always hanging with church kids.