“Christina’s going to be a famous chef someday,” says Jamie. “She’s going to own her own restaurant.”
“Oh! You could go to, like, that cooking school up in Napa Valley. The CIA. It stands for Culinary Institute of America.” Mom showed me an article about it when we were back in Wisconsin trying to learn about what was out here.
There’s an awkward pause before Jamie says, “Yeah, maybe you could!” a little too cheerfully.
Christina eyes me and says drily, “I know what CIA stands for.” And the conversation sinks like a brick in a well, taking my heart along with it. It doesn’t seem fair. I was only trying to be encouraging.
Maybe it’s the sauce, or maybe it’s just how things work, but as the mound of chicken dwindles, the atmosphere lightens again and talk resumes. Having learned my lesson, I keep quiet and watch, impressed, as the others gnaw every last sliver of meat off the chicken bones: fat, gristle—JJ even crunches on the cartilage at the ends.
I don’t like the chewy, slimy bits, so I’m nowhere near as thorough, and when I push away my plateful of bones, Christina says, “What—you done?”
“Uh, yeah. It was really, really good.” It can’t hurt to say it again.
“You gotta pick the bones clean,” explains JJ, licking his fingers.
“Don’t trip, though, not everyone does it,” says Arturo. “It’s like old-fashioned manners or something. Like from when everyone was poor and they hardly ever got to eat meat.”
“No shit, really?” says JJ.
“You dumbass, what’d you think it was from?” Arturo snorts.
“I just thought . . . I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“Ughhh,” Christina groans through her teeth. “You drive me crazy. You never think about anything. How do you go through life like that?” And I’m so relieved not to be the target for once that I laugh. Big mistake. Christina looks at me and asks, “What’s so funny?”
I turn my laughter into an awkward cough. “Nothing.”
“Enough of this,” says Arturo, giving Christina a shove. “Get me some of them cookies.”
“Fuck you. I’m your girlfriend, not your slave. Get them yourself.”
“Yeah, you know where the plates are,” adds Jamie. “And while you’re up, get us some of that chocolate pudding.”
Arturo refuses, and after some bickering back and forth, it’s agreed that everyone should serve themselves. As we dig into the chocolate pudding (“Not too much, though,” says Jamie. “My mom’ll kill us if we finish it.”), and some of Christina’s (delicious, ugh) cookies, we channel surf and make jokes about everything that comes on. Actually that’s not entirely accurate. They make jokes, I sit in awkward silence.
Like when a commercial comes on featuring a young Black man in a hoodie. This sparks a debate that could be entitled, “Hoodies: Freedom of Expression, Tempting Fate, or It Doesn’t Matter What You Wear, You’re Still Screwed?” All four of them have strong opinions, but I have nothing to add. And I feel nervous about participating, anyway. I’m afraid that if I say, “Yes, wear whatever you want,” someone will tell me I don’t get it; if I say, “No, people might think you’re up to no good,” someone will wonder if that’s what I think. I guess I can’t blame them. I mean, what do I know? I feel . . . like an impostor. It’s like being back in Wisconsin when I couldn’t find my way into the Midwest Farmers’ Daughters’ Club.
You’d think that as a Person of Color, I would feel some kinship here, some bond. But I don’t, not exactly. Why is that? Is it really race or ethnicity or whatever, that’s making me feel like I’m not in the club, or am I making it all up and it’s just a personal thing? Or something else entirely? If I don’t think it’s about race does that make me a racist? If I do think it’s about race does that make me a racist?
“I’m bored,” JJ complains, eventually. “Let’s do something else. Let’s get some chips or something. Let’s go to the 7-Eleven on South Bascom. I just got a new ID and I wanna break it in. I heard they don’t have one of those scanner things to check IDs yet.”
“Nuh-uh,” says Christina. “I’m not gonna get in trouble just because you want to try out your new little fake ID—which no one is gonna fall for, by the way, ’cause you look like a twelve-year-old. And if Jamie gets in trouble, I’ll tell her mom it was your fault.”
“Chill, Christina. It’s fine,” Jamie says.
“No, it’s not. I’m not gonna let fuckin’ JJ fuck everything up for you—for all of us—just ’cause he wants to be a big man and buy some beer.”
“Oh, look who’s talking.” JJ jeers. “Who got drunk just last weekend?”
“Yeah, at someone’s house. Where it’s safe and no one’s gonna call the cops.”
“Nothin’s gonna happen. No one’s gonna get arrested. Stop being such a whiny little—”
“Don’t you say it,” Christina warns him.
We end up getting into Arturo’s car and heading over to the 7-Eleven, but only after JJ promises not to try his new ID. The spots closest to the store are all taken, so we park in a corner of the lot, go in, and load up with chips and soda. On our way out, JJ holds his hand out to Arturo.
“Gimme my Funyuns,” he says.
“What Funyuns?”
“What the fuck, bruh? I told you to get me some Funyuns ’cause I didn’t have enough cash and you owe me twenty bucks!”
“The fuck you talking about? You never said that.”
“I did, too, you—” JJ stops and shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. But you owe me, so just give me the money and I’ll go get ’em myself.”
Arturo grimaces and pulls a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “Sometimes I don’t know why we keep you,” he mutters as he hands it to JJ, who takes it, raises his middle finger at Arturo, and trots happily back into the store for his Funyuns. “Idiot.”
We go back to the car and break into the chips while we wait for JJ. Jamie and I sit on the hood of the car, sharing a can of Pringles. She scoots over so that our legs are touching, and rests her hand on my knee. I have a girlfriend. She’s got her hand on my knee. In public. No big deal.