O’s face fell. “She said it was at home.”
“So”—Ian nodded toward Blanca and the case—“why is Dee lying to you, then? Is it because she thinks it doesn’t matter if she lies to you because you won’t get it? Because you’re stupid?”
He didn’t add “because you’re black.” He didn’t need to—O had reached that point all by himself. His whole being seemed to hollow out, like a sandcastle at the beach collapsing in on itself. “Do not say that.”
“I’m just being honest. Dee’s usually a nice girl. I’m trying to figure out what she’s up to, and why. She’s not used to black people, see. So maybe she’s trying you out like a new flavor of ice cream.”
O closed his eyes.
Enough, Ian thought. I’ve said enough. Perfect timing too.
“Here comes Dee,” he said. “I’ll leave you guys alone.”
In the past when kids had said or done things—left bananas on his desk or made hooting noises like monkeys or whispered to each other that he smelled different or asked him if his grandparents had been slaves—Osei had preserved enough distance to cushion himself from the blow so that it didn’t hurt. Often he could even laugh it off—repeat it to Sisi later, make fun of the ignorance or lack of creativity in their prejudice. “Can they not think up something more original than a monkey?” he’d say to his sister. “Why don’t they ever call me a panther? It is darker than a monkey.”
Sisi had chuckled. “?’Cause honkies are scared of Black Panthers.” She raised her fist in the salute.
In some ways overt racism based on ignorance was easier to deal with. It was the more subtle digs that got to him. The kids who were friendly at school but didn’t ask him to their birthday parties even when they had invited the rest of the class. The conversations that stopped when he walked into a room, a slight pause reserved for his presence. The remarks made and then the addendum, “Oh, I don’t mean you, Osei. You’re different.” Or a comment like “he’s black but he’s smart,” and the inability to understand why that was offensive. The assumption that he was better at sports because black people just—you know—are, or at dancing, or at committing crimes. The way people talked about Africa as if it were just one country. The inability to tell black people apart, so Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier were mixed up, or Tina Turner and Aretha Franklin, or Flip Wilson and Bill Cosby—though none of them looked anything like the other.
He was angrier at himself than at Dee. For a brief time—a morning—he had let his guard down, allowed himself to think she was different, that she liked him for himself rather than for what he represented—a black boy, exotic, other; an unknown territory to be explored. He watched her walking toward him on the playground now and felt his emotions zigzag between sorrow, anger, and pity. If he ignored what Ian said, he could feel something more positive: gratitude for her attention, physical attraction, interest in her interest in him. But how could he ignore the strawberry case? The lie that changed everything. He had opened himself up to Dee and already she couldn’t be trusted. Suddenly he wished Sisi were at home and he could say to her, “Why does being black have to hurt so much?”
“Go back to Africa, little brother,” she would answer, “where being black is normal and white skin is made fun of.” It was tempting. His parents would probably love it if he asked to go to boarding school in Ghana.
“Hey,” Dee said as she reached his side, hesitant, fearful.
O twisted his mouth into an ugly smirk. “Where were you?” he demanded, sounding more imperious than he felt.
“Nowhere. I was just…looking for something in Lost and Found.” Dee was reluctant, and shifty, and miserable.
“What did you lose?”
There was a pause that told him all he needed to know as he watched her trying to think of something, her face transparent. Another lie was about to join the first.
“A—a sweater. I think I left it on the ground when I was jumping Double Dutch the other day.”
“Did you find it?”
“No.”
“Maybe you left it at home.”
Dee was silent.
“Are you sure you were not looking for something else?”
Dee froze. “What do you mean?”
Osei nodded over at Blanca and Casper by the gym. She was sitting in his lap, her arms around his neck, talking and laughing, and O felt the sharp lance of envy at their happiness pierce him.
“What about them?”
“Look at Blanca’s backpack.”
Dee squinted. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.”
It was hard to spot it from where they were, unless you knew what you were looking for. “Climb to the top—you will see better from there.” Osei began pulling himself up the bars of the jungle gym.
Dee hesitated below. “Why don’t you just tell me what to look for?”
“Come up,” Osei insisted.
She still stood there, reluctant.
“Dee, if you do not come up here…”
Dee began to climb, slow and careful, until she reached the top, where she sat on one of the metal bars and held tight to two others. “I got stuck up here once in fourth grade. Mr. Brabant had to carry me down.” She looked expectant, then disappointed when Osei didn’t say anything. “So it’s a big deal that I’ve come up here for you,” she added. “What did you want me to see?”
“There. Look at what is in the pocket of Blanca’s backpack. Is that what you have been searching for?”
Dee looked for a long moment, then gripped the bars even tighter. “How did that get there?”
“You told me you left it at home during lunch.”
“I thought I had.”
“Did you—really?”
Dee sighed. “I didn’t know where it was.”
“So you lied to me.”
“I—I thought I would find it—that I left it somewhere and would find it. I didn’t want to upset you by telling you I didn’t know where it was.”
“So that is what you were looking for in Lost and Found.”
Dee nodded. “I know it was your sister’s and you wouldn’t like it if I lost it. I was trying to find it so you didn’t ever need to know it was lost.”
For a brief moment Osei believed her. He wanted to, and she seemed sincere, and sorry. Then from the corner of his eye he caught a movement—Ian was sitting on the pirate ship with Rod; they were dangling their legs over the side, swinging them back and forth.
“Or so you say,” he persisted.
“I was!”
“How did Blanca get the case, then?”
“I have no idea. Let’s ask her.”
“I do not need to—I already know. She got it from Casper, who you gave it to. You gave my sister’s pencil case to another boy.”
“No! Why would I give it to Casper?”
“I do not know. Why would you give it to Casper?”
She looked at him, puzzled, with a flash of anger directed at his cheap trick of throwing her words back at her. If he weren’t so angry he would be embarrassed at himself.
“You are two-timing me, aren’t you? You are going with Casper.”