to laugh
Sam and I eat with Kennedy, Josiah, and two of their friends. I have no idea how six of us are going to fit into this car. When we get to the car, one of the girls, the only other white girl with us besides Sam, looks me over and says, “Um, maybe you should sit in the front,” knowing my wide hips would take up too much space in the backseat.
When we get to Zack’s Burgers, they are impatient with the woman who is taking our order, and so rude to her when she gets it wrong and brings Kennedy regular fries instead of sweet potato fries. Kennedy has a small tantrum because we don’t have time to wait for a fresh batch, and the whole ride back she whines about how she’s wasting her calories on something she doesn’t really want.
And the other girl talks so bad about Northeast Portland, not knowing she is talking about Sam’s neighborhood. Not knowing you shouldn’t ever talk about a place like it’s unlivable when you know someone, somewhere lives there. She goes on and on about how dangerous it used to be, how the houses are small, how it’s supposed to be the new cool place, but in her opinion, “it’s just a polished ghetto.” She says, “God, I’d be so depressed if I lived there.”
Kennedy and the other girls agree.
“That would be the worst thing ever,” the white girl says. “I so don’t understand how anyone could be happy there.”
“Me either. I’d be so depressed.”
If they feel that way about Sam’s neighborhood, they must think I live in a wasteland.
Josiah is eating his food and staying out the conversation. Sam doesn’t say anything the whole ride, but I can feel her eyes burning my back. When we get out, we barely say thanks for the ride, barely say good-bye to any of them. We sit in the hallway and eat our lunch. Sam and I on one side, Kennedy and the girls on the other. Josiah’s gone to the computer lab because he gobbled his food down by the time we got back to St. Francis.
Sam swallows a mouthful of her burger and then whispers, “I’d be so depressed if I lived over here.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t care that Kennedy has a car. I never want to do this again,” Sam says.
“Me neither.” I eat a handful of fries.
“But we have to go back to Zack’s,” Sam says.
And then we jinx each other. “This burger is so good,” we say.
We laugh, our mouths full. Kennedy and her friends look over at us. They don’t know why we’re laughing so hard. Don’t understand our joy.
24
tener hambre
to be hungry
When I get home, there’s a note from Mom by the phone, along with a twenty-dollar bill. The note tells me to get something for dinner because she has a doctor’s appointment. I decide on Dairy Queen so I can get a Blizzard—who cares if it’s cold outside? I stop by Lee Lee’s on my way, but she’s not home, so I get on the bus and go by myself. Even though it’s not late, it’s dark and I don’t really like to walk in the dark by myself. But tonight I don’t have a choice.
Fall leaves cover the ground. Soon they will be trampled on by trick-or-treaters. Halloween is next weekend. Carved pumpkins sit on porches, their faces lit and haunting. And on the door outside the costume store there’s a mummy holding a COSTUMES ON SALE sign.
The line at Dairy Queen is backed up all the way to the door, and it’s hard to tell who has ordered already and who hasn’t. There’s a woman holding on to her toddler’s hand while fussing with her other child, who looks about five, telling him to stop touching the dirty table that’s coated with days-old ketchup. A group of boys are sitting at a table, all spread out and loud like they are eating at home in their dining room.
“You order yet?” a man asks me. He counts the single dollar bills in his hands, looks at the menu, and then counts again.
“Not yet,” I tell him. I order my meal and step to the side so the man behind me can order. I hear the boys at the table, laughing and talking about who they would date and who they wouldn’t. The guy in the light-blue shirt says, “What about Mercedes?”
And the rest of the group laughs and shakes their heads in fits of protest. One of them says, “Man, Mercedes’s breath smells worse than your shoes!”
Then the one wearing a green hat adds, “And she got too much attitude.”
They go on with their what abouts, naming girls who are nowhere in sight, but then they start pointing at women who are in the restaurant. “What about her?” Green Hat says.
“Oh, she’s a ten. Perfect ten.”
They all agree that the next girl is a seven, and just when my order is ready, I hear one of them say, “What about her?”
I know he is pointing to me, which means they are all looking at me—from behind. Not good. The man at the counter calls my number and gives me my food.
The boys behind me assess me. One of them says, “I give her a five.”
The other: “A five? Man, she so big, she breaks the scale.”
Another voice: “Man, thick girls are fine. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”
“Well, if she so fine, go talk to her.”
The man behind the counter looks at me, shakes his head, and says, “Boys.”
I force a smile.
“Have a good evening,” he says.
I wonder if any of these boys ever sit in a room for boys’ talk night and discuss how to treat women. Who teaches them how to call out to a girl when she’s walking by, minding her own business? Who teaches them that girls are parts—butts, breasts, legs—not whole beings?
I was going to eat at Dairy Queen, but I don’t want to sit through the discussion of if I’m a five or not. I eat a few fries before I walk out.
“Hey, hold up. My boy wants to talk to you,” Green Hat says. He follows me, yelling into the dark night.
I keep walking. Don’t look back.
“Aw, so it’s like that? Forget you then. Don’t nobody want your fat ass anyway. Don’t know why you up in a Dairy Queen. Need to be on a diet.” He calls me every derogatory name a girl could ever be called.