I should have known that Heather Parker wouldn’t be satisfied with how Friday night went. I used to try to figure out why she hated me. Now I know there is no why. Hating me is like … sport for her, like shooting skeet out in the countryside. Just another extracurricular activity. I picture it on her college application, between all her pageant awards and hours of community service: TEN YEARS TORMENTING WING JONES.
There was the time when we were on a field trip in fourth grade and she dumped an entire jug of sweet tea on my head because she “wanted to see what would happen” to my hair. And the time when she asked our teacher why I had “such a dumb name.” She got in trouble for that one, but she got a big laugh from the class.
I didn’t know how to explain that for some reason my parents gave Marcus an American first name and a Ghanaian middle name, and I got a Chinese first name and a Ghanaian middle one. Then there was the time my mom came to pick me up from school and Heather told her that she couldn’t be my mom because she didn’t look like me. Or when she used to pull on the corner of her eyes and ask how I could see. And every time she said or did anything, she’d look around to see what kind of impact it was having, how many people were laughing. The more people laughed, the louder she got, and the louder she got, the smaller I tried to make myself.
As I’m passing Heather’s desk on Monday morning, I hear her whisper something I can’t quite make out, but the word gross jumps out at me loud and clear. I hurry past her, but she sticks one leg out and I see it but I don’t stop in time and the next thing I know I’m sprawled out on the vomit-colored carpet, trying to ignore the stifled laughter around me. And it isn’t just Heather’s little crew, it’s the whole class.
“Jesus, watch where you’re going!” Heather says loudly as the door opens and our history teacher, Mr. Poller, walks in.
I can’t decide if the teachers at my school are as dense as concrete or if they purposely ignore what they see. In the case of Heather Parker, I think most of them are probably just as scared as the rest of us. Last year, her mother got our English teacher fired. No one crosses Heather Parker.
Which is why I’m so surprised when Mr. Poller opens his mouth, his liver-spotted cheeks shaking slowly, spittle flying out, and says in his monotone rumble, “What is going on here, ladies?”
“Wing.” Heather says my name like a swearword as I haul myself up, feeling like my limbs are everywhere. “She wasn’t watching where she was going and tripped on my leg. I can feel the bruise forming already. I can’t have a bruise. I’ve got pageant practice tomorrow.”
“Please be more careful, Miss Jones,” Mr. Poller says as I slide into my seat, trying to ignore Heather’s victorious smile.
You know what’s even worse than class with Heather Parker? Lunch. I shuffle around in the cafeteria every day, looking for an open spot next to someone with a book or some kids who won’t mind if I sit next to them, and I eat my lunch, and then I find a quiet spot and get started on my homework or put on my headphones and listen to music till the bell rings. Marcus got me a Walkman last year for Christmas. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because he knows I don’t have any friends.
My mom asked me once why I don’t sit with Marcus at lunch, when I told her I didn’t have anyone to sit with. “He’s your brother, isn’t he?”
As I line up to get my lunch, I try to imagine what would happen if I were to prance over to the table where Marcus is sitting with Monica on his lap and Aaron to his right and Dionne is throwing her weave over her shoulder trying to catch Aaron’s eye, and Trey and the rest of the football team are throwing food at each other and Dionne’s crew is laughing at something she’s said and Monica is trying to ignore them – they’ve never really accepted her, even though she’s been dating Marcus since the eighth grade. Dionne did try a little bit, when she was dating Aaron, I think they went on a few double dates but they were never going to be best friends, and then Dionne heard that Monica knew that Aaron was going to break up with her and didn’t tell her, and that pretty much shattered any chance of them ever being any kind of friends. I’m impressed that they still manage to have lunch together every day. But if Monica is willing to defy her daddy to be with Marcus – and her daddy isn’t the nicest man in the world, not by a long shot – then Dionne must be nothing more than a little gnat she has to swat at occasionally. Sometimes Tash sits with them, and when she does Monica doesn’t sit on Marcus’s lap, she’ll sit with Tash. Because Tash is the closest thing Mon has to a best friend. Other than me and Marcus. She told me that once.