As I enter the classroom, Bud looks at me and says, “Ah, here comes the lovely Miss Alicia Key’s …”
I swell with pride. Alicia Keys? Me? Wow! Thanks Bud, you’re not such a fuckhead after all.
“… ugly stepsister.”
My smile vanishes as everyone laughs in surround sound.
I pick up Fung’s textbook and throw it at him. He ducks and it crashes against the wall and sprays over him.
That should deter him, but it doesn’t. “Burnt, Burnt, Burnt, people in black houses, shouldn’t throw stones,” he chuckles.
He is saved by Mr Keith’s appearance.
An hour later, Bud is at it again. “Hey dipshit,” he says to Harjoon, “got a riddle for you.
‘How does every ethnic joke start?”
When I see Harjoon’s distress, I decide to do something. I burst out laughing.
Bud swivels his head to look at me.
“Sorry, you’re so funny, Dick! You’re just so so funny.”
Looking a little thrown by my mocking laughter, he says, “With a look over …”
“Ha, ha, ha!” I hold my sides and guffaw.
“…your…”
“Your’!” I laugh my ass off. “What a funny word, ‘your’!”
Bud glares at me. “…shoul…der. What the hell is so funny, bitch?”
“You, dick, you!” I wipe my eyes. “Your jokes are sooo funny, dick! Just thinking about it … the ones you said last week … ha! ha! ha!”
Everyone around me starts laughing with me.
His nostrils flare and his eyes become hard. “You fucking with me, Burn?”
“You got my name right! Ha, ha, ha!”
“That wasn’t a joke, bitch!”
“’Joke! Ha, ha, ha!” I slap the desk. “Say it again! Say it again!”
Bud grabs his stuff and storms out of the classroom. “Black bitch!”
“Hey come back, Bud! Come tell us more racial jokes!”
From then on whenever I see Bud, I start to laugh and look at him with expectant eyes. He rolls his eyes and walks away and I never get to hear any more racial jokes. Aaawww!
After school, Harjoon calls out to me. “Burn! Don’t forget.”
“Sure thing, HarLo.” That’s what he wants to be called these days, remember? And remember, he does all my math homework.
“Make it different today.”
“Okay, but don’t you go dissing me in front of your cousins now,” I warn.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever!”
In anticipation of seeing Sunita, Harjoon flips his cap back to front, pulls out his shirt from his pants, lights up a cigarette and with a Snoop Dog swagger, makes his way out of the school grounds. When he sees his cousin’s car blaring with Bollywood rap or somethng, he throws out his arms, gangsta style and says, “Yo! Yo! Yo! Muddafuckerrrrrs!”
I put on my red lipstick, toss my hair a bit and totter after him. “HarLo, call me later. Please? Will you? Please?”
He flings me an annoyed look. “Bitch, I’m too busy to call you.”
“Please, HarLo? Please?”
“Whateva bitch!” he says and sneaks a look at Sunita.
Sunita sticks her head out of the car window and glares at me. Slut.
Satisfied by the results, Harjoon struts.
“Harjoooon! Harjoooon!”
Everybody stops whatever they’re doing and looks towards the source of the voice.
It’s a grey-haired woman, dressed in traditional Indian attire, a brightly colored saree. She waddles up to him, carrying a tray of what looks like sweets. “Beta, you left your asthma pump at home. Here it is.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” HarLo loses both the cigarette and the swagger. “Turn off the music!” he hisses to his cousins. The music dies instantly.
“I bring you mitai for you and all your friends,” she says as she grabs him and starts tucking his shirt into his pants. Vigorously. Then, she turns his cap around and pats his face.
Harjoon stands frozen like an ice sculpture with clothes on.
Nobody laughs because I’m guessing it’s every kid’s nightmare.
Bet Harjoon is praying for a tsunami right now.
Grandma leaves, to Harjoon’s relief. Then the laughter cracks like thunder.
As I walk away from the thunderous laughter, HarLo and his mitai, I think how lucky I am that I don’t have asthma. Or a grandmother.
****
I wake up in the middle of the night to see an old woman in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of Angel’s bed, headphones in her ears. Startled, I jerk upright and look at Angel. She’s still sound asleep next to me.
I look at my iPhone – 03:12 AM. I run my hand slowly over my face. Okay, so I’m having one of those dreams again. You know – like the one I had the last time where I slugged the bird-man – Hawk, whatever. This time, it’s an old woman, so no need for the baseball bat.
But then I’m thinking, maybe I’m not dreaming. Maybe she’s real and she’s lost –wandered out of an old-age home in the neighborhood. Not that I remember seeing one around.
Ma’am?”
She doesn’t answer. She’s probably seventy or so, grey hair, lots of wrinkles. She wear a grey top, grey skirt, grey cardigan and her sensible court shoes are charcoal grey.
Her headphones are huge – like those used by DJs.
The lady’s eyes are closed as she listens to music. Probably, opera or classical.
“Oooh … bitch … fuck this shit … fresh-as-im-is … ooooh …”
What the …?! “Excuuuuse me!” I say and cover Angel’s ears.
“… cash … money … you-my-dog-man, you-my-dog man … no hos gon come ’tween us …” The old lady bobs her head to the music. “Ma’am!”
This ain’t no dream – this is friggin real.
I leap out of bed and lift up her headphones. “Oh, hello, dear,” she says. “Sorry, I was listening to Executioner. Man, I love rap! Snoop, Wiz Khalifa, Ja Rule … whoa!”
What? Am I in the Twilight Zone? ‘Twilight’, as in a weird place, and not as in cheating ass Kristin Stewart and ripped Jacob. (Yep, I’m Team Jacob.)
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Why, I’m your fiery godmother.”
“Fiery … you mean ‘fairy’ godmother?”
She waves dismissively. “Oh no, dear. You’ll see the difference. You want to go to the ball, dear?”
Who doesn’t want to go to a ball? My mind races – if I say ‘Yes’ I may just score myself a Vera Wang gown, some diamante stilettos, maybe a Prada purse … “Eh, yes!”
In the corner of the room, Angel’s basketball appears. Levitates.
“Go to it, dear.” She shoos me towards it – “Go to the ball.”
What the …?
She throws her head back and laughs. “I’m messing with your brains, dear. Your fiery godmother in fifty shades of grey.” She points to me. “You should see your face. Priceless!”
I stare at her, my jaw hanging.
Bird-man suddenly appears, looking mad. “Erro! I told you to wait for me. Wait for me. Which part of that don’t you understand, Erro?”
“Oh, stop being such a fuddy-duddy,” she says. “I just wanted to have some fun.” She puts her hand over her mouth and says, “She fell for the ball trick.” She slaps her thigh and laughs. “Vera Wang? Prada? Really dear, your tastes are somewhat expensive considering you’re broke-ass. Dear.”
I stare, stunned at her cheek. She’s offensive!
Hawk turns to me. “I do apologize for that, Burn.”
“So, you’re real, then? I thought you were just a dream.”
“Yes, in a way I’m real, and so is Erro. She and I will shadow you and help you along with your gift. We know you have been searching for answers to the voices and we just want to reiterate that we are here to help. You just have to call.”
“So, I’m not nuts after all.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” he says in a pleasant voice. And you’re not schizophrenic either.”
I sigh, weary and confused. I don’t know if this reveal is good news or bad news. But, I’m tired and I want to go back to sleep. And I want the old bat out of my fucking room.
“I’ll take her away now,” Hawk says reading my mind.
“Thanks,” I say in a sleepy voice and pull the covers over my head.
“Lovely meeting you, dear,” the old bat says. “It’s been a ball.”
Fuck off.
“Hey, watch that language, bitch!” she snaps.
I throw back the covers and gasp at her.
“Erro!” Hawks chides as they vanish.
With a sigh, I draw the covers over my head again and fall asleep. Vera Wang, my ass. Why do they have to visit at this time of night and interrupt my sleep? Why can’t they visit during math instead?
****
The blast in my ear is so loud, I jump out of bed and scramble for my baseball bat, convinced that we are being attacked.
“Wakey, wakey!” It’s the old bat from my dream.
Baseball in hand, I blink rapidly as I try to shake the cobwebs of sleep. She’s still in my room, shaking with laughter and pointing at my face.
Slowly, I lower the bat. I rub my eyes and shake my head hard, but the old bird is still there with a tub of mint choc-chip ice cream in her hand.
“You again?”
“Me again, in forty-nine shades of grey,” she says. “I lost the scarf. It was too much. Now, I’m here to help.” She nestles into Angel’s bed and spoons ice cream into her mouth. “Don’t worry, nobody can see me except you, dear,” she says with her mouth full. Every time she utters the word ‘dear’ I can’t help feeling she is fucking with my brains.
Is this another dream? I look at my iPhone clock – 7:15 AM. Damn, I overslept! I quickly shake Angel awake and dart around the room.
I give Angel breakfast, get her dressed for school, put her on the school bus then hurry to mine. Erro follows at a safe distance, munching on crisps and bobbing her head to music, her elephant-sized head-phones in her ears.
After a while I forget she’s around and continue my day as normal. It’s Thursday, but it feels like Monday and I can’t wait for the day to be over.
As I enter, I see Lana Tucker, (friend of Kate Spelling, who if you remember, is Nick’s girlfriend) handing out invitations to her birthday party. I know that it’s going to be one of those Sweet Sixteen parties that will be the buzz of Facebook and Twitter, just like it was last year. Except that she’s turning seventeen this year and it’s going to be bigger than last year’s. Her parents are loaded so they do everything in style.
All eyes are on her, wondering if she is going to call their name and hand them an invitation too.
Except me – I don’t give a crap about being invited to her party as I feel it’s ridiculous that …
Okay, okay, okay. I’m almost seventeen – I, like every girl in the class, would loooove to be invited to her party, but like last year, I’m not white enough; but … it doesn’t stop me from holding my breath.
Every white girl and white guy in our class is invited. No blacks, no Mixicans. Ah, well. That’s the way it’s always been around here.
I sneak off during class and duck behind the school bathrooms to have a smoke.
Just as I light up, Erro appears in front of me.
“What? You gonna tell me that smoking is bad for me and that I should cut it out?”
“Absolutely not! You go right ahead and smoke all you want. Dear.”
“Oh wow! Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s your temple and you should worship it the way you want it. Your body, that is.”
Mmm. Maybe she’s not so bad after all. I mean she seems to like, understand teenagers. How cool is that?
“Smoking can’t be that bad,” she continues.
“Yeah, there’s worse shit teenagers can get up to.”
“Yes, I totally agree and that’s why I think you should not regulate smoking. Children all ages should be allowed to smoke. Your little sister should also be allowed to puff away as well.”
“WHAAAAT?!”
“Think about it - both of you can smoke together – what a bonding session!”
“Angel is EIGHT!” I spit, furious at the thought of her even suggesting something so inappropriate. “And you’re nuts.” I twirl my finger at my temple. “Crazy!”
She shrugs. “Let’s agree to disagree.”
I’m so disgusted with the thought of Angel smoking, I throw down my cigarette and squash it with my sneaker.
Suddenly, I hear a girl crying. I lower my head and listen to the conversation that follows.
“Get rid of it, then! Don’t bother me with this shit, bitch!” A young man’s voice.
“It’s yours – you have to help me. I can’t do this on my own.”
What the hell? I look around at Erro and whisper. “Did you hear that?”
She nods and pats her finger to her lip.
“How do I know it’s mine, huh? Word is you’re a ho. A big one.”
“How can you say that? I thought you loved me.”
“I don’t love you. I just said that to get into your panties.”
“You are such a jerk.” The girl starts to cry.
Erro points to the boy’s bathroom. I nod and creep behind a pillar where I hide and listen.
“Oh man, now you’ll start this crying shit. I’m outa here.” I watch in surprise as Bud McGraw storms out of the toilet.
“What should I do?” I ask Erro. “Brittany his girlfriend – she’s obviously in trouble.”
“Nothing for now,” she says, looking perturbed. Which is refreshing considering she is annoyingly comedic.
A few minutes later, to my utter astonishment, it isn’t Brittany, Bud’s girlfriend who emerges from the bathroom, but Kate Spelling, girlfriend of Nick McGraw – the Facebook addict.
Remember now, Nick McGraw is the cousin of Bud McGraw. Ain’t that just fucked up?
I lock eyes with the girl who called me ‘Banjo Lips’ a few days ago. For a moment, I see panic in her bloodshot blues. Then she takes a deep breath, thrusts out her triple-As and walks off. She has no idea that I overheard her conversation.
In class, she maintains her arrogant and superior ways. I say nothing to anyone, but secretly, I feel sorry for Nick, because clearly, he doesn’t know that his girlfriend fucked his best friend and cousin.
It’s hard to feel sympathy for Kate, as she is as mean as a scorpion. She gets off mocking people in a passive-aggressive way, like, instead of calling me ‘Banjo Lips’, she will say, in a voice as sweet as honey, “Bud shouldn’t have called you Banjo Lips. This is most offensive.” Get what I’m saying?
I hate it when she makes fun of people who aren’t able to fight back, people like Fung and Harjoon.
But she’s undoubtedly pretty, with her lovely, long blonde hair and her sparkling blue eyes.
Nick is very good-looking too, so together they’ll look great as a couple on a brochure advertising limousine hire for Prom Night or something.
I don’t say anything to anyone about the conversation I heard, but I keep a close eye on her and Bud.
Right now, Bud is all over Brittany and he totally ignores Kate.
When Nick puts his arm around Kate, she shoves him off. A hurt look crosses his face, but he says nothing.
Over the next couple of weeks, I watch Kate’s belly grow rounder. She appears to have put on a little weight and spends a lot of time in the library reading or surfing the net.
Then Kate disappears for a while. According to Nick, she’s gone upstate to visit her sick grandmother for a few weeks.
When Kate returns to school after a two week absence, her tummy is once again flat.
“Hey Harjoon!” she says in a sweet voice.
“Hey!” Harjoon says, appearing thrilled that she’s even talking to him. Thrilled that she even remembers his name.
“How’s your grandmother?”
Harjoon turns the color of baby beetroot.
Kate and her friends laugh their asses off. Yep, Kate is back, minus her burger in the oven.
Meanwhile, Nick and Bud continue being friends. And cousins.
But wait, there’s more - Kate has brought Brittany a friendship bracelet with the words, “Friends forever.”
Sweet.