My Dad said a lot of things. He had a lot of rules, and he claimed that they were the only rules that weren’t meant to be broken. He claimed that you can’t really trust anyone (not even your own family), you especially can’t trust the government, you can’t trust white people, and you really can’t trust most black people.
I was quick to remind him that he himself is black, and so am I (well, half), but he reminded me that you couldn’t really trust anyone. He neglected to specifically mention any other races, and once again I pointed that out to him. He reminded me again—you couldn’t really trust anyone.
With my Dad being black, and in addition to the rule of not really trusting anyone, I had another question (arguably the most important one). Could I trust him? He told me that really, that was my decision to make. He said that in the same tone of voice teachers use when they say you have a choice between studying and not studying and doing your homework and not doing it.
I trusted him. But I didn’t tell him that.
The one rule my Dad especially emphasized was his distrust of any and all forms of government, particularly the American government. He said our “democracy” had to be one of the most well orchestrated lies out of all lies. He argued that the whole idea of “representatives” was really what sunk the whole ship. We voted for these people under the impression that they had our own values in mind, when in truth super PACs were sneaking them money under the table to follow their values. Then we had political parties (he called them “factions”) which he said did nothing but succeed in dividing our country that was already divided in ways that couldn’t be controlled. He went on to say our three branch government was 100% corrupt and operated solely on what “faction” our President was or what “faction” the Senate or House majority was—which, he added, was all entirely influenced in the background by Super PACS. His point was, he concluded, was that the direction the country goes in really had little to nothing to do with the people. We made ourselves feel good when we voted. After that, everything was completely out of our hands.
As for my Dad’s distrust for white people, he couldn’t tell me where my “white mother” was or her “white family.” My mother had run off on our family when I was young. Whether that was because of her skin color could be debated.
My Dad didn’t trust black people, either. As a kid, he had grown up on the “wrong side” of town, so doing well in school was basically crucial in order for him to get out of his situation. Once his “black friends” saw that he had a future, they dropped him faster than Dow Chemical Company stock markets during recession. Once again, whether their behavior was a direct attribute of their skin color could be debated.
But with all my Dad’s distrust, I figured he could trust me.
Looking back on writing, I see that maybe I painted a poor picture of my Dad. My Dad wasn’t some embittered old man, sitting on the couch eating potato chips as he moaned to me about all his lesser moments in life. He was actually a pretty freaking wealthy guy who was the CEO of Arrow Petroleum. I was a little hazy on the details of what he actually did, or what his company actually did (I mean, the name includes the word “petroleum”, so he most definitely sells oil). But what was clear to me was what his wealth meant socially. It meant extravagant parties with other CEOs that were equally or more successful than him just about every week and name brand articles of clothing. It meant that I stay out of the limelight (as in, try to avoid crashing fancy sports cars while being drunk out of your mind), and if you are in the limelight, well, it better be for something pretty damn good. It meant that I attended the best private school in New York (which prides itself in the fact it gets listed as one of the “best schools” in the US News and World Report). The only thing different socially for me than the other rich kids I knew was achieving top grades.
Oh, and it also meant that my “best friends” had brains the equivalent of cotton candy.
“Sooooo, the other weekend, Zach and I fought,” Sammy said solemnly, looking at us each in the eye like we were facing an imminent national security threat. I made sure to roll my eyes, like I did every time this happened. And Sammy’s fights happened frequently. “I accidentally spilled a latte on his leather seats and he yelled at me and I got really defensive and now he’s not replying to my texts.”
We were gathered in front of my classroom, as it had been silently established that I was the only one who cared enough to get to my classes early.
“Lauren, are you rolling your eyes at me?” she asked in a whiny voice. This also was asked every time.
“I don’t know, man—was I?” I said. This was the only thing that varied. On my patient days, I would say yes; on my “nice” days, I would say no; and on my annoyed days, a sarcastic comment would fly straight from my brain to my mouth without any prompt.
Nine times out of ten, it was an annoyed day.
My friends, however, weren’t very much like me. Michaela was our money spender. Every few months, she had a new, flashy car (I felt bad for her Mom, who was the CEO of GE). Her makeup was custom made and she got facials every week (now that I think about it, that couldn’t possibly be healthy). Her hair was as well nurtured as Kim Kardashian’s firstborn (every product on the market had been in that extension of growth). Everyday, she had something new that cost at the very least $300. And really, items below $500 were rare.
Sammy was a Chinese girl with all the new “interesting” and rich boyfriends who I swear begin losing their meager remnants of intelligence like flies the minute they started dating her. She actually spent the least out of our group—thanks to a plethora of boyfriends. Now, she’s not a slut (I hate that term, especially the way society uses it today), but I think she’s just a girl who thinks every nice looking guy is The One. And when you’re as rich as Sammy, there are quite a lot of nice looking guys around. It didn’t help that she completely fit the cliché of what every guy supposedly wants—you know the partially artificial personality, a pretty face that can pass as “all natural” but really isn’t, a nice body (okay, what I mean is a big butt), and good enough fashion sense that they wouldn’t look stupid introducing her to his equally shallow friends. It also didn’t help that the boys she dated were equally as dumb, if not dumber, than her.
Allison was a devout Muslim thanks to her Mom. If not for the fact that her mother made her follow Sharia Law, I was certain she would follow the same road as Sammy. She had startling hazel blue eyes and dark black hair. She also had that pretty brown skin that you could only achieve by being Middle Eastern. Too bad she was as dumb as rocks, to her parents’ complete and utter annoyance. She had failed more classes than Sammy had mascara bottles (which is an impressive amount), she was that one person you had to repeat everything twice to, and has an overall lack of work ethic that reminded me of a sloth hanging from a tree.
And then there was Rita. I wasn’t quite sure if she was dumb or not, but I could only assume that she was. She didn’t have a nice word to say to anyone. She was like a large shadow hanging over the sun, the coffee pot that would never work, the dark stain on the white shirt that would never quite go away.
And while the others annoyed me to no end, and I would easily make friends with a rattlesnake before them, Rita was the only one I truly disliked.
“Shut up, Lauren. Stop trying to be black,” said Rita, who was black herself.
I gave her a long stare, then pulled down the sleeve of my sweater to show the skin of a typical half-black person. “I don’t need to try, Rita,” I informed her. “I partially am.”
I won that round for the morning.
“Don’t argue, guys! I need help! Do I buy Zach a gift or something?” Sammy asked, sounding anxious.
I let out a long huff of air, counting to ten in my mind. The others looked at me like I was an actual train whistle. I pointedly ignored them.
“What did you guys argue about now?” Allison wondered.
“Allison,” Rita said slowly, enunciating every syllable as if Allison was learning how to pronounce her own name, “Sammy already explained.”
“I can say it again,” said Sammy, seeming almost excited to repeat herself. “So—”
“No you can’t. It’s not like Allison had anything useful to say, anyways,” Rita said with disgust.
The roaring hatred of Rita whisked through my mind like an ocean during the El Niño effect. The bell rang, sparing Rita from drowning in my storming rage. They dispersed to their classes, the click clack of Michaela’s brand new Versace high heels echoing after her.
The one thing I hated almost as much as Rita were high school boys. Actually, maybe I hated them more. Perhaps it was just the ones I hung out with, but they all had huge egos for no particular reason.
The ones that looked like sparkly diamonds were the worst. The rich boys. The crisply smooth skin paired with shockingly high cheekbones and the unchanging gelled hair combined with Ralph Lauren polo shirts and Lacoste khakis were what I called sparkly diamonds.
Of course, I happened to be sitting next to a sparkly diamond in my Psychology course. I immediately regretted my decision of choosing regular Psychology over AP Psychology each time I entered the classroom.
My eyes felt like my mouth was eating red velvet cake from Maisie’s (the highest quality bakery in the city) when I looked at him. But when he spoke, I wanted to fill my ears with cement and pour hydrochloric acid in my eyes.
That’s only a slight exaggeration.
Ryan Loomis looked at me and gave me one of those smiles a lion gives its prey after its been caught and dead. “Nice sweater. You got Snapchat?”
“Nope,” I lied. In fact, I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t even have a house. The Calvin Klein sweater was a gift and I live in the streets, I thought to myself, trying to arrange lies as fast as possible.
“Don’t treat me like I’m dumb, Brown,” Ryan said, rolling his eyes like he could hear my every thought.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m dinner,” I snapped back.
“You program, right?” he asked casually.
I was so caught off guard that he even knew how to pronounce the word program that I actually straight up answered the question with zero sarcasm. “Yes?” I said, as if the teacher were asking me a question and I was unsure of the answer.
“How good are you? Are there specific types of code you program?” he asked, his usually lifeless or annoyingly flirtatious voice suddenly sounded…intelligent. Curious. This was the first time he spoke to me and didn’t sound like a gorilla trying to learn English.
I quickly caught myself from answering too many questions, though. “None of your business. You wouldn’t understand it anyways.”
“Okay, I’ve taken attendance! Let’s begin,” Mrs. Robertson said, snatching Ryan’s opportunity to respond.
Halfway into the lecture, I realized how much like Rita I sounded.
Five minutes later, I realized that I couldn’t have cared less.
And that scared me.
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