“Write.”
“Why you write?”
“I’m a writer,” he said.
The answer came unexpectedly. Never before had he claimed the title. He wondered if he was allowed to say this. If he was good enough.
But he had loved saying the word, and he would not take it back.
He looked up at her. His mother remained quiet, which made his heart thump. She gave him another handful of snow peas, and when they’d finished, she put the bowl on the table and took Jason’s hands in her own.
“You’re going to be a man soon,” she said softly in Toisanese. “And then you are not a child anymore. It is okay to play when you are a child, but when you are grown up, you must think about your future. Think about a job. You are good with English, so you can use your writing to get a good job. You can be a lawyer. You can’t make money writing silly things. Can you feed children on poems?” She laughed, pinching his cheek. “One day Baba and Mama will be old! Can you take care of your parents writing poems?”
Jason held her cold, damp hands. He gestured with his chin toward his sisters in the kitchen.
“They’ll make money. Can’t they take care of you?”
He was being serious, but she laughed. “Aiya,” she cried, tousling his hair.
He winced, felt a blueness seep across his chest. Either they would smother him, or he would betray her. It was only a matter of time.
His English teacher made him Elaine’s desk partner, and when Valentine’s Day approached, he panicked. It was his chance to make his feelings known, but he didn’t know how. He’d never seen his father buy his mother a bouquet of flowers, had never heard them say “I love you.”
He decided he would give Elaine a collection of poems. He was in the midst of composing them when another blitz of stuffed animals battered his bedroom window.
Jason wished Macon would call ahead on the phone; it was frustrating to interrupt his process mid-thought.
“You don’t remember?” Macon eyed him when he reached the porch.
Then it hit him. He and Macon had made plans to seeThe Street Fighterat the Kings.
“You were supposed to meet me at the B8 an hour ago!”
“Sorry.” Jason crossed his arms, shivering. He’d left his jacket upstairs. “I was working on something.”
“On what?” Macon leaned his back on the porch rail.
“A present for someone.”
“Oh, come on. You’re still crushing on that Elaine Mcwhatever? You’re stupid as hell. She doesn’tlikeyou. Everybody knows she’s crushing on Ronny Stein.”
Ice water seeped across Jason’s chest.
“Forget about her, man. She’s the same as the others. She doesn’t see you. Your problem is, you have a white-girl fetish.”
“What?” Jason scowled. He hadn’t expected so many assaults. “No I don’t!”
“Stella, Hannah. You’re so obvious. You liked white girls before you could add fractions. Maybe you watch a little too much Hollywood and it’s gone to your brain. Soon as a white girl passes you by, your eyes pop out of your head.”
The accusation angered him. He liked who he liked.
“Well, what about you?” Jason shot back. “Remember how you ignored Donna Harris? Who’s the self-hater now, huh?”
This time it was Macon who clammed up. Yet when he met Jason’s eyes, it was an expression Jason had never seen before, tight with repressed emotion.
“Jason, do you even know who I am?” His voice was different now, serious and low. “You think I’m your sidekick who shows up to give you relationship advice.”
He brushed past Jason and stepped down the stoop. “I’m going home.”
