“Sure,” says Saul, his eyes drifting to me in the rearview mirror.
I shake my head discreetly, hoping that he doesn’t press the issue any more.
Freddie dictates directions, and as we pull up to Adam’s house, I’m surprised by how beautiful it is. Adam lives in a large robin’s-egg-blue plantation-style home with a wraparound porch. The house, though, is second to the sprawling live oak with branches so low they crawl across the yard. Deflated balloons dangle from the porch railing, and Adam sits waiting on the steps in black slacks and a blue jacket with a gold epaulet on each shoulder.
I hop out of the back of the Jeep behind Freddie and follow him up the driveway.
“You guys are soaked,” says Adam.
“Yeah, I’m gonna need to borrow some clothes,” says Freddie. “And some shoes if I can.”
“Sure thing.” Adam still hovers between us.
Freddie gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Give us a minute, okay?”
“Oh, right!” he says. “Privacy. Sure. Yeah. I’ll be inside. But hey, don’t ring the bell. My parents are asleep.”
As Adam walks inside, the clouds above shift, so that the moonlight creeping through the branches is reflecting off Freddie’s face now. “You don’t get it, do you?”
To be honest, I don’t. Yeah, the whole thing was irresponsible, but we had a good time and no one got hurt. But more than anything, I hate the feeling of him being mad atme. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I really, really am.”
He takes a few deep breaths. “We click,” he says. “And it’s almost easy to forget all the things that set us apart. Maybe sneaking onto private property is just some kind of stupid antic for you, but from where I stand, that’s how black kids get shot.”
I open my mouth to argue but am silenced when I remember the moment I told him to trust me, even though I knew, I knew, I knew that we had no business at that house. “I’m sorry,” I say again.
Freddie massages his forehead, grimacing as he does. “You can’t pretend to be color-blind or some shit when it’s convenient for you, okay? I’m black. This is the skin I wear every damn day. You’re my best friend. You can’t tell me that you don’t see that my black life is not the same as your white life.” He closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head, like he’s answering his own silent question. “Maybe you haven’t thought about things like this before, because you don’t have to. I get that. But when I tell you I’m uncomfortable, I need you to listen, okay? I know there’s stuff I don’t understand about the gay thing. But you need to understand that my life in this skin is different from yours.”
The guilt I felt earlier is nothing compared to the ignorance I feel now. How could I not know? How could I be so selfish as not to realize that he was hesitant for a reason? My skin crawls with shame. “I understand. God. I can’t believe I was so stupid. I feel awful. I know that doesn’t make it better. I don’t have any excuse.”
All his words ring true. Sure, Freddie has more money and lives in a nicer house, but when someone with a gun catches the two of us on their property, one of us is more likely to be carried out on a stretcher, and it’s not me.
I step toward him and hug him tightly. “I won’t ever put you in a position like that again.”
“Okay.” He hugs me back and whispers, “Good night, Ramona Blue.”
As Saul drives the rest of us home, I let my head fall back and watch the stars drifting by from the open top of the Jeep. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what it means to be gay, especially in the South, but if I’m being honest, I haven’t spent much time thinking about what being black in the South might mean. Or anywhere else for that matter.
Anger and shame weigh heavy on my chest, but this isn’t about how I feel. It’s about Freddie. I hate that this is a reality he has to live with every day, and I wish I had some kind of answer to the bigger problem, but I don’t.
SEVENTEEN
Halloween falls on a Friday, and everyone looking for a real good time has made the hour drive to New Orleans, while everyone else is going to Melinda Harold’s masquerade party. That actually makes it sound much classier than it is. Really, it’s a huge party Melinda’s parents have been having for at least a decade now, and the perk is that the adults are too drunk to care how drunk all their kids are.
I sit on the bathroom counter watching Hattie carefully apply fake white, feathery eyelashes. She’s dressed as an angel, I think, in a short lacy nightgown that isn’t the kind of thing you actually sleep in and cascades over her bump.
“You sure you don’t want to come with us?”
I think back to the last huge party I went to and how well that went for me. “Positive.” Originally, we were supposed to hang out with Ruth and Saul, but Saul pulled out at the last minute. Whatever reason he ditched us for, Ruth wasn’t happy about it, so she opted to stay home. Left with the choice between Hattie and Tyler or my couch, I willalways choose my couch.
“Babe!” Tyler yells from the living room.
“Babe!” I mimic.
Hattie rolls her eyes. “Y’all gotta learn to like each other.” She steps back and takes one final look at herself before applying a coat of icy-pink lip gloss. Turning to the side, she examines her hem. “Do I look too pregnant in this?”
“You are pregnant.”
She groans. “Let’s go! Put on your costume, Tyler!”
