Chapter Five
Every teen movie has convinced me a highschool cafeteria is a terrifying place to be, especially when you’re new and know no one.
That’s why I don’t go to the cafeteria during lunch.
Davi’s smile and the look in his eyes when he asked me to join him couldn’t change my mind. In fact, those were more reasons to stay away.
I considered eating lunch in the bathroom. It’s the go-to place for people with no friends in high school, but how can anyone possibly eat with the stench of pee in the air? I decided to go outside and sit on the bleachers instead. Here, the air is fresh and warm, and the cloudless sky is radiant. There’s a gym class in progress. Girls wearing the same blue T-shirt with the school’s logo run around the track field while a teacher with a firm grip on a whistle urges them to move faster. This really is the perfect entertainment.
I’m not sure how many lunch periods I’ll spend like this. If I put in the effort—socialize and eat in the cafeteria—I’ll likely make some friends, maybe two or three just as determined to go unnoticed. I’m not a shy person. In Nigeria, I had a good number of friends. We certainly weren’t popular. Popularity was left to the bad boys, the star athlete, and the kids who were dropped off at school in luxury vehicles, courtesy of their wealthy parents. In Nigeria, those were the qualifications to being popular. There weren’t cheerleaders or prom king and queen. If you didn’t fall under the three categories, you existed below the radar. That’s where I was in Nigeria, and that’s where I want to be here.
I open the brown paper bag my mother handed me this morning. Without the turkey sandwich, I would starve right now. After taking a bite, I pull out the flyer I shoved in my pocket earlier. Seconds after the lunch bell rang, I attempted to rush through the school doors and step outside, but a blond girl with bright eyes and a wide smile forced the flyer in my hand and spoke with the sort of enthusiasm that was frightening. Even though I didn’t hear a thing she said, I smiled and nodded while moving to the door. Now I smooth out the wrinkles on the rumpled flyer until the words on it are visible.
AUDITIONS FOR BELLWOOD’S ANNUAL MUSICAL!
MONDAY. 3:30 P.M.
THE AUDITORIUM.
DARE TO BE SEEN.
An invitation to audition for anything has never been so intimidating—dare to be seen. Well, I certainly don’t want to be seen. The sort of attention you get from standing on a stage is particularly the kind I want to avoid. My fingers curl against the paper, ready to crumple it and toss it aside. But I pause and stare at the word musical. In my school in Nigeria, there were no musicals. We had our annual cultural dance, where students from similar tribes organized and performed a choreographed folk dance. I, being part of the Edo tribe, would dress with the traditional red velvet cloth around my chest and coral beads in my hair. With a white handkerchief in my hand, I would move with the calm and elegance associated with Edo dancers. The Igbos, with their energetic dancing, always stole the show. And I suppose I was okay with that, with not succeeding at something I am neither good at nor care much about. Though, I often wondered what would happen if I got the opportunity to sing rather than dance.
I look at the flyer again. Musical. My brain seems to have highlighted that word—colored it in neon yellow. I’ve only ever sung in a choir. In Nigeria, it was the only outlet available to express my interest in music. Now, with that one word jumping out at me, I briefly entertain the possibility of a new outlet.
My phone vibrates suddenly, and I crumple the flyer. It’s a text from Esosa. A GIF of a terrifying clown waving doesn’t provide the humor she promised.
ME:I thought you were supposed to send funny GIFs. Not disturbing ones.
ESOSA:Right. Sorry.
The next GIF she sends is of Joey from Friends saying, “How you doin’?”
ME:Much better. And I’m okay. What about you?
ESOSA:AMAZING!!!!!
Honestly, that was the response I expected. My little sister, who dives headfirst into any situation, has already adapted to life here, while I’m eating lunch alone, still trying to find my footing. In Nigeria, I always ate lunch with my friends—Tolu, Abby, and Osas. As there was no designated lunchroom, we would eat in the classroom or the courtyard, talking and sharing our food. I miss that. I miss my friends.
Halfway through my sandwich, I install Instagram on my new phone and log into the app. After selecting my chat with Tolu, I click the video call icon. Nigeria is five hours ahead of New York, so I know she’s back from school. The phone rings, and when Tolu answers, her face fills one half of the split screen.
“Americanah!” she shouts with a wide smile.
I roll my eyes, wishing that wasn’t her new nickname for me.
“I’ve been waiting for this call all day, but I didn’t think it would come this early.” She squints and leans into the screen to study my background. Most of her face disappears in the process. “Where you dey?”
“Na school o. It’s lunchtime.”
“Oh.” She nods and leans back. Her round face comes into full view again. “Are you with your friends?”
“Which friends? Abeg, I don’t have any friends… yet. I’m trying to get used to everything first.”
“Okay. So you haven’t replaced me.”
“You’re one of a kind, T.”
She beams with pride. “Eh-heh. That’s what I like to hear. Just dey ginger me.”
I laugh, something that’s inevitable whenever I talk to Tolu. She’s just that kind of person, the kind with a personality big enough to overshadow my grief and feeling of displacement. She’s known for unapologetically speaking her truths, and her truths are potent—a sting if you don’t have the repellent of tough skin. Though she’s only ever used her skill for good—to shut down the loudmouthed wannabe bad boys with something to prove and the fair-skinned girls with a superiority complex. We cried, holding each other tight the day before I left Nigeria. We promised to stay in touch and always be best friends. So far, we’ve kept that promise.
“So…” She arches an eyebrow. “How far na? Tell me everything. How’s the school, the people, the boys?” Now she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Give me details. Gist me na.”
I avoid the topic of boys, particularly Davi, while giving Tolu basic details about the first half of my day. “Okay. Your turn. How your side dey?”
“Ah. Abeg, what’s there to tell? You know it’s the same old thing.”
But sitting alone on the bleachers, in a school and a country I haven’t fully familiarized myself with, makes me crave the same old things. Being my best friend, Tolu senses this. She smiles and bobs her head.
“Okay. Where do I start?” She taps her chin, then snaps her fingers. “Shebi you know Franka, that fair Calabar girl that is always talking like she has no sense?”
I nod eagerly, then listen as Tolu tells me about the day we would have otherwise experienced together.
At home, Uncle Davis insists the whole familyhave dinner together. He wants to hear about our first day at school. We’re all in the main house, seated around the circular table in the kitchen. Adrian has somehow crammed mashed potatoes, chicken, and green beans into his mouth and is chewing aggressively as he tries to break down the trio. It’s a sloppy mess, and Auntie Sara glares at him like she’s repulsed.
“Honey,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “I know you’re a growing boy who needs to eat and all that, but please, for the sake of everyone at this table, conduct yourself with some etiquette.”
Adrian stops chewing and looks at his mother. “Sorry.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles sheepishly.
Auntie Sara rolls her eyes and turns to me and Esosa, seated side by side. “Girls, why don’t you tell us about your day? How was it?”
“It was amazing,” Esosa answers. “Everyone loved my makeup. Jen’s going to a wedding next week and wants to book me. And Lisa the following week. My client list keeps growing.”
“Jen. Lisa,” Uncle Davis says. “You’ve already made friends.”
“I’ve made several.”
“That’s nice,” Mom says, bringing a glass of water to her lips. She takes a sip, then sets the glass down. “I’m happy you’re making friends who support your makeup thing, but how about your classes? Do you like them? Are your teachers good?”
In an instant, Esosa’s mood changes. She huffs and sinks into her chair. “Makeup thing?” Her strained tone proves she’s holding back the urge to go off.
Esosa hates when Mom reduces her passion to child’s play or something she’ll eventually grow out of. Esosa’s love of makeup and glamour and being in the spotlight isn’t a phase. It’s who she is. And although that has always been clear to our family and those outside of it, our mother’s support has always been halfhearted, measured—a little but never too much. It’s as if she fears her full support will nurture something unconventional and impractical in Esosa, something that will produce a whimsical creative rather than a lawyer or a doctor or an engineer.
With me, she doesn’t have to worry about that. There is nothing unconventional or impractical to nurture inside of me.
“Enore.” Mom completely ignores Esosa and focuses on me. “How about your day? How were your classes and your teachers?”
“Good. Very good.”
“And friends?” Uncle Davis asks. “Did you make any?”
Everyone looks at me expectantly, even Adrian, who’s stopped chewing. They all want me to say yes. It would prove I’m adapting, no longer the girl declining social invitations and shutting herself in a room to watch old movies. It would prove I’m okay, or at least on the path to being okay.
So I say yes.
I don’t tell them I ate lunch alone. I don’t tell them I felt so homesick, I spent my lunch period talking to Tolu. I don’t mention Davi, a potential friend I plan to avoid.
After lunch, when we met again in AP biology, he asked why I hadn’t been in the cafeteria. I told him I got caught up in something. I expected him to look hurt or upset. Instead, he smiled and said, “No worries. There’s always tomorrow.”