Chapter Six
On Tuesday, while eating lunch on the bleachers, I consider what lie to tell Davi when I see him in biology class later. Lying isn’t my strongest skill, but without direct eye contact, I can manage. Eventually, he’ll stop asking me to have lunch and probably invite someone else. Maybe a girl who is waiting for him to notice her. I try to ignore that detail while breaking my meat pie in half.
One advantage of having lunch out here is eating Nigerian food without potentially being judged by my peers, who are probably more accustomed to Western lunches like the macaroni and cheese I heard the cafeteria is serving today. The flask I filled with rice and goat stew this morning is empty—every grain of rice scooped into my mouth. Now I’m enjoying the beef-and-vegetable pastry I baked last night.
“Enore! There you are!”
I flinch, shocked, then look around and search for the person who spoke.
“Down here!”
My attention shifts to the bottom of the bleachers, where Davi waves. He climbs the stairs and jogs toward me. I don’t have time to dwell on my shock. The gears in my head spin as I think of a sensible and convincing lie.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Um…” The gears are still turning, spinning words into the perfect lie. “I needed… air. Yes. Air. It’s very warm and stuffy inside.”
He squints and considers me for a moment. “Were you avoiding me?”
“What?” I shake my head and force out a laugh. Unfortunately, the sound is flat. “No. Of course not.”
“You didn’t want to have lunch together, did you?”
“Um…” I chew on my lip and look from the girls running sluggishly around the field to the coach taking his frustration out on his whistle.
“If you didn’t want to, you could’ve just said no. You didn’t have to lie.”
Something delicate in his voice makes me look at him, and I sigh. “It’s not about you, Davi.” Well, it is partially. I fully intend to stay far away from Mr. Popular, but he doesn’t have to know that. “It’s about the cafeteria.”
He frowns. “What about it?”
“Have you ever seen a teen movie? Cafeterias are a notoriously dangerous place for the new kid—trying to find somewhere to sit, wondering if they’ll be welcomed or excluded. And then there’s the matter of a food fight. How often do those happen? I can’t get food stuck in my braids. It would be impossible to take out.”
Tension leaves his eyebrows. He tilts his head and watches me from an angle. “How many teen movies have you seen?”
“A lot. I’ve probably seen every one ever made.”
“Wow.” He laughs and sits beside me, a respectable amount of space between us. “Why in the world would you put yourself through that torture?”
“Research. I’ve never been to an American high school. I didn’t know what to expect. I had to prepare.”
“And you decided to watch movies?”
“I think they were informative.”
He laughs lightly. “Okay. And about the cafeteria. I did ask you to sit with me.”
“I know. And that was really nice, but I just wasn’t ready to be in there yet. Sorry I lied.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He leans back, rests his elbows on the bench behind us, and stares at the field.
Most of the girls have stopped running; they’re hunched over and gasping for air. Today, the sun hides behind clouds, casting shadows on everything below. Dark stripes—a result of the bleachers above us—reflect on Davi’s bare arms. I trace the patterns with my eyes, gazing closely at the contrast of golden-brown skin and dark sharp lines. When he looks at me, I turn away quickly and clear my throat.
“Um… so you were looking for me?”
“Yeah. Was wondering where you were.” He glances at the food in my hands. “What’s that?”
“A meat pie.”
He looks at me blankly, like my answer did nothing to clear his confusion.
“It’s a Nigerian pastry with a beef and vegetable filling.” After the explanation, I wait for him to make a face.
“Mmm,” he says instead. “Looks and sounds good.”
“Um… would you like to… try it?”
“Nah. It’s okay. It’s your lunch.”
“It’s fine. Really.” I extend one half of the pastry to him. “Here.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He takes it, then bites into it, and closes his eyes while chewing. “Mmm. This is good. It kinda reminds me of a pastel.”
“A pastel?” I say. “What’s that?”
“It’s sort of like this, but a Brazilian version. When I went to Brazil for the first time a few years ago with my parents, they were everywhere—at the beach, at shops, at the farmer’s market.”
“Are your parents originally from Brazil?”
He nods. “Yeah. They moved to America when they were really young—way before my sister and I were born.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yeah. Natalie. She’s in elementary school.”
“I have a sister too, but she’s a sophomore. Her name is Esosa.”
“Wait a minute.” He squints. “I might know her.”
Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“I think I met her at a party during the summer.”
“It’s likely,” I say.
“That means Adrian’s your cousin, right?”
“He is. Are you two friends?”
“More like acquaintances. He’s cool and all, but he’s got his own crowd.”
It’s strange, but I’ve never thought of my cousin belonging to a specific clique, and that’s because I don’t know him well enough to place him as a jock or a nerd or anything else. We’ve practically been living in the same house for over a month, and in some ways, it’s like we’re still living on different continents.
“What’s his crowd?” I ask Davi.
“The basketball team.”
“And I’m guessing yours is the football team?”
He shakes his head. “Not entirely. Just my closest friends—some I’ve known since middle school and some since kindergarten.”
“The same friends you wore a disguise to avoid?”
He laughs. “Yeah. Them.”
“And don’t you think they’re currently wondering where you are? Shouldn’t you be having lunch with them?”
“Nah.” He looks at me and smiles. “I like it here.”
On Wednesday, I’m surprised to see Davi on thebleachers.
“I brought pastels,” he says as I approach him.
“Um… what are you doing?”
“Eating lunch.”
Well, that much is obvious. There’s a box of ketchup-coated fries in his hand that likely came from the cafeteria. I’m curious why he isn’t eating them there.
“Why are you having your lunch here—outside?”
“It’s a beautiful day. Plus, I’m a big fan of fresh air.”
I narrow my eyes, and he grins.
“Here. Have some.” He extends a plastic container to me. “My grandma made them last night, especially for you.”
“Me?”
“I told her there’s a girl who has never tried a pastel. She felt it was a wrong she had to right.”
He mentioned me to his grandmother, who then went to the trouble of cooking for me. A smile I have no control over forms on my face. I sit beside him and pick one of the small pastries. “What’s in it?”
“Mostly chicken. Trust me, they’re good.”
He’s right. I practically moan while chewing. “Your grandma can cook.”
“Well, I helped.” He reads my blank expression and clears his throat. “Okay. I gave her moral support. From a distance.”
“Strange enough, that’s exactly how I pictured you helping.” I grab another pastel and bite into it. “So good.”
“I’ll let my grandma know you approve.” He glances at the black reusable lunch bag that looks more like a stylish purse, a gift from Auntie Sara. “What’s in there?”
“Some akaras. My mom made them this morning.” I pull a plastic container from the lunch bag, then flip the lid. “It’s basically a Nigerian bean cake or fritter.”
“No way.” He looks at the round golden-brown puffs in the container. “We have the same thing in Brazil, but call them acarajé. That can’t be a coincidence.” He pulls out his phone, and his fingers move across the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“A little research. I need to know where acarajés originated from.” He reads through his Google findings, then turns to me with a smile. “West Africa.”
“Well.” I jut out my chin, grin, and extend the container of akaras to him. “Would you like to try the original?”
He laughs and nods. “I would. Thank you very much.”
On Thursday, Davi brings a container ofacarajés—each golden-brown puff split in the middle and filled with shrimp and caramelized onions.
“How much moral support did you give your grandmother this time?”
“So damn much,” he says. “It really helped her pull through.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say with a laugh, then take another acarajé.
“You know, I never get to do this,” he says, “bring Brazilian food to school, not since third grade when Adam Jefferson made fun of my empad?o.”
“That’s actually one of my fears. I think if I ever work up the nerve to go in the cafeteria, I’ll just have fries or whatever they’re serving. But until then…” I bite into my third acarajé and sigh as the flavors come undone in my mouth.
For a few minutes, we watch the gym class without saying a word, then Davi turns to me. “See any teen movies lately?”
“Yeah. Last night, actually. I watched The DUFF.” It’s one of the few movies I’ve streamed since running through the DVDs Adrian gave me.
“How was it?”
“Um… it was nice. I enjoyed it.”
Davi squints and studies me. “Really? ’Cause your face says something else.”
“Well, it was a good movie. It’s just that…”
“Yeah?”
I sigh. “It’s just that I’ve noticed people of color rarely play the lead in teen movies. Why is that?”
It’s the first time I’ve used that phrase—people of color—in a sentence. In Nigeria, I heard of it and knew what it meant but never had a reason to use it until now. In America, I am aware of my new identities as a minority, a person of color, Black, other. Gradually, I am recognizing all the ways people like myself and Davi are erased or minimized, so we are the comical best friend but never the lead, or we are simply just a spot of color in the background.
“America is supposed to be about diversity, right? Different people from all around the world live here. But when I watch these movies, I don’t see that. Mostly, all the leads are white.
“In the rare cases when the lead is a person of color, like in To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, The Half of It, and Spin, their love interest is always white. Two people of color are never the romantic leads. The story never revolves around them. Except in two rare cases—#Realityhigh and Love Don’t Cost a Thing.”
Davi leans forward and watches me closely. “I know I asked before, but exactly how many teen movies have you watched?”
“A lot. My cousin gave me a box of old DVDs. Once I watched all of those, I started to stream.”
“Well, you’re dedicated, that’s for sure.” He huffs and shoves his fingers into his hair, pushing the soft curls backward. “And to answer your question, Hollywood believes one narrative sells better. It’s bullshit, but…” He shrugs. “It’s how things are.”
“Well, that isn’t fair. You know, in Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, there’s one Black girl. She’s friends with the head mean girl. Throughout the whole movie, she says two words: the baby. That’s it. Someone wrote a script and decided she only gets two words. Two.” I groan and rub my forehead. “Sorry if I’m getting worked up.”
“Hey.” Davi’s hand falls on mine, the weight not completely resting on me, just enough that I am acutely aware of the warmth and feel of his skin. “Don’t apologize. Trust me. I totally get your frustration. And it’s valid.”
It occurs to me that while this frustration is new to me, it isn’t to him. He’s probably had to deal with it all his life. He’s probably found a way to live with it, and I suppose I will have to as well.
We turn to the track field. His hand doesn’t move; gradually, it relaxes, the weight fully on me. It’s nice. A strong breeze breaks through the haze of heat; it fluffs my T-shirt and tousles Davi’s hair. My fingers clench, fighting the urge to stroke the displaced curls from his forehead.
“Can I ask you another question?” I say. “It’s not about teen movies.”
He chuckles. “Sure.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be having lunch with your friends?”
“I am having lunch with my friend.”
I suppose we are friends, even though his popularity status directly conflicts with my goal to go unnoticed. I’m no longer dangerously close to breaking rule number one. I’ve already broken it. In my head, I cross out the rule and pretend it never existed.
Rule #1: Avoid interacting with or befriending anyone who is popular.
“Don’t you want to have lunch with your other friends? The ones in the cafeteria?”
“No. I’m good here. With you.” He looks at me; his hazel-green eyes are soft but still have an element of intensity. “Honestly, this is the best part of my day.”
I smile and nod. “Yeah. Mine too.”
As my heart flutters, I wonder if I’ll have to draw a line through another rule.