Chapter Twenty-Eight
Homecoming marks the start of new beginnings—the beginning of a new school year, the beginning of a new football season. That’s what Blake enthusiastically explained to me yesterday at lunch. Now I spot him on the field, running with a football tucked under his armpit, Davi a few feet ahead of him.
I know nothing about football. It isn’t a sport people follow in Nigeria. We prefer soccer. I hoped Zane would provide some insight during the game, but he’s leaning back against the bleachers, looking at the field but not really looking at it. His stare is bored and detached. He might be as clueless as I am.
“I’m just here for support,” he says, twisting a ring on his finger. “I have no idea what’s going on—never have, never will. Ara knows better than me. Ask her.”
Ara is sitting on the other side of Zane, her face tight with concentration while she watches the players on the field. This is what she does—ignores me. I could be right beside her, and she wouldn’t say a word to me—maybe a few irritated glances, but not a word. Because she hates me and has essentially marked us enemies, I should avoid her. In fact, that’s one of my rules.
Rule #5: In the unfortunate event that you make an enemy, try by all means to stay away from them.
But with Ara and me both in the musical and in the same friend group, we are unfortunately always in proximity.
Rule #5: In the unfortunate event that you make an enemy, try by all means to stay away from them.
I sigh, annoyed I’ll have to sit through the whole game clueless about what’s going on. There’s no one else to explain things. Bethany is in a blue and white uniform, shaking pompoms and cheering with her squad, and Sybil is on the sidelines, taking pictures of the game for the school newspaper. I want to support Davi, but that’s impossible when I don’t even understand the objective of the game. I’ll have to resort to copying the crowd—cheering and grunting when they do. If I get my timing right, I can fool just about anyone.
“Hey, Enore.”
At the mention of my name, my head snaps up. Cole stands with his hands in his pockets.
“Is this spot taken?”
“Um… no.” I shuffle closer to Zane, and Cole sits beside me.
“I’ve missed a few minutes,” he says. “Give me an update?”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know a thing about football.”
“Isn’t your boyfriend on the team?”
Boyfriend.It’s only been official for a week, and I’m still turning the word around in my head, examining it, finding it truly hard to believe it’s applicable to me. I have a boyfriend. Davi Santiago—the cutest, sweetest boy—is my boyfriend. I smile at the thought.
“I could explain the game if you like,” Cole says.
“Yes, please. Tell me everything.”
He does. Well, as much as I can grasp in my first lesson and in one sitting. During halftime, the homecoming court comes out on the field. This is, by far, my favorite part of the game—the glittering plastic crowns, the formal attire, the satin sashes with titles that mean nothing outside the realm of high school. Blake—the crowned homecoming king—stands with Casey Rowell, homecoming queen. The whole ceremony is elaborate, and I love every minute of it. The band, in perfect formation, plays a classical rendition of “Blank Space” by Taylor Swift, and the cheerleaders perform a complex routine that involves flips and somersaults. It’s incredible, and the audience buzzes with energy, fully hyped for the second half.
My eyes stay on Davi throughout the duration of the game. With a little more understanding of how things work, I can say Davi is really good. I leap to my feet and cheer when he scores a touchdown. Despite the rowdy crowd on the bleachers, he sees me—looks right at me—and smiles. I was wrong before. This is my favorite part of the game.
I love being with Davi, being his girlfriend. Whenever I’m with him, I feel most like myself. The pressure to be the perfect daughter and the shining example for my sister doesn’t exist when I’m with Davi. He gives me room to just be Enore—the viral sensation, the star of the school musical, the girl who sometimes cries on his shoulder because she misses her dad, the girl who is cautiously but fondly enjoying the new experiences in her new home. It’s nice to have a safe place to explore these new versions of myself. And that’s what Davi is—my safe place.
Sometimes, it takes a lot of effort to forget how different our backgrounds are and also how enigmatic he often is. He never tells me where he goes on Sundays, right after he watches me sing in the choir. He’s unreachable for hours, and when he finally texts me, his vibe is off. Then there’s the issue of his mom. All my questions about her are still unanswered. Frankly, I have no idea what’s going on with Davi, but I wish he could see me as his safe place too.
Clearly, he doesn’t.
Schools in Nigeria don’t have dances likehomecoming and prom. Esosa and I have only experienced a school dance vicariously, through characters in movies. And if it wasn’t for Auntie Sara, that wouldn’t have changed.
“The homecoming dance is a rite of passage,” she explained to our mother last week. “They have to go.”
“The time they will use for that nonsense is the time they can use to study and prepare for their futures,” Mom said while flipping through her medical textbook, indirectly showing what she expects us to do, a visual subliminal message if you will.
“Ivie, they’re teenagers,” Auntie Sara went on, “and they’re good kids. They deserve to have some fun.”
“Fun?” My mother lifted an eyebrow and curled her lips. I was sure she was going to give a lecture about how fun is a pathway to foolery. It’s one of her top three lectures. Regrettably, I have it memorized.
“A little fun won’t hurt anyone.” Auntie Sara matched Mom’s coldness with a warm smile. “And if it makes you feel better, Adrian is going too. They’ll all be together.”
After thinking for a moment, Mom looked between me and Esosa and nodded slowly. “Okay. They can go.”
At those words, basically magic words, Esosa and I glanced at each other and smiled. The plan, Esosa’s plan, had worked perfectly. It wasn’t very complex. We simply asked Mom if we could go to the homecoming dance. But we made sure Auntie Sara was present when we did. Auntie Sara, a true advocate for teenagers living their best life, took care of the rest.
Now we’re in the school gymnasium turned banquet hall. Strings of light and lit paper lanterns dangle from the ceiling and decorate the dim space with bright specks, a tie-in to the theme—A Night of a Thousand Stars. There is an enormous crescent moon at the photo station. People have been taking turns sitting or lying on it for the perfect IG-worthy shot. Currently, Esosa, in her ruffled fuchsia dress, is perched on the curve of the moon, smiling at the camera. I’m swaying with Davi on the dance floor, our arms around each other.
“Did I already tell you how beautiful you look?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I think ten times already.”
“Well, you do, and I can’t get over it.” He takes my hand and spins me around. My royal blue dress flares round my thighs in a circle, and I giggle.
When Esosa and I went shopping with Auntie Sara, it was the first dress I tried on. My sister raved about how the color was perfect for my complexion. She was right. The short spaghetti strap dress with a sweetheart neckline looked stunning on me, and now, with Davi, I feel even more beautiful. He pulls me in to his chest, and I kiss his cheek.
“You look very handsome too. I’ve told you that, right?”
“About ten times already. But who’s counting?”
He’s wearing a navy blue suit with a white T-shirt and white sneakers to match. The outfit is both formal and casual, and I love it.
“How are rehearsals going?” he asks.
“Good. Progressive.”
It’s been three weeks since Mr. Roland proposed a change to the musical. For the first few days, we worked together, incorporating parts of my culture into the script—the language, food, and clothes. At first, the idea of working solo with Mr. Roland was unnerving. But he’s proven to be tolerable and sometimes even pleasant to be around. When he talks about musicals, his face lights up. There’s almost something childlike about his disposition. It’s been refreshing to see that side of him. But getting that rare glimpse hasn’t made him lenient with me during rehearsals. He’s still the strict, no-nonsense director who calls me out when I miss a dance step or forget my lines.
I suppose it’s fair.
“Is it fun?”
I squint and consider Davi’s question. “Um… well, it’s a lot of work. A lot more than I thought.”
“Yeah. But it all pays off on opening night.”
“Well, it’s a lot of work regardless—a lot of work for just a high school play.”
“But don’t you enjoy it—the process?”
Again, I squint while thinking, and my stare moves above his shoulder and to the people at the refreshment tables, filling their cups with drinks and their plates with finger food. I wonder if the punch is spiked. This might be my first school dance, but I’ve watched enough movies to know some rebel might have emptied a bottle of vodka into the punch. To be safe, I’m following a very important rule on my list and have also instructed Esosa to do the same.
Rule #7: Never drink the punch at a school dance.?
“Hey,” Davi says, nudging me gently. “You okay? You kinda spaced out.”
“Sorry.” I blink sharply and focus on the question he asked. “I love singing. That part, I enjoy.”
“And the rest?”
I shrug. “I’m still getting into it.”
The slow song ends, and an upbeat one begins. It’s a popular song, and everyone rushes to the dance floor to jump and scream the lyrics rather than dance.
“Hey,” Davi says into my ear. “Wanna get out of here?”
I look at the hyper teenagers who might or might not have drunk spiked punch and nod. “Yes. Let’s go.”
He takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. The moment we step through the back door of the gymnasium, fresh air hits our faces, and we sigh.
Hand in hand, we climb the bleachers and sit at the very top, looking at the football field where Davi scored the winning touchdown last night. The open, quiet space is the perfect respite from the supervised commotion inside.
“This is nice,” I say as my head drops to his shoulder.
“Yeah. It is.”
“I know I said it before, but you were amazing yesterday during the game.”
“Thanks. I’m not gonna lie. I’m counting down the days until this season is over and I can focus on other things. Maybe join another club. Maybe Model UN.”
I tap his leg. “Hang in there. Just a few more weeks.”
“Yeah.” His arm comes around me. “Anyway, I want to take you somewhere.”
“Okay. Where?”
“To New York City.”
I lift my head and watch him through narrowed eyes. “You want to take me to New York?”
“Yeah. To see a show on Broadway.”
My eyes shrink even further. Now I can only see him through a sliver of space. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“New York City?”
He nods.
“A Broadway show?”
Again, he nods. “You ever seen one?”
I shake my head. “I have never even been to the city.”
“Would you like to, then?”
“Well… yes.” I laugh.
“Okay. Good. I’ll get tickets to a show.”
He’s acting like going to New York City is the equivalent of crossing the street when it’s in fact a one-hour train ride from Bellwood.
“We’ll see an afternoon show,” he goes on nonchalantly. “We’ll take a train there and then one back home.”
I watch him expectantly, waiting for him to crack a smile—a sign he’s joking. But that doesn’t happen. He continues planning our day in the city—where we’ll eat before and after the show and the sights we’ll see. Soon, pure excitement replaces my expectation for a punch line. The idea of me and Davi in New York City—miles away from my mother, enjoying the sort of freedom I’ve never experienced—is thrilling.
When I lived in Nigeria, I never craved freedom the way I do here. Back there, my parents, my mom especially, limited my life to school, church, home, and the market. In America, it’s different. Freedom seems like low-hanging fruit, easier for me to grab, especially with friends to cover for me and an aunt willing to advocate for me. The more things I experience—first kiss, first date, first school dance—the more freedom I crave.
“So?” Davi asks. “Are you in?”
I think briefly, then nod. “Yes. Let’s go.”
He kisses me, and I don’t think about the how—how I might convince my mother to let me go into the city. But then again, with Davi, I never think about the how. With him, the hows seem irrelevant and so do the consequences of my actions.
And maybe that’s just part of being a reckless teenager.