Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

“Who agrees with Isaiah?”

A number of hands go up around the room.

“I get what that’s like,” Lakshmi says. “Being in a shadow is never just as simple as stepping out of it. Shadows can camouflage a lot of things.”

“Like?”

“Differences. Here we’re all supposed to want basically the same things and are expected to be the same, but outside of this bubble we aren’t all the same. And we aren’t seen that way either. I think people forget that sometimes,” Lakshmi adds. She started Caswell Prep’s thirty-three-member Students of Color Alliance.

“How so?” Ms. Teresi narrows her eyes, interested.

Headmaster Ewing strides into the classroom then and everyone sits a little taller. Logan even straightens his hunter-green-and-navy-striped tie dotted with gold Caswell crests. Actually, each of us checks some part of our uniform, except Ryan. Hers is already perfect. I smooth the folds in my pleated skirt, more from nerves than anything else.

“My apologies, Ms. Teresi, for interrupting your class further. But I think in light of today’s events I must.” As he speaks, he looks each of us in the eye as if we’re the only person in the room with him. His eyes land on me for a second, and I look down like my colored pencils are the most fascinating invention of the twenty-first century. “Though my assumptions could be wrong, I’m visiting art classes first because I assume an art student is behind this.”

“We’re discussing it now,” Ms. Teresi says. “It’s turning into quite a thoughtful conversation.”

“Well, I hope you’re also touching upon the severity of this action,” Headmaster Ewing continues. “If the perpetrator comes forward today, maybe we’ll consider taking expulsion off the table … but this type of leniency will only be considered if you speak up now.” He clears his throat, looking out at us. “I hope I won’t have to call a special all-school meeting and involve everyone in this.”

There’s total silence.

His steel-blue eyes settle on me again, then slip to the next person almost immediately. He doesn’t even glance Ryan’s way. But everyone does when Ryan’s stool screeches across the polished concrete. And she starts to stand.

She pushes at the hair behind her ear even though her scarf already holds it in place.

“Yes, Ryan?” Despite the gravity of Headmaster Ewing’s announcement, his face brightens almost imperceptibly. “Do you have something to share?”

My eyes bore into the back of her head, wishing I could read her thoughts. What does she know? She turns slightly and her focus darts to me before she looks back at Headmaster Ewing.

“I know who did it,” she whispers.

This is so unlike Ryan—she might follow every rule in the book, but no one would ever call her a snitch. She flicks at the corner of her hair again. My heart thumps in my ears like it did the night before. She glances at me once more.

“I did it.” Her words can barely be heard. But I hear them loud and clear, and instead of pounding, I think my heart stops.

“You?” Ms. Teresi says what I want to yell.

Headmaster Ewing studies Ryan like he’s trying to imagine her scrambling through a window and defacing walls, but my mind is blank, confused, as my stomach plummets. With all the things I thought might happen, I never expected this.

She keeps pushing back her hair, and I know she’s freaking out. She’s not the only one. My stomach bubbles and twists.

“Well …” Headmaster Ewing starts, then stops, mouth wide. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his left eye.

I’ve never seen him this way. He’s about to topple over. To be fair, we are standing in Eckhart Gallery. The world-renowned gallery the Eckhart Foundation funds because members of the family have attended Caswell since the first bricks were laid, and that includes Ryan Eckhart.

Expulsion is definitely off the table.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

I almost choke out a hack. Anyone else, including me—a rarer-than-rare Black legacy kid, and a board of trustees member’s daughter—and he would’ve started very differently. But with an Eckhart—Caswell Prep royalty—everything is different, even the questions.

“Yes. I wanted my submission to be remembered. Like Jabec, I tried to go beyond what was expected. I hadn’t really thought much about the consequences. I was so absorbed in what I wanted my work to say.” Her voice barely shakes.

If I didn’t know the truth, I’d believe her. She sounds so convincing, delivering her lie. But while I fume, shouting liar in my mind, twisting the point of my pencil into the tabletop, my lips stay cinched as Ryan voices what I’ve been too chicken to say. My supposed truth.

“I’m surprised to hear this, Ryan,” Ms. Teresi says. “It’s unlike anything we’ve seen from you. It challenges lines.”

“What?” Ryan says before she can stop herself.

“It’s all about bringing what’s within beyond boundaries, right?” Ms. Teresi watches Ryan with the precision of a surgeon trying to avoid a nerve.

“Um. Yes, ma’am,” Ryan mumbles. She follows Ms. Teresi’s gaze to the work in front of her and slides a blank sheet over it before Ms. Teresi can search for comparisons she won’t find. “I wanted to try something new.”

I definitely feel sick now. This time there is no tremble in her voice, like she believes her own lie. My leg hops under the table, hammering against the stool leg. She’s made a decision.

And I need to make one too.

I’ve been sitting on the steps outside Eckhart Gallery for the last thirty minutes, rocketing up every time one of the doors opens, waiting.

Then Ryan pushes through and stands against the doors, surprise across her face.

“Why’d you do that?” I demand, approaching her.

She says nothing, hugging her books, trying to pass me.

I don’t let her.

“Answer me.” I lean in. “Why?”

She avoids my eyes, then glances at me. I almost think I see regret, but that’s gone in a flash.

“Why didn’t you?” she asks.

I’m ready to yell, but her question catches me off guard.

“Don’t think I didn’t know you were up to something last night.” Her eyes shift back and forth, searching out my secret. “When I saw it, I knew it was you. It’s like the stuff in your sketchbooks you don’t let anyone see.”

“If you knew, then why take credit for it? I thought we were friends,” I challenge. A couple students slow on a path near us.

She watches me, pushing at her hair again. “You were too scared to.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong. But it won’t come out.

“I have to win,” she says. “And this piece will win.”

“What about me? You don’t think I want to win too?” I snap.

“Why didn’t you speak up then?” Her words are cold, but her eyes still need convincing. “You had your chance.”