Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

But they’d be worth it if they impressed Jessica Booker.

I hadn’t seen Jess since last year. I had liked her for a long time, and had always hung out with her and her sisters during my summer vacations at Grandma’s house here in Franklin. Last year, I promised myself that I wasn’t going back to Austin without making a move. It took me up until the last day of vacation before I was able to summon up the courage, but I finally gave Jess a quick peck right on the lips.

It was the best kiss I’d ever given a girl.

It was also the only kiss I’d ever given a girl.

But then, before I could run off, Jess grabbed my hand and pulled me in for another kiss.

And that was most certainly not a peck.

If I had known kissing could be like that, I would have tried a long time ago.

But that was the high point of our romance. We’d tried to keep in contact over the school year—sending texts and messages through Facebook—but by Christmastime we’d lost touch. Well, if I was being honest, she dropped off. It took me about two weeks of additional texting before I finally realized she wasn’t going to reply back with anything other than wooden, one-word replies.

I pulled out my phone and took a quick snapshot of my shoes to post on Instagram and Facebook. Then I texted my friends at home and told them to like and comment on the photo. Petty, I know, but the more likes I had, the better chance I had of my post showing up on Jess’s feed.

Myron knocked again, then opened the bedroom door. “Come on, Cam,” he said. “You know how Grandma is. If we aren’t out the door by nine, she won’t let us go anywhere.” Then he looked me up and down and shook his head. “The kicks are nice, but you still look corny.”

“Takes one to know one,” I said, which was kind of a weak comeback, but it was the best I could do on short notice. But he did look just as goofy as I did, with his bright blue shoes. Myron usually wore Jordans, but today he was sporting a pair of KD 10s. “The finals edition,” he’d bragged when he first showed them off.

Uncle Greg—Myron’s dad—and my dad were twins. After college, Uncle Greg returned to Franklin to take a management job at the auto plant while Dad took an engineering job in Austin, Texas. For as long as I could remember, Mom and Dad would send me back to spend the summer at Grandma’s house—and I loved it. Myron and I usually got along, and there was always a bunch of other kids running around the neighborhood.

Like Jessica Booker.

That was one of the biggest ways that Franklin was different from my neighborhood back in Austin. At home, the only time I hung with my friends was when they came over to my house to play video games or watch movies. We never went outside—Arpit was allergic to everything, and I didn’t like the hot weather. But here, kids hung out everywhere. On people’s front porches. At the strip mall. In the parking lot of Hardee’s. Everywhere.

Maybe I was wrong—maybe kids back at home did that, too. Maybe me and my friends were the only ones stuck inside.

I followed Myron down the hallway and into the den. Grandma sat in front of the TV, flipping between stations. She worked at the small community college—she was still in her slacks and a button-up shirt, though she’d left her heels at the door. She eventually settled on a news show, then turned to us.

Or rather, she looked at our feet.

“Cameron, you’re buying those horrible shoes, too?”

“They’re retro, Grandma,” I said.

“Hmph. Some things probably need to stay in the past.” She shook her head. “But I’m betting those new clothes and shoes have more to do with trying to impress Eileen Thompson’s granddaughter than anything else.”

“Grandma …” I could feel a goofy smile forming on my face. I turned to try to hide it. “Jessica and I are only friends.”

She waved her brown, wrinkled finger at me. “Boy, you’ve had a hankering for that girl ever since you first laid eyes on her,” she said. “Might as well have it stamped across your forehead. Your nose is so wide open, you can smell Jessica’s perfume from all the way across town.”

Grandma was always spouting out those old sayings. I had tried to use some at school a few years ago, but my friends had no idea what I was talking about.

“I already told Cam that he doesn’t even have a shot with Jessica,” Myron said. He bent down and whipped an imaginary smudge from his shoe. “She’s a feminist now, always wanting to argue. Before you know it, she’ll have everyone in dashikis, eating kale, and giving up pork.”

“First, there’s nothing wrong with being a feminist,” Grandma said. “Don’t you two want women to have the same rights as men?”

Both Myron and I nodded.

“Good, then you’re feminists,” she said. “That being said, ain’t no way in the world I’m eating kale. And I’ve been eating pork chops for too long to give them up now.” She finally turned back to the television. “Y’all have fun. Be back home by midnight.”

We nodded. We’d take a midnight curfew any day. Myron’s mom was way stricter than Grandma. She’d have us back at home by nine and tucked into bed by ten.

“And be safe,” she yelled to us as we stepped outside. “Don’t go walking around like you ain’t got no common sense.”

As soon as we got to the car, Myron switched out his sneakers for a pair of slip-on athletic sandals. “Driving causes a crease in the shoes,” he said. “Gotta keep them fresh for as long as I can.”

That was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. What was he going to do—walk like a duck?

With his shoes safely stashed in the back seat, Myron pulled out of the driveway and cranked up the radio. An old-school rap song thumped out of the speakers. Myron leaned back in his seat and started bobbing his head to the beat. I rolled my eyes, then opened the center console.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What are you—”

“Just looking to see what else you have in here.” I pulled out a CD. “Guys and Dolls?”

“It was for a play,” he mumbled. “Plus, the theater chicks at school really dig Broadway.”

“Yeah, right.” I was sure that if I searched his phone, I’d find a lot more show tunes. Not that it was even a big deal. Myron was a really good singer, actor, and dancer. When he was younger, he bragged about wanting to be a “triple threat.” Last we talked, he was even considering majoring in theater in college—if Uncle Greg let him.

I returned the CD and closed the console. “Okay, so tell me about Jessica again.”

He groaned. “Man, how many times do I have to say it—you ain’t got no shot with her. I bet she doesn’t even like guys anymore. Especially not guys like you.”

That last sentence hung in the air for a moment.

Especially not guys like you.

Myron turned down the radio and cleared his throat. “Cam, what I mean is—”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I get it.”

And I did. I knew what kids called me behind my back. An Oreo. A Black boy trying to be white. I wasn’t hard enough. Hood enough. Woke enough. If anything, Myron should have said “guys like us.” With his love for musical theater, he fell in the same group as I did. He could try to wear fancy shoes and blast rap music, but he was who he was.

“Anyway,” he finally said, “you should be more focused on Tiffany. You know she’s been asking about you all year. And you know she’s into smart, high-yellow dudes. Even corny, no-game fellas like you.”

I just laughed. I liked Tiffany a lot—as a friend—but she was a little too wishy-washy for my tastes. Always into the newest fad—whether that be shoes, clothes, music, whatever. But she was also crazy smart. She’d only finished her sophomore year and had already damn near aced the SAT. She was planning to major in engineering in college. If Dad caught wind of that, he’d for sure try to set us up himself.

I opened up Facebook to see if the guys from home had liked my photo. They had, along with a few other people from school. No lie—it felt pretty good.

I went to Jess’s page, but she hadn’t posted anything in a few days. Then I went to Myron’s page. It took a minute or two to scroll through the usual junk that he stuck on his page before I finally found his post about the party. Jess had mentioned that she was going to be there in the comments, but she hadn’t added anything more to her original message.

Myron had told me that Tarik lived on the other side of the city. But as we pulled into the gated neighborhood and passed all the McMansions, I realized I was totally wrong about where I thought we were going.

“Let me guess,” Myron said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You thought we were going to the hood just because my boy’s name is Tarik and he’s Black.”

“No …,” I mumbled, clearly busted.