We’ll talk when you get here
I leave the plate with half a pancake on it and make my way forward on the path as it inches to access the lake, and the black thing grows bigger.
Oh.
It’s Layth’s back.
He’s sitting facing the water, headphones around his neck. The back of his T-shirt says CHEAP THRILLS in teeny writing, which I can finally see clearly because I’m literally a bush away from him. The bush I’m hiding behind.
I make the mistake of sighing loudly at this stupid thing I’m doing after getting into a fight with my racist dad.
Layth turns around. Doesn’t say anything and just turns back to the water.
“Just so you know, I wasn’t watching you. I just wondered who was sitting here.”
“So you snuck up?”
“Well, yeah. It’s not like I could honk a horn or something. I just followed the path.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Why are you going to Miami?” I don’t know why I even want to know.
He looks back at me, one dark eyebrow raised, before turning away again without answering.
Burn.
But I’m in such a weird mood after Dad’s grossness that I spew more. “What’s Cheap Thrills? Your band or something?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then why do you always wear Cheap Thrills shirts?”
“Because.”
“Why are you having your Che Guevara moment?”
“Not.”
“Okay, why’d you ask to follow me on Instagram if you’re not answering me?”
He lifts his phone, presses, scrolls, swipes, and presses again. “There, unrequested.”
“Thanks. It was bloating my requests.”
He lets out a snort. “Why’re you studying dead white people literature? Why’re you excited about going to study abroad in a place the whole world knows too much about anyway? Why are you sneaking up on me to bother my peace and quiet?” He stands and picks a backpack up from the ground and then turns to me. “Tell Dania and Lamya I’ll pick them up later. Leaving now.”
“Why? Because I scared you off with my questions?” I cross my arms. He’s standing with his back to the water, and something about the way he squints slightly in the sunlight filtering through the trees behind me gives the impression of a deep melancholy.
No, it’s not his expression. It’s the way his pose is resigned, the way his hands are positioned protectively, one hand on the strap of the backpack on his shoulder and the other hanging down cradling his jean jacket, the same jacket he wore at the restaurant.
He looks alone. That’s it.
He looks like he’s not completely a smirky crank.
“I’m studying British lit because I want to take it apart, starting with the white man’s burden myth repeated over and over in our favorite classics, that we overlook all the time at school or wave away as being inconsequential to the greater contribution that these quote unquote ‘beloved’ authors make, but that ultimately cements in our consciousness the idea that we brown and Black people will never be consequential. I mean, so many people have studied this, like one of my oldest friends, ninety-three years oldest, who wrote an entire manuscript on Shakespeare’s othering of nonwhite peoples. Actually, he’s the one who got me thinking about all of this. And my thing is going to be to tie it all in with what’s going on now. The way we’re so publicly hateful in this country. That’s why I’m studying British lit.”
He relaxes his squinting, and his mouth relaxes too. And the corners turn up, the left side more noticeably. In a non-smirk. In a smile. A genuine one.
Why do I notice that he’s got a really nice smile? And that his lips, like his eyes and jawline—and okay, eyebrows—are his best features?
I just realized I named all of his facial features. But that’s because they became animated just now, not like when he was at the restaurant, when he was all closed.
I wonder how many girls like him. And are among his ninety-eight followers.
“So you’re the one actually having a Che Guevara moment.” He doesn’t say it sarcastically, like Dania had done to him. He says it politely.
“It’s not a moment. And it’s not Che. It’s that I don’t want America to not correct its course.” I think about the book I just finished reading last week, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. How people are still grappling with the same racism today that Malcolm described over sixty years ago.
Wait, I actually got that book from Dad’s bookshelf. How does that even make sense?
“I wear Cheap Thrills shirts because I’ve only got three shirts and they’re all Cheap Thrills. Because it was a friend’s attempt at running a T-shirt company while he was studying graphic design. And he gave me his three prototypes. Three good-quality cotton prototypes.” He lifts his hand holding the jacket across his chest to his backpack strap and sets it higher on his shoulder. “I only have three shirts because I got rid of everything except for what’s in this bag. And I’m taking this bag with me to Miami to catch a flight.”
“Where you going?”
“To Ecuador. Moving there.”
“Wow. Moving? As in moving moving, for good?”
“Yup. Selling my car in Miami—already got a buyer lined up—and then it’s Mera, Ecuador. Hopefully for the rest of my life.”
I don’t know much about Ecuador except what our class studied in middle school geography. “Do you have family in Ecuador?”
“None. Just me.” He looks away and adds quietly, “The way I like it.”
“I’ve never traveled alone,” I tell him. “Actually, I haven’t traveled much even with family.”
“I thought that you’d have been to tons of places. What with your dad being some kind of mega-rich dude.” His smile crosses into contemptuous territory again.
I frown at his scorn, now blatant on his face. “I’m not rich.”
He raises his eyebrows. And makes a movement, like he’s really leaving.
I’m going to follow him because I hate his expression right now—like he knows everything about me based on the few glimpses he’s gotten. I need to straighten this guy out, and with all the stuff Dad stirred in me, I’m ready to get in any boxing ring. “You don’t know me. You think you do, but you’re clueless.”
He stops moving, just hitches that backpack up higher.
“You think I’m rich because my dad’s rich?”
“I think you’re rich because you are rich.”
“And I think you’re an asshole because you are an asshole.”
“And you’d be right. Because I actually am.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “See, we’re both right.”
I hate this guy. Because he makes me want to just keep talking and telling him everything to prove him wrong. He’s like a prosecutor who’s got all his facts incorrect, and I’m the defendant, representing myself. “I live with my mom. She works in a library shelving books, hoping she’ll become a librarian one day even though she didn’t get to finish her degree because she had my brother young. We live in a two-bedroom apartment that my mom pays rent for. My rich-dude dad pays for certain things for me and my brother. Like college for him, which is amazing—I’m going on a full scholarship. But day to day, I’m not rich. My mom’s been a single mom for a long time.” I try to say all this matter-of-factly, but then I glare at him. “There, now do you feel better?”