The Long Ride: Chapters 9–14

Ronnie wants to be a veterinarian and Lonnie an entomologist. I have to look that up—bugs. Lonnie wants to study bugs!

When I come home, I have to lie on my bed for half an hour, feeling the day ease from me like a groggy dream.

“Give it time. If she works hard, they’ll notice and move her.”
I want to believe him, but Karim has filled me with all kinds of ideas about “the system” and “oppression.”

After the librarian shoos Darren away for making too much noise, I notice that Josie’s math book is red, but mine’s green. The spine on hers says Fundamentals instead of Introduction to Algebra. When I start flipping through, I see the problems look babyish, like what we did last year, maybe even the year before in fifth grade.

We’ve had that talk many times, about the draft and serving. Three boys on their block have gone into the military.

Grandma Grace was a real beauty when she was young. “You should have seen the suitors I had to kick out of the way!” Grandpa Joe often says.

“Oh yeah. She’s got a beau who’s a cowboy.”

As I pick up my bag and head out the door, I do feel good, buoyed by the quiet in our car last night, away from a family that does not understand us.

I thought social studies was supposed to be like civics, where everyone debates and talks.

“You’ve heard about the Domino Theory,” Mrs. Markowitz says. “If we don’t stop Communism in Vietnam”—she points to the map hanging behind her and lets her hand sweep across the Pacific—“Australia will turn Red next!"

And mostly I’m just repeating what Karim says at the dinner table—how we’re killing babies in Vietnam. How we are imperialistic, even though I don’t know what that means.

“That’s a demerit, Miss Clarke.”
“But what you said was wrong—”

Before she can finish, there’s a clamor outside. I hear a string of curses and the secretary pops her head in.

Soon we’re on the street, trailing after them to Central Park, where we clamber up the big gray rocks, and Evan and his friends horse around, using their tennis rackets to swat balls that the others have to catch in the air.

As we get up from the ground, I’m queasy. I tell myself this is what you do.

The lobby is huge—flickering strands of gilt and bronze and marble; the elevator man greets all the boys by their first names.

As we troop past, she gives Francesca and me a wary, stern look, and I’m flooded with shame.

“But there’s only two of us,” I say, faltering.

My arms are rigid at my sides. I don’t want to do this. He gives me a hug and I pull back, quick.

We spin the bottle a few more times, but every time, it stops on one of the boys, so they guffaw and yell.

“Cool.” She seems genuinely excited.

And then I saunter off, giddy, to John at the corner.

A Bible sits on a table, a pair of half-glasses resting on top. I flinch. My mom is an atheist and my dad told me he had enough religion growing up, so he was done with it.

We go through the clapping screen door to the back, where there are flourishing rows of spindly plants—tomatoes in V-shaped stands and squashes plumping under their frilly leaves.

We go through the clapping screen door to the back, where there are flourishing rows of spindly plants—tomatoes in V-shaped stands and squashes plumping under their frilly leaves.

We sit on the back concrete steps, in the waning light, as his nana talks more.

And when it’s time to come down to eat, I take out the wrinkled bag of beans. It smells of fresh earth and a touch of lavender, Nana’s scent. I crunch down, relish the fresh taste.

“Jamila, do you have anything to say? If I understand correctly, you initiated the physical altercation.”

“Jamila, do you have anything to say? If I understand correctly, you initiated the physical altercation.”

Then I slide open my drawer and see the crumpled bag of beans. The paper has damp spots and when I open it up, there’s a musty smell, no more Nana-lavender scent.