And When I Die, page 4
Because she refused to cook, as she liked telling whoever would listen. No slaving over a hot stove for Erica Mitchell or worries about menu planning every night or grocery shopping for the week. She took the attitude that everyone should be able to eat whatever they wanted. And her dad? Forget it. He could barely work the microwave. No, this all fell on her mother. So, if her father wanted to feed his beer gut and eat four grande burritos from Taco Bell, then he should eat four grande burritos from Taco Bell. If her sister wanted to have Burger King every fucking night of the week, then she should get to eat a Whopper every fucking night of the week.
Her mother’s preference was salad. Literally all day, every day. A fruit salad or Greek yogurt for breakfast, an apple and a handful of almonds for a snack, another salad at lunch, celery with peanut butter in the afternoon, and a salad for dinner. In her entire sixteen years, Jordan hadn’t ever seen her eat a piece of chicken or even a wet, nasty sliver of tofu. Just salad. Even at the holidays, the one time of year when everyone gorged on turkey and stuffing, there was her mom in a corner with a sad little pink Tupperware of dry lettuce.
Since she was at least six years old, she’d wondered if maybe she was adopted. Not only because she was nothing like the rest of them, but because of how she looked. She didn’t resemble either of her parents—her basically obese father with his fleshy, ruddy cheeks and beady eyes and her ludicrously thin mother and her flat nose, huge hazel eyes, and stout lips. Kennedy looked exactly like their father, except she was also skinny like their mother. But Jordan’s gymnast physique, beak nose, high cheekbones, and wide-set eyes were a mystery to her.
“Did you know that the highest point in Africa is Mount Kilimanjaro?” Kennedy informed them as she dragged a French fry through the puddle of ketchup on her plate.
“Yes,” her father said.
“Did you know that the highest point in Asia is Mount Everest?” she said, popping the French fry, now drenched in ketchup, into her mouth.
“Yes.”
“Daddy, how come you know everything?” Kennedy asked, laughing.
“Because I’m Daddy.” He winked at her before picking up his second burrito and taking a huge bite out of it, grains of rice dribbling from the tortilla, one getting stuck in the corner of his mouth, a smear of refried beans wedged against his chin.
“So, Jordan, I keep meaning to ask if you talked to Coach K about getting back on the pom squad,” her mother said as she chewed on a slice of cucumber.
“No.”
Her mother set her fork down. “I thought we decided you were going to talk to her?”
“No, you decided. I told you it wasn’t happening.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t want to do pom anymore.”
“Jordan, I just don’t understand where this is coming from. You’re so good and—”
“Mom, seriously. Stop.”
Her mother opened her mouth to say something else and her father shook his head, indicating she shouldn’t press the issue. She didn’t miss the look that passed between her parents. Jordan had seen this look a lot lately. Her father silently trying to warn her mother to back off. Her mother, looking perplexed, as always, when talking to her these days.
“Did you know that a foot is twelve inches?” Kennedy demanded.
Jordan threw her fork down. “Oh, my God, will you shut up?”
“Jordan,” her father said, his voice teetering on an edge she knew all too well—one that meant shut the fuck up. “Enough.”
Kennedy stuck her tongue out at Jordan before she took a sip of her milk, humming to herself.
“But weren’t you in line to be captain next year?” her mother pressed on, ignoring the little drama that had just taken place. “Doesn’t all this time off the squad ruin your chances?”
“I’m not talking about this anymore.”
Her mother shifted in her chair. “Okay, but you were up for it, right? Well, I guess she’d have to make you and Whitney co-captains, since you’re the two best girls on the squad—”
“Mom, give it a rest.”
“Jordan, sweetheart—”
“Why do you always have to do this?”
“Honey, I just want to understa—”
Jordan heaved a sigh and pushed back from the table, picking up her nearly full plate. She hadn’t even wanted this dry, stringy chicken and bland asparagus. She’d only made it in defiance, as though she could set some sort of example for her whacked out family to be normal. Her friends thought it was cool that she could eat whatever she wanted for dinner, that she wasn’t subjected to meatloaf or casseroles or whatever. She found it mortifying.
Kennedy started reciting multiplication tables and Jordan could hear her father whisper something to her mother as she took her plate into the kitchen, dumping the hardly touched chicken into the garbage. She rinsed off her plate, put it in the dishwasher and went upstairs, glad her dad had intervened and kept her mom from running after her.
Jordan went into her room, a neat, almost utilitarian space of hard black and white furniture with accompanying stark, arty photos on the plain walls. Much like her mother, Jordan preferred order and precision. She closed the door behind her and flopped onto the white comforter spread efficiently across the California king, staring up at the ceiling. She half-expected her mother’s timid knock followed by an endless merry-go-round of what was wrong and why won’t she talk to her and what could she do and she only wants to help and why wouldn’t she let her help and how come she hates her so much?
And on and on and on.
Jordan dug her phone out of her purse, mindlessly scrolling through her Twitter and Instagram accounts. She’d blocked Whitney months ago (though she, weirdly, hadn’t done the same), but was still following Peyton, Lexi, and Madison, mostly out of habit, mostly because she had no beef with them, even though they didn’t hang out like they used to. She was surprised they still followed her and hadn’t blocked her either. Apparently, Queen Whitney hadn’t commanded them to do so.
Out of some bizarre voyeuristic she-didn’t-even-know-what, Jordan pulled up Whitney’s profile, scrolling through her ridiculous, totally unoriginal selfies, her filters and snaps completely stolen from reality TV stars. Even her post from earlier fangirling over the most recent season of Black Mirror. Jordan was the one who’d discovered the show and told Whitney all about it. Jordan was the one who’d scoured the web for painstaking dissections of each episode, sending the links to Whitney so the two girls could riff on all the Easter eggs and deeper meanings. Whitney couldn’t even be original in the things she liked. She always had to crib from someone else.
And here was Carly Ewing’s post congratulating Whitney for the awesome routine she choreographed at pom practice today. All hearts and bitmojis and smiley faces and just … gross. Had Carly always been this much of a kiss ass? Her memories of Carly when they were little were … blank. A white spot. As far as she could remember, Carly existed on the fringe. In the background. Quiet. Begging not to be noticed. A completely unspectacular person. How she made pom was beyond Jordan’s comprehension, as the girl was a total void. She must have been a better dancer than Jordan realized. Now, the way she fawned all over Whitney made what little dinner Jordan had in her stomach churn.
Her phone pinged with a new text message.
Speak of the fucking devil.
W: FYI, I dont care what my mom says or ur mom says, u r SO not coming to my party I will have u thrwn out u fucking skank.
Jordan frowned. Party? What was she talking about?
She reread the text a few times until it hit her.
Mom. Her mom had done something.
She jumped off the bed and flung open her bedroom door, screaming for her mother as she flew down the stairs.
“Jordan, what—?”
“Did you say something to Whitney’s mom about inviting me to her birthday party?”
Erica’s face faltered for a moment as her lips flapped and she trembled. “Well, I, I—”
“You what?” Jordan spat.
“Okay, I did run into Whitney’s mother today at the gym and—I just mentioned that I thought it would be nice if you were invited—”
“Oh my God, Mom, just stop. Stop, all right?” Jordan’s hands trembled as they pushed chunks of hair behind her ears. “We’re not friends anymore. I don’t want to be friends with Whitney anymore and I do not want to go to her stupid party.”
“Jordan, that’s enough—”
“Why do you always have to keep butting your nose into things?” Jordan demanded, ignoring her father’s warning. “I don’t need you hassling me about Whitney or pom or anything. I’m fine. Better than fine. So stop!”
“Hey!” her father yelled and Jordan twitched, realizing she’d edged a little too far over the line. “I don’t know where you think you are, but enough!”
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Her mom tried again. “Honey—”
Jordan ran back upstairs before her mother could finish whatever she was about to say. Slamming her bedroom door would have felt great, but she didn’t want her father running up here to yell at her either, so she closed it quietly instead. She paced back and forth, heaving, repeatedly winding and unwinding the ponytail holder from her hair as she tried to bring her jagged breathing back to normal. She looked down at her phone on the bed and snatched it up, her blood boiling all over again as she reread Whitney’s text. She couldn’t let that go. She had to respond.
J: Trust me, bitch, I won’t be anywhere near your whack ass party.
W: Whatever. You totally wish you could be there you trash skank
J: Back up off me, bitch … or did you forget what I know about you????
Silence.
Jordan held her breath, waiting.
W: You wouldn’t say anything.
Jordan smiled.
J: Wouldn’t I?
6
WHITNEY
Whitney loved walking through the hallway at school each morning.
As she pushed open the heavy metal door, sunglasses still affixed to her face, she saw the looks. They were hard to miss. For just a second, time would stop, sunlight flooding in behind her, the whoosh of air fanning her hair back and, in that moment, everyone would stare, blinded by her appearance. She’d push the shades to the top of her head and smile as she made her way down the hall.
As she sailed past the shiny blue lockers, girls she only sort of knew would say “Hi” and wave. Girls who wished they knew her would either avert their eyes, embarrassed at potentially being caught staring, or give her longing looks. Guys who’d she’d known since the first grade would yell out, “Yo, Whitney.” She returned every “Hello,” or “’Sup, Whit?” or “Good morning, Miss Dean,” (because, even teachers weren’t immune) with a smile, a joke, or a “Hey, girl,” an “Oh, my God, that dress is so cute,” or something flirty for the guys, unless they said something disgusting, which only ever happened once in a while.
Whitney saw her morning walks through the halls of East Lake Forest High School as a pep talk. Kind of like orange juice, her multivitamin, and the antibiotic she took every morning to control her fungal acne. An essential start to her day.
There was no disputing that Whitney was the queen of East Lake Forest—the prettiest, the most popular, the girl everyone flocked to. She was one of seven Black kids in the whole school—Carly included—and even though she was mixed, she, of course, still considered herself to be Black. When she was little, she once overheard her dad’s cuckoo clock sister telling someone Whitney could have easily passed, which sounded weird to her. Passed what? A test? A car on the road? When her father explained what it meant to pass, it made Whitney sad and confused. She couldn’t ever imagine denying a part of herself. Her grandparents—or as she thought of them—her mom’s parents—lived in Morton Grove and they didn’t seem to have any problem denying a part of themselves. The last time she’d seen them, she was seven, some crazy Christmas when they were ranting about children in Africa. In the years since she’d last seen her mother’s parents, Whitney’s heart would twist a little at ads or commercials she saw with loving, doting grandparents fawning all over their grandkids. They never even sent a birthday card. She thought grandparents got off on that kind of thing. Her mom said the only Black people they knew were either the hired help of their friends or the drug dealers, maids, crackheads, and gangbangers they saw on TV.
Evan Collins yelled out her name, stretching out the syllables as he slammed his locker shut and puckered his lips. She flashed him a smile and flipped her hair over her shoulder, her own locker a few feet away.
At the opposite end of the hall, Jordan rounded the corner and Whitney’s smile melted into a scowl. Jordan glanced over, her own glare smearing her face as she reached her locker.
It was weird to hit her locker and Jordan not be there. Ever since middle school, the two would always meet at Whitney’s locker at exactly seven thirty. That was the natural order of things. They’d bitch about school, homework, parents, siblings, then shift over to boys they thought were cute, shows they watched, music they listened to. As kids passed them, it was always, “Hey Whitney, hey Jordan,” “’Sup Jordan, sup Whitney?” “Jordan, hey, how’s it going? What’s going on, Whitney?”
Jordan Mitchell and Whitney Dean. The queens of the school.
Whitney snuck another glance over at Jordan.
Now she wanted to bash her fucking face in.
“Hey, Whit.”
She turned to see an out-of-breath Carly behind her. Whitney smiled. Carly was so sweet, even if she could be a little annoying sometimes. At least she was loyal.
“Hey, girl.”
Whitney looked over again to see Jordan slam her locker shut and her snarl returned.
“What’s the matter?” Carly asked. “What’s wrong?”
Whitney stacked her chemistry and history books in her locker, glancing at Jordan. “That’s what’s wrong,” she muttered.
“Did you talk to your mom about the party? Is Jordan coming?”
“Yes and no,” Whitney said, peering into the mirror affixed to the inside of her locker and running a swipe of gloss across her lips.
“Oh. So, she’s not coming?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But didn’t your mom say—?”
Whitney slammed her locker shut. “I don’t care what my mother says.”
Carly nodded and clamped her mouth shut as she followed Whitney down the hall toward the American lit class all three girls shared. Beside her, Carly’s jaw cranked as she cracked her gum. One of the girl’s super annoying habits that Whitney couldn’t stand. So aggravating. Beyond irritating. She’d have to talk to her about that.
Of course, she’d take Carly’s gum cracking over having to look at the back of Jordan’s head for fifty minutes.
“Hey, sorry, I meant to call you last night, but I fell asleep while I was watching Black Mirror,” Carly said.
“What?”
“Black Mirror? Last night. I was going to call you, but I fell asleep. I was rewatching the new season—”
“That’s great,” she murmured. Whitney bit her bottom lip as they reached the doorway of the classroom. Jordan was scribbling something in her notebook and her heart lurched. Was she writing about her?
Jordan glanced up and the two girls locked eyes briefly. Jordan scoffed and shook her head before turning her attention back to her notebook. Whitney flipped her hair over her shoulder as she sashayed past Jordan and took her seat two rows back and seven seats over. The final bell rang as Carly scooted into the seat next to her and pulled her English notebook out of her bag.
Whitney tuned out as Mr. Byrne started droning on about how everyone should have read the first five chapters of The Scarlet Letter. She hadn’t, but she wasn’t worried about it. She’d be done before the test or paper or whatever. Mr. Byrne then launched into a monologue about imagery or something and right on schedule, Trish Sellers, sitting in the front row, center seat, raised her hand. Every year it was the same with her. Had been since elementary school. Always front row. Hand always first in the air, lips always glued to the teacher’s ass.
Mr. Byrne turned to write down what Trish said on the board and she couldn’t help but to let her eyes drift down to his ass. It was nice. Hard as a rock from what she could tell beneath the tragic khakis he wore. Maybe he didn’t realize he was in Lake Forest now and needed to step it up. At least he had being a stone-cold fox going for him—even if he did dress like a Salvation Army reject, images of him rummaging through the bin for the rumpled slacks, stained tie, and threadbare button-down shirt he wore floating through her mind. From a distance, his creamy bronze skin made him look mixed like her. She wondered if he felt weird about being the only teacher of color on staff. Maybe she’d ask him next time he kept her after class. His muscles hung nicely on his average height, and the tiny mole that disappeared into the cute little dimple on the right side of his face, chiseled cheekbones, close-cropped black hair with the slightest wave, and smooth brown eyes were sweet and sexy all at once.
She twirled the ends of her hair around her index finger, the end of her pen clamped lightly between her teeth as she watched him write down a bunch of mumbo jumbo on the board about character and scene and setting and Puritans and prison doors. Next to her, Carly scribbled in her notebook, dutifully writing down everything he said. Whitney didn’t say anything, her eyes flicking between him and Jordan, who was slouched down in her seat, doing slow, bored doodles in her notebook.
“Miss Dean?”
Whitney blinked, not having realized he was talking to her.
“Yes?”
“I asked if you would tell me what you think the prison door represents in the story?”
“I’m sorry?”
Mr. Byrne perched on the corner of his desk, shaking the metal chalk holder in his palm as he watched her. “What do you think the prison door is a metaphor for, particularly as it relates not just to Hester, but society as a whole?”
