Black Enough

DAY THREE: TUESDAY

For the rest of the day yesterday and all day today, at the campfire, and even as I lie in bed, all I can think about is how black cottonwoods bring healing. All I keep hearing is that song Grandma hums over and over, over and over.

Sometimes I feel discouraged,

you know and I feel like I can’t go on.

Oh, but then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.

Revives my soul, my soul again.

There is a balm in Gilead

to save a sin-sick soul.

Grandma believes God can heal anything. But I wonder.

DAY FOUR: WEDNESDAY

Every year of camp, day four is the day campers start getting homesick, so all of us counselors have planned a late-night talent show to get everyone laughing and having a good time. There’s been stand-up comedy, Beyoncé lip syncs, and spoken-word poems. And now, Mrs. Thompson is getting the Soul Train line started. She sashays down the middle of the makeshift aisle as we clap and rock side to side. Each of us has a turn, all of us Black and brown girls dancing in a cabin in the middle of the woods. I imagine that underneath this cabin, the roots from trees are trembling from the bass and that leaves are swaying and dancing with us.

Mrs. Thompson thrives on nights like this. She is twirling and shake, shake, shaking, yelling, “This. Is. My. Song.” Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up” is the song that sets off our dance party every year. We usually play old-school music, because Mrs. Thompson says the music we are listening to these days isn’t really music. “Come on now, I’m older than all of you in here. Don’t tell me you can’t keep up. Come on now.” Mrs. Thompson grabs Brooke and tries to dance with her down the Soul Train line. “Come on, now, child,” Mrs. Thompson says.

Brooke doesn’t move.

Cat whispers to Mercy, “She don’t look like she dance at all.”

Mercy laughs and says, “Living all the way out there in Lake Oswego, she probably never even seen a Soul Train line.”

Mrs. Thompson is so into her dancing, she doesn’t even notice the tension between the Blue and Green Campers. “Natasha? Raven? One of you come help me out.”

Mrs. Thompson grabs me and we dance together down the aisle doing old-school dances (that I only know because Dad taught them to me). I get to the end of the line and I am out of breath and sweating and laughing. I look back at Brooke, who is standing in the same place, like a stone.

DAY FIVE: THURSDAY

The sun has said good night and now we are sitting under an ocean of stars. They shimmer like the glitter I once used on a Father’s Day card. It was after Dad left us. I never sent it.

If it weren’t for the fire, it would be darker than dark out. The rain starts and stops, but we are not going inside without at least one campfire story. Kyle, one of the other teen counselors, taught everyone the best method for roasting marshmallows. We squish the white sponge between graham crackers and squares of chocolate and feast while she whispers tales of the Oak Creek Monster.

“The spirit of a little girl who died a long time ago haunts these woods,” Kyle tells them.

Mercy breaks in, “How did she die?”

Kyle rolls her eyes—she hates being interrupted and prefers to pace out the story for dramatic effect. “Well, there are many theories. Some say the girl was walking with her friends by the creek and slipped in by accident and drowned. But others say her friends pushed her in. For months, everyone mourned the little girl and shunned the friends accused of murdering her. But one year later, on the anniversary of her death, the little girl was seen walking around the woods. People believe the girl faked her death to escape her evil stepmother and that she lives in the wilderness, surviving off the land. Many visitors have spotted her hiding in the tree house at the end of Willow Road.”

“There’s no tree house down the road!” Mercy says.

“There is, too,” Hannah tells her.

Other campers agree.

“I saw it when we got dropped off, right at the bottom of the road!” Brooke says.

Robin agrees. “Me too.” Robin scoots closer to me. Brooke scoots closer to her.

Kyle looks at all of us teen counselors and asks, “Should I let them know the rest?”

This hasn’t been rehearsed, so we all give different answers, nodding and shaking our heads, saying yes and no all at once.

Kyle continues, “Well, be careful, because the Oak Creek Monster gets lonely and likes to take campers to keep her company so she’s not living out here alone.”

Mercy stuffs the rest of the s’more in her mouth and blurts out, “This is stupid. There’s no such thing.” She stands and motions for Cat to come with her. “Let’s go back to the cabin. These stories are boring and you’re all a bunch of scaredy-cats.”

“I’m not scared,” Brooke mumbles.

Mercy says, “Well, you should be. You won’t be able to outrun the Oak Creek Monster. If it runs after us, you’ll be the first to be captured.”

The girls laugh and laugh. I stand up and Brooke’s eyes turn hopeful, like she thinks I am coming to tell them to stop. I wish our eyes didn’t meet, that I didn’t see how disappointed she looks as I walk past her, into the cabin, to get out of the heavy rain.

I hear Brooke say, “I’m not afraid.”

Mercy says, “Prove it.”

DAY SIX: FRIDAY

It’s six o’clock in the morning and Natasha is shaking me awake, whisper-yelling, “I can’t find Brooke! I can’t find Brooke! Mercy dared her to find the Oak Creek Monster.”

I get out of bed, put on my shoes, grab a flashlight and my phone, and throw my arms into my rain jacket. I run outside, heading to the path that winds around the back of the campus.

I am seventeen and my father’s daughter is out wandering in the rain. I am seventeen and I should have taken responsibility for watching her, should have stood up for her, made her feel like she belonged so she wouldn’t think she had to prove anything by taking a silly dare.

The path is slick and muddy because of the rain, and I can only see right in front of me because this flashlight isn’t as bright as I thought it would be. I shine the light in all the cabins we use for classrooms, the dining hall, the game room. I can’t find her. I jog down to the bottom of the hill. I flash the light all around, thinking maybe I will see her under a tree, waiting for the storm to pass. I shine the light up, moving it around and around at the sky, and then I see it.

The tree house.

The tree house is more like a tree mansion. Not only did Brooke find it, but when I knock and the door opens, she is inside sitting at a small kitchen table drinking hot apple cider with a gray-haired woman. The tree house is a cozy country cottage on the inside and is decorated with photos of smiling children and adults. The woman sees me eyeing them and tells me they are her children and grandchildren. “And you are?” she asks.

“I’m—I’m her sister,” I say.

Brooke’s eyes meet mine and she sets her mug on the table and stands up.

I apologize for the interruption of the woman’s night and explain the myth about who she is and tell her all about the dare. She finishes my sentence, chuckling. “I know, I know. I enjoy playing along,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, I’m actually the owner of this land. I manage the grounds. But I know what the rumors are and it makes for a good story, so sometimes I give a little wave there, a little howl here. You know, scare a few of the campers who come searching. But tonight, I saw something different in your sister’s eyes. And when I saw her standing outside, I just had to open the door and let her in.” The woman rinses the mugs in the sink and wipes her hands on her apron. She looks at Brooke and says, “You are very brave, facing your fears. I hope you are brave enough to conquer any monsters—literal or figurative—that come into your life.”

Brooke smiles.

“And what a thoughtful big sister you have,” the woman continues, “to come looking for you.”

Brooke blurts out, “She’s my half sister.”

I am not sure if she meant to hurt me or if she is just telling the truth. Maybe both.

The old woman says, “There’s no such thing as a half sister.” She walks over to the door, opens it. “Just like the moon,” she says. “There’s no such thing as a half moon either.”

Brooke looks at me for confirmation and I shrug.

The woman motions us to the door. “Look at the sky. Sure, there’s a half moon tonight that we can see, but the full moon is always there,” she tells us. “We see the moon because as it revolves around the Earth, only the part facing the sun is visible to us.” The woman stops talking and takes a long look at us. “Most times we only see part of a thing, but there’s always more to see, more to know.” She winks at me, says, “You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer. “We better get going. If I don’t return soon, the others will worry.” I take my phone out and see that I have ten missed calls from Natasha. I text her back, She’s safe. She’s with me.

Just before we walk out the door, Brooke says, “Wait—I need a picture. Mercy said I had to get proof.”

“Well, of course. It didn’t happen if there’s no proof,” the woman tells us. She runs her fingers through her hair as if to fix it, but it falls in the same exact place.

For the first picture, the woman tries her best to look like a monster. She doesn’t smile and her eyes look lifeless, but then she breaks out into a laugh. I delete it and we pose again, taking a selfie with Brooke in the middle. After we take the photo, we say our goodbyes.

I walk with Brooke back to our cabin. Our feet break up puddles and stamp the mud with the soles of our shoes. The wind is blowing, and no matter how tight I tie my hood, it flies off. Brooke doesn’t have a hood, hat, or umbrella, so her hair is a wildfire spreading and spreading. The black cottonwood trees with their healing balm release more of their white fluff, making it feel like we’re walking in a snowstorm. Our faces and coats are covered.

I am walking fast so we can hurry out of the rain, but Brooke can’t keep up, so I slow down, take Brooke’s hand.

“Are we going to get in trouble?” Brooke asks.

“Mrs. Thompson will never know.”

“Are we going to tell that there is no monster?”

“They don’t have to know that. We can tell them you found the tree house, that you went in.” A gust of wind blows so hard it almost pushes me forward. “I’ll tell them how brave you are.”

DAY SEVEN: SATURDAY

I have spent seven whole days with my sister.

Today is the last day of camp. Most times I am happy to see the campers go. Most times I am ready to get back to my regular life. But not this time.

Word has spread that Brooke broke the curse. She met the Oak Creek Monster and lived to tell the story. No one else has done that. It is all everyone is talking about until Mrs. Thompson comes into the cafeteria. Then, all the voices fade to whispers and everyone keeps pointing and oohing and aahing at the girl who looked a monster in the eyes and survived.

After breakfast the Blue and Green Campers head back to our cabin to pack. It is tradition that the last day is a free day, which usually ends up being me and Natasha doing the girls’ hair. After a week of being in and out of the rain, most of us need a touch-up, some a complete do-over. I spend the afternoon braiding and twisting. I have done Robin’s and Cat’s hair, and then I ask Brooke, “Do you want me to do yours?”

She sits in the chair in front of me and I start parting and flat-twisting the front. The girls orbit around her. “So tell us again what happened,” Robin says.

Brooke retells the story of meeting the Oak Creek Monster.

The girls respond with “Really?” and “But weren’t you scared?” and “I can’t believe you did that.” I fan the flame, telling them “You should have seen her” and “I’m so proud.”

Mercy sighs. “All this talk about Brooke conquering the Oak Creek Monster, but there’s no proof. We said you had to prove it.”

I take my phone out of my pocket just as Brooke’s voice rises, “You think I had time to get proof while I was escaping a monster? Besides, my sister was there—she saw everything. She’s my proof.”

I put my phone back in my pocket, keep our secret. Watch everyone looking at me, at Brooke, as we rotate around our sun.

“You two are sisters?” Mercy asks.

Brooke says, “Yeah,” so matter-of-fact that no one says anything else about it. Natasha looks at me and, with my eyes I tell her I’ll explain it all later.

Standing here with a handful of Brooke’s hair in my palm makes me wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a little sister. Natasha has two younger brothers who she helped teach how to read and tie shoes and throw punches on the playground if someone was messing with them. I think about how even though I have Mom and plenty of cousins and friends, I don’t know what it’s like to have a sibling.

Maybe it would be like this. Me doing her hair and chaperoning sleepovers, me making sure she knows which way to walk, how to get where she’s trying to go. Me knowing that I would do anything to make sure she is safe.

Just before the campers board the bus to leave, Brooke turns to me and whispers, “Don’t forget to send me the picture,” with a smile stretched across her face. She takes my phone and puts her number in it. When she gets on the bus, she sits with Robin, and as they leave they wave big elaborate goodbyes. I wave back until I can’t see them anymore.

I take out my phone to text Brooke the picture, but when I look at the photo, I realize it is blurry and Brooke is not even looking at the camera and half of the woman’s face is cut out of the frame so you can’t really tell who we’re standing next to. I text the photo to Brooke anyway because I promised I would. It’s not the proof we thought we’d have, but we’ll always have this memory; we’ll always be able to tell the story.

I head back to my cabin. The wind has settled and the branches of the black cottonwood trees are still. There are no snow-seeds blowing furiously in the sky, but remnants from last night’s storm cover the damp ground. The sweet fragrance from the fallen fluff fills the air.

I breathe it in, sing Grandma’s song.

BLACK ENOUGH
VARIAN JOHNSON

“Hurry up, Cam,” Myron yelled from the other side of the door. “It’s not like staring in the mirror is gonna make you any prettier.”

“Five more minutes,” I said as I checked myself out once more. My fade was a little higher on the sides than I liked, but still good. I’d convinced Myron to take me to the barbershop first thing that morning. Usually I hated going to the barbershop in South Carolina. It was always noisy—way louder than my usual barbershop back in Texas—with a lot of old men talking over each other, arguing about stuff I didn’t even care about, and telling me how good kids like me and Myron had it now. But today, none of that bothered me. The three-hour wait was totally going to pay off.

My clothes were brand-new, too. I’d bought them a month ago but was wearing them for the first time today. Everything looked great—except my shoes. After leaving the barbershop, Myron took me to the mall and convinced me to splurge on a pair of all-white retro Air Jordans. I’m sure they looked good on other sixteen-year-olds, but not on me. They made my already large feet seem extra huge. And they were super expensive compared to my usual Vans.

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.

Myron quickly parked, opened his door, and began to switch shoes. He acknowledged a few kids as they passed by—a head nod to a group of Black dudes, and a more subdued hand wave to a group of white kids.

The house was full of people. The music was turned up loud—booming bass with rapid-fire rap lyrics on top—and I swear I could feel my teeth rattling with each thump of the tower speakers. The large, wall-mounted flat-screen was showing the game—Golden State against Cleveland. The Warriors were way up in points, and it was only the second quarter.

“You sure she’ll be here, right?” I asked as we stepped farther into the den.

“She’s here,” he said. “Anyone who’s anybody will be here. Just don’t start whining and begging to leave when you crash and burn at Jess’s feet.”

I followed Myron and joined the group of Black kids we’d seen outside. Myron gave them daps.

“Nice kicks, my man,” one of the guys said to Myron.

“’Preciate it,” he replied. “Gotta step up my game for the ladies.” Then he nodded toward me and introduced me to the group.

They looked me up and down. “Those are the Jordan 1 Mid Retros, right?” another boy said. “Nice.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Thank you!? Who said that? Why couldn’t I say what Myron said? Or even something like plain old Thanks.

“Y’all hooping at the park tomorrow?” Myron asked.

They nodded. Myron wasn’t a great basketball player, but he understood the game way better than I did. Me and my friends weren’t into sports.

The conversation switched from basketball to football. The other guys would ask me a question every now and then, but I mostly tried to keep my mouth shut.

“Why you so quiet?” Myron whispered as everyone turned to watch a replay of a dunk on the television.

I shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to say to Jess when I see her.”

He gave me a look but didn’t say anything. Then he and I were pulled into a nearby conversation, this time with a group of mostly white kids.

“Nice shoes, man,” one of them said.

“Thanks,” Myron replied. “We picked them up today. Have y’all met my cousin, Cameron?”

The change in his tone was immediate. Less bass. More enunciation. I wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.

I quickly introduced myself. Most of them shook my hand, but one overeager guy leaned in to give me a dap-hug, saying, “What’s up, brother.”

And I said the same thing back, just like it was natural.

Because here was the thing—it was natural. This was how I interacted with kids all the time. I didn’t have to code switch at my school. There weren’t many other Black kids to code switch with. We lived in a very affluent neighborhood. (“A white neighborhood,” Grandma would say whenever Dad said this.) Even though most of my friends were white, a few weren’t. Arpit was from India, and Oscar was from Brazil. But it wasn’t like I talked differently around them than I did with my white friends. Honestly, we didn’t want to code switch. We were trying to sound like all our other … affluent classmates.

After a few minutes, Myron tapped me on the shoulder. “To your right,” he whispered. “But don’t turn too fast.”

I waited for Myron to pull away, then slowly shifted my gaze. There was Jess, looking as good as ever. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing one of those summer dresses that made all us guys go crazy. As our eyes met, her lips faltered for a second, before she finally offered up a small smile and waved at me. I did the same.

Before I knew it, I was crossing the room.

“Hey Jess,” I said once I’d reached her group.

“Hey,” she said back. No kiss. No hug. Not even a handshake. “Guys, this is Cameron. Myron’s cousin.”

“Hey.”

“Wassup, man.”

“How’s it going?”

I took in each person’s greeting, thinking how Jessica must like being around kids like this. Once the last person in the group introduced himself, I took a deep breath and said, “Wazzup, peeps.”

God, did that sound as horrible out loud as it did to my ears?

Everyone else nodded back at me, but I noticed a flicker of a frown cross Jess’s face.

The discussion turned back to—what else?—basketball. I waited for a lull in the conversation, then threw out the little bit of basketball knowledge I had.

“That cat Steph Curry is amazing,” I said. “Best playa on the court. Breaking ankles with each step.”

“Yeah, but no one has a crossover as sweet as AI, right?” one of the guys replied.

“Um. Yeah,” I said. I had no idea who they were even talking about. Was there a person with those initials on the Warriors?

I caught sight of Jess again. This time the frown was full-on across her face.

“Cam, can I talk to you for a second?” But with the way she took my arm and guided me away, it was clear she wasn’t really asking.

At least she was finally making physical contact. Progress, I guess.

She led me outside, but as soon as we stepped off the front steps, she let go of me and crossed her arms.

“What are you doing?” she asked.