Black Enough

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.

“Um … talking?”

“You sound like a fool,” she said.

“I’m just …” I shook my head. There was no way I could explain what I was trying to do. It sounded too stupid to admit.

“And those shoes?” she continued. “Since when did you start wearing Jordans? You think that makes you hood or something?”