any brother. Maybe he’s your brother.”
Ruby titters. “I think I’d remember that,” she says.
Hardly any black people live in Burnaby. Or Vancouver either. There are only two black kids in our whole school, which is probably why Jill’s so fascinated—she thinks it’s exotic.
I wonder what Jill’s dad thinks. My dad is pretty weird about black people. His friends are too. Marlene told me about this thing that happened before I was born. She said that she and Sam were over for drinks at another couple’s place: Peggy and Mike. Peggy—she’s now with my dad—was going out with a loan shark called Mike McGee back then. They were sitting around drinking wine and talking about how the white neighbour lady had gotten married to a black man.
Peggy didn’t think it was such a big deal.
Her boyfriend, Mike, said, “That sounds okay to you? Would you sleep with one of ’em?”
Peggy said that it depended.
“Would you sleep with a nigger or not? Answer the question.”
Marlene flashed her a look, trying to signal Peggy to say no.
But Peggy answered, “Maybe if I fell in love with one of ’em.”
Mike slapped Peggy in the mouth. Then he grabbed her by the hair, dragged her off her chair and called her a whore and a slut.
Marlene and Sam got out of there. Peggy was on the floor and Mike was waving a gun around before they left the house.
I wish I hadn’t thought of that. Makes me think I was raised by wolves.
Sitting here in the living room now, I watch Ruby’s sewing needle poke in and out of Lou’s jeans. Lou would never talk the way Sam and his friends do.
Diana Ross is singing on TV, asking whether you know where you’re going to and if you know what life is showing you. I hate this song. It’s the most depressing song ever written. It doesn’t even have a proper title, just “Theme from Mahogany.”
Jill is warbling along.
This song is an even bigger drag than “Knocking on Heaven’s Door,” and that is an all-time wrist-slasher if I ever heard one.
The doorbell rings.
Jill looks at her mother. Her mother looks back.
“You get it,” they say in stereo. Then they both turn to me. “Sammie, you get it.”
The two of them are still giggling their asses off when I get up and open the door.
Standing on the porch is Drew, soaking wet.
My stomach drops as if I’m flying down the first hill on a roller coaster.
“What are you doing here,” I whisper, slip outside onto the welcome mat and pull the door behind me. Beyond the overhang, rain is pelting the steps.
“I looked up Jill in the phone book.”
I can just make out that stupid shitty Mahogany song still plinking away in the living room. When you look behind you, Diana says, there’s no open door. What are you hoping for?
“I was going to just phone you but—” Drew pauses. “That thing in the supermarket, I just—” He sputters, “P-p-p,” as if he can’t make words for a second or two. “What’s wrong with you? Why did you do that?”
“I’m sorry. I’m—” I feel the goose egg in my throat again. It’s ready to burst. Inside the house: Do you know where you’re going to? Over and over. I can’t talk.
“I don’t get you. What did I do?”
“It’s not about you. I’ve got other stuff going on.” I look down at the weather-beaten porch between my bare feet. “I’m not even dressed.”
He looks away, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. For a second I think he’s going to walk down the stairs, back into the rain, and be done with me.
Instead he says, “I came here because you’re not home. I mean—” He sighs as if he’s collecting himself. “I thought I should find you because, um, because I think something’s wrong with your mom. She called my place yesterday at, like, five in the morning. My mother answered and told her I was still sleeping. So then she called again at seven. My mom was so mad.” He laughs nervously because Drew and his mom don’t get along.
Then there’s a long pause until he says, “She was pretty revved up. She had this whole idea—your mom—about making you famous. I’m supposed to take a picture of you with tons of pink roses in a pink Cadillac. She said she drew me an illustration. Everything has to be pink for it to work. Then we’re supposed to send the picture to Phil Donahue, the