Brownie Points Page 11

“Ah,” I sighed knowingly. “When Girl Scouts go bad.”

  Maya sat beside me in silence for a few moments. Looking at my record pile, she tilted her head. “What is this thing?”

  “It’ll be a table when I’m done.”

  “You’re so weird, Mom.”

  “Thank you, Maya,” I said. “What’s on your mind? You’re usually on your second box of cookies by now.”

  “Max McDoyle called me a latte today.”

  “Context, child,” I said. “Give me the whole story.”

  “We got these forms to fill out, and one of the questions was our race. So Max goes, ‘Too bad there’s no box for lattes like you.’ ”

  “Lattes? What is he talking about?”

  “Mom,” Maya said, rolling her eyes. “A latte, you know, a cup of coffee with a lot of milk in it, like at Starbucks.”

  “Oh,” I said, catching my breath. “How did you respond?”

  “I called him a retard,” she said, shrugging.

  “Maya, don’t use that word,” I scolded.

  “I already did,” she said.

  “Well, don’t anymore. It’s cruel.”

  “What about what he said? That wasn’t exactly nice.”

  “He’s deranged. What form did you fill out anyway?”

  Maya reached into her backpack and pulled out a dull green form from the Los Corderos County Board of Education Gifted and Talented Education Program. “I need to take some test so I can get into GATE. Most kids take it in, like, second grade, but we get to take it now ’cause we never did back then.”

  Maya and Logan attended a Waldorf School in San Francisco, where they would never dream of testing children for the purpose of labeling them gifted and talented. I could just hear her second grade teacher saying that every child with a sense of smell and six taste buds was gifted.

  I scanned the form. “Look, they have a box for mixed race. Or you can decline to state if you want.”

  “What I really want to know is what they’re asking for,” she said. “Is it going to help me or hurt me?”

  “On the test or in life?” I clarified.

  “Both.”

  “Well, for this test they just want to know for their own statistics, but that doesn’t mean you have to tell them. In life, it’ll be a mixed bag. There will be some people who make assumptions about you.”

  “Like that I talk ghetto?”

  I nodded. “Or you might be the first picked for the basketball team.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Maya said.

  “Only if they’ve seen you play,” I told her.

  “If they’ve seen me play, they’ll definitely want me. I’m great at hoops.”

  “Maya, you’re great at everything.”

  She smiled with agreement. The mixed-race couples we knew in San Francisco warned us that kids started grappling with their identity in middle school. I always thought that raising my children in San Francisco, among contemporary painters, improvisational poets and gay linebackers, would mean that their worldview would be broader than other kids’. I believed that taking them to the marches for the rights of immigrants, gays and women would clue them in about our social and economic caste system. But in a way, it made it more narrow because neither Maya nor Logan had ever met a person who wasn’t in lockstep with our liberal beliefs.

  “Didn’t Martin Luther King put an end to all that?” Maya asked. “Wasn’t all of that stuff in the south anyway?”

  “No, Maya, it was everywhere, and there are still narrow-minded people out there, even in northern California, but we live in much more tolerant times.”

  “Tolerant?” Maya asked indignantly. I said nothing, not sure of her objection. “I don’t need to be tolerated. People are lucky to have me around.”

  “Poor choice of words. Accepted.”

  “I don’t need to be accepted either. Who thinks they’re so in charge of the world that they get to say whether I’m accepted or not? Or tolerated? Puh-lease.” Maya sighed defiantly, clearly annoyed. “I’m going to check the box for African-American. Then when I ace that test, someone’s gonna have to look at my score andknow that a black kid did that.”

  “Maya, not all white people are like that. I’m white and I know you and Logan are smart. Don’t write off all white people as the enemy.”

  “Mom, you’re not really white.”

  “What do you mean, I’m not really white?”

  I remember when Jason and I were dating he said that he was surprised at how many well-meaning, otherwise intelligent liberals made the bonehead comment that he wasn’t “really” black. What they meant, of course, was that he spoke properly and didn’t dress like a rapper. What was most insulting was that this was supposed to be a commendation, like a “Get Out of Black Free” card in the game of life. Now, it was I who was being exempted from a racial classification.

  “Maya, I am really white.”

  “You married Daddy and he’s black, so you’re kind of black too,” she assured me.

  Be sure to share that thought with some of your father’s cousins who were oh-so-thrilled to welcome me to the family. “I’m not.”

  “Not your skin, but …”

  “My soul?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of not, Maya. I’m white, Daddy’s black and you’re biracial. And if anyone ever tells you you’re not really black or you’re not really white, then that person is really wrong.”

  “Hey Logan!” Maya said as he approached the open garage door.

  “Hey,” he said, sounding winded. When we caught a glance at him, we knew why he was breathless. He was glistening with a coat of sweat, but also thoroughly doused with milk. Logan told us that, as he was leaving the detention center, Max and Craig threw milk on him. They taunted him, saying that they can’t have Froot Loops without milk. Craig held Logan’s arms back while Max wound up to punch him in the stomach. But Logan surprised them all, including himself.

  The Miracle Worker had taught him to block punches with whatever limbs were available, so Logan kicked his feet in the air, and knocked out one of Max’s front teeth. When Craig saw the blood pouring from his friend’s mouth, in shock, he let go of Logan’s arms. He’d been running since.

  “Shit, Logan, you made two people bleed this week!” Maya said with admiration. “You’re like the face terminator.”

  ™˜

  The phone would ring soon enough with Olivia’s lawyer suing me for the cost of dental work. As I laughed at the thought, the phone rang.

  That was fast.

  “Hey, baby,” Jason said.

  “Oh, hi honey.”

  “Expecting someone better?” he teased.

  “Not at all. Actually, I thought it might be Olivia.” I began whispering, “Jason, Logan kicked Max in the face today.”

  “He did?”

  “He did,” I confirmed.

  “That’s m’boy!”

  “It’s not funny. He knocked out a tooth.”

  “Man, that must’ve been some kick,” Jason said, too proudly.

  “This can’t go on. I mean, today, Logan was the, the —”

  “Ass kicker,” Jason completed for me.

  “Ass kicker, tooth kicker, whatever, but tomorrow may be a different story. We need to talk to Olivia and Jim about this right away! This can’t go on.” Jason was silent. “This can’t go on, right? We’re in agreement on this, aren’t we? Someone could get seriously hurt and chances are it’ll be Logan.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against him,” Jason said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “All right, baby. Personally I think you’re making a bigger deal of this than it needs to be. Boys fight.”

  “Logan wasn’t fighting,” I explained. “Craig Emmens held back Logan’s arms so Max could hit him and —”

  “You tellin’ me our boy took on two guys?” Jason beamed.

  “Jason, what I’m telling you is that Logan was simply defending hi
mself, he wasn’t fighting.”

  “Call it what you want, baby, but those boys got the message.”

  “What message?”

  “That Logan Taylor is nobody’s punching bag, and if they go after him again, they might lose an ear next time.”

  “An ear?! Jason, you sound way too happy about this,” I said. “I’m not at all comfortable with what happened today. I wish we never moved to this awful place!”

  “You said you were okay with it when I got the job.”

  “I was full of shit! I was trying to be positive,” I said.

  “Well, try it again. We’re here now, and from where I’m sitting Logan solved his own problem by standing up to those two. Go over there and talk to the mom if you want.”

  “And say what?!” I asked.

  “Tell her that you hope Logan doesn’t have to kick her son’s ass again.”

  “Jason, I’m not going to say that.”

  “Say whatever you want, Lisa. Next time I see McDoyle I’ll let him know what I think.”

  “Don’t you get into any fights now, okay?” I said, softening. “Why did you call anyway?”

  “Lettin’ you know I’ll be home late tonight.”

  “Okay, if I’m asleep, check the fridge for your dinner plate.”

  ™˜

  The conversation with Olivia was quicker than the tooth-kicking incident itself. All in all, it lasted under a minute.

  On the short walk, I scoped Marni’s new lawn display for Christmas, a not-so-virginal Mary lying provocatively on her side, giving Joseph a come hither look. She looked as though she were thinking, “Come on, lover, the baby’s asleep and we’ve got the whole manger to ourselves.”

  Michelle displayed a traditional Santa Claus behind a team of reindeer, but Stacey put out the Val-approved Slim Santa flexing an impressive bicep as he held the bag of loot. The CC&Rs Enforcement Committee newsletter advised:

  “In a time of epidemic childhood obesity, it is irresponsible for parents to uphold an overweight Santa Claus as a role model.”

  As I approached the McDoyle home, I saw their Jeep Hawk pulling out of the garage. I waved my hands for Olivia to stop, so she rolled down her window. “Lisa, I really can’t chat right now. Max fell on his bike and knocked out a tooth. We need to get him to the dentist.”

  “His bike?” I stammered.

  She raised her eyebrows, annoyed. “Yes, Lisa, his bike.”

  “Olivia, I know you’ve got to run, but we need to talk when you guys get back,” I said. “Max didn’t fall on his bike.”

  “Oh, he didn’t?”

  “No, he didn’t. Logan kicked him.”

  Olivia burst into laughter. “Logan? Logan, the Girl Scout?”

  I wanted to jump in the air and experience the sheer ecstasy of knocking out Olivia’s tooth. (Or at least a porcelain veneer.) “Yes, my son, Logan. Max and Craig were bullying him, and Logan kicked Max in the face! Very hard.”

  Olivia laughed again, pityingly. “What some people won’t to do enhance their image. I don’t know what Logan told you, but he most certainly did not kick Max’s tooth out. He fell on his bike.” With that, Olivia rolled up her window and pulled away.

  What was the deal with this place? Could you only live in Utopia if you were in an utter state of denial about your kids?

  I was still smarting from Val’s reaction to our phone conversation about the cuts on Bianca’s leg. I had rehearsed my approach three or four times after consulting a website on cutting and self-mutilation. I knew it would be tough for Val to hear, but also felt that Bianca deserved expedient adult intervention. Val snapped when I broached the topic a few days earlier. “I think your time would be better spent paying attention to your own back yard,” she said.

  “Meaning what?” I asked, grasping at the hope that she meant my azaleas.

  “Meaning that if anyone’s child needs psychiatric assistance, it’s yours. And will you please stop leaving your garage door open all day?! People move here because it’s clean. Every time I drive by that junkyard you call an art studio, I feel like I’m watching a rerun of Sanford and Son!”

  “Val, your daughter has a serious problem,” I said, unlocking my jaw. Despite her hideous mother, Bianca was a good kid and one of Maya’s and Logan’s best friends.

  “Your child has a very serious problem, Lisa Taylor,” Val swiped. “I suggest you take care of your own before sticking your nose into my business.” Then she hung up. She simply hung up the phone and ended the discussion about her daughter taking a razor blade to her flesh and cutting into her leg for the satisfaction it delivered. I hoped she would continue the discussion with her husband after she had some time to let the idea settle in. Somehow I doubted it.

  Later that afternoon, I found myself staring out the window, wondering what Jorge and Finn were up to for the evening. They were probably at Susan’s annual tree-trimming party, or at a gallery opening somewhere. Meanwhile, the streets of Utopia were still. Even the leaves dared not rustle.

  An hour later, that all changed. As the sky turned from periwinkle to twinkling black, limousines began pulling up to the front of Marni’s house. Painfully sexy women poured out in droves wearing clinging gowns and stilt-like heels. I sank my head onto the couch armrest by the window and watched as Marni’s door continued opening and closing, setting free waves of jazz music and soprano laughter.

  I must have fallen asleep there because when Jason came home, he woke me with his voice. “Spying on Marni again?”

  Okay, I admit, I’d peeked at her house more than I should have. Jason teased that I had a crush on her, but the truth was that she intrigued me in a completely nonsexual way. She was such an enigma with her Junior League look, snappy mouth and constant flow of female production assistants coming and going at all hours. I understood why she felt she needed to lay low about her orientation in a place like Utopia, but I wish there was some way to tell her that I knew. Not only did I know, but I was thrilled that Logan was not the only gay person in town.

  “These can’t all be production assistants,” I said.

  He joined me at the window, “Whew-whee, look at that one.”

  “I know,” I said. “She’s definitely not embracing the butch look, is she?”

  “Are you still on that, baby?”

  “Yes, Mr. Denial, I am. I think it’s pretty clear that Marni is a total lipstick lesbian.”

  “That woman’s no lesbian of any kind, I’m telling you,” Jason said, his eyes following the parade of sleek beauties.

  “Yeah, right,” I snorted. “And your gay-dar is a real work of precision engineering.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  By winter break from school, Logan had sunk into a depression like I’d never seen before. To get out of school, Logan claimed he had the avian flu, restless leg syndrome and the blues. The third diagnosis was most accurate. Maya said the boys at school went from calling him Froot Loops to the Girl Scout Reject, which stung far more than the cereal reference. Ever since the tooth kicking incident, Max McDoyle’s posse stepped up their verbal harassment, which seemed to have longer-lasting effects than the hitting.

  When I called the principal to enlist his help, he immediately turned the conversation around to Logan’s slipping grades. “I agree Logan needs help with school,” Mr. Albany said. “His teachers say he’s sullen and unresponsive and has failed his last few tests in every subject. I know both he and Maya scored exceptionally high on the GATE test, but I do not have to let him into that program, you know? I’ve kept other kids out for being lazy.”

  “Logan is not lazy. He hates coming to school because he’s been bullied several times and no one seems to be doing anything to protect him.”

  “Mrs. Taylor, that is not true,” he said. “All of the students were required to sign a Peace Pledge at the beginning of the year.”

  I sighed as I hung up the phone. Whatever happened to this being the most wonderful time of the year?

  ™˜


  After a few days of watching our son sulk around the house like Droopalong Dog, Jason suggested we take a family day trip to San Francisco. “See if you can get tickets to the Nut Buster, and afterward we can go skating or something at the Embarcadero,” he said. I called Jorge, who was not only available that day, but said Finn had a connection at the San Francisco Ballet who could get us in to that afternoon’s performance. Apparently, the Niners quietly included ballet as an integral part of their fitness training. This deal also included ticket reciprocity so brawny men could get into the ballet at any time, and swans never had to miss the home team in the playoffs.

  “Just call me your Sugar Plum Fairy Godmother,” Jorge said into the phone.

  My heart lifted at the thought of escaping Utopia for the day, but Logan seemed less than excited. “Whatever,” he said when I bubbled over with our plans. His spirits picked up, however, when we neared San Francisco and the skyline beckoned to us like Oz.

  There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, I said silently. I clammed up partly because I didn’t want to let on how much I detested Utopia, and partly because no one else but Jorge enjoyed quoting the Wizard of Oz with me. In college, he wrote a paper for an English class about the life lessons and practical wisdom of the classic film that seemed very deep to us at twenty-one. Now, it was just fun to quote lines and recall some of his heady theories from his term paper.

  “We are going to do some Christmas shopping while we’re here, right?” Maya asked.

  “Yeah, after we go skating, we can pick up a few must-haves, can’t we?” Logan asked eagerly.

  I looked at Jason, who shrugged as if to say, It is the holidays.

  “All right,” I said.

  My children erupted into cheers, which was enough to make me feel like whatever we bought that day would be money well spent.

  When we arrived at the Civic Center, I noticed that Jorge was sans Finn. He assured me that everything was okay, but that his partner wanted to attend the team holiday party while he was still on the roster. Of course, alumni were always welcome, but there was something special about everything in his last season as an official Forty-Niner.

  By the time Clara and the Nutcracker were twirling about, Logan and Maya were entranced by the magic onstage. I was flanked by my two favorite men, Jason and Jorge, who each had a hand on one of my thighs. As soon as Jorge caught a glimpse of Jason’s flirty move, he followed suit, kneading my knee dramatically, growling and mouthing, You hot bitch.