Simone breaks all the ru.., p.6
Simone Breaks All the Rules, page 6
He plays along when he reaches me. “I was raised to go the distance, so doggonit, here I am.”
We both laugh for a moment, and then fall into a semi-awkward silence. I stare at his army-green shell-toe sneakers, noticing how they’re almost camouflaged in the grass.
Can I get your digits? My tongue is a springboard that these words are ready to dive off of, but I don’t dare let them. I swallow the question down with the last of my water.
“Every time I see you, you’re on the move,” says Gavin.
“On the move?” I question, unsure what he means.
“You know, because the bus … it’s on wheels.”
I can see now that Gavin’s eyes dance when he’s teasing. Everything else about his mannerisms seems serious. He can joke with a straight face.
I kinda don’t recognize the sound of my own laughter. It’s more of a flirty titter than my trademark cackle. Gavin doesn’t know the difference or seem to mind. He’s studying me again, and it makes me feel like a goddess.
“How did I go seventeen and a half years on this planet without ever hearing that joke?” I ask, feeling on top of the world. Gavin’s dreamy brown eyes are fixed on mine, and I—
“You mean you’re older than me?” Gavin looks incredulous. “I could’ve sworn you were a sophomore. You seem so … young.”
I can feel my face melting. There’s no worse gut punch than when someone points out that your late bloomer is showing. When it comes to experience level, sometimes it feels like some people can read my cluelessness like rings on a tree.
“Are you a sophomore?” I ask him. I’m afraid to hear his answer.
“Naw, naw.” Gavin almost looks offended. He juts his chin out a bit more. “A junior.”
Simone Thibodeaux, robbing the cradle.
There’s the sound of a text alert and Gavin rapid-draws his phone from his back pocket.
He points to his screen. “Oh, I gotta—”
“Sure, sure. Go ahead,” I say.
“See you around!” He waves, gives me an apologetic smile, and walks off, texting.
By now there’s probably a melted pile of face pooling at my feet. I suck it all back in as best I can and rejoin Amita, Gabby, and Kira. Amita and Kira are talking to a few other girls from our grade. Gabby’s face is beaming like a New Jersey diner at midnight.
“You see? You never give yourself any credit,” she says, already assuming I’ve exchanged numbers with Gavin. “Girl, it’s time you get in the game. Nothing’s gonna happen for you if you stay on the sidelines.”
If Gabby were in my shoes, Gavin would still be standing here, chatting and flirting, instead of making up an excuse to cut our conversation short. I look down at my feet. No matter how many times I change them, I seem to be stuck in the same shoes. It’s like I’m programmed to walk the narrow path my parents and other people draw out for me. Even Dorothy had the freedom to veer off the yellow brick road now and then. But try as I may to shake things up, in the end, I always end up toeing that straight line.
Suddenly, heading home early tonight is fine by me.
I usually wake up mildly grumpy, though I try to keep it under wraps. But when my sleep is cut short by the loud chirping of my early bird parents—on a Saturday, no less—that grumpiness can’t be contained.
WINS news time 5:41, and it’s time to check traffic …
The radio volume is up so high in the kitchen, the reporter might as well be a DJ asking if Brooklyn is in da house.
… and here’s what you need to know about the Hudson crossings …
Despite my best efforts to cling to the dream world a little longer, my senses switch on and commence processing real-life signals—the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, the clinking of stirring spoons, and, of course, loud-ass conversation in the kitchen.
“Did the Yankees pitcher really get traded?” Mummy asks in Creole. She’s probably the one who just lowered the volume a bit. My dad bleeds pinstripes—I’m all about the Mets.
“Aah, those bums,” Papi spits out. “I wish I could take out an ad in the Daily News to say no one should come to their opening game. Let them play to an empty stadium.”
“Wey,” says Mummy emphatically. I’ve learned that wey or ouais is to oui what yup is to yes.
Impossible to fight it any longer, I open my eyes. It’s still dark out, but the moon is full and super luminous. It’s like I got pulled over by God, who’s pointing a flashlight on my face and saying, “Do you know how slow you’ve been going, miss? You’ll never get prom poppin’ at this rate.”
Ugh. No wonder everything is so loud—my door is wide open. Why did I leave it like that? Time to scrounge up my willpower and push past my drowsiness. I get up, drag myself across my room, and swat the door shut. I’m careful not to open my eyes too wide and kill my sleepiness, which I plan to resume once I get back in bed. The door slams louder than I anticipated.
“Simone! See-mone!” I hear Mummy shout for me, though she sounds muffled. Until she doesn’t …
“Oh good—you’re up.” Mummy cracks open my door and pokes her head in my room.
“I’m not up,” I groan, letting my body flop onto my bed.
“Then who shut the door, BO!” Mummy’s Creole sound effect for all varieties of door shutting is always the same. If it were an object of any kind falling to the floor, she would’ve gone with BEEP.
“Constance, who are you talking to?” Papi’s voice reaches us, but he stays downstairs. “Did you wake the girls?”
“Simone is already awake,” Mummy says.
I bury my head in my pillow.
“Bonjour, Simone,” Papi calls out pleasantly. And then, “Simone, did you hear? The Yankees traded another star relief pitcher.”
I growl in response. Being a hard-core Mets fan in a Yankees family has its drawbacks.
“Okay,” I say, defeated and surrendering to no one in particular. “I’m up now. I’m up.” I cross the carpeted hallway to the bathroom. My father turns the radio back up in time for the game recap, and Mummy answers an incoming call on her cell phone. She’s the only person I know who gets crack-of-dawn phone calls. It’s ungodly.
I feel refreshed after brushing my teeth and washing my face. But the minute I step out of the bathroom, Mummy’s waiting patiently.
“Here,” she says, pointing her phone at me. “Talk to Ben Fils-Aimé.”
“Who?”
“From Queens.”
Nothing is pinging in my brain’s name recognition department. Mummy narrows her eyes in frustration at my blank expression.
“Your prom date.” She uses her in-the-presence-of-company voice, but her face is menacing.
What? Why? I mouth silently and back away from her.
Mummy presses the phone against her chest and whispers through strained lips, “I called his mother to discuss things for our visit next Saturday and she called me back. I didn’t expect her to put him on the phone.”
I want to scream.
“Simone is being shy,” she says sweetly, fake-laughing into the phone. “Just a minute, Ben.” She gives me that look again and thrusts the phone into my hands. I can’t believe this.
“Hello,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Hi, Simone?”
He sounds wide awake. What is he, some kind of freak?
“Yes.” I’m seething. Mummy knows this, so she stalks away to chat with Anne, who’s just stepped out of her room.
“Hi, Simone, um, I’m Ben.”
“Okay.”
“Uh, yeah. I’m really just hearing about all this, but, um, my mom has all good things to say about you and your family.”
“Uh-huh.”
I think he’s getting the hint. He’s suddenly silent. And it’s a loaded silence. I know I’m directing my frustration at the wrong person, but it’s too early in the morning to be mature about this.
“Well,” he finally speaks again. “I’m about to head out for a run, so I can give you my number if you want to text me or—”
“Not necessary,” I cut him off.
“O-okay, well, then I guess I’ll see you next week?”
“Or not,” I say.
“That works, too,” he says extra politely. It’s like, the nerve of this guy. The more polite he acts, the worse it makes me look, and I resent that. “You have a good day. And, uh, good luck with everything.”
“You too,” I say, because it’s the most pleasant response I can muster up.
I give Mummy her phone back, go to my room, and slam the door behind me, BO! On purpose this time.
Exactly one week later, I stare out the rear passenger window, fuming.
Queens, New York. Being here feels like a betrayal of the vow I made to myself four years ago. Not to mention the commitment to prom on my own terms.
The advice I gave Anne back then to make a run for it echoes in my head now.
I look at Anne and something inside softens a bit. Anne’s already been through all this. She didn’t have to come today but decided to out of solidarity. Or maybe she’s here for damage control.
Thanks to our parents’ strict rules, Anne and I have been in more than a few downright humiliating positions. One thing we’ve learned along the way is that cringe-worthy moments are better shared. Like when I tagged along on Anne’s first movie date with Max. No question, it was embarrassing for the both of us. But at one point that night, when Max high-pitch-screamed during a scary part of the film, my sister and I realized we weren’t the only awkward ones. It didn’t cure our embarrassment, but the universal awkwardness took away the sting.
Mummy glances at me in her visor mirror. She’s worried, I can tell. I’m getting a salty Don’t you embarrass me today vibe.
Meanwhile, a tall pot of road rage is heating up in the driver’s seat. “It’s supposed to be alternated merging—this car and then that car,” says Papi, pointing accusingly at vehicles closing in on us. You’d think he’s choreographing a synchronized performance. He sucks his teeth, then delivers what’s become his personal catchphrase. “If I was police, I would ticket that guy.”
“Sometimes people have to take risks, take chances, and not always be policed,” I say.
Papi’s bulging eyes question me through the rearview mirror. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “We need balance. We need laws.”
“Well, sometimes the laws are overreaching and create mindless followers. And all these followers could be why everyone’s stuck in this traffic.” I cross my arms. “If more people decided to go off the beaten path, not everyone would be clogging up life’s highways.”
“Simone,” Mummy says. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work. We said we were coming and it’s too late to turn back now.”
“No, Mother, you said we’d be coming.”
I absorb the icy stare Mummy gives me and think of my options. I need to be clever and outsmart the adults like civil rights teen activist Barbara Johns, who, in the 1950s, tricked her principal into leaving school so she could stage a mass student walkout.
My only hope is that Ben won’t actually be around today. If he’s anything like his big brother was four years ago, he is unbothered with all of this. My parents would get offended when they realize Ben isn’t there. I hope they’d find it highly disrespectful. I’ll be sure to remind them it’s a slap in the face. I mean, if Ben can’t show up for me today, he’s got no decorum. And who knows? The boy is liable to act a fool at the prom. Maybe this will prompt them to call this whole ridiculousness off. I literally cross my fingers like I’m a fourth grader.
As we approach the house, Mummy turns down the radio and checks her look in the visor mirror. She grabs her black mascara and runs the tiny wand through the gray tufts along her hairline, and Anne titters to herself.
Nope. I will not so much as crack a smile at that. There will be no laughter from me.
Our car comes to an abrupt stop, and the platter of food on the floor slides against my ankle boots. Our offering this time is griyo, tasty fried pork cubes. Admittedly, you can’t chew when you’re pouting so hard. In any other emotional state, I would’ve snacked on a few of them.
A boy walks out of Madame Honoré’s house. He’s wearing glasses and looks about my height. He’s the type of guy who could play an extra in a movie. He doesn’t stand out, but his features are pleasant enough. My dad taps the horn, and the boy gives a casual wave and nods a greeting.
“Bonjour, Ben,” Mummy calls out, lowering her window. I slide down my seat a little, hoping the tint in my window holds up in this light.
I was hoping he wouldn’t be here. What was this kid doing? Keeping watch for us? If he’s trying to pass off his lucky timing as pure coincidence, he’s failed. How desperate must he be that he’s working so hard to make an impression on us?
“Bonjour. You can pull into the driveway.” He gestures to the spot next to the SUV already parked in the slightly sloped driveway.
This place looks different than how I remember it. Before, it blended into the neighborhood, and now it stands out. I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing. The driveway looks newly redone, lined with stones. The house’s roof is covered in terra-cotta tiles, and the front stoop is crowded with what look like mini palm trees. I almost check Google Maps to make sure we’re not at some villa in Tuscany.
Papi’s voice vibrates as he drives over the bumpy pavers like he’s talking into a portable fan. “I wonder how they shovel this driveway after a snowstorm.”
“Wow, this is something.” Mummy’s voice rattles in reply.
I’m not sure if Mummy is referring to the redone home or Ben’s driveway invitation.
Ben walks over to the passenger side of the car, and I slink a little lower. He takes off his Mets cap, and I detect the shift in the atmosphere. Mummy gives him a look of respect. She appreciates old-school gestures like that.
My brilliant father reaches his arm across my mom to give Ben a handshake. Ben has to practically climb in the passenger side to accept it.
“Allo,” they repeat to each other. With this greeting, I take it my dad approves of the star treatment Ben is already giving us.
“My mother will be happy you’re here,” Ben says in Creole.
Unlike my American-accented Creole, his sounds as native-born as his English. He focuses his attention on the back seat.
“Something smells good back there,” he says.
Great. We smell like griyo, because Anne kept opening up the foil to steal pieces.
“Oh, that’s just something we made for you to show our appreciation,” Mummy says.
Ben backs up a little and pulls Mummy’s door open so she can step out into the sunlight. She holds out her cheek for Ben’s air kiss. He obliges, showing her all the respect she requires and more.
“Ready, Simone?” Anne softly asks me. She’s being delicate with me, and I appreciate that. One sharp tone from anybody and I just may let loose a chupee from hell.
Anne gets out of the car, then comes around to meet me when I step out a moment later.
“Oh no, it’s not a problem,” I hear Ben tell my mother in a reassuring tone. It doesn’t take a genius to know what they’re talking about. And I hate it.
“I present to you my daughter, Simone,” Mummy says, beaming.
At first I glance away and cross my arms. Then I force myself to be courteous and look at him. When I do, he seems to overlook the ice in my stare. I don’t see pity there like I expected. Good thing the air kiss greeting isn’t a kid-to-kid requirement.
“Simone hasn’t been feeling well today, so please excuse her mood,” Mummy tells Ben. “On y va, Simone, Anne,” Mummy says to us in French. Sigh. Not with the French again.
I freeze. I’m not ready to go inside the house. Once that train leaves the station, it’ll be impossible to stop it. I need some space to think.
Mummy and Papi go inside the house without us. They probably want a head start to warn Madame Honoré about my attitude. Anne stays with me, maybe to shield me from Ben as much as she can. Or to shield Ben.
But I don’t want to hurt Ben. It’s not his fault. He’s just a pawn in this dictatorial regime. In any case, he turns away and grabs a grocery bag out of the trunk of the SUV we’re parked next to. I take it this means Ben wasn’t waiting around for us and staring out the window. He was simply in the process of fetching a bag of groceries.
Ben looks like he has every inclination to walk straight back into the house, but his manners stop him. Are his parents paying him to do this or something? Are my parents?
“So, you’re a high school senior like Simone?” Anne asks Ben, probably to make up for my lack of greeting.
“Yeah,” he says simply.
“I hear you got accepted into all the schools you applied to?” How does she know that?
Ben nods pleasantly and shifts his weight from one sensible brown shoe to another. He’s playing humble, I guess. I’m locked in position. Not that I want to leave. It’s either be out here or in my parents’ presence inside.
Anne keeps the questions coming. “Have you decided yet where you’re going?” she asks Ben.
I tense up and Anne gives my arm a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure me she’s got this under control. I’m not questioning her tactics … yet.
“It was a tough choice picking between a few, mostly New York schools. But Rutgers is where I’ll be going.”
I feel Anne glance at me but I ignore her. Big whoop. Rutgers is a vast institution. Most people go to the main campus in New Brunswick, so there’s no point fretting I’ll bump into him in Newark next year.
“Cool. I go to Rutgers–Newark,” Anne says, a smile spreading across her prim face.
“Me too,” answers Ben, before catching himself. “I mean—not officially yet. Next year.”
Future college-freshman me just winced—I could feel it.
Honestly, I don’t know what’s up with that matchmaker glint in my sister’s eyes. I try nonverbally messaging her that Ben ain’t it. But Anne ignores my laser-beam stare and continues questioning him.
“What are you thinking of studying?”
