There were some cheers. Applause from the back. If we were confused before, at that moment Zeke and I and everybody else understood that our plan had worked. We declared total victory. Mr. Coles gave us a sorry what-have-I-done? look. Jana winced at our excitement, but she also smiled. How could she not be happy about taking our class back? We sat through Parliament on Monday and James Brown on Tuesday, but by Wednesday we had commandeered Mr. Coles’s boombox, and for three days straight we danced in our seats and played little else but “Shake It Buck Naked, Bitch.”
Silly kids. We could never see that we were causing the breaking of a man’s spirit. Brutally unraveling him. That when he went home to relax, to watch a television show, to drink a beer, to make love to a woman, he would hear our shrill voices and see our smirking, rude faces. Perhaps I say this to elevate myself. To give meaning to times that have faded from everyone’s memory. Maybe I just want to justify my obsession with bygone days. And why do I keep up this obsession, huh? Why do I carry this memory like cross wood on my back? Maybe it’s because I saw a homeless man beneath layers of dirty blankets on Alan Street and he had the face of Mr. Coles and I couldn’t bear getting closer to find out if it was him; to find out if I had helped to fatally wound not just a man’s career but all of his life. Maybe this vision was a symptom of the obsession — in other words, I saw Mr. Coles’s face because I am crazy about the past, not because it was actually him. What are the chances that it was him, huh?
Sometimes I see Ernesto and he’s dressed in a suit, looking respectable. A lawyer now, brokering deals. And only if you know how to look can you see the rowdy preteen’s face upon his. I only see him on my lunch break at the bookstore or at a fast food joint — we work two blocks from one another — and we only talk in five-minute bursts. Though we mention meeting up on the weekend, we both know such a meeting will never happen. When I bring up Mr. Cold or Ezekiel or Mr. Drayton, he says, You still remembering all that shit? It is what it is, man. Let it rest.
One time I mentioned Mr. Cold, and he said, remember Kelli? That was crazy, right? Shit was funny back then, but… Hey, he said changing the subject. Did I tell you my wife is about to have a little girl?
That’s great, Ernesto. The world can’t have enough little black girls.
I’m one and done, boy, Ernesto continued proudly. Wife want another one, a boy, but the world got enough men, right?
Right.
II
Kelli showed up in that art class like some kind of illusion. I thought I was a period early or something and I checked the clock, and then I lost interest in time. Even the most basic words fled from me, and I stood in the middle of the class staring at her. It was as if one of the fertility dolls we fashioned out of clay in the beginning of the school year had come to life.
Certain things stay with you. Certain things cause rivers of shame to well up in your chest whenever you recall them, and no matter where you go or what you do, there’s little chance of escaping those poisonous thoughts, little chance of not having to relive them from time to time. But there you go, trying to fill up your head with enough noise to drown out the insistent hum of shame. Standing there staring at Kelli is such a moment. Even in my memories, her face is obscured by her chest, as if she was made of breast meat and nothing more. The thing that made Kelli different than all the other girls was that while their chests bore nubs — good starts, at best — Kelli’s sported round fleshy bulbs. It was as if God the artist was working on a line of clay figures and He had finished shaping and smoothing and baking this one sculpture — and He had sculpted it to perfection — while the others needed years of fashioning before they’d be ready.
Kelli’s breasts. What was it about them that caused such derangement? Commonplace, pedestrian, ordinary things, even when beautiful. Utilitarian chunks of flesh. How we diminished her and in turn ourselves. Turned parts of her body into heavy burdens to carry. Watching. Tittering (we no longer laughed, from then on it was just tittering). Commenting. Losing our composure. Falling in love, developing obsessions, and growing resentful when our shallow affections were ignored. Zeke was the only one who treated Kelli like a real person, and even that was a put-on. Whenever she wasn’t around, he’d remake his favorite Dem Freak Boyz song, chanting, Bounce them big things, Kelli. And we’d titter and we’d titter and we’d titter…
She was usually wrapped in her own solitude. Arms folded as she walked, elbows pointed outward like spears. A trail of whispers followed her always. She had done this and that with so and so. She was removed from her last school for so on and so forth. She carried something inside her womb and a flood of milk had swelled her breasts. No, she had killed the thing inside her womb and the milk wouldn’t go away and every day during sixth period she disappeared deep into the guts of the girls’ locker room to spill her milk down the shower drain. The most coveted girls clutched more tightly to the most coveted guys, and the most coveted guys all pulled close to Kelli in the moments when their girlfriends looked away.
Only Jana offered Kelli friendship, and only in the art room. Sometimes they’d spend lunch in Mr. Coles’s room and I’d swing by and watch Kelli and leave wondering why neither she nor Jana had ever fallen for me.
I pretended to work on my papier-mâché Ezekiel Marcus in a back corner of the class while I watched Kelli’s clay-covered hands as she kneaded the material, searching for little pockets of air.
Why are people at this school so strange, Mr. Coles? Kelli asked, not looking up from her artwork.
What do you mean? he replied.
I mean, some of these bitches act so funny. They won’t even talk to me, but they decided already that I’m the devil. Like I’m pressed to talk to them.
Some of them act so immature, Jana chimed in. I don’t like this school either. I’m about to go to private school next year. Watch. My dad said give it one more year and then I can go to St. Joseph’s over in Port Yooga.
I’m gonna try to go with you, Jana. I’ma talk to my dad about it.
Give it some time, girls, Mr. Coles said. Especially you, Kelli. People don’t like change. They see something new and it challenges them. You are going to go through all kinds of things, and then it’ll get much better. You’ll probably even forget that the first few months here were rocky. Trust me.
I hope so, Kelli said. The only class I like is art. You’re the only teacher who doesn’t treat me like I’m some alien. Mr. Drayton’ll go down the line asking people questions and skip over me. I don’t even think he’s ever made eye contact with me. I swear, Mr. Coles, it’s like even the teachers are immature here. Can I use the wheel?
I haven’t taught that yet, Mr. Coles said. No one’s allowed to use it until I show you how.
I learned at my old school, Kelli said. It’s not hard. Please.
Yeah, please, Jana said.
It didn’t take much begging for Mr. Coles to start the motor and get the wheel to spinning. As Kelli sat there sculpting, flecks of clay flew up onto her clothes and onto her face and into her hair. Wearing an apron so dirty it appeared to be made of dried clay, she looked happy for once, no longer out of place. Outside the art room, though, a storm brewed all around us, and I was too busy staring at Kelli’s breasts to even take notice.