Coffee Will Make You Black (33 page)

Celeste looked confused. I ignored the hurt in her dark eyes. Instead, I concentrated on the collective sigh of relief I was hearing from the brothas and sistahs at the table. I imagined that they were thinking, Stevie pulled the white chick's coattails. Stevie's cool. We can count on her not to let that hoogie get out of hand.

Back in our room, Celeste and I sat across from each other on our matching turquoise bedspreads in silence. How could I explain to her the politics around the black table?

“Celeste, can't you understand why it was more important for me to be cool than to show my real feelings?” I pleaded.

Instead of nodding, Celeste burst into tears. I couldn't help but feel bad. But it wasn't my fault things were the way they were.

“Why can't we all just love one another?” Celeste whimpered.

“I do love you, Celeste,” I heard myself say.

I walked over to her and sat down beside her.

“I love you too,” Celeste said.

I wiped her tears away with my hand. “I'm sorry, Celeste. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings.”

Celeste whispered in her French accent, “What I'll remember most about America is you, and San Francisco.”

Celeste's words were still echoing in my ears a couple days later when Today, Sharlinda, and I were deciding where to go to celebrate our graduation. We were all getting money as gifts from our families. I suggested San Francisco. Today had an aunt in Oakland, and Sharlinda was dying to ride the cable cars. So it was settled.

Graduation was just around the corner, and I was excited about getting out there in the real world. My mother and father and grandmother were all thrilled about my graduating. I was proud to be the first one on both sides of my family to get a college degree. My brother David was a sophomore at Iowa State on a basketball scholarship. And my other brother, Kevin, was about to graduate from high school, with no plans in sight.

Overall, I couldn't wait to get out of the sticks. But I still had mixed feelings. Sure, I'd encountered racism, but I'd also made the Dean's List twice, been Features Editor of the school newspaper, acted in
Purlie
, developed friendships, dated, hitchhiked, learned to give great shotguns, and partied hardy. And I would miss the abundance of stars in the night sky, the train's whistle, and the sound of crickets.

Celeste and I spent the night before graduation together. We were both between boyfriends. We sat on my bed and got high on reefer like we'd done on other special occasions.

Carly Simon's song “Anticipation” played on the stereo. By the time Celeste turned the album over, I felt high as a kite and seriously horny. I asked her if the French French-kissed differently than the Americans. Celeste laughed and told me she would be happy to demonstrate and I could be the judge.

“OK,” I agreed, my heart pounding.

I felt scared and excited about the prospect of kissing Celeste. I was in the mood to be daring. What the fudge, I was twenty-one and graduating.

Celeste wasted no time in plunging her lips onto mine. I felt my body tingle as I tasted her tongue. I kissed back, and my heart suddenly felt open and full. Our lips finally parted. I gazed into her midnight-blue eyes. Wasn't it natural to have warm feelings for Celeste? She wasn't a lesbian, she was just my friend. And being high had just made me want to be closer to her.

Celeste interrupted my thoughts. “Let's push our beds together,” she suggested.

I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows. “Huh?” I asked, unsure of what Celeste had in mind.

“It's our last night together. I just want to be close to you, that's all.”

“OK,” I agreed, thinking about how much I'd miss Celeste after she returned to France and I went back to Chicago.

We were lying side by side in the dark in our nightshirts. I was wearing panties, unlike Celeste. She seldom wore panties; she didn't believe in them. I was barely breathing, even though we weren't touching.

“We should've pushed our beds together a long time ago,” Celeste giggled.

Suddenly, I felt her bare toes against mine. I froze as her flat, cold foot rubbed against my ankle. I was afraid that Celeste's foot might go too far. Don't be ridiculous, I told myself, she's not that way. The weed is just making you paranoid. I decided to breathe.

“Your foot is cold,” I complained, trying to hide the fact that Celeste's toes were beginning to make my body tingle.

Celeste withdrew her foot. “I'm sorry,” she apologized.

Now you made her feel bad, I told myself. Why are you pretending you didn't like having your foot touched? You're only human. You need affection just like anybody else. And what could be more innocent than playing footsies? So, just relax. Quit making everything sexual.

“Celeste”—I swallowed—“give me your foot, I'll warm it up.”

I bravely rubbed my toes against Celeste's foot until we both felt warm.

“We've got a big day tommorrow. We'd better get some sleep,” I said, turning over on my side. “Good night.”

“Thanks, Mademoiselle.”

“You're most welcome.”

“Sweet dreams,” Celeste mumbled.

Graduation itself had been rather boring. The best part was grinning with my parents, grandmother, and brothers afterward.

“I do declare,” Grandma exclaimed, after posing for a picture with me holding my diploma. “I dare you to mention a subject now that Jean doesn't know something about. I dare you,” she repeated while the rest of us laughed. I knew enough to know that I had a lot to learn about life that wasn't in a book.

My parents beamed when I introduced them to Sharlinda and Today in their black caps and gowns. I was also excited to see Celeste when she waved her cap with a peace symbol on it. But I decided not to subject her to Mama's scrutiny when I noticed the raggedy jeans sticking out from underneath her gown and her worn, Indian-style sandals. When Celeste starting walking toward us, I knew I had to head her off.

Celeste hugged me and groaned. “Graduation was so fucking boring! I wished I'd had a joint.” I was glad that my family wasn't within earshot. Celeste and I hugged each other goodbye with tears in our eyes. We'd already exchanged addresses and promised to keep in touch.

“Think of me when you're in San Francisco. Say ‘hello' to the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Think of me when you're back in Paris. Tell the Eiffel Tower I said ‘hello.'”

I'd been offered a job with a newspaper in Monmouth, Illinois, but I'd postponed my decision until after my trip. Who could think about Monmouth, Illinois, when they were planning a trip to San Francisco!

In the meantime, reality had set in within the walls of our caramel-colored bungalow back in Chicago. My bedroom had never looked smaller. And Mama, who was only pushing forty-five, looked tired. Her job as a bank loan representative had once been a source of pride. But now she dragged in from work like an old cleaning woman. My father had gone from being a janitor at the hospital to a clerk at the post office. He occasionally complained about the pressures of the job, but most nights he just sat in front of the TV and drank beer until he fell asleep.

I couldn't get over my little brother Kevin coming in at two in the morning, smelling like reefer with his cute, baby-faced self. Kevin had the nerve to call himself a player. He seemed only to want to party and have a funky good time. I could hardly use the phone to plan my trip because he was always on it, talking to one of his fast girlfriends. But if nothing else, Mama was proud because at least Kevin didn't go for white. All the pinups on his bedroom wall were black.

“Kevin doesn't even go for light,” Mama had marveled. “Every girl he's introduced me to has been brown-skinned, not a high-yellow one in the bunch. The only thing a white girl can do for Kevin is tell him which way a black one went,” she'd said proudly at the coffee hour after church this morning. Mama's words soothed every woman in earshot who worried that white women were taking all of the good black men.

After church I followed David into our dark, cool basement. He had to duck his head going down the stairs. It was a relief to be out of the blazing hot sun. David and Daddy had built him a room down here. It had a door and everything. David called it the cave. I thought that was an appropriate name for the hideout full of dirty clothes, record albums, and empty beer cans. I suppose it looked all right when David turned on his black light and you noticed every speck of dust glowing in the dark instead of the clutter.

I'd just finished telling David about Mama bragging on Kevin at coffee hour.

“It's easy for Kevin, he's not a basketball player surrounded by white girls smiling in his face like I am at Iowa State,” David said, sipping a beer.

I nodded as I looked for a place to sit down. I threw David's old funky sweatshirt on the bed and settled into the old bean-bag chair.

“Kevin's not under the kind of pressure I'm up against,” David continued.

“Poor baby. All those white girls grinning up in your face. It must be hard.” I pretended to play a violin. “What's a brother to do?”

“Come on, Jean,” David whined. “Cut me some slack.” He tossed me a can of beer.

“David, you know I'm not gonna really bring out the violins for you.” I popped open the cold can. “There are too many sistahs sitting home alone on Saturday nights.”

David pulled an album from the rack. “This is in your honor, Stevie.”

David played Santana's
Black Magic Woman
on the stereo.

“Whoopey do do,” I answered sarcastically, between sips.

David turned on his red lava lamp. “How's this for atmosphere?”

My eyes were drawn to the flow of the red mixture inside the lamp. A person could be hypnotized by it.

“Stevie, didn't you ever cross over in your four years at college?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I went on a few dates with a couple of white dudes.” I remembered Jeremy on the school newspaper. He was a stone hippie, love beads and the whole bit. We'd seen
Easy Rider
at the Student Union together. Afterward we'd hugged. I liked Jeremy, but he wasn't big on soap and water. He was overdrawn at the funk bank. So, I'd turned my attention toward a brother named Skylar.

“Did you ever kiss one?”

I remembered Daniel, this white dude I'd gone to dinner with while traveling with the debate team. Outside my hotel room, Daniel had pressed me against the wall and forced his tongue inside my mouth. I had to fight to get away from him. Daniel hadn't kissed me, he'd attacked me.

“No,” I answered. Then I remembered my French kiss with Celeste. But that didn't count because she wasn't a man.

“Would you ever be involved with a white dude?”

“I don't know, it would all depend on how I felt.”

“I heard that. Let's get high with my bong. I've got some dynamite weed, Jamaican.”

My eyebrows shot up. “David, you get high down here?”

He nodded, producing a wide glass tube.

“Mama and Daddy would kill you if they knew.”

“Look, Mama and Dad have their own problems. They're tired and worn out. All they want is a little peace these days. They don't look for things to get upset about. Hey, as long as I burn some incense and stuff some towels underneath the door, everything is cool.”

“You don't think they suspect?”

“Sometimes people see what they want to see.”

“Yeah, that's true,” I agreed. “You know, bro, I don't want to end up like them.”

“I don't want to end up miserable either.”

“I appreciate all the sacrifices they've made. But it's like I never remember them
ever
being happy,” I added.

David sighed as he went to fill the bong with water.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“It takes a village to raise a child,” according to an African proverb. It took the love, support, and wisdom of many people to write this book.

Thanks, first and foremost, to Susan Holper, my manuscript consultant, for walking me through the creative process with sensitivity and insight.

A special thanks to all of the people who encouraged me at readings from my work in progress throughout the San Francisco Bay Area and in Garberville, California.

I am grateful to three fantastic teachers, James Frey, Allie Light, and Irving Saraf. And also to the Ragdale Foundation, Urban Gateways, and the crew at the Alameda County Community Food Bank for their support.

Thanks to Winifred Golden and the Margaret McBride Literary Agency: the best agent and agency any writer could hope for. And much gratitude to Leslie Wells, my brilliant and supportive editor, and the rest of the wonderful staff at Hyperion Press.

The enthusiastic backing of my family in Chicago and Florida and my friends in the San Francisco Bay Area kept me going. Thanks especially to Kimberly Rosa and Judy MacLean for their help with the manuscript. And sincere appreciation to Wayne Jenkins for buying me dinners at a time when I could hardly afford groceries.

About the Author

April Sinclair is the acclaimed, award-winning author of three novels. Her debut,
Coffee Will Make You Black
, was named Book of the Year (Young Adult Fiction) for 1994 by the American Library Association, and it received the Carl Sandburg Award from the Friends of the Chicago Public Library. The sequel to
Coffee Will Make You Black
, titled
Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice
, was published in 1995 followed by the novel
I Left My Back Door Open
. Sinclair has been a fellow at the Djerassi, Yaddo, MacDowell, and Ragdale artist colonies. She worked for fifteen years in community service programs, and has taught reading and creative writing to inner-city youth. Born and raised in Chicago, she currently lives on an island connected by bridges and a tunnel to Oakland, California.