Off the Record Read online

  I glance between the two of them. Dad looks kind of constipated.

  “It’s not that,” Dad says. “You’ve been doing a great job. But that’s not what we’re worried about, Josie.”

  “We find it difficult not to worry about you,” Mom says, as if they practiced this. “Maggie was a little wild, but she was involved, and Alice flourished. I know you’ve been hard at work getting started on your project, but—”

  “You don’t have any friends,” Dad interrupts. “It’s just not normal for a girl your age.”

  “I do—”

  Mom gives me the look, which means Watch your tone before I make you regret opening your mouth, so I shut up. But what am I supposed to say? Just because I’m not president of every club, like Alice was, or don’t have a ton of friends, the way Maggie did, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.

  Sure, I might not have any best friends from school, but how many people do? And really, how many of these people are going to keep talking to each other once May comes around and we all graduate? Most of them don’t even like each other. That’s why everyone subtweets or gossips or fights in our class group chat. I want to be around people who care. If I can’t, I’d rather be alone.

  “Well,” I say, shrugging, “I’ve been busy with my writing, like I said. And the holiday rush at Cora’s.”

  There’s a bit of a reaction then—the tightening of Mom’s mouth, the glance Dad gives her. But they can’t blame me. Writing is the only thing that helps.

  “We’re proud of your writing,” Dad says, patting my shoulder. “But you can’t put all of your eggs in one basket. You need to make some friends.”

  “I have friends,” I say, sticking out my hand. “My Twitter mutuals are my friends. Jordan and Sadie are my friends. Monique is my friend.”

  Mom throws back her head and sighs. Dad presses his lips together.

  “Isn’t Monique your editor?” Dad asks. “She doesn’t count.”

  “And neither do strangers online,” Mom snaps. “You don’t know them.”

  “Monique is literally my mentor for my senior project,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “Principal O’Conner had to approve of her, remember? She’s an actual person and she’s, like, impressed by me. She only started taking my pieces because she followed me on Twitter! It leads to quality relationships.”

  “That’s not what we mean,” Mom says. “It’s not normal for you to have adults as friends. You should be spending time with kids your own age.”

  It’s impossible to understand my parents. One minute they’re talking about college, and the next minute they’re telling me I don’t fool around enough. I’m not sure what they expect me to do. Sure, sometimes I scroll through Instagram and get jealous when I see everyone at parties or going into Atlanta together. On the other hand, I don’t know what I would do if I actually hung out with them. I hear Jordan and Sadie talk about sports and dances and how much weight people need to lose at lunch. I’m lost about sixty percent of the time, and I have no desire to catch up.

  “It’s not that simple,” I say. “I spend a lot of time with kids my own age. Lots of other kids work at Cora’s, remember? Lots of kids I see in school, like Josh Sandler and Liv Carroll. You remember them?”

  I leave out the fact that Josh is annoying as hell and I spend most of my shifts staring at Liv and her super-tight uniform shirt while she waits on customers, but I figure they don’t need to know that.

  “But you never go out,” Dad says. “You don’t go to school dances or clubs. You don’t bring anyone home. We aren’t trying to corner you. But maybe it’s something we should discuss with Laura.”

  I press my lips together. My therapist and I have had many conversations about the kids at school and around town. I don’t need Mom and Dad to take up a chunk of our time with whatever this is. We have more important things to talk about.

  I’ve accepted that I probably won’t have close friends in high school. I’m just glad I’m almost done. But there’s no way to explain that to Mom and Dad without them worrying more. I don’t even want to try it.

  “I think I need to clear my head,” I say, resting my hands on the table. “Can I go out for a drive?”

  @JosieTheJournalist: i figured my rebellious teenage phase would be cool but all i’ve managed to do is watch Tarantino movies behind my dad’s back (not worth it)

  The best part of finally being seventeen is driving. I can’t leave whenever I want, since I don’t have my own car, but I feel better as soon as I get my hands on the wheel. Driving reminds me that there’s another world out there. Life isn’t just our town and high school, no matter how much it feels like it.

  There’s also the Dairy Queen ten minutes away from our house.

  I’ve always loved writing, but the fact that I get paid for my articles now definitely adds to the fun. I don’t have to beg anyone to buy me a milkshake and hide the evidence. I try, I really do, but this diet Mom’s pushing doesn’t work. I’ve done it all: counting points, tracking calories, cutting out dairy or wheat, and making this “healthy lifestyle change” Mom’s now into. None of them work. Either I lose a max of fifteen pounds (gaining it back after two months) or nothing changes. It’s not worth it. I wish Mom understood.

  I’m still full from dinner, so I fly past Dairy Queen and head onto the main road. Warm Southern air flows through the open windows; the radio plays in the background. Mom hates listening to music when she drives, but when I’m behind the wheel, I blast it.

  My phone’s sharp ring makes my eyes snap to the passenger seat. I never have the volume loud enough for me to hear at home, mostly because I’d rather text than talk on the phone. The only reason it’s up now is because it’s one of Mom and Dad’s rules. I pull over and park the car.

  It’s Monique.

  For some reason, I thought it might be the contest. My heart momentarily sinks before the anxiety ramps up again. Monique probably read my last piece. Already. God. It starts again: the shallow breathing, the racing thoughts, the mental block.

  It’s okay. It’s okay. She’s going to say something nice.

  Yet I can’t help but wonder if she’s calling for another reason. Maybe she hated what I wrote. Maybe it was so bad that she doesn’t want me to write for her ever again, and then she won’t write a progress report for me for school and I’ll have all this horrible work and no progress report and fail senior year.

  It doesn’t even have to be something big and horrible. Just awkward silences make me anxious. I hate them in face-to-face conversations and on the phone. I never know what to say. I never know how to sound. And then the silence beats down on me, harder and harder, until all my air is gone.

  The ringing stops. I tighten my grip on the wheel, glancing down. It barely takes a second for it to start ringing again. I force a deep breath. Before I can chicken out, I accept the call and hold the phone up to my ear. The faster we get talking, the faster I’ll feel comfortable. Maybe.

  “Hi,” I say. My voice cracks. Ugh. Hopefully she didn’t notice.

  “Hey, Josie!” Monique’s voice is big and loud. I worry so much about how I sound, but it’s like she doesn’t care at all. “Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”

  “No, no,” I say, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “I’m just hanging out after dinner. How are you?”

  “Having a lovely time at home, finally,” she says, laughing. “We’ve been in the office for a long time, trying to finish deadlines before the holiday, and New York in the winter is most definitely not like in the movies. But speaking of deadlines, I wanted to talk to you about the piece you sent me earlier.”

  “Oh.” Something in my stomach burns, my fingers gripping the phone a little tighter. Whenever she has notes, she’s nice about it, but it’s easier to not take it personally when they�
��re written down in an email. “You finished it? Already?”

  “Yup.” She pops the p. “I couldn’t stop reading. What you were saying, how movies by Black filmmakers are only valued when Black characters are suffering, it really resonated with me. I think I’ve always noticed the really difficult movies winning awards and the fun movies, like Coming to America, being excluded.”

  “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I wish every movie came out on an equal playing field. Like, when we have coming-of-age movies about Black kids just living, people don’t really pay attention, but when you have all the misery and suffering of movies like Precious, people eat it up. So are audiences just super interested in Black pain? I feel like we’re told that stories about pain are the most important. And they can be. They just don’t have to be the only ones.”

  “It’s brilliant,” Monique says. My heart soars. I always think my pieces are important, but that doesn’t mean everyone else will. Monique’s praise literally fuels me. “And you explored it so well. I swear, you get better and better with each essay you send me.”

  “Oh,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Wow. Thank you so much.”

  Compliments are awkward because I’m not sure how to react to them. I want to be humble and sweet, but also don’t want to come across like I’m surprised. Writing is my thing. I know there’s always room to be better, but I’m good at it. I’ve known that since Monique first read my blog posts and emailed me about writing film essays for Essence magazine. I’ve known that since I told her I was seventeen and she freaked out. But it’s still nice to hear it.

  “It has the potential to be really powerful,” Monique continues. I lean back in my seat and soak it up. “I wish you were getting more attention for this work, though, especially since you’re so young.”

  “I guess so.” I pick at my jeans, not sure what else to say. “But I don’t want people to pay attention to me just because of my age, you know? I want them to like my work.”

  “I get it,” Monique says. “But between you and me, you’re more talented than some of my coworkers.”

  I laugh, but it sounds strangled. Am I that good? It makes me giddy.

  “But anyway, I just wanted to call you so that you knew what I thought,” she continues. “I know I tell you how talented you are in my emails, but I need to make sure that you’re really aware. It’s not even a matter of potential, Josie. You’re already a writer. All you have to do is keep working. By the time you’re my age, you’ll have people eating out of the palm of your hand, if you don’t already.”

  “I wish.” I snort. “No one cares about writing here. My parents think I’m strange, and my sister listens, sometimes, but I know she’s just trying to make me feel better. And I don’t talk to any of the kids at school about it. I don’t think they’d get it. The only ones who really pay attention are my Twitter followers.”

  As soon as the words tumble out, I regret them. She called to compliment me, not to hear me complain about high school. I don’t want her thinking I’m just some petulant teenager.

  But Monique doesn’t hang up. I didn’t really think she would, but sometimes these ridiculous thoughts are hard to shake.

  “Oh, high school.” Monique sighs long enough for it to sound like a song. “Girl, I definitely don’t miss that. But don’t feel bad. Your people just aren’t there. That’s fine, all right? They could be anywhere, even the places you don’t expect, and you have so much time to find them. It’s the best part of growing up.”

  I smile up at the sky through the windshield. There’s so much world I haven’t seen yet—movies I haven’t watched, brains I haven’t picked, countries I haven’t been to, people I haven’t met. The real world isn’t so small. Some days, this idea is what keeps me going.

  @JosieTheJournalist: do you ever just read emails and cry

  Maggie always has a thing. There’s always a new project—putting inspirational quotes all over the walls, doula training, even starting a raw food diet (which was truly the worst). The rest of us always get roped into it somehow.

  But Mirror Time is something I don’t mind. I can’t really get out of it, either, since the three of us share a bathroom. And it’s just another way Maggie has tried to help. Like leaving Post-its with positive messages around the house or creating a quiet corner with beanbags and relaxing music for me in the room I share with Alice.

  I appreciate the effort. It’s just that a lot of my anxiety comes from people paying attention to me. I can’t help but overthink it. Am I too much of a burden? Am I bothering them?

  It seems like everyone is already downstairs helping Mom get ready. It means they’re too busy to come looking for me. It means I get the bathroom all to myself. I kind of need it.

  After not hearing from the contest yesterday, I’m guessing I lost. I’m used to rejections—sending pitches to different magazines will do that to you—but it still hurts.

  I push my hair away from my face, revealing myself in the mirror. There are lines under my eyes and a few crusty bits by my mouth, but I look fine otherwise. The rule is, we’re supposed to start off the morning by saying something positive about ourselves in the mirror.

  It took a little while, but I do like my face. I have dark brown skin and plump lips and what Beyoncé would call a “Negro Nose.” This face is a very cute face, especially with my cheeks. Mom still likes to pinch them sometimes, like I’m a toddler. And I have been working on my hair. I don’t exactly have an Afro, but there’s a nice amount of follicles up there. I smile.

  Honestly, I don’t need this. I don’t think I’m ugly. But Maggie says it’s not about physical beauty. It’s about inner peace or self-confidence or something. So I open my mouth and say, “You’re smart and kind and talented.” It sounds like something from Barney.

  Liking my face is pretty easy. It’s the rest of my body that can take some work. I pull up the tank top I slept in, looking at my belly as it spills out. I think it’s just a habit to suck it in at this point. It’s freeing and sort of disappointing every time I let go.

  My therapist, Laura, and I work on framing—that’s what I call it, since it sort of reminds me of TV. The idea is to look at your situation in a different light.

  So I try not to frown when I see my belly. It shouldn’t be so big, but it’s okay, because everyone’s body is different. And I don’t mind my belly when it’s just me. I try to think of Winnie-the-Pooh, how everyone loves him and he wears a crop top and he’s generally a fashion icon. It makes me smile. I rub my hands over my own stomach, swaying back and forth in front of the mirror. There’s nothing wrong with a belly. Bellies are cute, and they hold important internal organs.

  “Do they hurt?”

  My eyes snap up, locking on Alice’s in the mirror. She’s taller than me, which isn’t that hard to be, seeing as I’m just barely taller than five feet. Her scarf is still on, and her sleep shirt is falling off her tiny frame. I have to shove away some of the jealousy in my gut.

  “Do what hurt?” I ask, clearing my throat and moving my arms.

  “The stretch marks.” Her eyes dart to my stomach faster than I can pull the shirt down. “Maggie got them when she was pregnant with Cash, even though she kept using shea butter every few minutes.”

  “I remember.” I shake my head at the memory. I was thirteen, old enough for my parents to talk to me about waiting until marriage. “And no, they don’t hurt.”

  It doesn’t seem like she’s trying to make me feel bad, but I can never tell with Alice. Even if she didn’t mean it that way, a switch has already been flipped. It’s not just my voice telling me there’s something wrong with my body. Normal people aren’t supposed to get stretch marks unless they’re pregnant. I don’t even know how I got mine: deep ripples at the edges of my stomach, darker than the rest of my skin.

  “Well, I guess you don’t have to w
orry about it, then,” she says, pulling off her scarf and running her hands through her braids. “Does Maggie still do Mirror Time?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I try not to roll my eyes. “You’ve been gone three months. Not much has changed.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes narrow as she studies herself. “I like my eyes today. They’re looking hazel.”

  “Your eyes are brown.”

  “I said they look hazel,” she says, shaking her head. “My eyes can look any color I want them to.”

  I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. Alice sort of makes a joke out of everything.

  I change into my Thanksgiving outfit (an orange-and-red floral dress I’m in love with) before slipping downstairs. Mom is already in the kitchen, ordering Dad, Maggie, and even Cash around with a wooden spoon. I step back, but the spoon flies up in my direction. Shit. She saw me.

  “Why are you already dressed up?” She narrows her eyes. “You still have to help.”

  “But it’s late.” I glance at the ticking clock on the wall. It’s eleven. “People will start showing up in an hour. You know Auntie Denise.”

  Dad snorts. Mom shoots him a look and he turns back to the turkey.

  Auntie Denise and her new husband, a guy whose name I haven’t bothered to learn yet, show up even earlier than we expected. They ring the doorbell three times. Mom gives me a pointed look. Maggie is setting the table, Cash helping, and my parents are still cooking. Who knows when Alice will come down? That leaves me to entertain them. I know it shouldn’t, but my anxiety flares up around them, too.

  “Josie!” Auntie Denise hugs me to her chest. “Oh, look at you! So big!”

  I wince. It doesn’t help that Auntie Denise is as thin as my pinkie. She pulls back, appraising eyes running over my body. I stare at a spot on her chest that’s lighter than the rest of her body. Maybe it’s a birthmark.