Vickie claimed I said something snooty to her during typing class about why she shouldn’t strike the keys without paper in the machine—and that’s how we met—but I had no recollection of that. Actually, I had no memory of her before she told me she loved Michael Jackson. The year was 1986 and anyone at my junior high who remained faithful to MJ after Purple Rain exploded was good with me. Vickie invited me to her neighbor-up-the-street’s party and, astonishingly, my parents gave me permission to go. My parents were not party people—not since Jesus saved them and they became pious, privileged, and pillars of the black community, which had been long before I was born. Consequently, I hadn’t learned how to party. I spent most of the night at Vickie’s neighbor-up-the-street’s house sitting on the couch watching the other kids play strange games that involved unlit bathrooms and secret chants. I did, however, dance when the music hit me… and when I thought I might catch the attention of this cute boy whose name I don’t remember. As the party ended, I was confounded when one of the kids yelled, “After party at Vickie’s house!” I called out to them as they ran down the street, “But it’s 1:00 in the morning!” When I arrived at Vickie’s door, I was surprised to see her mom popping popcorn and serving punch. I had to ask her, “You don’t mind all these kids showing up unannounced at this hour?” I know if I had pulled something like that with my parents, they would have called an exorcist: only demonic possession could cause me to tempt my fate like that. But Vickie’s mom didn’t mind the late-night intrusion. To this day I wonder if that was a white thing.
Posted inFlash Fiction
