A More Deserving Blackness Read Online Free PDF Page A

still glaring.
                  The Coach turns coldly.  “Keep a lid on that temper, boy,” he spits at him, clearly meant as an insult.  “One phone call.  That’s all it would take.  One phone call, and we’ll see how quickly you slip those cuffs a second time.”
                  Then he turns and disappears back into his classroom, leaving the guy to seethe, vibrating in impotent wrath before slamming the locker shut and storming away.
                  And I’m alone in the empty hall, still staring after the dark shape of him, when the tardy bell cuts like a scalpel, straight down my spine.
     
                  “Hey, Bree?”
                  I look up from the six thousand pound tiger shark charging the screen in front of me when Trish pokes her head into the living room, sunglasses pushed up on her head and her purse in her hand.  She’s not wearing her usual uniform, though, but a pair of high-heeled brown boots and a green sweater dress, so I already know what she’s going to say.
                  “I was going to meet a couple of the girls for drinks tonight.  Do you mind?”
                  I shake my head, giving her my best encouraging smile.
                  Trish hesitates, her stalwart, lipstick red smile faltering slightly.  “Honey, I don’t have to go.  If you’d rather . . .”
                  But I shake my head vehemently, and I mean it.  I like that she doesn’t hover around me, just waiting for something to break off that she could scoop up and glue back into place.
                  “Will you be all right?”
                  Nod.  Like I’m following a script.
                  But Trish sinks onto the couch cushion next to me, propping her purse in her lap.  “You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to get out sometimes, either.” 
                  She reaches over, and I press my thumb between the tendons in my wrist, just testing it, as she readjusts a chunk of my long hair.  Her lips twist at the corner, and I can tell she’s debating with herself.  She takes a breath. 
                  “What happened – you can’t live through something like that and not be . . . changed.  I just don’t want you to let that take your whole life away from you.”
                  She’s trying.  I know she’s trying.  She’s doing the best she can in an impossible situation, and I’m grateful.  I am.
                  “No one blames you for being scared.  Just – just think about it, okay?”
                  Meeting her eyes, I nod.
                  “All right,” she says, satisfied enough for now, and pushes to her feet, smoothing the skirt over the slim curves of her hips. 
                  But she’s wrong.  I’m not worried something like that night is going to happen again.  I’m aware of the odds, aware that a repeat of the incident would be enormously unlikely. I’m not scared of going out. 
                  I’m scared of what’s in my head.
                  Trish steps away, and I turn back to the reruns of Shark Week I’m not really watching.
                  “Mom called yesterday,” she adds softly, and I nod, feigning interest at the bloody, frothing mess on TV.  “She wanted to talk to you but you were asleep.”
                  I wasn’t.  I’d heard Trish on the phone.  Telling my mother how well I was doing, that she shouldn’t worry, that it was going to take some time, that I needed to heal and adjust.  All with her ceaseless optimism in full swing.  It was exactly what my mother needed to hear.  Her baby girl was fine.  She could move on with her life, stop worrying, stop being so sad, stop waiting for everything to get better.
                  “She said