Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [72]
“Michigan?”
“Michigan.”
“Detroit?”
“Birmingham.”
I tap my thumbs against the steering wheel as another bug splats against the windshield.
“That still doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Viv adds.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Up ahead, the walls of the cliff disappear as we leave the canyon behind. I hit the gas, and the engine grumbles toward the straightaway. Like before, there’s nothing on our right or left—not even a guardrail. Out here, you have to know where you’re going. Though it still always starts with that crucial first step.
“So do you like Birmingham?” I ask.
“It’s high school,” she replies, making me feel every year of my age.
“We used to go up for basketball games in Ann Arbor,” I tell her.
“Really? So you know Birmingham . . . you’ve been there?” There’s a slight hesitation at the back of her voice. Like she’s looking for an answer.
“Just once,” I say. “A guy in our fraternity let us crash at his parents’.”
She looks out her window at the side mirror. The canyon’s long gone—lost in the black horizon.
“Y’know, I lied,” she says, her tone flat and lifeless.
“Pardon?”
“I lied . . .” she repeats, her eyes still on the side mirror. “What I said up in the storage room—about being one of only two black girls in the school . . . ?”
“What’re you taking about?”
“I know I shouldn’t have . . . it’s stupid . . .”
“What—”
“I said there were two, but there’re actually fourteen of us. Fourteen black kids. Swear to God. I guess . . . yeah . . . fourteen.”
“Fourteen?”
“I’m sorry, Harris . . . I just wanted to convince you I could handle myself . . . Don’t be mad . . .”
“Viv . . .”
“I thought you’d think I was strong and tough and—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt.
She finally turns toward me. “Wha?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I reiterate. “I mean, fourteen . . . out of how many? Four hundred? Five hundred?”
“Six hundred and fifty. Maybe six-sixty.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Two . . . twelve . . . fourteen . . . You’re still pretty outnumbered.”
The smallest of smiles creeps up her cheeks. She likes that one. But the way her hands once again grip the seat belt across her chest, it’s clearly still an issue for her.
“It’s okay to smile,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “That’s what my mom always says. Right after rinse and spit.”
“Your Mom’s a dentist?”
“No, she’s a . . .” Viv pauses and offers a slight shrug. “. . . she’s a dental hygienist.”
And right there I spot it. That’s where her hesitation comes from. It’s not that she’s not proud of her mom . . . but she knows what it feels like to be the one kid who’s different.
Again, I don’t remember much from when I was seventeen, but I do know what it’s like to have Career Day at school when you secretly hope your dad’s not invited. And in the world of Ivy League Washington, I also know what it’s like to feel second-class.
“Y’know, my dad was a barber,” I offer.
She shyly glances my way, rechecking me up and down. “You serious? Really?”
“Really,” I say. “Cut all my friends’ hair for seven bucks apiece. Even the bad bowl cuts.”
Turning toward me, she gives me an even bigger grin.
“Just so you know, I’m not embarrassed of my parents,” she insists.
“I never thought you were.”
“The thing is . . . they wanted so bad to get me in the school district, but the only way to afford it was by buying this tiny little house that’s literally the last one on the district line. Right on the line. Y’know what that’s like? I mean, when that’s your starting point . . .”
“. . . you can’t help but feel like the last man in the race,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Believe me, Viv, I still remember why I first came to the Hill. I spent my first few years trying to right every wrong that was done to my parents. But sometimes you have to realize that some fights are unwinnable.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t fight them,” she challenges.
“You’re right—and that’s a great quote for all the Winston Churchill fans out there—but when the sun sets at the end of the day, you can’t win ’em . . .”
“You can’t win ’em all? Nuh-uh, you really think that?” she asks