“Charming,” says Raquel, who manages Family Foundations’ Family Food Security program. She has paused on the way to the microwave, Lean Cuisine in hand, and followed Brianna’s gaze to the courtyard outside.
“And you wonder how she ended up in her particular predicament,” says Brianna, disliking herself.
There are two picnic tables in the Family Foundations courtyard, between which the girls used to distribute themselves more or less evenly, depending on shifting alliances, but ever since Lizette joined the class a few months ago, all eight girls crowd around one. That’s Lizette for you: the great unifier.
Ysenia weighs her own banana in her hand, as if trying to determine whether she should contribute her own take on fellatio or remain in the audience. At the end of the table, only Jen remains aloof, frowning fiercely into her compact as she applies lip gloss so pale it might as well be Vaseline. She’ll disapprove, Jen will, but she won’t leave the circle. Instead she clings to the bench with a single clenched butt-cheek. Even Angel, earnest Angel, is laughing, which irks Brianna still further, because Angel is one of her favorites and should know better.
There is no need for Brianna to go out there. Her lunch break isn’t over for another twenty-five minutes and she still has to put in a call to her dentist’s office to see about scheduling her cleaning. Still, she sighs an aggrieved sigh, pitches the remains of her lunch into the trash.
“Good luck,” Raquel says grimly.
Brianna reminds herself that she is a twenty-five-year-old adult tasked with this girl’s well-being, an adult with all the advantages in the world, including but not limited to: white privilege, a stable, middle-class upbringing, a bachelor’s degree, a teaching license from the State of New Mexico, and a certificate attesting to the fact that she’s completed training in teen outreach. She can be generous, she tells herself. She can be the bigger person.
Outside, the spring warmth envelops Brianna. Most of the girls are alerted to her approach by her clicking heels and freeze, but not Lizette, who has now set to moaning. Up close, the performance is even more disgusting. The banana is slick, and saliva shines at the corners of Lizette’s mouth. Trinity elbows Christy. The girls fall silent, watching Brianna watch Lizette gyrate like a porn star. Angel looks positively stricken as Brianna advances. With a rapturous groan, Lizette thrusts the banana down her throat. A remarkable length disappears from sight.
She slides it in and out until, finally, Brianna snaps. “Lizette. Are you going to eat that? Or just slobber on it? Because that’s a grant-funded banana.”
Lizette removes the banana with a pop, slurps and swallows. “Hey, miss. I was only playing.” She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then dries the banana neatly on the hem of her sweatshirt.
Brianna smooths her wool skirt, one in a series of frumpy and seasonally inappropriate pieces she bought in hopes of looking older and establishing her authority. “You probably aren’t aware that someone has to apply annually for state, federal, and foundation grants to bring in the money to buy that banana so that you can have a well-balanced, nutritious, no-cost meal. You probably aren’t aware of the number of people working for slave wages who have sweated to deliver that banana from a plantation in Guatemala to this table.” She jabs at the picnic table.
Through all of this, Lizette regards Brianna with her lovely, half-open eyes. In general, she doesn’t put much effort into her clothing, seems to have near-total disregard for her self-presentation—today she wears shapeless black athletic pants and a hooded sweatshirt—but her green eyes, with their fringe of heavy black lashes, are always made-up. Mascara, lavender eye shadow, smoky liner. They’re her best feature, and she turns them on people like weapons. The other girls watch Brianna, too: Ysenia places her own banana carefully among the wrappers on the table and sits up, nodding attentively. Beside Lizette, as if burdened with the shame that Lizette has refused, Angel looks at her lap, her ears pink.
“I’m not wasting it, miss.” Lizette peels the banana and offers it to the table at large. “Anyone want this? I don’t eat bananas. They make my tongue all weird.”