In April of senior year, a large blue-and-gold envelope came in the mail, addressed to “Miss Ailey P. Garfield.” On the front, an encircled heart. A motto curved at the top and bottom: “My Whole Heart for the Lord.”
Inside the envelope, a letter stating that Routledge College was delighted to accept me to the class of 1995. On a separate sheet, a list of what the college deemed as “necessary” items: notebooks, typewriter or word processor, ballpoint pens, towels, twin sheets, twin mattress pad, twin comforter. Finally, there was a list of required clothing for female students, such as, I needed to bring “appropriately modest attire for everyday wear,” a formal gown, a semiformal gown, dark heels, and at least one dress suitable for mandatory chapel, also “appropriately modest.”
“What kind of sexist crap is this?” I asked.
Mama cackled. “I hope you enjoy spending four years in the late nineteenth century. Get your mind right, because if you think President Bush is conservative, you ain’t seen nothing till you go to Routledge.” She and I were in my father’s office, sitting on the dilapidated leather couch, folding laundry. Daddy was in the roller chair, holding his empty pipe.
“Don’t scare the child,” he said. “Our alma mater isn’t so bad. I have very fond memories, particularly of February 1966. Yes, indeed.”
“Stop being naughty in front of the baby,” she said. “And when we were there, it was the women they bothered. The men could do whatever they wanted. Routledge hasn’t changed that ‘appropriately modest’ shit since we went there.”
“And what’s chapel?” I asked. “And why do I need a dress for it?”
“Chapel is church, baby,” she said.
“But I’m an atheist. That’s why I don’t go to church.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just too lazy to get up on Sunday. There are no Black atheists.”
“That’s not true, Mama.”
“All right, then, name me one, since there’re so many.”
When I looked to my father, he shook his head so slightly, I almost missed it. It was a marital pact, his pretending a devout, religious belief and my mother pretending he wasn’t a fraud.
“See, Ailey, you can’t name even one,” she said.
“I could if this wasn’t a Christian Negro pop quiz.”
“Watch that tone, Ailey Pearl. Remain graceful in defeat.”
*
My final rendezvous with Chris occurred on the floor of his basement, the week before high school graduation. He lay on top of me, drowsy, and told me he was going to miss me so much. I kissed him, saying that was all right. The summer was only two months, but after all, we’d see each other in the fall. And after our first year of college, maybe we could get an apartment together.
That’s when Chris told me he wasn’t going to Routledge. He’d been accepted to Princeton.
I shifted my hips, pushing him off. “You didn’t tell me you were applying to other schools. Did you even send an application to Routledge?”
“Ailey, I’m sorry. But my dad went to Princeton. He was expecting me to go.”
“So what are we supposed to do now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe . . . we should break up?”
I shifted to face him. “What?”
“I mean, I don’t really know if I can do long-distance.”
“You couldn’t tell me this before you got laid?”
“I guess . . . I wanted us to have a good time. You know, one last time.”
“Negro, give me a break! You came in, like, seventy-seven seconds! You’re the worst lay ever.”
“You don’t have to be so mean, Ailey.”
“You’re the one who fucked me and then dumped me! You lying asshole!”
I kept my voice down so Mrs. Tate wouldn’t hear me through the vents. That way, she could pretend she didn’t know that, instead of listening to CDs on the stereo, we had sex on her basement floor. And sometimes on top of her washing machine.
For weeks afterward, I was huffy with Mama, though I didn’t inform her of my breakup with Chris. I’d manipulated her into approving of my relationship with Chris, but somehow I was angry at her, as if it were actually her fault that I’d been with him. I blamed her for his bad behavior. If she’d had one of her dreams about Chris, he wouldn’t have made a fool of me. But she didn’t fuss at me or tell me to mind my home training. She didn’t ask about the whereabouts of Chris, only offering at dinner that being a young person was so hard. We were alone at the table, the night before our Chicasetta journey. She went to the kitchen and brought out a huge slice of pie, setting it before me. Then she poured me a full cup of coffee and topped it off with cream. I was a young woman, she told me. I’d probably done all of my growing.