“You remember a while back when I told you about my drama teacher?”
“Remind me.” I know exactly what Xandra’s talking about. There was something about Xandra goofing around off stage and monkeys, and I recall I couldn’t help wondering if Xandra’s sense of right and wrong was too quick to judge. So textbook teenager. It’s like the twelfth step of adolescence: though I’ve barely lived, I know everything.
“Before I tell you what happened, let me just say, it’s so unfair, it’s not my fault, and like I already told you, Mr. Petrov’s a total racist, and this just proves it.” Xandra’s voice is the perfect cocktail of indignation, anger, and whine. My instincts would have me jump in and get busy fixing this problem, but instead I take a moment to remind myself that Xandra needs practice working through her own issues.
“Go on,” I say with complete neutrality. I deserve a medal for my calm.
“I got a part with only two lines and maybe seven minutes on stage. Dash is about the same.” Okay, small part, but good for Xandra and Dash for trying. “Mr. Petrov picked an all-White leading cast for the winter musical, Wonderful Town. I’m in the A-Capellettes singing club, and I barely get any lines in the school musical, how’s that possible?!” Xandra’s eyes go wide to emphasize shock at what she thinks is questionable casting for the school play.
“I know you’re a good singer, love, but did you make any mistakes? What could have happened?” My potential sympathy has turned to confusion. Xandra is anything but lazy, particularly when it comes to singing. She’s a third generation Morgan who lives to show off her vocal skills.
“I don’t know. I came right back to my room after checking the cast list that was posted when I saw how far down I was on it. It was SO embarrassing, Mom; all the other kids were high-fiving, and I looked like a fool.”
“So, your tryout was great, but you got a small part?” As Xandra’s mother I want to believe my child’s telling the truth, but all my years working with kids, with only that tidbit of the story I know something’s not adding up. I’ve had dozens of kids sent to my office for acting out in school, ready to sell me their version of the truth. I know when there’s more to a story. “Go back to the beginning. I want all the details.”
“The first day I was a tiny bit late. Maybe missed the first few minutes of auditions.”
“So, the reason you got a small part is because you were late?”
“Heather walked in with me and Dash. She was late, too, but she got a lead part.”
“And Heather is . . .”
“White,” Xandra answers; she knows the question I’m asking. That’s it. I google Mr. Petrov. I need his email. He’s getting an eyeful from me in his inbox. I’ll have my facts together right before I go buck wild on this teacher.
“Okay, let me make sure I have all the details. You, Dash, and Heather showed up at tryouts a little bit late, and Mr. Petrov punished you and Dash by handing out ensemble roles, but Heather got a lead role. Is that what I’m hearing?” I’ll need to have Marisol read my email, so I don’t regret what I send.
Silence.
“Did I get that straight, Xandra?”
“Sort of. Supposedly Mr. Petrov made all the announcements about casting before we could even get there. Somebody told me later he said only upperclassmen get the lead roles.”
“And Heather is?”
“A junior.”
“Why didn’t you know this information if the announcements were at the beginning of tryouts?”
“He only talked about that part in the first fifteen minutes.”
“You were fifteen minutes late?! That’s not a ‘tiny’ bit late.”
“Mom, it’s not that bad.”
“You showed up late for the audition, disrespecting this man’s time. Did you talk to Mr. Petrov after to find out the information you missed and to apologize for your tardiness?”
“Well, Heather did, and she confirmed only upperclassmen get leading parts, that’s how I know for sure.”
“There’s your reason, Xandra!” Thank goodness I got the whole story before I fired off that email. This girl would have had me cussing people out cross-country. “You should have talked to Mr. Petrov afterward like I taught you. I’m disappointed you didn’t find out on your own what you missed.”
“Okay, okay, Mom, you’re acting like this is all my fault. Did you not hear me say there are no Black kids in the leading cast! I’m telling you the arts department is racist!”
“Xandra, please, save the dramatics for the stage. Just get your behind there on time.” It’s just like a teen to converge tardiness with racism.
“Dash told me this is exactly how you’d react. You’ve lost your edge for the struggle of our people sitting up in that fancy office of yours all day.”
Direct from Pemberley my baby DID NOT just call me bougie. Damn, Graham’s right. We’ve definitely got a situation.
FROM: Nina Morgan Clarke
DATE: November 16
SUBJECT: Xandra
TO: Graham Clarke
Graham,
Between your call in September, my conversations with Xandra lately, and her current conflict in the play, we do have a problem. I still don’t have a clear picture of what’s going on with her, but I know I don’t like this new Xandra.
Thanksgiving is almost here, and Christmas is right around the corner. I don’t want to ruin your holidays or mine, but confrontation time is coming.
Nina
Leo 3:30 PM
I know you’re at work but I’m in the airport and thought I might catch you. I’m traveling through Borneo the next couple of days. It’s going to be pretty remote, so we’ll talk when I’m back in cell range. I miss you like crazy. I still can’t believe I’m going to be a dad! When can I tell people?
Ugh, I didn’t see Leo’s text until close to five o’clock, and by the time I hurriedly called him back to hear his voice, if only for a minute, his phone went right to voice mail and my spirits sank. Our infrequent conversations the past few weeks have resembled more of a doctor-patient relationship than desperate lovers missing one another. Leo wants a blow-by-blow description of what I’m eating, how much sleep I’m getting, if I’m remembering to take folic acid up until my twelfth week but not a day after, and for the love of God I better be staying away from tuna. Or more vital to me, my beloved Sunday afternoon greasy tuna melts with waffle fries. I had to cut him off before a mention of future hemorrhoids surfaced. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Amazon Prime delivered What to Expect When You’re Expecting to Leo’s Singapore apartment. I much prefer our brief texts when Leo professes how much he misses me.
For our last video call, I made smart use of my swelling bosom and squeezed the now C+ girls into a B cup push-up bra Xandra left behind to get an extra rise, literally, out of Leo. He looked right past the twin peaks and deep valley staring him in the face and wanted to know, in detail, what my doctor said at my first “official” appointment. He was still upset I chose not to include his mug on my phone during the visit. Before I could even decide whether or not to drag Leo down with the news that my doctor said I had a few weeks left to make my decision, Sloan’s hand appeared on Leo’s shoulder reminding him, as it always did, that he had to go.