But you got to live out the life you made for yourself. High school was a dry run for the real world, the principal said at least once per assembly. Mack figured in the grownup world, people wouldn't resent him because he was a hard worker and did good. They'd hire him because of that. He'd make a living. And then he'd get the right kind of girlfriend, not the kind that went for flash and strut.
"You said that just like Martin Lawrence," he said.
"You too young to be watching shit like that," she said.
"Old enough to get a ride from a babe on a bike," he said.
"No, you did that cause you 'crazy, de-ranged.' "
They both laughed. Then she said it again. "See you when I see you, Mack Street."
She peeled out and was gone. Everybody turned to look, but at her, not at Mack. She might have dropped off anybody.
Why am I suddenly so hungry to be famous at high school? Famous at high school is like being employee of the month at the sanitation department. Famous at high school like being the last guy cut from the team before the first exhibition game. Nobody seen you play except at practice.
But the smell of her was on his shirt. Not a perfume, really, like some of the girls dumped on themselves every morning. Nor a hair product, though her hair had given his face kind of a beating, to the point where he wanted to say, You ever think of cornrows, Yo Yo? only the bike was too loud so he kept it to himself.
Mack didn't eat alone—he had a lunch group he sat with—but mostly he just listened to them brag about their prowess in some game or on a date, or talk raunchy about girls they knew would never speak to them. Some of these guys lived in Baldwin Hills and he knew their cold dreams. Not one of them cared about girls or sports as much as they said. It was other stuff. Family stuff. Personal stuff. Wishes they'd never tell to a soul.
Well, Mack didn't tell them any of his deep stuff, so they were even. Only difference was, he didn't talk about girls or sports, either. Only thing he ever talked about at lunch was lunch, because there was no lying about that, it was right there on the tray in front of them. Apart from that and the weather and was he going to the game or the dance, he just listened and ate and when he was done, he threw away his garbage and stacked his tray and tossed his silverware and went to the library to study.
Usually he studied his subject, though sometimes he still went back over the Shakespeare stuff, just to see if maybe he'd understand any of it better now—and he sometimes did.
Today, though, he looked up motorcycles on the internet till he found the Harley that Yo Yo was driving. It was a fine machine. He liked the way it rumbled under him. Like riding a happy sabertooth, purring the whole way as you hurtle over the ground.
PROPERTY VALUES
Between his long walks and his cold dreams, Mack once knew everything that was happening in his neighborhood. But now the long walks took place in Fairyland, and he had the skill of shutting down all but the strongest dreams before they were fully formed. So there were things he didn't know about. Nobody was keeping it a secret, he just wasn't there to notice it.
He knew somebody was moving into the fancy white house just below the drainage valley—he heard all about it when Dr. Phelps died and his second wife got the house in the will and sold it. And he saw a moving van come and guys unload stuff.
What he didn't know was who the new owner was. There was no hurry. He was bound to hear, especially because the house was above the invisible line—it was up the hill, where the money was, and so whatever happened there was big news to the people who lived in the flat.
He was eating dinner with Ivory DeVries's family even though Ivory was a year older than Mack and was off at college down in Orange County. Maybe they missed Ivory and Mack was kind of a reminder of the old days, when they both took part in neighborhood games of hide-and-seek. Back when there were enough kids that they could fan out through half of Baldwin Hills.
So Mack was standing at the sink, helping Ivory's sister Ebony rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher. Ebony had always hated her name, especially because she was very light-skinned. "I mean why did my parents choose each other if it wasn't to make sure they had kids that could pass the damn paper bag test. And then they go and name me Ebony? Why did Ivo get to be Ivory? They name the boy the white name and the girl the black black black name?"
"I hate to break it to you, Ebby," said Mack, "but both those names are definitely black names."
"I guess you right, I ain't never going to see no blond boy named Ivory, am I?"
Mack and Ebony got along okay, like brother and sister, not that Mack didn't notice how she filled out lately. But she was still in ninth grade and she was so short he could have fit her under his arm. And there was no sign she was interested anyway. So they did dishes together.
He was telling her about teachers he'd had and they were teasing each other about how Ivo always said Mack liked exactly the teachers that he hated most, which Mack insisted on taking as a compliment. That's when the voices in the living room got loud enough to intrude.
"You think it doesn't hurt property values to have that motorcycle roaring up and down the street at all hours?"
Maybe it was the word motorcycle that caught Mack's attention.
"It isn't roaring up and down the street, she's just going home."
"She does not just go home. She rides all the way to the top of Cloverdale and then races down and skids into her driveway. I've seen her do it twice, so it's a habit."
"Woman looks that fine on a bike, it isn't going to hurt property values one bit."
"Now that is just absurd."
"I value my front yard a lot more now there's a chance she might ride by."
"That is the most disgusting—"
"He just a man, what do you expect?"
"It's like mobile pornography, that's what it is, that girl on her motorcycle!"
"I never liked Dr. Phelps's second wife one bit, but now that we've seen this new girl, I wish we had Mrs. Phelps back again."
"She is not like pornography, she's got all her clothes on right up to her neck."
"Motorcycle-riding h—whatever."
"The way those clothes fit her she might as well be naked."
"So let's get together a petition that points that out to her. I mean, if she's that close to naked, why not—"
"That's enough out of you, Moses Jones."
"Isn't there a noise ordinance?"
Mack and Ebby grinned at each other, and without even discussing it they went to the passage between the dining room and the living room and saw that while they were doing dishes, somebody convened a meeting of the neighborhood busybodies.
Ebby's mama looked at her pointedly. "This is an adult discussion, Ebby."
Ebby just laughed.
"I don't like your tone, young lady," said Ebby's mama.
"We were just wondering," said Mack, "who you talking about on the motorcycle?"
"The person who just moved into Dr. Phelps's old house just below the hairpin on Cloverdale."
"Whom I asked to keep the noise down late at night, to which she rudely replied that her bike was her only ride so how was she supposed to get home when she finished work at three A.M."
"She's one of those inhibitionists who can't stand it when people aren't noticing her."
"Exhibitionists."
Ebby poked Mack to try to make him laugh, and it nearly worked. To cover his stifled snort, Mack said, "Um, so she got no name at all? Just 'Motorcycle Ho'?"
"Mack Street, I'm telling Ura Lee you use language like that."
"But Mrs. Jones called her—"
"I called her a motorcycle-riding hoochie mama!"
"Her name is Yolanda White," said Moses Jones. "You want her phone number?"
Joyce Jones smacked a sofa pillow into his face. "You better not have her phone number. I got scissors and you sleep naked."