identity on hold

i. dramatic

The day I was informed about Devon's hit and run, Mrs. Weston's senior class was having root beer floats. Everyone had gotten a passing grade for the last test we took. I couldn't have dairy, but I never let anyone know that, so I sat in the corner and sipped root beer solo.

Our vice principal, Ms. Rubio, has always been dramatic: flailing her arms and wearing pink and having her voluminous curls always swept to the side. Someone said once that she could throw a wedding dress on anytime with the way her hair and makeup were always done. Maybe I said it. Not important. Needless to say, with her dramatized version of every slightly exciting event, when she burst into the classroom out of breath and clutching her chest, tears streaming down her face and mascara running (like she put it on just for that purpose), I coughed into my root beer a little.

A sniff. "Francesca Alvarez, I must speak with you." Another sniff.

Twenty-four pairs of eyes snapped my way like a whip.

"Please, dear."

I downed my root beer and paced toward a nodding, sobbing, and hand-outstretched-like-she-wanted-me-to-take-it Ms. Rubio, my keys clinking as they hit my hip. Even before I knew what was going on, I knew my keys were too loud. Too inappropriate. If I could go back, I'd show more concern, probably.

Ms. Rubio sobbed aloud as I walked past her and out the door. "I-I think you need to go home, Francesca," she said. "I can take you home, dear."

"What's going on?" I asked quietly as the door closed.

"I simply cannot put my sorrow into words, Francesca. My dear... please, just come with me."

I cried because I knew I was supposed to. It made sense.

"Your father was the victim of a hit and run at 2:17 a.m. on April 12th. A friend of his has identified his body."

I cried hard. I cried all sloppy.

"I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through."

For the life of me, I wanted to stop crying. I hadn't seen Devon since I was five, but my body told me to cry, so I did. I cried out every salty little tear into my mother's shoulder. She cried too, but it was for me, not him. She hadn't cried in a while, so that was pretty tough to witness.

I didn't go to school for a couple days. Teachers sent me my assignments in the mail. They wrote nice letters. Most of the kids in my 204 student high school wrote some nice words and sent some candy.

Mama hasn't said much about Devon's death. I don't expect her to. Everything is strangely normal. It's not that I don't care, I just shouldn't have cried.

It's annoying to know that, at least for a few months, I'll be known as the girl whose dad died by getting hit on his way from buying weed. I'm not ready for the whole stereotype thing to resurface yet.

By that Friday night, I decide it's time to go back to class for the next week. Part of me looks forward to everyone treating me like I might break down at any second. That means they have to be careful, walk on eggshells.

Jo has been the most interesting to watch thus far. She wants me to talk about it without bringing it up herself. In our six years as friends, she has never been this hesitant to bring up something when it bothers her. She even referred to her own dad as her "parent" today, just in case it bothered me.

When a question on Family Feud—the show Jo thinks we both love equally—is about fathers, I think she's going to self-destruct.

"Can you say one word—one word—to let me know you're okay?" she asks, turning the TV off. I grab the remote and flick it back on.

"Nothing to say," I sigh. "Jo, like... if it bothered me, I'd talk about it. You know me."

Jo shakes her head and chuckles flatly. "You can be upset about it. I don't care what your aunt says."

Of course, she's referring to when my Aunt Joanna said maybe Devon wouldn't have gotten hit if he hadn't left us thirteen years ago, which is funny, because she only met him once, and she's the only one who consistently brings him up since 2004.

"Not like I knew him. It's sad though," I say with a shrug. "I can't be hung up on it forever. You don't feel sad about people you don't know."

Jo is about to protest, but she closes her mouth and shakes her head. "Fran, I'm saying it wouldn't hurt to talk about it? You can be upset, maybe?"

I scoff. "Okay... Jo... if someone you didn't know died in a hit and run, would you be hung up on it forever?" She's about to protest, then she closes her mouth and shakes her head. "See? Can we smoke or something?"

Jo ignores the last part. "I can't believe I'm more upset than you are about your dad. You know everyone is going to want to know what happened, and if you won't talk about it yourself, then... I don't know what to tell you."

Yeah, I'm so ready for the "was your dad a drug dealer" questions again.

I was "The Black Girl" for years. Not consistently, of course. The label broke sometimes. In fifth grade, I was "The Girl Whose Aunt Got a DUI", and then in seventh grade, I was "The Bi Girl". Of course, I was only interesting for a while at that time, because Megan Anderson's fake-bi phase overshadowed my real-bi life. So I was "The Black Girl" again.

I know what's next: "Dead Dad Girl", then back to "Black Girl".

I shrug. "We all deal with grief in various ways," I say in my best, sarcastic therapist-voice.

Jo doesn't respond, so I pick up my bag and head toward her door.

"You need help. You could try to act like a regular-schmegular person about something, you know," Jo says, tossing her brunette hair up into a stress-bun. For a moment, I think she's going to go into her "you exhibit the qualities of a textbook narcissist" speech, but she doesn't. "I'm not smoking with you until you speak up."

"Looks like we're not smoking," I reply.