identity on hold

iv. hero

I watch Shantay glue a nail back in place as I stretch a facemask over my nose. She mouths all the words to a rap song I don't know, but I like watching her anyway. "Motherfu—okay. You know what, I'm taking my nails off," she gripes, throwing her hands up in annoyance. "Francesca Denise, you and me will be rocking the mess out of prom. Know that, Boo."

"Sure, if I go."

I think about how Chase Grant smiled so big even though he usually doesn't, because of his bottom braces. I think about how he would probably ask me, because he's probably ready to be recognized as the guy who did something heroic. Asking out the girl with a dead dad? Prime hero material.

Maybe it's the senioritis, or maybe cause of the whole dead dad thing, but it was cute that someone gave a crap about me for five minutes. I want to know what Shantay thinks, but I don't want to ask.

"That white boy ask you?" She's a mind reader.

"You don't have to call him that," I say with a sigh. "And no."

Shantay does an "mhmm" before smirking at me. "I tease you. Sorry. You my nigga, you know that."

Because I'm looking in the mirror, I see my eyes get wide and my face get red from the parts that aren't under the face mask, and Shantay laughs so hard, she bumps her forehead on the mirror too. "Oh my god, Francesca, you are my favorite person. You ain't never said 'nigga' in your life, Boo?"

Does it matter? Why does it matter all of a sudden? Geezus, first, Chase asks me, as if everyone in the world can't see it by just looking at me. My elementary school days were filled with kids constantly asking why my parents weren't together, asking if my mother was my real mom, asking if my dad was in a gang. I thought we were past that by now.

I look at Shantay's broken nail sitting there on the counter and start to laugh. She laughs, too, but I'm sure it's not to dull the swarm of emotions in her chest.