“You look beautiful tonight,” I say. “That’s a great dress.”
She is dumbfounded for a moment. And likewise, I’m not certain where this kindness is coming from. “Merci.”
I nod, and before she can say anything else, I saunter to the door (aching feet be damned). “Have a good evening.” And with that I turn and head out. And I cannot help but feel that maybe, maybe I have turned a corner. Maybe I am putting the past behind me.
XXXII.AMERICAN(?) TEETH.
LOS ANGELES.
MARCH. 2016.
On a late Thursday afternoon in mid-March, after dropping Lucie at ballet and returning home to start dinner, I get a phone call from Julien. It’s an odd time for him to be calling, in the middle of track practice.
“Mom.” From the timbre of his voice, I know something is off. He’s injured himself. He’s in an ambulance. He’s at the hospital. The mind races.
But oh, I am so far off.
“I’m in the security office at the Century City mall and you have to come and get me.” His voice croaks.
In the midst of stirring a pot of chili, I freeze. “You’rewhere? What? Why aren’t you at track?”
“It was canceled. Can you come and get me? I’m putting the security officer on the phone, okay?”
The officer, who manages to be simultaneously formal and gruff, has to repeat himself three times before I can comprehend, because I am shaking so violently. A flash of names and images coming to mind. Trayvon. Tamir. Freddie. The ringing in my ears punctuating his words. Loitering. Trespass. Suspicious behavior.
I turn off the stove and run out to my car before realizing thereis no way I can get to Century City and back to the Palisades in time to pick up Lucie from class. But François is not answering his phone, Parisa has the day off, and I am too frazzled to text anything more coherent to my husband thanCall me. Now. Now. Please now.
My son is not a troublemaker. He’s not a Loiterer or a Trespasser or Suspicious. He’s a fourteen-year-old boy with braces, who still plays with Legos and Minecraft. I know in my gut he’s done nothing wrong, and still my insides are in knots, my breathing uneven. What was he doing there? Was he alone? Was he scared?
My SUV twists through the winding roads of the canyon. Jolting and pitching and hugging the blind curves.
He calls again, just as I am making the turn onto Sunset.
“It’s okay, Mom. Anthony is going to take me.”
“Who’s Anthony? Take you where?”
“Isaiah’s dad. Hold on,” he says, and proceeds to put me on the phone with yet another stranger.
“Hi, this is Anthony Johnson, my son Isaiah is on the track team with Julien. I’m not sure if we’ve met. My firm’s in Century City, so I got over here immediately when Isaiah called. I’m happy to stay here with Julien until you arrive.”
“That’s very kind of you, Anthony. But I’m coming from Rustic Canyon, so it’s going to be another forty-five minutes, at least. And I have to turn around and pick up my daughter from ballet in the Palisades in an hour, which I’m never going to make in time. And I can’t reach my husband, or I’d have him meet you. And we don’t have any family here and—”
“Hey. It’s okay,” he says, slow, sensing my panic. “I’ve got both boys, they’re fine. Julien is fine. But I can’t leave him alone here. If it’ll help, I can meet you back at the school.” His voice is deep and even, instilling confidence.
“That would be incredibly helpful, thank you. How did they even get over there?”
“Uber, apparently. I’ll meet you at Bancroft shortly. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to talk to them about what they did right and what they did wrong, and how mall security does not have the same authority as the police. Because I think that was lost on them.”
“Okay,” I say, knowing that it should have been my and François’s job, but relieved to have a capable third party step in. “I’d appreciate that.”
Anthony pulls into the Bancroft parking lot some thirty minutes later in a black-on-black Range Rover. Julien spills out of the back seat with his school backpack, a hesitant look on his face. He seems to have grown three inches since yesterday. I rush to embrace him and he holds me at arm’s length. A reminder that as much as he still might need his mother, he is a teenager in view of other teenagers.
As Julien makes his way around to the passenger side, Anthony gets out of the car to greet me. Clean-cut, navy suit. I recognize him almost immediately. The dad from the parent council on race. All those months ago.
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“No problem,” he says, outstretching a hand. “Anthony.”
