“Cecilia.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Cecilia. So a bunch of them decided to take off when practice was canceled and head to the mall. That was their first mistake. They were all hanging out on the top level of the parking structure, which is apparently off-limits, since it’s become a known place for kids to hang out and get in trouble. That was their second. When security showed up, most of them ran. Our boys and a couple others did not. Which Isaiah knows not to do. But because our boys are our boys, they singled them out, searched their backpacks, which they donothave the legal right to do, and in which they found nothing, and brought them down to the office, which scared the hell out of them, and then gave them an official warning.
“Isaiah knows to text me with a certain code if something is really wrong. And we have Life360, which allows me to see exactly where he is at all times, so I got over there immediately. They’re a little shook up, but they’re okay.”
I am stunned by all of this. Julien leaving campus without permission. Hanging out in prohibited spaces. Getting his belongings searched. Though I’m grateful it wasn’t disrespectful behavior that prompted it, the anguish is still visible on my face.
“It’s okay, sis,” Anthony says. “These things are bound to happen. It’s cool. No one was hurt. Just… be aware, you know. In that situation, they did the right thing.”
“Thank you so much,” I repeat. “I’m still kind of learning the ropes here.”
“No problem.” He smiles. “Raising Black boys in America is not for the faint of heart.” And then, “Are you French?”
“No. Jamaican. But I grew up in New York. Although, I’ve been in Paris for twenty years. So I’m sort of…”
“Confused?” He laughs. He has beautiful teeth. American teeth.
“Maybe.”
“Well, look, my wife Kim and I are here if you guys need anything. We live in Ladera but we’re at the school all the time. Julien now has my number, so… don’t be shy.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “Truly.” And as I get into the Lexus my phone vibrates.
A text from François:
Hey. Was in a session. What’s up?
Without responding, I start the engine and drive.
Later that night, when I am sitting outside by the edge of the plunge pool, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a glass of Casamigos Añejo at my side, because the occasion warrants something far stronger than wine, Fran appears at the sliding doors to the living room. He backtracks for a moment to grab a jacket and then comes to sit beside me, cross-legged on the cool stones.
For a second, he doesn’t speak, taking in the night sky, the tree frogs croaking in the distance. And then, “Do you want to talk about what happened today?”
“I don’t want him here, Fran. I don’t want my Black son to live in this country. I want him back in France by the time he’s sixteen. Before he’s at his full height. Before he learns to drive. Before a little misunderstanding at the mall turns into something horrible.”
“Cecilia—”
“I’m serious. I don’t want him here. I don’t wantushere.”
He’s quiet for a moment, turning away from me, gazing into the middle distance. I watch my husband consider this new reality. That his son—his sweet, well-mannered, childlike son—is threatened here. Isthreatening.
“What do you want us to do? I can’t just leave, Cile. I’m still editing. There are three films, you know.”
“I know.”
“I can’t leave now.”
“I’m not asking you to. But we don’t have to stay with you.”
He looks at me then, hurt.
“Maybe the kids and I go back this summer. Julien and Lucie enroll in new schools. We bring Nicoletta on for more days to help around the house. I’ll do my best to handle it by myself. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
“It could be another year, Cile. More.”
“I understand that.”
“Putain,” he says, under his breath. “Maybe we get him a chaperone. Like Eryx has. Someone to just be around him so he doesn’t get into trouble.”
