Little Black Book

If I could’ve punched Olivia Day in the fucking face, I would’ve. I hate thinking of my best comebacks after the fact. It makes me want to have the fight all over again. I would’ve told her the only reason boys in school like her is because they know how easy she is. She’d sleep with any boy who gave her attention because she’s so fucked up from her daddy issues. Or I would’ve told her that her haircut is stupid. But instead, Olivia Day commented on me having two moms and you know what I said?

Nothing. Fucking nothing.

I walked away instead of punching her in her fucking face and now I regret my decision that I thought was so heroic and wise and “adult like.” More like dumb as hell, at best.

I don’t care that I have two moms. I love having two moms. It’s New York fucking City. Who doesn’t have two moms these days? But when a shit of a human being mentions your moms in context of not deserving human rights, you nearly lose your mind. And in the losing of your mind, you entirely shut down and walk away before the devil inside that you try extremely hard to silence wakes up and unleashes herself.

I shove my AirPods in and jump on the last cart headed to rehearsal. This will be the fifth time in two weeks that Ms. Alix makes me do 48 more relevés because I show up three minutes late. She acts like it’s my fault the trains don’t run on time or that they randomly break down. Last week, an elderly man fell onto the tracks and held up departure. You know what she said? “You need to leave school earlier then and plan for such inconveniences. Mara’s grandmother broke her hip in the grocery store, but she still made it on time.”

Mara is also homeschooled and has her mom to drive her to rehearsal. It’s totally different, but alas. Ms. Alix doesn’t see it that way, so my calves will be burning before I even make it to adagio. I don’t know what she expects from me. I’m a first semester senior who runs multiple clubs at school, while also being president of the Fine Arts Association, attending musical rehearsals, working part time, and applying to colleges. I’m 17, for God’s sake. She acts like I’m 30 years old and have my entire life figured out. Do 30-year-olds even have their lives figured out?

I twist my hair into a bun and shove the final bobby pin into place. She’s hard on me because she wants me to get into good schools, and I get that…but I wish she wouldn’t use me as an example for everyone else. School already does that. I’m the poster child of LGBTQIA+ and serve as a visual representation of how “inclusive and diverse” our school is. It’s not enough to use a kid who has two, same sex parents, no, no, no. They needed a biracial kid with two, same sex parents. It really drives home their message of inclusivity…and diversity. I think it should be illegal to use kids in these manners.

“Do you mind if I sit next to you?” His voice is gentle like a grandfather, though he’s nowhere near the age of being placed in a retirement home. His scrubs are slightly dirty, probably just finishing a shift and heading home to sleep before his next one.

“Oh, not at all,” I say and skooch closer to the railing to make space for him and his backpack.

He smiles and takes a seat.

It’s a weird thing being biracial. I’m mixed with two things, but I find myself leaning and relating to one half of myself more than the other. My skin is brown, my hair is tightly curled, and my facial features resemble Mama’s—my black mother who carried me. The world doesn’t really see me as white, so I lean more into Mama’s culture and family than Mom’s, despite how hard she tries to make me like her family. I don’t know. My dad, from what I’m told, is white, but white people kind of make me uncomfortable, and I feel like I always have to walk on eggshells around them. Especially white men. I’ve lived in New York my entire life, have ridden the trains my entire life, but today of all days, I feel uncomfortable sitting next to this white man in scrubs who has a voice like a grandfather. It’d be rude to get up and move…especially since I said I didn’t mind him sitting next to me.

“What would you do if someone gave you $20,000?”

I pretend that my music is too loud and run through my class dance.

He taps my shoulder. “If someone gave you $20,000 what do you think you’d do with it?”

Oh, Dear Lord. What did I do to deserve this? I wasn’t even minding anyone’s business today. I take my headphone out. “I, uh. I’m not really sure.” I clear my throat. “Probably give it to my parents so they can pay mortgage and stuff?”

He nods his head. “Do you mind if I take some notes on what you’re saying?” He pulls out a small, black journal.

“Oh, I—”

“I’m a nurse at a children’s hospital. I try to think of interesting questions to ask them and then journal the responses. I hope to combine them all and make a short story or book one day.” He smiles.

Should I be creeped out by that? It’s sorta sweet…right? “But I’m not a patient of yours, Mr…”

“You can call me Elliot.” he smiles again. “You’re not, but you’re around the age of most of my patients, and I thought maybe you’d have some good responses.”

My stranger-danger alarm stops buzzing. Elliot is just a sweet guy doing research to make sick children smile. He’s definitely not the strangest, white man I’ve encountered on the train. “You said you worked at a children’s hospital. How do you know I’m a child?” I regret the tone of my voice; it sounds like I’m trying to flirt when this dude is probably my parents’ age.

He laughs, probably noticing my ill-formed question. “A father knows when someone’s a child, I think.”

My eyes widen, though I’m unsure why. Of course, he’s also a dad. Why wouldn’t he be? “Are your kids sick at the hospital, too?”

Wait. What? Did I seriously just ask that?

He shakes his head and shifts his body. “No, no,” he says in a whisper, “I actually don’t know my children…or child I should say. I only have one. A little girl…though, she’s not so little anymore. Around your age by now.” he smiles again. “I haven’t seen her in years. Though, I do carry this baby picture around so she’s with me even when she isn’t.” He pats his journal, the corner of a photo sticking out.

“Absentee fathers. I am familiar with them.” Dude. What the fuck is your problem? This word vomit is lethal.

Elliot laughs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t say absentee. I would love to be part of her life, it’s just…” he clears his throat. “Well, see. I’m a sperm donor…or I was way back when, when I was trying to pay for school. And a lovely couple reached out to me when my daughter…their daughter? It’s still a bit confusing sometimes. But they reached out when she was born. Then they sent me a picture of her when she was about four, and I’ve held onto it ever since.” He looks off toward the side, smiling to himself as he reminisces.

“That’s really sweet, actually,” I say. “Have you seen her recently? Or do you have a relationship with her?”

His smile vanishes and he shakes his head. “No, no. We don’t have a relationship. I don’t think she even knows I exist. Well, I’m sure she knows she has a father because two women can’t conceive kids together…yet.” he laughs and nudges my elbow. “But I send her money every year. Send her moms the money, actually…just to help out here and there, ya know?”

I nod. I have no idea. I’m not a parent.

“I’ve been asking the question about $20,000 because I’m going to give the money to them today. I’m on my way there now.” Elliot pats the journal again.

My eyes are about to shoot out of my head. “You’re carrying $20,000 in that journal? Right now!?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Elliot! Do you know how dangerous that is? This is New York!”

“Well, you’re the only one who knows…except me.” Elliot nudges my arm again and laughs. “It’s just a check. Looks like a page in the book anyway.” he shrugs. “I’m going to give her this notebook, too. Lots and lots of stories written in here that she may want to read at some point in life.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. I’ve always wondered about my dad. If he was nice or a drunk like Tommy Lee’s father. Did I have any features of his or did I just look like Mama? Was he married, did he have other kids that he kept, would he wanna know me now? I’m pretty cool…I think. And I’m smart. Surely, I have some kind of redeeming trait that he’d like if he knew me. Or, he could just be some sperm donor who didn’t care about the children he took part in creating. Like Jill Webster’s biological dad. She was disappointed when he slammed the door in her face and told her he had no children. It’s probably reactions like this that kept Mama and Mom from telling me about my dad in detail. All I know is he’s white, well off, and lives in New York. “That’s all you need to know,” they say every time I ask.

The train comes to a stop. Only one more until I’m at the studio, and I may actually make it on time. Ms. Alix is going to be so surprised; she may let us all skip relevés tonight. Eliot gets up and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“This is my stop! It was so great chatting with you, Capri.” He nods his head and jumps off the train before the doors close.

I turn to watch him walk up the steps, disappearing into a blur as the train takes off again. I shake my head. I don’t remember telling him my name. Maybe I did after he told me his? I sigh, feeling the heaviness of my heart lighten a tad. I hope his daughter gets to meet him one day. He seems fantastic.

I jump from my seat, excited that the train stopped again, and I won’t have to do extra work in ballet tonight. My legs are already killing me. I fling my bag over my shoulder and look down at the seat. Elliot forgot his notebook. I pick it up and walk off the train. Maybe I’ll see him again and can give it back to him. It’ll give me a chance to ask him more about his daughter he doesn’t know and if he plans on ever meeting her.

I take the steps two at a time, flipping through his notebook, fascinated with the neatness of his handwriting. The corner of the photo sticks out a little further, and I pull it out to examine it. The city around me becomes white noise. People bump into me, cursing at me to move.

In a pink raincoat and two puffballs of hair is four-year-old me smiling at the camera. My name, Capri Blake, written on the back in Mama’s handwriting.

The photo of me. $20,000 dollars for my moms. And a notebook of entries written by my father.