Free Who Am I Without Him? by Sharon Flake Page A

sun. All of my cousins are like that. Then there’s me and my sister—Cocoa Puffs— that’s what kids in the family call us when the grown-ups aren’t around. I don’t like that.
    Winter pulls out a pen and pencil and tells Johnny to move his chair outta her way. “I’m in charge,” she says, taking over our group.
    Johnny ignores her, then hands me a note to give to a girl who will give it to Wendy.
    â€œSee?” Winter says. “He’s not thinking about you.” She turns to him and snaps her fingers. “You want to be in this group, or what?”
    â€œBe nice,” I whisper. Then I move my chair closer to his.
    For the rest of the period, Winter sticks it to Johnny. She shuts him down when he tries to talk. She suggests that a black girl should steal the boy in our story from his white girlfriend, then waits for Johnny to say something different. He keeps quiet. Then Winter asks him what kind of girls he likes. His cheeks turn pink, and he starts picking at his ears. “I don’t know. Somebody pretty, I guess. With hair down to here,” he says, poking his ribs. My fingers go to the short tight curls on my head. They don’t even reach down to my eyebrows. Winter likes to make people squirm. “You know anything about black girls, Johnny?” “What?” he says, looking back at Wendy. Winter won’t leave him be. “You ever date one?
    A black girl, I mean. Ever had one in your house?” I ask Winter if she ever had a white person over to her house.
    â€œYep,” she says. “The mailman. The insurance man. The police.”
    I keep quiet and wonder why I even hang with her. But I know why. The other black kids can’t stand me.
    Mr. G yells over the first bell. “Five more minutes. Wrap it up, people.”
    Johnny finally answers Winter’s question. “No. I never dated a black girl.”
    Winter goes into her purse, then smears a little grease on her ashy knees. “Ever have one in your house?”
    He pulls at the long white strands on his arm. “Ever have what in my house?”
    â€œA black girl. One of us,” she says, pointing from me to her.
    He raises his hand. “Mr. G, when did you say we had to be finished?”
    â€œIn three, two, one. Pencils down.”
    Johnny looks like he’s glad class is over, even if we’re gonna get in trouble for not completing the assignment. But when Winter tells Mr. G we didn’t get that far, he cuts us a break. Says we can hand it in by the end of the day.
    â€œGuess we have to lunch together,” Winter says, packing up to leave.
    Johnny looks sick when he hears that. “Not me,” he says, reaching for Wendy’s hand and walking out the door.
    Winter and I go sit at the table at the back of the lunchroom where most of the black ninth-graders sit. When kids wanna be smart, they call it Little Africa. That’s why I hardly ever sit there. That’s one reason why the black and Hispanic kids call me a snob. But it’s the third Friday of the month, the day Winter gets her way and we sit where she wants. So here I am.
    â€œMelvin, you know you need your hair braided. I can start it now, finish up later,” Winter says, sitting down.
    Melvin digs in his back pocket for a comb. “Er’ka. Wanna help?” he says, talking to me.
    â€œMy name isn’t Er’ka,” I yell. “It’s Erika. E-r-i-k-a,” I say, thinking about how much I hate the way black boys say my name.
    Winter laughs.
    Melvin puts away the comb. “It’s Erika. So say it the right way—the white way,” he says, looking me up and down. He sucks his front teeth with his tongue like he’s trying to get stuck food out. “You looking for the white kids? They’re over there,” he says, pointing around the cafeteria.
    Winter tells him to chill. I complain about her agreeing to do his hair. She says I