R.L. Thornton Freeway
for Marco Salcedo – I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you, brother. Thanks.
Sandra’s eighteen years old and she’s got a tattoo. Her parents know nothing about it. The tattoo is part of a Robert Frost poem, one called “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” On the pale skin just under her right breast, in black ink, is the poem’s final stanza:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Sandra’s careful about what she wears so that her parents will never find out about the tattoo. Tonight, she’s got on an old white t-shirt and her favorite faded denim jacket. It’s a Saturday night in April and Sandra’s waiting for Jacob Turner—Jake—to pick her up from her house. They’re going to the theater together; Jurassic Park’s just been re-released in 3D. Sitting at the old desk in her dim bedroom, Sandra looks down and questions the few wrinkles on the part of her white t-shirt that covers her belly. should i put on something else no it should be fine i like this will he like this will he think i am messy no no he will like it where is he now
* * *
Both Sandra and Jake have been going to Thornton High School for four years, now, but it wasn’t until more than half her Senior year had passed when she met Jake—found him, really. In December, after the final school bell had rung, Sandra walked over to the classroom of her favorite teacher: Mrs. Kilgore. She wanted to ask the English teacher for a letter of recommendation—Sandra needed one to send along with her application to Washington and Lee University. Without knocking, Sandra stepped inside. She looked around the room—dim now in the weak sunlight of a winter sunset—and noticed Mrs. Kilgore was missing. She did, however, find a boy writing at a desk. With nothing else to focus her attention on, Sandra gave him a look. he looks familiar, Sandra thought. Then he looked up from his paper.
“Hey” she said before the boy could speak. “Where’s Mrs. Kilgore?”
“Um,” he replied, then thought for a moment. Sandra took another look at the navy polo shirt the boy wore; unlike her own, his was from a designer brand. “She said she had make some copies of a short story for tomorrow,” the boy said, “so she’s in the teacher’s lounge. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
“Oh,” Sandra said. She stopped to think. Sandra thought that since she drove own Camry to school, she could wait—she had no bus to catch or ride waiting on her. “I’ll just wait here for her to get back” she said. Sandra heard a group of loud students starting to walk down the hall. Then she asked: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Yeah, I think so” he said. He finally put his pen down. “You’re in Kilgore’s AP English class, right?”
“Yeah,” Sandra said, “for third period.”
The boy started to smile. “Oh. I have her for second period, for normal English” he said. “I think I see you whenever you’re comin’ in and I’m leaving!”
“Ohhh okay, now that makes sense” she said. She couldn’t stop from looking at the big grin on his pimple-less face. he’s so freakin’ cute when he smiles
For a moment neither of them said anything, but then the boy spoke up: “What’s your name?”
“Sandra Richardson” She started smiling, too. “What’s your name?”
“Jake Turner” he said. “Jacob, really, but everyone just calls me Jake.”
how does this guy not get any acne how lucky, Sandra thought.
From then on, it looked to Sandra as if Jake had on a new polo every day; she started going to Mrs. Kilgore’s after school was over to see what color he wore that day and to check how well it compliment his smile—and more often than not, Mrs. Kilgore was off printing copies in the teacher’s lounge. As their graduation day grew closer, they started to share more and more things with one another—books, CDs, secrets. So, on one afternoon in early April, when Jake wore a maroon polo, Sandra shared with him her secret tattoo.
“You’ve got a tattoo!?” he said with face full of shock. “I would’ve never guessed that!”
Sandra felt her cheeks get warm and grow rosy did i share too much does he not like tattoos was that a mistake
“What’d you get a tattoo of?” he asked.
She looked down at the book Jake was reading at his desk—Sandra loaned him her copy of Fahrenheit 451.
“It’s from a poem,” Sandra said. “By Robert Frost—you ever read him?”
“Yeah! I know of him! What poem?”
“It’s called ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ Do you know that one?”
“I don’t really think so.” Jake said. Sandra could see him struggling to remember the names of every poem he’d ever read. “What’s it say?” he said, “What’s it about?”
do i show him do i lift up my shirt and show him no he will see the bra he will see my skin no i cant do that yet Sandra thought for a moment. “J.F.K. used to quote it a lot” she said, finally. “I got the tattoo the day after I turned eighteen. My sister Jessica took me out to Deep Ellum and it was sort of a surprise. I didn’t know what to get. When I got onto the tattoo guy’s table, I had to hurry up and pick something. Then I remember driving by that Kennedy Memorial, downtown, and that made me think of Robert Frost—so I told the tattoo guy I wanted a poem!”
“I think that’s really cool!” Jake said. Sandra couldn’t have helped but notice the way he kept his dark brown eyes fixed on her story. He had the same gaze Sandra would often make when she stared at her own tattoo through the wooden standing mirror in her bedroom—a mirror Jessica gave her before moving away for college.
Sandra listened as a custodian pushed a wobbly plastic trach can down the hallway.
“What are you doing, Saturday night?” Jake said, breaking what seemed to be a quiet but comfortable spell.
“Ummm” Sandra stopped to think, “Well my mom’s out visiting Jessica in Virginia—”
“Virginia?” Jake chopped in. “Really? Why?”
Sandra smiled. “That’s where Jessica lives, now—in Lexington. She got into Washington and Lee University. I wanna go there, too—with Jessica!”
“Oh I see!” Jake smiled now, too. “That’s so cool. I’m thinkin’ about going to UTD, that’s where my sister went!” Sandra remembered how Jake had said something before about wanting to study engineering. “Well,” Jake continued, “would it be alright to see a movie, Saturday night?”
“My dad’s still here, though,” Sandra said, “but I don’t think he really cares what I do. You know what he told me the other day? Right after he got back from taking my mom to DFW airport? He said he wasn’t really sure what to do with me.” She tilted her head towards the cream-colored linoleum tiles of the classroom floor. “We really aren’t very close. He’d probably faint if he ever found out that I have a tattoo. But I told him not to worry—I would take care of myself until mom got back.”
Jake chuckled. “Cool. Alright. I’ll get tickets for Jurassic Park—”
“No, it’s okay, I can buy my own—”
“No it’s fine! I’ll get ‘em,” Jake cut in before Sandra could finish. “It’s out in 3D now! It’ll be fun!”
Sandra smiled along with Jake. She felt the room start to heat up, but it may have just been the bright spring Texas sun peeking through the window.
“Is it alright if I pick you up around six?” he said.
Sandra felt her cheeks get warm but she couldn’t tell if she was blushing. “Sounds good!” she said.
* * *
Still seated at her desk, Sandra looks over at the red LEDs of her little alarm clock that tell her it’s now 5:55 PM. Then she looks out her window to the street in front of her house. wonder where he is how far away is he now where could he be She doesn’t have to wonder for long—a small red sports car pulls up and parks on the street and next to the walkway leading to her front door. For a moment, the car is still and, because of the spanning darkness of the night, Sandra can’t see anything moving inside the car. Then the driver side door opens—Sandra watches as Jake steps out of the car. Her heart, or something else sacred in her chest, feels like it is blooming. A warm, familiar form of fog spreads through her chest and into her head and hands and thighs and toes.
“Hey!” Jake says once she opens the front door for him. “I like your outfit!”
i knew you would, Sandra thinks in relief. She follows Jake to his car—it’s an older sports car, she notices—but in good shape: no dents or scrapes or peeling paint. Sandra waits for Jake to open the passenger door for her. She sees—smells—the leathers seats, seats cleaner the ones in her Camry. smells kinda like a thrift store
On the freeway now, Sandra looks up and reads the exit signs along the way while they both listen to Jake’s CD: Channel Orange, by Frank Ocean. They’re about five minutes away from the theater when she starts thinking about a name on one of the signs: R.L Thornton Freeway. The name’s everywhere—it’s the city’s name, the high school’s name, the freeway’s name—Sandra had even applied for a scholarship named for R.L Thornton.
“I read something the other day,” Sandra says as she turns the volume knob on Jake’s stereo down, “in a book Jessica left at home. R.L. Thornton was a Klansman, in the 1920s. He was a racist. Can you believe that? The R.L stands for Robert Lee, after Robert E. Lee.” She turns to look at Jake, waiting for his response.
He doesn’t turn to look at her—he keeps his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the freeway even though there aren’t any others cars around them.
“Isn’t that crazy? Sad?” Sandra says. “This whole place’s named for a racist.”
Jake keeps his gaze on the road. Sandra watches as his designer clothes pulse with every passing street light. “Did you know,” he says, finally, “that Robert Frost’s middle name is Lee? Robert Lee Frost, after Robert E. Lee. But you wouldn’t call him a racist, now, would you?”
Silence. Sandra shifts her face away from Jake and towards the windshield. “No” she says after a while. She turns her head to her right and looks out the window, at the blurry world whirling by her. The street lights give it all an orange shade. did i really put the words of a racist on my own body did i really brand myself no no no thats not right that cant be right thats just not true
“Why does it even matter?” Jake says, halting her thoughts. “You’re applying for Washington and Lee University, anyway, too. It shouldn’t bother you.”
i only really wanna go out there cause jessicas there Sanda thinks, but she can’t find the voice for these thoughts.
“You do know that the Lee in Washington and Lee stands for Robert E. Lee, right?” Jake says. “He was the president there. Robert E. Lee wasn’t just a general. And R.L. Thornton has a statue in Fair Park, too, so he can’t be all that bad. I hate how people always wanna talk bad about white people. Don’t you hate when they talk down about you?”
Speechless. She feels her eyes and lips lock up in the tense air now surrounding her. Sandra’s realizes—remembers—that Jake doesn’t know who she really is. She realizes, now, that Jacob Tuner only knows Sandra Richardson—the eighteen-year-old senior at Thornton High School—and not Cassandra Richardson, the mixed daughter of a White father and Mexican mother—Cassandra who should have browner skin like her cousins who can actually speak Spanish and who have a Mexican father and not just a Mexican mother—Cassandra whose skin is lighter—paler—than it should be only because she stays inside, out of the Texas sun’s greedy reach, reading and writing and studying a lot—Cassandra who’s named after her mother’s mother who’s never set foot on American soil. He doesn’t know Cassandra, just Sandra—Sandra Richardson with a hidden Robert Frost—Robert Lee Frost—poem under her right breast.
* * *
The theater’s packed—it’s opening weekend, after all. Sandra and Jake sit in the back row, far from the screen. Sandra refused Jake when he offered to buy her something from the concession booth, but now she can smell the countless buttered buds of popcorn that are being eaten, piece by piece, all around her and she almost begins to regret her decision.
It’s the part of the movie, now, when the scientist arrive at the visitor’s center—right after the big scene where they show the first dinosaurs and when all the violins playing the Jurassic Park theme song.. Sandra watches as Jake lifts up the armrest that had separated her from him. She sees him shift further to the right, away from her, and then slowly lower his head down onto her exposed lap. if only i had a bag of popcorn to hold In the darkness of the theater, light bounces off the screen on back onto Jake’s face. Sandra see parts of his face glowing from the reflection of the screen the way that moonlight shines off a person’s face in the night. With all the movement and changes in the scene, light dances all around Jake’s face. Sandra knows that this position—Jake’s soft, acne-free head resting safely and firmly on top of her pale thighs—means that he wants Sandra to play with his hair—to slowly pass her fingers through his dark hair. But she’s shocked—her arms—her fingers—are swallowed by the darkness of the theater. Sandra can’t feel her limbs—they’re not numb, but missing. does he really want a mexican girl to play with his hair no no he doesnt even know who i really am he doesnt even know my real name will he care will he hate me Sandra keeps her arms and hands at her side. She feels herself become part of the seat she’s sitting in—nobody, not even Jake resting in her lap, can tell if she is breathing.
* * *
Driving down the other side of the freeway now, Sandra keeps her thoughts tied together inside her head as Jake listens to older rock record she’s never heard before. Sandra sees the sign again—R.L. Thornton Freeway. Then she starts to feel her tattoo sear her skin. Her flesh stings like from the venom of a cruel wasp. Sandra thought that her tattoo might start bleeding again—she wants to check under her denim jacket to see if cold red blood blots are staining her white t-shirt. miles to go miles to go miles Sandra feels a soreness bloom from inside her chest, close to the soreness she felt in the days after the days when she left the tattoo shop with Jessica. With every passing exit sign she sees, Sandra hopes more and more that one morning she will wake up, throw off her goose down comforter, rise out of bed, pull off her shirt and find only bare, clean skin on her ribs—no poetry, no blood.
Finally, Jake pulls into Sandra’s street—Longshadow Lane. Sandra watches as Jake parks beside her house and turn off the engine. There’s only silence for a while. The space between Sandra and Jake grows dense, grows thick and grows tense—breathing gets harder—she feels her thoughts condense into a silent ocean of discomfort. Sandra looks over to her house and finds no light in any of the windows. Jake asks: “Sandra, can I kiss you?”
“No” she says. Jake stares at her but says nothing. “You know, you don’t even know my name” Sandra says. She takes a breath—she’s no longer drowning in that ocean.
“Sandra Richardson, right?” Jake says with clear unease.
“No,” Says Sandra, “Cas-sandra Richardson.” She reaches for the handle beside her, pushes the door open and steps out. Sandra walks up, alone, to her front door without turning around. It doesn’t matter if Jake says anything or chases after her—Sandra’s swift stride towards the door, in the dark, looks like the unstoppable motion of a falling star. She reaches and quickly finds her keys resting in her little brown leather purse and opens her door. As soon as Sandra’s inside, she hears Jake’s car start up again. She closes the door and listens as he drives off down the street. thank god dads not awake
* * *
Sandra drives straight home after school, now. She no longer cares about the color of Jake’s polo.
One afternoon, in May, she parks her car by the front of her house—next to her mailbox. Sandra gets out to open the little door of the mailbox and reaches inside. Two envelopes and something else: A letter from her mother’s mother, a letter from Washington and Lee University, and her old dog-eared copy of Fahrenheit 451. Sandra holds the book in her hands and remembers Jake leaning over with his head resting in her lap, light dancing on his face. She flips open the cover and finds a note written inside:
Hope you get into Washington & Lee. I know you’ll do well there and I miss seeing you after school Casandra.
Sandra grins. i cant believe he spelt my damn name wrong She holds back a giggle. Sandra tosses the book into the backseat of her Camry. Then she opens the letter from her mother’s mother. On a sheet of faded lined paper, Sandra reads a poem she asked her mother’s mother to translate into Spanish:
este bosque es hermoso, oscuro y profundo
pero tengo peromesas que cumplir
y mias parar ir ante de dormir
y mias parar ir ante de dormir
Sandra will tattoo these words under her left breast, opposite from the Frost poem. She folds the paper, carefully, and slips it into the pocket of her olive shirt. Although Sandra’s faded denim jacket was her favorite piece of clothing, she would call her olive shirt the luckiest. Sandra rips open the letter from Washington and Lee:
It is with great enthusiasm that we welcome you, Cassandra Richardson, to the Washington and Lee University undergraduate class of 2017. . .
She dashes to the front door, shouting for her Mexican mother and White father.
a young writer from the lone star state 