by Kim Johnson
What I don’t say is it’s the talk about the weekends that shuts me out. Mine are filled with prison visits, church, and me babysitting Corinne while Mama and Jamal work.
Angela’s face softens, but she says, “And that has what to do with Jamal’s interview?”
“I work just as hard as everyone does.”
“I never said you don’t work hard,” Angela says. “I said adjust your approach.”
“That’s why I came to talk to you.” I’m tired of explaining to her, so I switch subjects. “I want to be editor next year so I can change things. Make it more inclusive. There’s nobody of color who works on the paper except me and Rosa. That’s a problem.”
“What can I do about you getting the editor role?”
“I’ve worked hard for this. It hasn’t been easy. I’m trying to make the paper something that matters, make an impact. Be real journalists. If Natalie gets the position as editor, we’ll go backward, and I’ll lose ‘Tracy’s Corner.’ Stuck writing about graffiti behind the school or cafeteria exposés. I want to write about real stuff.”
I play up the fact that Angela takes her work seriously. She has always pushed Mr. Kaine to have our stories be meaningful. When “Tracy’s Corner” was up for debate, I wanted to solidify it as a social justice corner, and Angela gave me a vote. Even said my articles about my dad’s case were important. That she learned about her rights with police through my write-ups.
Angela sits down, runs her hands through her blond curls, then ties them up and puts on her glasses. She never wears them outside the newsroom.
“I’m not going to block you, Tracy. But Natalie has some truth to what she’s saying. You aren’t a team player.”
“That’s not—”
“I get why you don’t fit in. Everyone’s got their own interests. But you don’t even give people a chance to try it their own way, because you can’t trust them. If you want to be editor, you have to work with everybody—even if you don’t like them.”
“They don’t like me.”
“Not everyone likes me.”
I scowl. Everybody on the paper likes Angela. Hell, she was homecoming queen.
“What about Jamal?” she says. “He told me he didn’t want to talk about his dad. That your mom wouldn’t allow it. You did it anyway.”
“Because I’ve tried everything else to help my dad. What do I have left to lose? I thought I could get Jamal to talk about it, but he wouldn’t.” I don’t know why I’m telling her all this. Maybe because Jamal won’t talk to me. Maybe because Angela knows how to woo people with her reporter skills to get answers. She set me up for that one.
“Do you really have evidence for your dad? Jamal said it’s bullshit.”
“They never found the murder weapon, and there were no witnesses. There should have been reasonable doubt, but the all-white jury felt otherwise.”
“Do you know much about the missing gun?”
“No.” I pause at the way she asked the question. Like she’s setting me up to give her more information than I planned. I shake off overthinking things. “But I know my dad is innocent. I’m a team player, I swear, and I’ve worked hard to be in the running for editor. But my dad’s in the last year of his life—I was desperate.”
Angela pauses. Her shoulders settle and she lowers her voice. “You think you’re a team player?”
“I am.” I put my hands down in front of me. “I earned the right to be editor. Giving it to anyone else would be wrong, and you know it.”
“Prove it. Prove you can work with me on something, and you won’t go off on your own. You think you can do it, without telling anyone?”
“Of course. I’m loyal.” I know if I work well with Angela, she’ll put in a good word with Mr. Kaine, then secure more votes.
“All right. I’ve got an exposé that’s good for ‘Tracy’s Corner.’ ” Angela sticks her hand out. “Meet me here tomorrow at eight a.m.”
I agree. Then turn to see if I can catch the last half of my first-period class. Angela calls out when I reach the door.
“Don’t tell Jamal we talked.”
I nod, even though her request seems strange. Angela’s always been a straight shooter, so why do I get the sense she might need me as much as I need her?
FLESH AND BLOOD
After school, I walk alone to Herron Media, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. Still, I can’t help but notice an older white lady pull her purse closer as I walk by her on the sidewalk. Her action sends my mind spiraling on high alert to the people around me. Every time there’s a whisper in the ear, a stare in my direction, a flinch from someone passing me. A million subtleties that let me know my place. Branded as an outsider more than seven years ago, like each member of my family. We don’t belong. The Davidsons’ office was in this same business complex, and although Mama and Jamal kept ties, I’ve never felt we were accepted back in the community. Each visit is a reminder that life changed for us.
I snake through the crowd of passersby, turning my head, hoping their focus will be on my big black natural curls that take up their own space, rather than on my face. I used to love having Daddy’s uncharacteristically slender nose, full lips, bright white teeth, and wide smile that used to draw people in, always catching attention. But now when people see me, they perceive something different. Something appalling. Layered with their unforgiving small-town judgment about the family of someone on death row.
If Daddy were here, he’d say, Chin up. Nothing to be ashamed of. His words fill my head like music as I enter the administrative building for Herron Media and wave to Valerie at the reception desk before heading to the staircase.
I make my way upstairs to the third door on the right, the production room. It’s always mesmerizing stepping into the audio room where the commercials and voice-overs are made. The buttons and displays blink like flashing lights in the sky. When the door swings open, my mouth drops.
Jamal freezes, stopping his rubbing all up on Angela, who’s sitting on top of the audio table. Her blond waves are all mussed up, the audio control’s surface out of place, tucked to the side. Although Mr. Herron’s cool for white folk in Texas, he ain’t that cool.
“Tracy.” Angela pushes away from Jamal, fixing her skirt and wiping her lips.
This has to be Jamal’s greatest flaw: a girlfriend for every day of the week and of every race. He doesn’t think twice about who he’s talking to. Society’s double standard. Jamal knows he’d give me a hard time if things were turned around.
“Hmm.” I scowl and raise an eyebrow. “How long’s this been going on?”
Jamal doesn’t answer, so I turn to Angela. “And shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Call me when you’re off.” Angela touches Jamal’s neck, and he covers her hand with his. It’s intimate. I want them to be embarrassed they were caught. Just earlier today she proposed we work on some exposé. Her last words were don’t tell Jamal. What is she up to?
Angela walks past me, all carefree, acting like she doesn’t hold my future as an editor in her hands. Is she playing games with me? And the way she was all up in Chris’s face at school—arguing over something, then making up with him—only to mess with Jamal hours later? She’s got no concern for what kind of harm she could do to my family if Jamal lost his job. This is probably some kind of thrilling dare for her, seeing how far she can take things without getting caught. Then she’ll joke and tell her friends as they laugh at how brave she was for hooking up with Jamal, the son of a killer. How stupid was I to think I could trust her to help me lock down my editor position for next year.
“Really, Jamal?” I punch Jamal’s arm for taking such a chance with Angela, messing around at work. He’s never held the reserved shame like I do, so I’m hoping he’ll feel some kind of semblance of pain this way.
“Why you gotta be like that?�
� Jamal flinches, blocking my hand before I land another punch.
“If you get caught, you could lose your job.”
“I know. I know. But I’m too quick, though. Fastest feet in Texas.”
“Well, you’re not that quick, ’cause I could straight see you as soon as I walked in. What if Mr. Herron came in?”
He should know more than anyone, one slipup and your life can change.
“Here’s some dinner.” I throw the bag on the table, and he starts unwrapping it. “It’s only four o’clock!”
“Gotta keep my energy up.” He scarfs his meal within minutes.
I watch him eat, reminding myself why I’m here.
“I saw Daddy on Saturday.” I pause and run my fingers across the flickering lights on the production board. “I told him about the interview, how it was my fault. He watched. Said we should talk it out. Wants us to stick together.”
“No time to go over spilled milk. I’m working, and it’ll be a late one.” Jamal doesn’t hesitate.
“I can come back after.”
“No. I mean, it’ll be a laaate one tonight.”
Jamal brushes his shoulder to emphasize how fly he thinks he is, then leans at the edge of his stool, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You must be desperate to want to hang out with me when you know you owe me big-time for what you did. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you.”
“Jamal!” I cry out his name. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”
“You don’t wanna hang out with me anyway. Probably saw Mrs. Evans’s car at the store and turned around like a sucka.”
“For a second you had me feeling bad.”
“Please, you ain’t thinking about me. Dean’s mama has you shook, and you don’t know what to do about it.”
“It’s not my fault she acts the way she do. She don’t bother me, though. Dean’s my best friend. Not my boyfriend.”
“Good. Dean’s cool, but you know it’d never work out.”
Inside, I cringe.
“Not that I’m interested, but it doesn’t seem to stop you from messing with Angela.” I force a smirk.
“Not the same, but okay, playa’.”
“Stop.” I wave him off.
“Breaking hearts wherever she goes.” Jamal hits his fist playfully.
“I know what you’re trying to do.” I turn our conversation back. “I know you don’t believe it, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
The door opens; on the other side is Jamal’s best friend, Quincy. Jamal got him a part-time job helping in the mix room.
“What up, T?” Quincy runs his hand along his chin and touches his locs framed around his ears.
I can never tell if Quincy flirts with me only to anger Jamal. I give a shy smile back. We used to be cool before he was shot. Before his dad was killed. That was a long time ago.
“Watch out. Jamal’s on one today.” I pass Quincy.
Quincy follows after me, the hem of his jeans hanging over his shoes, so he drags his leg real smooth and slow. His limp came after the shooting, but it’s now all part of his swagger.
“Where we going?” Quincy asks.
“We are going nowhere.” I smile. “Unless you wanna go through Jamal first?”
“You don’t think I would?” He sidles up next to me. “I’m waiting for my chance.”
Quincy’s got so many girls, I can’t take him seriously.
“Q, I’m right here, dude.” Jamal puffs out, ready to pounce on Quincy from the studio.
He switches back and forth, looking at me, then Jamal.
“Bye, Quincy.” I nudge him gently.
“Tracy.” He touches my arm. “Forget Jamal. He knows you were badass in that interview.”
My cheeks turn hot as I fumble, passing Quincy, who’s holding open the audio room door.
“Hold up, Tracy,” Jamal says. “I’ll be right back, Quincy.”
“A’ight.” Quincy takes a seat in the studio.
Jamal catches up to me and follows me downstairs. When we reach the lobby, Jamal gets serious. He’s done with the jokes.
“How was Pops?” Jamal asks.
The tension building in my chest loosens.
“He was good.” I touch Jamal’s shoulder. We both know Daddy hides things from each of us, and I’m usually the one who gets the real story. “Daddy knows you’d visit every day if you could. He knew why y’all didn’t come on Saturday. He was surprised to even see me that late.”
“Once college starts, I can’t manage every week.”
“He knows,” I say. “Daddy would be disappointed if you did. You need to take care of your business at Baylor.”
“Still…All right, then.” Jamal turns, taking the stairs two steps at a time.
“See you at the house.”
Jamal stops at the top of the stairs, pausing. I wait for him to speak.
“What’s up, Jamal?”
“I’ll be late. I gotta take care of some things. Cover for me with Mama.”
“Yeah.” I pause. “Okay.”
I stop to watch Jamal leave. Puzzled by his response. The first time he said he would be late, he was joking around, but this time there’s a heaviness to his words. Like something else is on his mind, but he just don’t trust me enough to not mess it up.
THE FAST AND
THE FURIOUS
I’m jolted awake by the shuffle of someone in the hallway. I rub my eyes, then realize what it is. Our upstairs toilet runs, especially at night when someone doesn’t give it a good flush. The sound won’t stop, so I force myself up.
I can’t help but run my fingers along the grooves of the walls, knowing Daddy’s the one who put them up. Every ding or repair is unchanged, like he left it. The only thing different in the house is my room. I’ve painted my walls a rotation of colors, hoping one of them would soothe away my bad dreams. Shake up the house enough to look different, but in the dark, I can see it like it was before.
“Hurry up,” I whisper at the bathroom door, so I don’t wake Mama.
Corinne doesn’t answer. When I notice the door is open a sliver, I push it, blink with the bright light blinding me for a second.
Jamal’s splashing water on his face. His eyes are shut as he wrings his hands together over the sink. I rub my eyes because it looks like red water swirling down the drain.
“Damn, Jamal. What happened to you?”
“Shit.” Jamal jumps back, grabbing a towel. His hands are all jittery as he cleans up his face, then bunches the towel into a ball.
I watch the last bit of pink-colored water disappear down the drain.
“Why you always in my business?” Jamal pushes past me, and I’m taken aback at his response. He sounds like he got caught, but I’d already known he’d be in late.
“What’d I catch you doing?” I hit his shoulder, playing around, and he flinches. He’s scared. But of what?
“Jamal. You okay?”
I touch his neck to get the rest of what’s on him off, then I make a face when I realize it’s blood. There’s a long scratch across his neck.
“What happened?” I flick the water on and wash up. “You okay?”
I watch him hard because nothing about this fits his late-night routine. I can’t tell if he’s coming or going. I move to ask another question, but Jamal’s already heading off to his room. He gives me a look like I better keep my promise and not dare wake Mama, then shuts his door.
* * *
I lie restless in bed and listen for movement. The air is thick and hot. There’s heaviness in the atmosphere, like so many nights when the past takes over the present. I try and tell my brain it’s just the wave of an old smell, a phrase someone says that can put me on high alert. I’ve never been able to get over what happened enough to live fully in the now, always rush
back to the night Daddy was taken from us. A moment that won’t erase.
My sense of déjà vu is heightened by the sound of a vehicle riding down our quarter-mile gravel driveway. I listen more closely, and my heartbeat picks up, throbbing when I recognize there must be two or three cars driving way too fast for our road. A minute later, a knock at the door jolts me.
I run down the hallway to the stairs.
“Get back to your room.” Mama’s already at the front door. She waves me away.
“Who is it?” I mean to whisper, but I’m yelling.
She looks through the peephole and rests her face on the door. I see the lights flash blue and red before she confirms it.
“Police,” Mama whispers.
She doesn’t need to say more. Something awful has happened.
Corinne meets me at the stairs in her rainbow pajamas. She clutches her thin arms around me.
“What is it, Tracy?”
“Everything is fine. Go back to bed,” I say, although I’m holding her as tight as she is me.
I want to let her go, but I’m frozen. My heart is beating in my throat, pounding, thrumming out through my ears.
Over my shoulder, I glance at Jamal’s room. There’s no way he’s asleep so fast.
Inside I’m tangled up, searching for a reason why they’re here. If I was standing by Jamal, we could look at each other without saying a word. Just know it’s them that’s wrong, not us. But something went down with Jamal, and whatever it was, I sense I should let him be.
I leave Corinne and make my way downstairs, my Know Your Rights training kicking in.
Mama waves me back, but I don’t stop. I’m concerned it’s gotta be about Daddy.
He’s hurt.
Worse.
“What’s happening?” Corinne calls from the stairs. Her eyes scrunch up like if she thinks real hard, she’ll figure out what’s going on all by herself without having to ask.
I look up one more time at Jamal’s door, but it stays shut. Doubt hits me. He must’ve been on his way out when I saw him. He’s going to trip when he gets home.
