by Kekla Magoon
He’s right. The gathered faces didn’t flinch when we drew our weapons. Not a good sign.
O’Donnell’s radio hums with static. “Sit rep, O’Donnell. Stable?”
O’Donnell squeezes the button at his shoulder. “That’s a negative,” he reports. “This side is hostile.”
“Status?”
“We’ve had to draw weapons.”
Brief silence. Then, “How many are you looking at?”
O’Donnell looks at me. I shrug. Glance at crowd. I’m no expert. I shrug back, hold up two fingers. Best guess.
“Can’t tell for sure. A couple hundred, easy,” O’Donnell says.
“All hostile?”
O’Donnell speaks into his radio. “They refuse to disperse,” he reports. “They’re behind the line but only for now.”
“Pull back,” comes the order over the radio. “Tactical unit coming in.”
We don’t turn our backs to the crowd. We amble, toe to heel, in reverse.
“We need masks,” O’Donnell says. “Asap.”
“Masks?” I echo.
The canisters whistle overhead, each trailing an arc of smoke. The white-gray cloud that billows up sets people choking.
The line we held firm for hours is shattered. So long, tenuous peace. The string of yellow tape bursts and drifts to the ground as people run and scream.
KIMBERLY
“Her body is still in the street?” Zeke says. “What’s it been?”
The clock reads 11:27. Six hours exactly since I looked last. Dang, I really need to get home. I have to be up to work morning hours at the salon, and then back here for a couple of hours in the late afternoon.
Even though this organizing work feels more important than cutting hair, SCORE isn’t what pays the bills.
“I really have to get home,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve gone above and beyond tonight,” Zeke says. “Thank you for all your hard work.”
I gather my purse, for real this time. “I can come back tomorrow as soon as I’m done at my job.”
He nods. “We’re going to need all hands on deck.”
The rest of the UCC is usually bustling, compared to the SCORE office. Tonight it’s past closing. Everything is quiet. The community room with all its colorful chairs, unoccupied, feels strange and ghostly. In the dim light, the carpet looks worn, the chairs well used and wonky. Amazing, how people and voices and chaos can make a space come alive.
The building is silent and yet there’s noise. Faraway noise pressing toward me from someplace beyond.
The front doors of the place are two tall wooden arches. This part of the building is historic. They’re locked. I’m never here this late. I forgot that the staff entrance is around the side.
A heavy knock comes at the wooden door. Again. It shakes in the frame.
“Hey,” says a voice. “Hey, anyone home? Help!”
My feet take me back a step, even as my arms stretch forward to open the door. Pause. “Who’s there?”
“This Rico. Yvonne? Open up!”
There is a big brass key sticking out of the right-hand door. My fingers start to grasp it when there’s a sound like glass shattering.
“Shit. Help! Open up!” The voice grows more urgent.
My fingers are on the key ready to turn, but I’m scared now. “Come to the side door,” I say. “I can open that one.” The staff entrance is a glass door. I want to know exactly what is on the other side before I make a mistake.
On the other side of the glass, people are running, shouting, frantic. The strobe of police lights echo against the bricks.
A light-skinned man with a scraggly beard lurches around the corner, his eyes wide and fearful.
“Rico?”
“Where’s Yvonne?” He’s holding his hand to his head. Blood seeps between his fingers.
“Come in,” I say. Maybe I’m not supposed to, but there’s an instinct when someone is bleeding in front of you. Rico staggers forward. I settle him at the social services intake desk, which is the closest thing. “Wait here.”
The clinic is on the back side of the building. We share a wall and a door, but it’s locked.
Zeke startles when I burst back into the office. “Oh, you scared me. I thought you left.”
“It’s—go look. It’s loud out there.”
“Whoa.” Zeke moves up beside me. His hands wrap warm and firm around my arms, just above the elbow. He’s touching me. “Everything okay?”
“Yes—” That’s the automatic answer. His thoughtful frown pulls the truth out of me. His hands on my arms make me safe to say it. “Actually, no. I don’t think everything is okay.”
TINA
It is hard to sleep
the world sounds like broken bottles
smells like gasoline and fire
looks like police in boots and helmets
it is bad enough to hear all the sounds
without the crying smoke
Mommy comes into my room
into my bed and holds me
she teaches me the names for things
which helps
riot gear tear gas Molotov cocktail
we have plenty of reasons to cry tonight
other than tear gas
which really doesn’t help anything at all
ROBB
After midnight, and it’s still totally lit in Underhill. A bunch of guys from my floor are clustered into the lounge watching the coverage. Basically everyone, except Tyrell, the math-headed recluse. How’s this for math? If everyone else is doing something maybe you should be doing it too.
The footage right now is a split screen, between a distinguished-looking news anchorman, and Peach Street in Underhill. The street is crowded with people chanting, surging toward a growing wall of police with riot gear. The camera angle juggles and adjusts from time to time. It must be a handheld, and they’re walking around trying to cover what’s happening.
The live footage turns cloudy with smoke.
“Oh, shit,” says someone behind me. “No way.”
“Way,” says DeVante. “Remember Baltimore? Ferguson?”
Urgent, pounding music echoes from the television. A looming voiceover announces This is a National News Network Special Update. Breaking News.
A familiar reporter’s face comes on. The hot chick with the big lips. “Tensions are escalating tonight in Underhill, at the scene of the police-involved shooting of thirteen-year-old Shae Tatum earlier tonight. We’re receiving reports that police have deployed tear gas canisters in their efforts to maintain control of the crowd.”
The live image is blurring and jouncing at the same time. Smoke and silence come from that side of the screen. Then the live feed cuts away, and we see the scene from an angle, from a different camera, with plumes of tear gas rising up in the near distance. The slim blond man on screen has a cloth pressed to his face with one hand, and a microphone in the other. Screaming, crying, furious people run in all directions around him.
Hot chick continues, “Reporters on the ground estimate that several hundred people have gathered to protest in Underhill tonight. We’re live with the ongoing coverage. National correspondent Sean Toffee is on the scene in Underhill. Sean?”
She sorts the papers on her desk and the lapels of her tailored suit jacket widen, giving a better shot of her chest.
“Daaaaamn,” I groan. “Can we get a scroll bar with her number?”
A few guys laugh. Tom, a senior, smacks me on the back of my head. “Get a grip, dude. There’s rioting.”
I roll my eyes. Come on, can’t I think a girl is hot and still care about, like, race relations?
Wick, my next-door neighbor, says, “Leave it to Robb to try to get laid in the middle of a national crisis.”
DeVante says, “Rioting? That’s a white man’s word.”
We all look at him. Everyone in the room is white, except DeVante and two Asians. I mean, a Filipino and a … I forget. Chinese, maybe. W
hatever—he grew up in Portland.
“Dude, there are people throwing shit through windows,” says Wick. “How is that not a riot?”
“Sounds like a reasoned response to militaristic policing,” DeVante answers.
I squint at him. “What the fuck are you talking about, bro?”
He throws a couch pillow at me. “I’m not your bro.”
The pillow comes hard, like a brick. I block with my forearms. Weird. He’s not the type to get worked up. DeVante’s usually pretty chill.
“Sorry,” I say. And I mean it. Maybe it feels particularly shitty to see rioting when you’re black. I don’t know.
“Wait,” Wick says. “So, you’re cool with rioting?”
DeVante sighs. “The point is, it’s more complicated.”
“Of course it is,” says one of the Asians. The Filipino.
DeVante says, “Everyone wants to say violence isn’t the answer. You have to remember that violence is also the question. That’s what we don’t talk about.”
ZEKE
The Underhill Community Center’s front doors are open. I stand beneath the wooden archway, trying to look fierce. I’m no kind of security guard, but I’m all we’ve got.
Yvonne bursts in the side door and immediately draws up short. Kimberly freezes amid her collection of wounded neighbors and shivering homeless people. It’s not that I thought she was wrong to bring people in, but it was definitely a bold move. Without permission. And now we face the music.
Yvonne sighs. “I wondered why all the lights were on.”
“What are you doing back?” I’m relieved to see Yvonne but she took a big risk venturing out to get here.
“It’s my job, honey,” she says.
“So, you’re not mad?” Kimberly asks.
“This is what a community center is for,” Yvonne says. “If we don’t open our doors now, what good are we?” She pulls out her big ring of keys. “Who wants to bust into the clinic with me?”
Kimberly follows Yvonne down the hall. I pull more paper cups and paper towels out of the supply closet.
Our little crowd has grown to about twenty-five. People seeking shelter, seeking warmth, seeking first aid.
We distribute blankets from the clinic, stragglers continue to dribble in. We stick on bandages, bust out crackers and peanut butter, read news updates out loud to the room. By the middle of the night—middle of the morning, really—things seem to have calmed down.
“How are you all getting home?” Yvonne asks. “Anyone need a ride?”
“I’ve got my car,” I say. “I can bring Kimberly home.”
Loud and renewed sirens pick up out front.
“On second thought,” Yvonne says. “Better to wait for first light.”
Kimberly and I retreat to the SCORE office with a couple of blankets. The chairs are not that comfortable in here, and we’re both too exhausted anyway.
“I have to lie down,” Kimberly says. She goes behind the other desk and pushes the chair away. She curls up in the space under the desk. I completely get the impulse, to pack yourself away in a small space, safe, with walls on all sides.
“Here.” I spread the blanket over her and sort of tuck her in. Maybe it’s weird to do that. I pull my hands back just in case.
“Thanks.” She smiles up at me. So pretty. Sleepy eyes are kinda sexy, I guess. Meanwhile she’s probably like, Why are you still sitting here touching my blanket?
“Well, I hope you can get some rest.”
“We did a good thing,” she says.
“You did this.” I would have stayed back here in the office all night, not helping anybody.
“Different kinds of helping.” She yawns.
“I guess…”
Her face slackens in sleep before I can come up with the rest of what I want to say. I scoot a few feet farther away and lie down with my back against the wall. Far enough to be proper, but where I can still see her.
Different kinds of helping. Kimberly’s good on her feet, quick thinking. I like to plan. Days, weeks, months in advance. But tonight we took care of things, together. We’re a good team, I think.
STEVE CONNERS
“I’m worried,” my wife says. “Will should really be home by now.”
She seems small all of a sudden, curled against my side. I know she’s worried. I’ve known it for hours, and yet the calm quiet truth is somehow more startling than anything that came before. We’ve crossed over, out of the yelling and weeping and the pacing and the “When I get my hands on him…”
The clock reads close to midnight, and he’s not answering his phone.
“We should call the police,” I say.
She freezes in my arms. “No. I don’t want them looking for him.”
“What?”
“The news,” she murmurs. “They’ll be trigger-happy tonight.”
Sometimes I forget, the difference between walking down the street looking clean-cut and grown, in a suit, and being a teenage boy you can’t wrestle out of a hoodie. Those damn low-slung jeans.
I shouldn’t forget.
“You think he’s in Underhill.” I mean for it to be a question, but it comes out flat.
“That boy should know better,” she snaps.
“Maybe he has a girlfriend,” I say. “Maybe they lost track of time.”
“Hmmph.” She shoots me sharp side-eye. If Will walks in fine, and it turns out he was with a girl, she’ll grill him sideways … and not about being late.
“I’ll take a look in his room, okay?”
She says nothing. Wants it done, but doesn’t want to grant permission.
It is a trespass. And yet in the moment it feels right. Needed.
A slight laundry-hamper odor hits as soon as I open the door. Random piles of dirty socks are to be expected from teenagers, I’m told. It’s not terrible. His room is not as neat as the rest of the house, is all. It would be hard to be; I keep things crisp. But he’s a good kid.
His walls are covered with drawings. He’s really quite talented. I feel somewhat objective in saying that, since I’m only his stepfather. We’ve grown closer in the last couple of years. But it was hard at first. To adjust to a small person’s energy and whims whipping through my condo. Now the space is all of ours, more fully than I could have imagined.
Most of his schoolbooks are piled on the bed. The guilt surges up through my chest. He’s a good kid. It’s not my place to do what I’m about to do.
I lift his pillow. Nothing. Kneel by the bed, lift the tails of the comforter, which is already in disarray. Covering my tracks will not be a problem.
How many socks does this child own? And how can they all be dirty? They are knotted like fists and they multiply when I touch them.
The never-ending laundry is concealing a stack of thin gray binders. They are so chock full of page protectors that they are widened like shark jaws. It looks scholarly and illicit. The one on top is full of Polaroids of graffiti art and murals, neatly organized in photo-protector slots. The older ones have regular photos, index card sketches, and random slips of paper poking out.
I gave him the Polaroid camera for Christmas. I thought he’d find it fun, and he seemed to really love it. Now I can see that he really does. He’s taken dozens of photos. The album is almost full.
The art is striking.
I know Will admires street art. He comments on it all the time, if we pass some. He’s got an eye for it, too. He can talk about what works and doesn’t in even a small patch of color on some bricks.
He’s much more into it than I realized, I guess. And he has a favorite artist, apparently. All of these pieces are signed with the same little squiggle: eMZee.
JENNICA
The customer bell over the door jangles at 11:58. I hope it’s not a regular. I’m not inclined to give anyone a break right now, when we’re about to close.
“Not a chance,” mutters Troy, the line cook. He’s already shut down the fryers and he’s scraping grime off the
griddle. “Send them packing.”
“Yeah, got it.” The half door to the kitchen is still swinging as I push back through it.
Oh. It’s a regular, all right.
“Hey, Brick.”
“Hi, Jen.” There’s no one else left in the diner except Troy, but Brick still shortens my name. Easier that way.
“You know we close at midnight, yeah?”
Brick nods. “I came to take you home.”
Oh. He’s done this before. It’s awkward. I don’t mind that much when he comes at night, to sit at the counter and keep me company if business is slow, like earlier. It’s sweet.
Ever since Noodle and I split up, I stopped hanging with his boys. No one seems to care except for Brick, who keeps coming around. I don’t mind, it’s just awkward, because sometimes it seems like maybe he wants more from me. But he’s never so much as leaned in.
I close down the diner. Grab the to-go container of salad and chicken strips Troy prepared for me after Kimberly texted to say she was not going to be home in time to pick up our usual pizza.
The chaos in the neighborhood is worse than it looks on TV. One small lens can only hold so much. The diner is ten blocks from home. A comfortable walk on a normal night. Tonight the sidewalks are full of people running and shouting.
It’s not a bad idea to be with Brick. I’m safe, riding with him. The leader of the 8-5 Kings. Nobody will touch us. His low red car is a bubble floating on the surface of things. Out the windshield, it’s as if I’m still viewing it all on a screen. I don’t want it to come any closer.
At the stoop, I unlock the door and turn to him. If he comes in, it will get extra awkward. There’s a line we cannot cross, and it’s unclear whether he knows it. He’s looking at me with those eyes that seem to see something in me. But I can’t have it. The best choice is to lean in and kiss him on the cheek. Quick and gently. “Thanks.”
He squeezes my shoulders. “You know I got you.”
Once he’s moved back down the stairs, I go inside. I let myself into the apartment. Kimberly’s still not home. I text her:
