Light It Up

by Kekla Magoon

  I’m home. Where are you? You safe?

  She answers:

  Safe. At UCC, helping out. Don’t leave home!

  I curl up on the couch to wait.

  @WhitePowerCord: #Underhill What a mess. Barricade them in! Let them destroy themselves. It wont take long.

  @Viana_Brown: Protest is our right. Our voices matter. Our lives matter! #Underhill

  @Momof6: Doesn’t anyone trust cops’ judgment anymore?

  @BrownMamaBear: What will it take for black children to walk safe in their own neighborhoods? #BlackChildrenMatter

  @WesSteeleStudio: White officer on duty, black suspect dead. Guess who’s under the microscope? THE WAR ON POLICE IS REAL. Click here for Wes Steele’s latest hot take. #SteeleStudio

  @KelvinX_: Will someone please take this asshole’s microphone? I’m busy. #UnderhillRiot

  @WhitePowerCord: TRUTH WILL OUT. #HeroCop

  @KelvinX_: There isn’t a shovel big enough for @WesSteeleStudio’s bullshit. Anti-white racism is not a thing. Cops are the aggressors. Just look at #Underhill tonight.

  @WhitePowerCord: Can’t handle the truth? We will hand you your ass. #WhiteMightWhiteRights

  @KelvinX_: All those who feed on the racist White-Power structure will eventually starve. Our day of liberation is coming. #UnderhillRiot

  @WhitePowerCord: Fuck these niggers. We’re gonna take it to them where they live. #MakeItKnown

  @KelvinX_: Give us equality or face the consequences. #YouHaveBeenWarned #UnderhillRiot

  DAY TWO:

  THE AFTERMATH

  PEACH STREET

  In the light of day, the street appears unchanged. The feeling in the air, the one that can’t be shaken, is intangible.

  The people step gingerly as they go about their business. So as not to break the silence. They scurry heavily. The cold is bone deep.

  They avert their eyes from the caution tape. Caution is in their blood.

  WITNESS

  You wake, and it’s already in your bones. The memory of what you’ve seen. You can’t shake it.

  You pour coffee, and it looks like pavement. You crisp some toast and it looks like skin. You make the bed and it looks like that moment when they pull a sheet over the body.

  You can’t shake it. The house is full of things that speak of girlhood.

  Your daughters’ pink socks.

  Their dolls.

  The glitter explosion of art magnetted to the fridge.

  A robot dressed like a princess sits in the middle of the dining room table, its neck cocked like it’s ready to listen.

  These things make you inexplicably angry.

  Well, not inexplicably. You understand where it comes from and that understanding only amplifies the anger.

  Things of innocence should not spark rage. Things of innocence should not spark fear. Things of innocence should go on and on and on, until they end in something poignant, beautiful. Should go on and on, until they grow.

  JENNICA

  “Hey,” Kimberly is saying. “Do you want to sleep some more here, or move to your bed?”

  Groan. Stretch. The couch blanket feels thin and the chill of the night has already reached my bones. “What time is it?”

  Her warm weight settles beside me. Her hip fills the arc between my chest, stomach, and thighs. My knees curl up, as if I can tuck her into me. A reflex. She runs her hand softly over my back. When I shiver, she strengthens her touch.

  “You okay?”

  My brain is fuzzy. Half-sleepy. “I guess.”

  “You’re cold. Come on into your bed.” She tugs. I moan. This is familiar. Sometimes we fall asleep on the couch, trying to watch one more episode of whatever we’re into. Then one of us wakes up in the middle of the night and has to drag the other one up. My sleep brain would rather stay in this semi-warm spot that is really not warm enough.

  My bedsheets will be cold at first. Kimberly pulls me down the hall anyway. She folds back the bedding and I crawl in.

  Pale light streams in through the blinds.

  “It’s almost morning.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “It just got clear enough to come home.”

  I’ve slept through some crazy, is what it sounds like.

  “What’s going on out there?” I split the blinds’ slats. The street looks like the street usually does. “You only just got home?”

  “Yeah. It was … bad. For a while.” Her voice is strained.

  I’m awake now. “Did you get any sleep?” I grasp her hand, and she slides into the bed beside me. She’s warm.

  “A few hours at the center. Wait,” she says. She leaves the room. Comes back a minute later, in soft pants and oversized T-shirt. Pecking at her phone in her hand. She plugs it in to charge. “I have to get up for work in like two hours.”

  “Ugh.”

  She climbs back in with me. “Zeke was there,” she says. “I was kind of waiting for him. If I’d left on time, I would have missed the whole thing.”

  I’m sleepy again. I tuck my hand under my cheek and yawn to signal it. “So you got to hang out?”

  “Yeah, and it was crazy and busy and everything, but…”

  “What?”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “What?”

  “There was this moment, I don’t know, where it seemed like maybe he wanted to kiss me?”

  I used to think it was easy to tell when a guy was interested. If they’re into you, they try to get with you. Period. They’re not subtle. But thinking about Brick lately … it’s not so clear anymore.

  “He should want to kiss you,” I say. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

  Kimberly scoots closer and I roll to meet her. Wrap my arm around her stomach, rest my head on her shoulder. Sometimes it is best not to be all alone.

  TINA

  I like to run, I love to skip

  I own many, many hats

  When it is dark I go fast

  too

  When it is cold, I go faster

  still

  Momma holds my hand

  Not too fast.

  Slow down, baby girl.

  Not everyone has a Momma

  you’re

  Not always with your Momma

  outside

  WILL/EMZEE

  The shower steam follows me into the hallway. Soapy heat collides with the scent of frying bacon.

  Great. The last thing I need today is a man-to-man breakfast with Steve.

  Sure enough, Steve’s the one at the stove and Mom is nowhere to be seen. We have Pop-Tarts, right? I slink toward the pantry. Steve’s back is turned but my growling stomach gives me away.

  “Really?” he says. “It’s so bad you’re gonna skip out on eggs and bacon?”

  Caught.

  “Whatever.” I throw myself into a kitchen chair. Who am I to turn down first-class service?

  “Order’s up!” Steve smiles.

  “Eggs and bacon, hold the lecture.”

  “Eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit.” He sets the plate in front of me. And a mug. “Hot chocolate.”

  With whipped cream? Hell. I’m really in for it.

  Steve sits down across from me with his own plate. “Your mom was worried sick.”

  “I caught enough of that last night. Don’t drag it all back up.”

  He sips coffee. “It’s not that simple. When she worries, it affects everything.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a good kid.”

  I avert my eyes.

  “Shae Tatum—”

  I see her body in the street. Feel the heat.

  “—it has her shaken up, okay?”

  “Yeah.” It’s safest to nod and eat. How fast can I empty a plate of eggs?

  “This kind of tragedy reminds us all of how black bodies are treated in this country. How easy it is to make a mistake when you look like us.”

  The white-hot center of me ignites. “Why you wanna put it on her? She’s the one who died.”<
br />
  “I didn’t mean—” He shakes his head. “It’s so easy for what we do to be misinterpreted.”

  “She didn’t do anything. Media is reporting the cop’s version of the story. That’s not how it went down.”

  “How do you know?”

  Steve doesn’t know I tag, but he knows I go back to Underhill.

  “Cone of silence?” I say. That’s what Steve calls it when we keep a secret from Mom. It’s from this old TV spy show, Get Smart. He says it is important for men to have discussions between themselves.

  He nods. “Usual protocol.”

  I hesitate. That means he will not tell Mom what I say unless someone is going to get hurt, or if he thinks it is in my best interest. But he’s gotta cover his bases. I get that.

  “Never mind.”

  “Will…”

  “Never mind.” I toss two Pop-Tarts into my backpack and bounce.

  STEVE CONNERS

  The email comes before I’m even at the office. New shared calendar appointment, with John at 9:15. My office.

  The strange part is the location. Usually John has me come to him. Maybe it’s disciplinary. It shouldn’t be. Everything about my performance is on point. I’m sure of it. I make sure of it. Daily.

  Something big is happening, to compel John out of his office. To be sitting on the wrong side of the desk is a position of weakness. He knows this. He’s making a strategic choice. It won’t be disciplinary. It’ll be the opposite.

  Like asking for a favor.

  I make sure to arrive in the office by 8:45. If you’re on time, you’re late. It’s easy to straighten up, clear the desk except for one fat file, which I’ll leave open until they arrive. I dust the tops of the Nigerian carved-wood statues on my bookcase, smooth out the Zambian fabric swath hanging on one wall. My wife picked out these decor elements, on the theory that it gives people a sense of my heritage. It’s not meant to be political.

  I water my plant, arrange its leaves so the fullest part is forward. Adjust the blinds, such that there is a slight glare on the spot where John will be sitting. Then I pose behind my desk.

  John enters my office, alongside a man in uniform. I don’t know how to read the bars and badges, but he appears high-ranking. Underhill PD. Another officer comes in behind them.

  I stand to greet them.

  It rolls out in front of me, a blood-red carpet.

  The officers glance around, taking in my decor. I figure anyone walking into a PR exec’s office and finding a black man sitting there is going to get a sense of my heritage. So it is political.

  What isn’t?

  “Have a seat.” My arm sweeps forward to invite them.

  They perch in my wing chairs. They squint into the sun. For a moment, I allow them to squirm. The leather of my desk chair settles underneath me.

  They nod. Blink.

  “Oh, John, would you adjust the blinds?” I tip my hand negligently toward the window. Not meeting his eye, which is more than enough to let him know. I’ve sat at the knee of a master. I’ve learned to play the game.

  The officers relax, grateful. I appear both thoughtful and in charge.

  EVA

  Everyone at school knows it was my dad. His name was on the morning news and so was the name of the girl. Shae Tatum. A girl only a few years older than me. She was in sixth grade.

  Other kids look at me and point. They whisper behind my back.

  Teachers speak in voices extra bright. They whisper over my head.

  He was only doing his job! I want to shout.

  But I’m supposed to say nothing.

  BRICK

  Sheila cries when I tell her about Shae. When her face falls, I learn what that saying means in real life.

  Maybe it was a mistake to come in person. I wanted to. Thought it was right. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

  I’ve dropped her off a cliff. She loves it when I visit. Her eyes light up, she bounces. “Hi,” she exclaims, when I walk into the breakfast room. “Look!” Sheila shows off her sparkling blue backpack. Her smile is a hundred watts and brightening.

  But when her favorite person comes bearing terrible news … Extreme high to extreme low. I ask the cook to leave us alone for a minute. Pull up a chair next to Sheila and take her small hands in mine.

  I was younger than this the first time I tasted grief. I remember, and I don’t want to remember. If I could use my power to spare Sheila of this loss, I would do it. If I could give all my money to make it untrue, I wouldn’t hesitate.

  Her cries echo off the wood-paneled walls. She will wake the whole house. Any minute now, other residents or staff from the home will come running. Sheila knows that dead means gone, not just out of sight but gone forever. We go over it anyway.

  When I reach over to hug her, she fixes me with a look worse than death. I am the bad-news man. I can offer no comfort.

  It breaks me. I hold myself as still as I can, but in every other way I am falling apart.

  One of the nursing aides rushes in. “Melody!” Sheila screams. “Shae is DEAD. Goodbye forever. We will never see her again.”

  “I know, sweetie.” Melody gathers Sheila against her. They are practically the same height.

  Hovering beside them, it hits me. At thirteen, Sheila is the size of a small adult. Shae was taller. A head taller, maybe. I can picture them, bobbing along the street side by side. What I picture next is Shae bobbing along by herself. In the dark, on the run … nope. In my mind’s eye, she’s still clearly a child.

  Is it only because I knew her?

  MELODY

  We stand at the corner of Peach and VanBuren, fighting about the route we will take to school. Tina holds my right hand, Sheila holds my left. They are crying.

  Sheila wants to take the same route because it’s our route, and patterns are important.

  Tina doesn’t want to go by Shae’s building. It’s too sad.

  “We can’t skip Shae,” Sheila cries.

  I squeeze her hand. “You know she’s not there. We can go to her house, but she’s not going to come out.” The routine has changed. It will be an adjustment.

  They sniffle. It’s too cold for this, and we’re gonna be late.

  “Switch hands.” I shuffle their tiny selves around me. “Now, we’ll take our usual route but you can stand on the street side.” I shake Tina’s little hand. “And you can stand on the house side,” I tell Sheila.

  “You can even close your eyes,” I tell Tina. She clusters against my side, and we make our way. But she does not close her eyes. She looks straight at the sidewalk. Sheila walks with her head up.

  The steps of the building are decorated with all manner of tributes. Flowers wilting in the winter air, small stuffed animals, signs and cards and even balloons. My eyes sting.

  “If we knock on the door, what will happen?” Sheila asks.

  “We’d probably make her mommy sad,” I answer. “It’s already a really sad day.”

  “When Tariq died, lots of people knocked on our door,” Tina says. “Sometimes it made Mommy stop crying.”

  A weird little stab of old grief cuts through me. Tariq Johnson’s murder two years ago feels fresh again this morning. Probably to Tina most of all.

  “We’d be late for school. Let’s say bye to Shae’s house and keep going.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  “On the way home, we can knock,” I tell them.

  TINA

  Saying goodbye usually means

  you will get to say hello again

  soon.

  We shout it from the doorway

  from the street

  back and forth

  until we can’t hear each other

  anymore.

  ROBB

  The footage out of Underhill from last night is unreal. Everyone is posting it. I see it over and over in my feed. Most of the clips are the same after a while, but I check them all anyway.

  My favorite, the one I find most
striking, is of a young kid throwing a bottle through a storefront window. It was shot on someone’s phone, it’s all vertical and weird, but you can see his face in a semi-close-up. He’s crying and furious all at the same time. First there’s this pause where he looks down at the bottle in his hand, then his face goes monstrous for a second while he puts his whole arm into the throw. He watches it land, then you just see him run away, crying. It’s awesome. At the tail end of the frame, as the little boy leaves, the phone gets juggled and red and blue lights flash somewhere in the shot and then it’s cut. I keep trying to find out what happened next. Did they catch the kid? The cameraman? Social media is asking, but no one has it yet. I keep checking.

  On my way into poli-sci, I bump into Kwame, this guy who’s in two of my classes. We roll on the same wavelength, I guess.

  “‘Sup?” We slap hands. He passes me a flyer from a stack in his arms.

  “We’re planning a vigil,” he says. “In memory of Shae Tatum.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much. What does it do?”

  “Raises awareness on campus.”

  “Yeah, but what about some kind of action? You know, to send a message?”

  Kwame nods. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” he says. “Student organizing got it done in the ’60s and it’ll get it done in our generation, too. It’s gonna look different, though.”

  I wave my phone. “More technological.”

  “Well,” Kwame says. “You should come by the Black House later, if you’re interested in the work we’re doing.”

  “Sure thing, sure thing.” I grin. DeVante’s always going down to the African American Student Center. I could tag along. The more I watch of these videos, the more I know something has to be done.

  KIMBERLY

  “It’s a relief,” says the woman in my stylist’s chair. “Don’t you think?”

  “What? Sorry.” My hands can weave perfect plaits without my mind checking in. I’m elsewhere, but the customer doesn’t need to know that.