by Kekla Magoon
She flips through a copy of O. “A break from the coverage. At least you’re showing regular TV in here.”
On the monitor over our heads, The View is playing.
“Yes, it’s tragic,” I murmur.
“You’re so distracted,” she says. “Heh. Must be thinking about a man.”
“What, no, I, no—” I sputter.
She laughs like an auntie. “Must be a hot man.”
“He doesn’t know I’m alive,” I tell her. It’s the easiest thing.
Auntie eyes me in the mirror. “Mm-hmm. Looking like that, he knows.”
My face flushes. “Stop.”
“Girl, you got it going on. Don’t let no one tell you different.” She flips the magazine page. “Mm-hmm. He knows.”
ZEKE
“SCORE, how can I help you?”
A pleasant woman’s voice says, “Ezekiel Jacobs, please.”
“This is Zeke. Who’s calling?”
“I have Senator Alabaster Sloan for you, Mr. Jacobs.”
“You’re kidding.”
Her laugh is warm. “Hold, please.”
Reverend Alabaster Sloan? Now Senator. My palms tingle. I dry them on my thighs. This man marched in Birmingham as a child. Up against dogs and fire hoses.
I stand up at my desk. It feels right, to take a call like this standing up.
“Ezekiel?” I’d know his voice anywhere, even if he hadn’t been announced.
“Zeke. You can call me Zeke, sir. Hello.”
“Talk to me about the situation on the ground.”
I shift my grip on the receiver. “We’re basically on lockdown, sir. Last night’s protests brought significant backlash from law enforcement. Tear gas. Rumor is, they’ll be enforcing a curfew tonight.”
“I’ve heard that, too.”
That confirms it, I guess, if the news has reached DC. “People are pretty upset.”
“Rightly so,” the senator agrees.
“The situation was mishandled, and the cops are escalating. But we’ll get blamed for it.”
“I agree. The coverage is … problematic.”
That’s an understatement. “They have tanks, sir. Just parked around the neighborhood. They’re putting up barricades.”
“It doesn’t help that Wes Steele is all over the internet with his videos.”
“The ‘war on cops’ guy? I can’t even stand to watch him.”
“His following is growing,” Senator Sloan says. “Shae’s story has gone national, in a bad way.”
“What are you saying, sir?” It settles into me, the reality that this is not a pure condolence call, not merely a show of support. It’s a warning.
“Steele’s been ranting nonstop on his shows. You don’t have to watch, but you need to know about it.”
“I know about it. They’re all over our social media feeds spewing their racist rhetoric.”
“Henderson is Steele’s latest cause célèbre. He’s rallying the troops.”
“That’s so messed up.” I should have better, smarter things to say. “Why does anybody even listen to him?”
“He plays their deepest fears like a banjo. It’s all too easy for white America to believe we’re out to get them. Much easier than examining their own biases and complicity.”
That’s how I want to sound. Formal and intellectual. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Steele runs toward the spotlight, wherever it is. This story started out with increased attention, because…”
“Because of Tariq Johnson. No one has forgotten his murder, or the media firestorm that followed.”
“Every news outlet wants another piece of that pie.”
“That’s sick.”
“That’s America.” The senator sighs. “I’ve considered attending the child’s funeral.”
Wow! “I’m sure your presence and support would be appreciated.” I hope I sound chill, but not too chill.
“I’m just as interested in supporting community efforts,” Senator Sloan adds. “My presence draws attention, but I want it drawn to the right things. What are your plans?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” I flex my shoulders, consider where to begin. This conversation is a dream come true.
* * *
Kimberly walks in just as I’m hanging up the phone. She glances at me. Double takes. Smiles. A question on the corners of her lips. She’s looking at my face. My overjoyed, can’t-believe-what-just-happened face.
I leap out from behind the desk, extend my hands to her. She takes them. Our fingers connect and I’m reminded of lying down close with her last night.
“You’ll never guess who that was.” I draw her hands in and out from my chest, one by one, a little boogie.
She tips her shoulder. “Who?”
I let go of one hand and spin her around under my arm. She’s smiling. “Al Sloan! The senator.”
She pulls back. Her eyes widen. “Oh?”
“He’s coming here. Isn’t that great?”
Kimberly shrugs, ending our little dance. “He’s been here before.”
“I know, but that was two years ago. Tariq Johnson, right? I saw him speak then.”
Kimberly averts her eyes.
“SCORE was brand new then. We grew. People got involved. You know. You’ve been with us almost since then. Except you stuck with it, when a lot of people didn’t.”
“Yeah.”
“Sloan was organizing around the hoodie march back then. Didn’t it inspire you?”
“You could say so.”
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. The hesitation is strong. “I—I also knew Tariq Johnson,” she says finally. “I used to babysit for his sister.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So it brings up bad memories? Everything that’s happening, and Sloan coming to town?”
She shakes her head swiftly, then beams. “No. It’ll be great. Of course. It’s great news, Zeke.”
I love to hear her say my name.
DEVANTE
Everyone’s talking about what went down in Underhill last night. They all seem to know everything about what happened. We shuffle into the Black House common room for the vigil planning meeting and people all around us are bantering about this tweet and that image, things I haven’t seen. I’ve been watching the coverage, too, constantly, and yet somehow I feel like I’m behind the curve. So what else is new?
I never feel quite at home in the Black House. It’s supposed to be this sanctuary from the whiteness of everything else, and it is, kind of, but in other ways it puts me on edge.
I’m not used to being with a room full of black people. It’s super exciting and different, but it’s never been something I craved. It doesn’t make me feel at home. Sometimes I get scared that I’m secretly racist, because it’s so much easier to hang out with white people. Not that that doesn’t have its problems, too.
I glance at Robb. He wanted to come with me tonight, which is cool I guess. He knows Kwame, who invited him. But he’s my friend, and we arrived together, so I feel like people are looking at us like, Who’s the white guy and who’s that oreo who brung him?
TYRELL
I like living in the dorm. It’s simple. Food is right downstairs in the dining hall. You don’t even have to go outside. Swipe the meal card, and it’s like manna from heaven. I’m gonna get fat. And I’m gonna like it.
I take full advantage of every swipe. I bring my books. Eat, then study, then eat again.
Some kids come down and use a whole swipe for a bowl of cereal. One of many things I don’t understand about this world.
They be trippin’, bro. That’s what Tariq would say about it. Even now, two years later, it’s hard to stop his voice from sliding into my head.
Harder today than usual. I don’t want to watch the news, but I can’t help seeing it. Her name, her face, is everywhere. Around the cafeteria, soft mutterings:
“Can you imagine?”
&nbs
p; “God, her parents. I feel so bad for them.”
“What kind of cop can’t tell the difference between a little girl and a gangbanger?”
“Never walk wearing headphones. That’s the moral of the story.”
“I can’t imagine.”
I bend over my tray, keep full attention on this bowl of oatmeal. Bite my tongue. You can’t imagine? Really? It’s happening in front of you. Some of us don’t have to imagine.
Cinnamon, raisins, brown sugar, sliced almonds. What I can’t imagine is a world in which someone pre-slices your almonds for you.
My spoon keeps stirring. The truth is, I’m full. For now.
I make myself walk an hour every day, for a bit of exercise. Put in my headphones and let the music carry me. In the last few weeks, I’ve even started jogging.
I go at dusk, right before I head down for my dinners. The sunset sky settles over the trees. I loop through the wooded walks of campus, across the quad, weave among the dorms. I become a dark shape moving against the gathering night, and somehow it is okay. People move out of my way when they see me coming, but otherwise I am barely noticed.
It’s amazing.
Girls scurry around in clusters after dark, all but holding hands. Occasionally they seem a bit wary of me. They might hug the outside of the sidewalk, keep their eyes on me. I don’t begrudge them. I know what it is like to walk afraid.
Every few weeks we have to sit through yet another talk about campus safety. I see their worried faces, hear them fuss. I feel for them, I do, and yet a part of me is content with this arrangement. I’ve never been in a world where the least safe person on the street is a white girl. Some kind of twisted logic applies in this place.
I’ve never felt safer.
The security guards scoot around in tight little golf carts. Most of them are black. They think they are very menacing, and it makes me want to laugh. They are battery-powered, they are siren-less, and they are all that it takes to keep the peace. This is paradise.
MELODY
Picking up the girls after school is the no-brainer part of the day. I mean, usually. Today’s gonna be different. I know it the second I step out of the building.
It’s a twenty-minute walk from here, one way. I lose count of the cops I see in the first five minutes. There’s a few on our block. Many more when I turn on Peach. A couple dozen cops, easy, and all their cars and trucks taking over the street.
A construction-looking truck turtles along the center line, dropping those kinda metal fence barricades like you see at a parade. Dudes in neon vests scurry behind it, grabbing them up and lining the street. It’s usually parked cars all along the block, so the street seems wide open, to one way of thinking, and totally packed at the same time.
Peach is the most direct route, but I don’t care. I’m taking the side streets. Gotta hurry, though. Can’t be late.
I meet Sheila and Tina at the side door of the school, right near their special education classroom.
Usually they bounce along the sidewalk, begging for time on the playground. Today they stand quiet by the pillar, holding hands.
Usually it’s the three of them. As two alone, they look lonely and small. Sheila and Tina are about my height. It was Shae who was built taller and thicker. She made them all seem bigger, I guess.
We walk quietly together. The usual route. Can’t help but to worry what they’ll think of the barricades. They must’ve heard all the people out last night. Must’ve been scared.
“Shae’s house,” Sheila says.
Tina adds, “We’re going to knock.”
“I am going to knock,” Sheila says. “We decided.”
“Okay,” I agree. I did promise.
Brick pops up along the way. Can’t be a coincidence. Sheila runs to him.
“Hey,” I say over her head.
“Hey.” Brick puts up his hand for a high five. That’s … odd.
I raise my palm to clap his, and it’s lucky I’m slow. It wasn’t meant for me. Tina steps forward and slaps his gloved palm with her mittened one.
“How’s Miss Tina today?”
“Shae is gone,” Tina reports. “Shae is dead.”
“Yeah, I’m sad about it, too,” Brick says. He strokes Sheila’s back, keeping his arm around her.
“We’re stopping by her house on our way,” I tell him. “If you’re here to pick up Sheila, maybe you can wait until after?” She’d be disappointed otherwise.
Brick nods and falls in step. “You seen Peach Street?” he says, probably rhetorical. “It’s a gauntlet. Pork central.”
I smile. “So, you’re here to walk us home?” That’s sweet. Unexpected. But to be real, I can’t decide if he makes us safer or not. Three small women alone, versus three small women with the beefy leader of the 8-5 Kings? Brick is something of a target in and of himself. But I can’t deny it feels safer having him along.
We walk hand in hand in hand in hand, with the girls between us. Maybe this is what it’s like to be married with children. Feeling needed, safe, loved, worried, scared for what the world will do to them. Feeling strong and weak all at once.
Sheila and Tina let go of our hands when we reach the Tatums’ stoop. They bound up the steps and Sheila knocks, as planned. They rush inside when Shae’s dad opens the door. Brick and I follow. We pile the coats inside the doorway.
Mr. Tatum shakes Brick’s hand. “I owe you.”
Brick shrugs. “Nah. It’s good.”
It’s awkward when men who don’t really know each other try to hug. They get all stiff and where-do-my-arms-go. Like robots.
Shae’s mom hugs the girls and cries. They sit on the sofa together, all snuggly and tearful.
Mr. Tatum comes outta the kitchen with two mugs. “We got mulled wine. My sister-in-law’s been making it like there’s no tomorrow.” He smiles in a broken way. A way that means he ain’t sure about there being no so-called tomorrow.
I’m technically working, but I don’t know how to say no. I grip the handle. I can just hold it without sipping. A sniff or two won’t hurt.
He goes away again and comes back with hot chocolate for the girls. Shae’s favorite. Then he disappears toward the bedrooms.
Brick and I hover in the doorway, holding our mugs.
“You okay?” he says. He kneads the muscles along my shoulders with his big strong fingers. It feels nice. A little strange, ’cause we don’t really know each other ’cept to say hello to. But nice.
“Me?”
“Yeah. How you doing with all of it?”
“I guess I don’t really know yet.” That’s the truth. “It’s too fresh.” It feels realer, here in the Tatums’ living room. The air is thick with grief, turned humid by tears.
“You on duty?” Brick says, clinking his mug against mine. Guess he noticed I’m not drinking.
“Yeah.”
“When you’re not, you should come by my place sometime.”
Wow. Brick’s place is legendary. He gets DJs up in his own house to lay a beat. I bet it’s awesome. Or would be, if I was a club-scene kinda girl. “Oh, sure.”
“I get the music going around nine.”
“Every night?”
He shrugs. “Couple times a week. When I feel like it. I usually take Sunday and Monday off.”
“That’s when you cross-stitch?”
He smirks against the rim of his mug. “Don’t knock my hobbies.” He drains his mug, then hands it to me. “Switch.”
We swap mugs, my full for his empty. He’s thoughtful. Not gonna let me turn a full cup back over to Mr. Tatum when we leave.
Brick’s hand moves up and down my back, massaging gently. It feels damn good. I ache over Shae, but some other kind of pain, some other thing dissolves away beneath his touch. I find myself gazing up at him. Who is this guy?
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Host: The police department has instituted a curfew for the Underhill neighborhood, effective from midnight to six a.m., beginning to
night. We’re here with prominent activist and community organizer Sam Childs to discuss the effects of such crowd control measures. Mr. Childs?
Childs: Policing against nothing. It will only inflame tensions that might otherwise dissipate. This could’ve been all over by now, if the police weren’t trying to escalate.
Host: It’s their duty to keep the peace.
Childs: They broke the peace to begin with! They were the instigators at every level in this.
Host: The officer-involved shooting of thirteen-year-old Shae Tatum brought citizens into the streets last night.
Childs: Police are the aggressors. This is racism and police brutality 101. It’s a cycle.
Host: Isn’t it possible that increased policing and curfews could prevent such shootings?
Childs: Only if you believe in taking away people’s freedom for their own protection. Those restrictions would never fly in a white community.
Host: Riots aren’t happening in white communities.
Childs: Unarmed white children aren’t being shot by police, either.
Host: So, it all comes down to race?
Childs: Racism leads to bias. Bias leads a so-called “good” cop to see a criminal in a black child. Fear causes him to pull the trigger too soon, without a moment of pause for the benefit of the doubt. He sees a black face and he has no doubt.
Host: You weren’t there. You can’t assume that moment of pause didn’t happen, or what went through the officer’s mind.
Childs: An unarmed child died! You really want to stand by the claim that Henderson displayed good judgment?
Host: I didn’t—
Childs: He made a deadly mistake, due to bias. And here come all his defenders to say it wasn’t a mistake?
Host: Police officers make split-second decisions—
Childs: To say a thirteen-year-old girl should have known better than to be running down the street wearing headphones? That she deserved to lose her life because she was tall for her age?
Host: No one’s saying—
Childs: Absolutely, you are. Every argument about trusting a cop’s best judgment, or an officer’s need and right to protect himself, is built on the premise that something about what happened last night was not wrong. A thirteen-year-old girl. Unarmed.
