by Kekla Magoon
Host: And the curfew…?
Childs: (Shrugs) Let’s not forget that Shae Tatum was shot around five p.m. If the police want to protect the citizens of Underhill, maybe they should think about decreasing their presence, not militarizing it. If they want to prevent wrongful shootings, maybe they should think twice about making it harder for people to legally walk the streets.
JENNICA
When Noodle comes around, sometimes it’s like the sun is shining for the first time in forever. I turn my face into him and everything is warm. When he comes around other times, it’s like the sun will never shine again.
How many times do I have to say no before he hears me?
How many times can I stand to?
“Hey, gurrrrrl.” He drags the word out so long it sounds dirty. There are times when I know I will never be clean of him.
“Go away, Noodle. I don’t wanna keep doing this.”
“I wanna keep doing you.” He leers.
My eyes roll of their own accord. I’m out of energy. What I miss about him has nothing to do with sex. It doesn’t make sense, how you can look at someone and love them and hate them and want them to hold you and never want to see them again, all at once. The head trip is some kind of roller coaster.
I whisper to myself over and over, in my mind. He’s not a good person. He’s not a good person. You can’t. You don’t want to. Don’t do it.
But when his arms go out, it’s too hard. Way too hard to say no.
KIMBERLY
It’s a little bit about his hands. The way he moves paper across the desk so efficiently. Long slender fingers. I love to watch him dial the desk phone—quick and smooth, like he’s strumming.
It’s a little bit about the way he tilts his head while people talk to him. He really listens.
It’s a little bit about that one time, when he touched my shoulder, and the shiver went all the way through me. The funny little dance we did … I would have let it go on forever, if—
He caught me off guard earlier, bringing up Al, that’s all. Zeke can’t ever know what happened between me and Al. Reverend Sloan. The senator.
I can pretend better, so he never finds out.
Just look at him. He’s so adorable. So dedicated.
It’s a little bit about his mind. He has ideas. More than that, he knows what to do with them. You never see him confused. He’s got everyone’s respect.
It’s a little bit about his smile. White teeth, pretty close to perfect, like maybe he wore braces once. The quirky, jaunty question mark at the corner of his lips; would you call that a dimple, or merely something in that vein? A tiny dart of his dark tongue over those lips, and I have to check myself from staring.
He’s fine.
ZEKE
She’s fine. Can’t tear my eyes from that big, sexy behind of hers. Why is she wearing cute pants like that to the office? Nobody needs to look that good while filing correspondence.
She glances over her shoulder. Catches me staring. The receiver feels wrong in my hands all of a sudden. I fumble it down to the cradle. It’s been a minute since I finished the last call. My fingers work to make up time. Dialing the next call. Over and over until I reach the bottom of the sheet.
Then she’s there. Right in front of the desk. “Oh, hey, Kimberly.” My voice sounds like shredded wheat. She thinks I’m an idiot.
“Zeke, I was wondering—” She pauses. “Is this an okay time to ask a question?”
She’s so thoughtful. She pays attention to everything going on around the room, and what everybody needs.
“Sure, of course.” When I turn my face up to her, to show I’m listening, she smiles. Wow, that smile. A shower of feelings crashes over me.
“Do you maybe need a new notepad?” She has a fresh yellow legal pad in her hand, like the one I’m already using. Which, I now notice, is full. I’ve covered all the pages, and my notes from the last call are scrawled straight on the cardboard backing.
I laugh out loud. “Uh, yeah. Looks like I do.”
Kimberly laughs along with me. Those sparkling eyes.
I’d better be careful. I can’t go falling for anyone right now. This movement is bigger than me. I feel the call with it. Can’t walk away. Don’t have time to get dizzy.
ROBB
DeVante comes to my room. “I got your text about the vigil,” he says. “I’m going down to the Black House now. You wanna come?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I glance at my phone. It’s six-thirty already. The vigil starts at seven.
I tug a few scraggy strips from the spiral rings of my notebook. They crumple easily into a tiny paper nugget. I toss it across at Tyrell. It lands in the gutter of his math textbook. He looks up and pops out an earbud. Just the one. Always.
“Yo, T, you coming to the vigil?”
“Tyrell,” Tyrell says. “No, I have too much work.” He sticks the earbud back in.
I expected as much. I turn to DeVante. “Let’s bounce.”
A large group of students gathers at the fountain. We’re early. We get near the front. This is where most of the campus demonstrations take place, on the cobblestone plaza surrounding this fountain.
Behind me, the crowd is growing and growing. The glow of the candles starts at the front, one flame passed from wick to wick. It spreads back and back. It looks like Christmas Eve. At the far edges, the people who don’t have candles switch on their phone lights and hold them to the night sky. We are surrounded by bluish-white light, like an aura.
Kwame gets up on the edge of the fountain’s rock wall. “We’re gathered tonight in memory of Shae Tatum. Let us begin with a ceremony of libation.”
He holds up a palm-sized pitcher of oil, pours a few drops onto the stones and a few drops into the rippling pool of the fountain. “Tonight we call forth the ancestors as we gather in their memory, particularly in the memory of those who have died due to police brutality and those who have died in the struggle for liberation and peace. Let them be remembered not only for their deaths but for their lives. In their name, we carry forward the struggle.”
“Shae Tatum,” someone begins.
“Emmett Till,” says someone else.
Then other names rise up, spoken in many voices. The soft calls burst overhead like fireworks, each carrying a whole story, a whole life.
“Martin Luther King, Jr.”
“Sandra Bland.”
“Tariq Johnson.”
“Medgar Evers.”
“Eric Garner.”
“Philando Castile.”
“Viola Liuzzo.”
“Trayvon Martin.”
“Malcolm X.”
“Bobby Hutton.”
Shivers run up my spine. There are so many names. I don’t know one to say out loud that hasn’t already been said, but other people do and the names just keep coming. I’m embarrassed that I don’t know who they all are. I promise myself I’ll remember. I promise myself I’ll look them all up.
“Michael Brown.”
“Freddie Gray.”
“Shae Tatum,” Kwame repeats, to close out the naming. We stand in silence together as the candles flicker and burn.
TYRELL
Across the quad, through the trees, the glow of the candlelight is strong. When the vigil breaks up, not everyone blows out their candles. They walk the paths, flickering like fireflies. It is hard to ignore, so I close the blinds.
I’m not the person Robb and DeVante think I am. If the other shoe drops, it’s gonna mess things up for me.
They think I’m not interested, or that I don’t care. Whatever. They can think what they want. I can take the heat.
Not everyone has to march. The fight is bigger than they know. I’m part of it, just by being here.
I win if I graduate.
STEVE CONNERS
The police aren’t making our job so easy right now. I’m supposed to weigh in on messaging, figure out how to position the police actions as positive. Difficult when everything is such “a
hot mess,” as my stepson would say. I’ve never been fond of that phrase, but it makes perfect sense in this context.
“We need to streamline and clarify the official communications around the incident,” John tells the officers clustered in the conference room. Union reps and a handful of brass. “In this climate we can’t underestimate the value of perception.”
“You mean a climate in which unchecked police violence is unacceptable?” I can’t help myself.
“What Steve means is—”
“Steve can speak for himself, thank you.” Pause. Breathe. Be politic. “You have me on this case to provide a black perspective. Believe me, that’s the black perspective.”
“I don’t follow,” says one of the brass.
“Police violence is unchecked in black communities, and the powers that be are comfortable keeping it that way. That’s the existing perspective of most black Americans.”
“But—”
“Look, no one has made it clear what Henderson thought he was doing.” I lean forward. “There’s no narrative from the police side. The child was running away and got shot in the back. That’s the best they have to say?”
The brass stir uncomfortably. “Obviously he thought there was a weapon in play.”
“I’ve been over the public statements. That hasn’t been made clear. At all.”
The union rep folds his hands. “I think it’s clear enough.”
“Are we really expecting the public to make that assumption? He shot an unarmed child in the back.”
“So, we need to say there was a weapon?”
“There wasn’t one. That much, we know.”
“Henderson thought there was a weapon.”
“Did he?” I ask. “If he did, why wasn’t that part of the initial statement?”
“He ordered the suspect to stop running. She didn’t.”
“Is that a capital crime now? Running while black?”
“Resisting arrest. Failing to respond to a police officer.”
I wave my hand. “Those are misdemeanors, aren’t they? Anyway, which is it? Was she shot because he thought he saw a weapon, or because she was resisting arrest?”
“A number of factors contributed to his decision to discharge his weapon.”
“How many of those factors were simply bad judgment?”
John interrupts my flow. “This is what I meant about clarifying and streamlining the narrative.”
It’s not complicated, people. “You need to fire Henderson.”
The union rep shakes his head. “Before there’s been any hint of due process? We’d take so much flak for that.”
“The public respects due process,” the brass agrees.
“For police officers, but not for thirteen-year-old black girls?”
The room falls silent, then fills. With a slow cold certainty that nothing has changed. We are back at the beginning. The impasse is a roadblock guarded by tanks and AR-15s. A Grand Canyon–wide gap in logic and practice.
EVA
Ham and peas and potatoes. It is one of our favorite dinners, but tonight everything tastes like chalk.
“I have the right to defend myself,” Daddy says.
“We’re not supposed to talk about it, Darren,” Mom says again. She glances at me. “Not at the dinner table, okay?”
They want to protect me from what is happening, but they can’t. They get to stay at home and keep the TV off. They don’t have to go to school and hear about it from everyone.
“I have the right to defend myself,” Daddy says again. When a bad thing happens, sometimes you get stuck in one place.
“No one’s arguing that you don’t.”
“Damn right they are. I’m supposed to stand there and let myself get shot when someone draws on me?”
An elephant is in the room. And it’s packing. The air is double charged.
“There was no gun,” Mom says gently. “They confirmed it.”
“I thought there was.”
“Just keep telling them your version,” Mom says. “It’s your right.”
“A girl,” Daddy says. “Thirteen.”
“Don’t think about it,” Mom says, which is the strangest thing to say. How can we not think about it?
“I thought there was.”
Silence.
“I thought there was,” Daddy repeats.
OFFICER YOUNG
Boots. Batons. Shields. Service weapons.
We will patrol tonight.
Our goal is to protect the people.
But the world has changed. The city is out to get us.
We will patrol tonight.
Our goal is to keep the peace.
TINA
From high up in my window
they look like toy soldiers.
Little dolls with plastic legs
you can bend only so far.
They are not toys and yet
they are not willing to bend.
I close one eye and squeeze
them between my fingers like ants.
Tariq taught me that trick,
and also how to hold up a fork
and send someone to jail.
We laughed about it.
No one is laughing now.
BRICK
Curfew is a fucking joke. Who do they think they are, to pen us in like that? The streets are strange and calm and empty. We can’t stand for it.
Caution tape be damned. This is our neighborhood. Sheila, Shae, Tina—they should be able to walk in peace.
Anger defines us. The shape it takes in each of us is who we are. How we move. Sinewy like a snake, stealthy like a cat, the swirl of a tornado or the steadiness of a rock.
They would take it from us, our anger. Render us motionless and mute. We can’t stand for it.
Nothing is simple. Nothing has ever been simple. This neighborhood, our hearts, our homes. Our jobs, our shame. The way we kowtow and cower. Shuck and jive to keep going one more day.
They would shove us into small boxes. Smaller and smaller until our bones are dust. Build cities out of our shells, our shards.
We can’t stand for it.
@UnderhillSCORE: We have questions. Who has answers? #UnderhillPD #StartTalking
@Momof6: This could happen to any cop. #StopWhenTheySayStop #NoBrainer
@KelvinX_: Resisting arrest IS NOT a crime unto itself. #KillerCop needs to answer for HIS crimes. #NoKidDeservesToDie
@Momof6: Resisting arrest is a crime!!! When everyone obeys the police, there’s no problem.
@KelvinX_: A 13yo child is dead. The onus should be on cops to protect our children.
@BrownMamaBear: Heartbreak after heartbreak. Pray for all the brown babies out there.
@WhitePowerCord: Sure, play the black card. She was BLACK, she couldn’t have done anything wrong. He’s a WHITE COP, he’s obviously evil. STFU. #BacktheBlue
@UnderhillSCORE: Where are the politicians? Where are our leaders? It must stop. It must change. Who will take us where we need to go? #YouthRiseUp
@WesSteeleStudio: When Police come under attack, none of us are safe. The cop-baiting traps the mainstream media won’t show you out of Underhill. Unbelievable video footage!! #HeroCop #MakeItKnown
@Momof6: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God. #BlueLivesMatter
@UnderhillSCORE: We don’t retreat. We don’t back down. We demand answers. We demand our rights. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll
DAY FOUR:
THE FUNERAL
PEACH STREET
We have been here before. Black bodies have lain in the street, with white men standing over them, in uniform. We have been here a thousand times before.
This stretch of land has known tragedy and grief. It has known deep and fleeting joy. This stretch of land has known sun and snow and rain, cleats and Jordans and clicking Mary Janes. The joyful slap of double-dutch rope, the colorful chalk squares of hopscotch, the blood of skinned knees and shards of afternoon Coke bottles.<
br />
This stretch of land remembers when it was earth, longs for something out of reach.
WITNESS
You shave carefully in front of the mirror. No nicks. There is no such thing as smooth enough today.
You lotion up while your wife fusses with the iron. She clatters the thing more than necessary. She does not approve. But she can do in two minutes what would take you an hour, and she is gracious.
She holds out the shirt on one finger.
“Are you sure?” she says, not for the first time.
You roll your shoulders. The white fabric is still warm.
You are sure of nothing.
Her kiss offers either judgment or permission. Hard to tell. You only smell shaving cream.
You button your good black suit. You promise yourself closure.
TINA
No.
I don’t want to go.
Mommy says WE ARE GOING.
When she speaks in capital letters she means business
I mean business too
NO.
NO!
No
more
funerals.
ZEKE
Alone in the office, I practice my move. “Kimberly, would you like to have dinner with me?”
It’s all hypothetical, of course. I wish I could turn this particular setting off in my brain. I don’t want her to feel weird, or like I’m putting pressure on her. I’m not her boss, not exactly. But sort of. And that makes it weird. And possibly inappropriate. I’m not sure. I think I get a vibe off her that says she won’t hold it against me. But I don’t want to be one of those guys who thinks he’s the exception and end up making her uncomfortable.
