Light It Up

by Kekla Magoon

  Noodle takes down his drink in a gulp. “Why, so they can throw us in jail? You want a replay of the other night?”

  “Throw us in jail for what?” My throat is tight and my fists are like rocks.

  “Aw man, you know they’ll find something. The whole point is they come after us for nothing now. We can get high and forget about it.” He reaches for the bottle. Offers it to me. Even though he knows I don’t drink anymore. Gotta keep a clear head.

  Clear head.

  Clear head.

  “You think it’ll blow over?” I try to breathe. I shouldn’t give a whit about Shae Tatum. I don’t. I mean, I wouldn’t, if not for Sheila. I know good and well that I walk a line. I’m no innocent bystander. If I go down with a pig bullet in me, it’ll be my choice. My fight. I do what I gotta do.

  “Naw,” Noodle says. “They’re gunning for us. Don’t make today no different than yesterday. Tomorrow, either.”

  I look at him hard. Gunning for us. Sure. We live under the gun, Noodle and me. By choice. Cops roll up on us, it’s ’cause of who we are, ’cause of what we do, not how we look.

  This is different.

  There’s such a thing as innocence. When they start coming for our littlest ones, we can’t stand for it.

  WILL/EMZEE

  Usually I do homework on the bus. Tonight, I’m boycotting homework. It’s bullshit.

  Without a book or a math problem, the ride is long. Interminable.

  The news says the curfew’s coming down at midnight, preventing people from being out late. So what’s different about that? They’re always patrolling. Always ready to roll up on guys like me. I know how to duck and cover. Screw ’em. I have things to say.

  I paint the dog thing:

  RULES FOR DOGCATCHERS:

  STUN GUNS ONLY, GENTLE TOUCH

  RULES FOR POLICING BLACK COMMUNITIES:

  SHOOT FIRST, ASK QUESTIONS LATER

  After the fact, my fingers are ink-stained. A hole in my glove I didn’t notice. Steve will blow a fit if he catches the stain on me. He doesn’t know it’s written all over me already. Indelible.

  Anyway, I’m not going home. Not yet.

  I want to see what goes down. I want to paint it.

  Put my mark on the world.

  OFFICER YOUNG

  They’re coming for us. Dressed in red and black, the colors of the 8-5 Kings. A handful of Kings lead the protest, and they’ll stay out walking and chanting past curfew. There is heavy media coverage and citizen journalism. We are instructed to discharge a weapon only in the event of very last possible resort. The reminder echoes in the back of my mind. Because, isn’t that always true? Isn’t that what we’re taught in the first place?

  I know how to do my job. Shooting is always the very last possible resort. This is how we live. They remind us anyway. Firing into a crowd is dangerous. We are being filmed.

  The street teems with angry people carrying signs. First Amendment. Chanting:

  “Unarmed! Not a threat! Unarmed! Not a target!”

  Unarmed … so they say.

  I’m scrolling, I’m scanning. Faces and bodies and hands. Looking for weapons. The glint of screens in the darkness comes from everywhere. Glint after glint.

  My fingers itch toward my gun. No, toward my baton, which I will reach for first. I’m committed to that. No mistakes.

  My heart races. It is hard to remember to swallow.

  I have a shield. A vest. A helmet. A baton. A gun. They have to go through a lot to get to me. They won’t get there.

  I’m scrolling, I’m scanning. Glint after glint.

  Twenty minutes to go. The crowd will thin. It will. When the curfew hits, anyone who remains gets arrested.

  @UnderhillSCORE: We don’t retreat. We don’t back down. We demand answers. We demand our rights. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll

  @TroubleInRiverCty: Shae Tatum’s crime: running while black. #convicted

  @Momof6: I feel sad for police officers working today. This is the treatment they get for trying to serve and protect?

  @Momof6: Do what you’ve gotta do down there in #Underhill, fellas. We’ve got your back.

  @Momof6: Respecting cops is the law. Right to protest be damned. #BlueLivesMatter

  @Viana_Brown: The world is on fire. Stay safe out there, friends. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll

  @WhitePowerCord: Like monkeys in the zoo. Making sounds and throwing feces. Ooh Ooh. Fenced in! Tear gas! Tase their asses! #PassThePopcorn

  @KelvinX_: Underhill, take your stand. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll

  DAY FIVE:

  AND THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW

  PEACH STREET

  Come the light, the street goes quiet. Business as usual, despite a lingering feeling of aftermath.

  Curfew is a promise of one thing, and a threat of something else. The tension in the neighborhood makes it hard to move around.

  The neighborhood is at war, day and night. The ice-cold pavement seethes with fury. The weather may be the only thing keeping them from lighting it up.

  WITNESS

  The squad car rolls past your house a few times nightly. Blip-blip.

  The small sound speaks much louder to you. We are watching. We know who you are. Where you live. Remember that, when you speak about what you saw.

  You draw the curtains tighter after the third time, turn the lights down as low as you can stand. Think about the girl. About the cop. About what is required of you.

  You heat a pot of water. Stand by the stove, remembering the war in your wife’s eyes. Try to reconcile the dueling pleas for safety and justice. You prepare a mug. Chamomile is supposed to be soothing. But you’re out, so you settle for Lemon Ginger. You can cut the spice with honey.

  The water roils and hums. The head of steam gathering in the kettle is emblematic of something. You watch the first curls escape through the tiny hole. Snap off the heat at the first hint of a whistle.

  Blip-blip.

  You can take the hint. Enough already.

  You sip your tea. Think about your children, asleep in their beds, already so inured to the blip-blip that they do not even stir.

  EVA

  There is always a cruiser stationed outside our house. Daddy says it is to keep us safe.

  There are a lot of people who are out to get cops. Especially cops turned famous by circumstance.

  When your name is on the national news, Daddy says, it tends to bring out the crazies. “There’s a target on my back,” he says.

  So there is always someone watching. I’m not to answer the door.

  They don’t flash their lights or anything, but the warmth of the red and blue covers us like a blanket anyway. We are protected. We are part of something bigger than any one of us.

  I can snuggle under the covers and know that no one is going to hurt me.

  Still, it is hard to sleep.

  I don’t like knowing that someone might want to hurt me.

  TINA

  Momma says

  the world will never take care of me.

  Helpful people are there to help little white girls.

  I am on my own.

  I read and read

  the book about Helpful People:

  police officers

  firefighters

  teachers

  doctors

  lawyers.

  I want to believe

  anyway

  But I don’t.

  I tear and tear

  the pages out, one by one.

  I am tired

  of being disappointed.

  DEVANTE

  “I get it, man,” Robb says. He lounges on his bed, while I slouch in the beanbag chair. I’m currently trouncing his ass at Mario Kart.

  The more he says that, the more it reinforces that he doesn’t get it. I shake my head. “I don’t want to keep having this discussion. You aren’t afraid when you walk down the street. You have no idea what that’s like.”

  I glance toward Tyrell, as if he�
�s going to back me up. He has his head buried in a calculus textbook. Headphones on and bobbing his head to the music.

  “Damn.” Robb curses as his kart flies off a mushroom into the abyss. “I’m on your side. I’m not saying it’s right.”

  I zip around the cartoon curves. I’m comfortably in first place. This is my arena. “You think the issue is police officers making mistakes.”

  “A huge pattern of mistakes.”

  I shake my head. “Black people doing nothing wrong, getting shot by police. That’s the issue.”

  “Right, that’s the mistake.”

  “My point is, the issue isn’t mistakes, it’s bias. The underlying reason the so-called mistakes are happening.”

  “So-called mistakes?”

  “The cops always stand by their actions, because the person was acting suspicious.”

  Robb rolls his eyes. “They must’ve done something.”

  “There it is!” I snap at him, grasping the truth like a steel trap. Whee-hee! My kart soars across the finish line, creating the victory sound. “You don’t believe they’re innocent.”

  “Sure, I do. Not that they actually did something wrong, but the cops thought they did.”

  “You don’t get it. Being black is enough to make you suspicious to police.”

  “Shae Tatum, running from him. That’s just dumb.”

  “She was a child. And had headphones in. She might not even have heard him. That deserves a death sentence?”

  “Of course not. I’ve been watching all the coverage,” Robb says. “That’s why he shot. Obviously it’s messed up.”

  The conversation goes in a circle. I’m ready to be done. I set my controller aside, as Yoshi dances in victory on top of the winner’s podium. “Look, we’ve got an organizing meeting at the Black House tomorrow. Come if you want to.”

  “They’re thinking of going down to join the protests in Underhill, aren’t they?”

  “Some people are talking about it, yeah.”

  “Hell, yeah. Someone’s got to stand up.”

  Yeah, I’m done. I drag myself up off the beanbag. “Lots of people are standing up. It’s on TV every night.”

  “I know. Look at what’s going on with the Kings. We’re looking at gang members turned resistance fighters.”

  “And getting arrested left and right.”

  “Hey, Tyrell,” Robb calls. “Tyrell!”

  Tyrell pulls off his headphones. “What?” He’s annoyed, and at the moment I don’t blame him.

  “Kings versus cops. Who comes out on top?”

  “That’s a stupid question,” he says. He shoots me a look that’s half sympathetic, half baffled. Headphones back in place.

  Robb waves his hand. “Say what you want about me being white. At least I care about what’s happening. I’ll be at the march, with bells on.”

  “With bells on? You’re going to bring superfluous metal objects to a public demonstration?” I force a grin. “Don’t stand next to me, white boy.”

  Robb laughs. I slap the doorframe on my way out of the room.

  TYRELL

  They don’t know. They can’t know. They dip into this movement like they are going for a swim. Put on the right suit, slick your hair back, and glide. Tip your head at just the right moment for a breath above the surface, cry out “Justice!” Keep your arms and legs moving, feel the burn in your muscles like you’re doing some good.…

  My arms flail. My legs flail. They don’t know. They can’t know. The full burn. The feeling. Of drowning.

  ZEKE

  I swing by Carl’s barbershop for a shape up. Kimberly’s bound to like the clean-cut type, based on the way she dresses. I can do clean-cut.

  I own jeans, T-shirts, polos, a couple button downs, one blazer.

  “Why you suddenly so big on the outfits?” my sister asks. I’ve got her in my room looking at the combinations with me.

  “Just help me out, would you? Do me a solid for once. No commentary.”

  Monae’s eyes narrow. “Who is she?”

  “Shut up.”

  The items on the bed look like a bunch of fabric to me. I can tell which ones go on which half of my body, but that’s where my fashion talents end.

  “Do I know her?”

  “Monae.”

  “Do you want my help or not? I need to know who it is so I can dress you right.”

  Sigh. That makes a certain amount of sense. I’m reluctant to admit it, though. Monae has a sly look about her. “You’re just being nosy.”

  “Price of admission.”

  “I never said there was anyone.”

  Her brow arches. “Deductive reasoning. You suddenly care about clothes, there’s a woman in the picture.” She eyes me up and down. “Would I like her?”

  “You don’t like anybody,” I chide.

  She laughs. “Nothing wrong with having high standards.”

  I pick up a polo and settle it inside the blazer.

  Monae howls. “Boy, you are hard up.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I’m honestly mystified. “The blazer makes it nice, right?”

  Monae wipes tears of mirth from her eyes. “Here.” She plucks a button down. “If you want to wear the jacket, pair it with this.”

  “Over jeans?”

  “Yeah, unless you’re taking her somewhere really fancy. Wait, let me guess, this is the girl from SCORE?”

  “What girl from SCORE?”

  “The one whose tweets you’re always gushing over.”

  The grin steals over my face against my will. Caught. “She invented #TodayForShae, #TomorrowForAll. Now everyone’s using it. That’s her hashtag.”

  Monae swoons and makes kissy faces at me. “In other words, she’s used to seeing you in that dank little office in a ratty T-shirt? You don’t need me. You can’t go wrong by comparison.”

  I toss the rejected polo into her face. “Shut up. She basically jump-started the movement that’s happening. You can’t tell me that’s not impressive.” I slip my arms into the chosen shirt. Button it up and start tucking the tails into my waistband.

  “Hmm, I think don’t tuck it in for now,” Monae says.

  “Really?”

  “And leave the top two buttons open. You don’t wanna look too buttoned-up. Casual. With the potential to be tidy.”

  That sounds good. I grab the blazer by the collar, toss it over my shoulder. “How do I look?”

  Monae laughs. “You look hard up. But you’ll do.”

  KIMBERLY

  Zeke’s apartment is small, and surprisingly girly. Lavender walls and paintings of flowers and dancers. Throw pillows with silver sequins. Everything matches and looks really nice. He makes us tea and serves home-baked cookies from a tin. The intrigue continues. Who is this guy?

  We had a nice dinner out, and he paid with his own money this time. He puts my leftover lasagna in the refrigerator, all responsible and careful. That’s the detail I enjoy the most. He thinks I’m going to be here long enough that my leftovers ought to be chilled.

  “We also have some beer,” he says. “It looks like we’re out of wine.”

  “The tea is good,” I answer, sniffing the lemon steam. Tea and cookies. It’s sweet and wholesome, and somehow both fitting and opposite to what we are doing.

  When Zeke sits on the couch beside me, I set aside the tea. I offer him the sexy grin I’ve practiced.

  He smiles. Leans toward me. “I want to kiss you now,” he says. His face is close to my face. He pauses, and I’m nervous. Maybe we are both nervous.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” I whisper. This time, I feel his smile.

  His lips are soft. It’s not unpleasant. But I don’t know what to do. It’s supposed to be instinctive, or something, but what if it’s not? What if I’m not good at kissing? What if he tastes me and knows right away that I don’t know what I’m doing?

  My hands find his shoulders. His tongue plunges in and out and I try to move mine in response. Like dancin
g, except not the way I usually step on everyone else’s toes. I hope.

  My hands squeeze his shoulders and part of me wants to wrap my fingers around his neck and pull him closer, but how can he get any closer, and there is another part of me, in the back of my brain, that won’t let me lean into it at all.

  My palms pump against his shoulder bones, pushing him away.

  “What’s wrong?” Zeke is alarmed. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”

  It takes a moment to catch my breath. Zeke’s hands slide down my back, soothing and comforting but also sending shivers through me. All my muscles are awake and intrigued by him.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

  He rubs my back. “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” he says. “Do you want to stop?”

  “No. I mean … no. I don’t want to stop.”

  Zeke waits anyway.

  “It’s … there’s something you should know.”

  “Okay.” He listens to me, all sweet and open. He’s paying such close attention, but how do I really tell him?

  “I don’t, I mean, I haven’t … before. I’ve never…” Why is it hard to admit it out loud?

  “You’ve never had sex?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” He lets go of me altogether. I’ve ruined it. Now he knows and he can’t see me the same way.

  “Is it, like, a religious thing?”

  “No, I just haven’t had the opportunity.”

  “That’s probably not true,” he says. “Lots of people have been into you. You just didn’t know it.”

  It’s nice that he thinks that. “Maybe,” I say. “Except it’s me.”

  Zeke frowns, making a the-whole-world-should-see-what-I-see face. “Don’t you know how amazing you are?”

  My I-hope-it’s-sexy grin. “Sometimes.”

  He leans forward. “Good.”

  “It’s not that I doubt myself. It’s more like … I don’t think most people really see me.”