by Kekla Magoon
Brick removes his arm from my shoulder. “I have to try to take this call,” he says. “I’ll be back.” I shiver. He slips away without waiting for my answer. What would I even say that didn’t sound stupid?
I’m safe enough, amid a sea of Kings, with Noodle nowhere in sight. But I still feel the chill in the air as Brick moves away. One thin blanket of comfort removed, I’m that much closer to the cold. That much closer to standing alone.
“Hey, Jennica.”
“Hi, Melody.”
“Are you okay? I was worried about you last night.”
Her face forms within my slivers of memory. Right. “I’m fine.”
“Brick was here a minute ago, wasn’t he?” She strains her neck around, trying to catch sight of him.
“He’ll be back. He had to take a call.”
“Oh. Okay.” She seems relieved, like she’s been hunting for him for ages. She also seems kinda worked up about something.
“How are you?” I ask. “Is everything cool?”
From across the barricade comes the sound of smashing glass. We flinch. A man’s voice shouts, “Oooh oooh ooh! Go back to Africa, you motherfucking apes!”
A great jostling of the crowd tumbles us like an ocean wave. Melody and I press closer to each other. “Uh, I mean, is everything cool … apart from the white supremacy…?”
We laugh. It’s not funny, but you gotta get through it somehow, I guess?
“Yeah,” she says. “I think things are cool.” Pause. “You’re good friends with Brick, right?”
We’re good … somethings, yeah. “Sure,” I say out loud. “We go back a while.”
“So, I mean. He’s a good guy, right?”
The million dollar question. “He’s complicated.” That seems like a safe answer.
She nods. “Underneath all the Kings stuff? That’s just one layer. There’s more to him.”
“Untold depths,” I can say honestly.
Melody smiles. “Yeah. I mean … yeah. He’s really sweet with Sheila.”
“Sheila?” A switch in my heart flips. Anxious.
“His sister.”
Right. I forgot he has a sister. She’s just a kid, I know that much. He keeps her far from the world of the Kings, with good reason.
“That version of him feels real to me. The Kings stuff, it’s weird, right? Like putting on a suit to go to work?”
Where is she going with this? “The Kings are as real as it gets.” Can’t be getting confused about that.
“He dates a lot of women, though?”
“He sleeps with a lot of women,” I say. Dating, I don’t know where you draw the line on that.
“He’s not just interested in sex,” Melody says. “We talk about things. He cares about real stuff.” She cranes her neck. “I mean, he’s here, right?”
“I’m sure he’s still here, yeah.” He wouldn’t leave without me … would he? And just like that, I’m craning my neck, too.
“I mean, we’ve hung out a bit lately, and he never acted like it was all about going to bed. Last night was the first time.”
Last night? My head spins. So does my stomach. I’m already hangover dizzy, and now the whole world feels off balance.
It’s not hard to put the pieces together. Brick says no to me, after all this time, because there’s someone else. Of course there is. Why would I think he was ever into me?
I shake my head to clear it of all the wrong thoughts. “Um.”
“You okay?”
“I have to get out of here,” I murmur.
“What?” Melody leans closer to me. She can’t hear me over the chanting, which has intensified.
Today for Shae! shouts Kimberly’s voice, amplified.
Tomorrow for all! answers the crowd.
Today for Shae! I can no longer see her, but Kimberly is around me, above me, within me. She is a bright, shining, glorious star and the whole world answers her call.
Tomorrow for all!
I push my voice hard, right toward Melody’s ear. “I have to go.”
Today for Shae!
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
“Are you okay?” Melody asks. Her arm goes around my shoulder. I shrug free.
Today for Shae! Kimberly’s voice is everywhere. I can’t follow it to the source, and even if I did, she’d be too busy to talk.
Tomorrow for all!
“When you find Brick, just tell him … Tell him I had to get to work.” I stumble away, pushing people aside to get toward a bus stop. I rode over here with Brick. He was supposed to bring me home, but I can’t face him.
Today for Shae!
Tomorrow for all!
I can’t face Kimberly, either. The world spins as I rush to get more distance. When I reach the sidewalk, the first thing I see is a sewer grate along the gutter. It’s like my body was waiting, holding itself in check.
Vomit rushes up my throat and out in a coughing rush. It’s gross and achy, and somewhere behind me a kid goes, “Ewww, Mom, look!”
My knees hit the curb. My whole body is shaking.
“You okay, baby?” says a woman, probably the kid’s mother.
I hold up my hands, as if to make a wall. A good wall. It will be a fortress, with possibly a moat. Your concern will not get through, stranger-lady. Force field: engage.
“I’m fine.” I cough, wiping my mouth. Never better.
BRICK
The torches burn brighter as the sun goes down, and there is nothing subtle about it. Their chanting continues. For a fleeting moment, I imagine crossing the barricade. Gun in hand. Strolling straight into the white-hot center and popping them one by one. As many as I can get to before I’m taken out.
Maybe the thought is not so fleeting.
My boys are packing. I’m not. The cops are gunning for me already. I’m not about to get picked up on a weapons charge. They’d find a way to spin it hard. I know they would.
So I’m not carrying. A rational decision I don’t completely understand. Because … this rage. I’m on fire.
Maybe I’m a coward at heart.
It does nothing but stoke my rage, knowing that.
I’m not about to set myself up for prison. That’s rational. But the core of me defies logic. Wants to. A blaze burns around me, consuming me. I can barely see myself within it.
“We have to pack it up,” Zeke says. “Our permit ends soon.”
“Fuck that,” I answer. “We’re not leaving till they do.”
“There are more of them than there are of us,” he says. “Who do you think is gonna get arrested first?”
“So we get arrested.” I smack my fist into my palm.
Wait, what? No. No. NO. But I can’t stop myself from fronting.
I’m right in Zeke’s face. “These motherfuckers need to know who we are.”
WILL/EMZEE
I can’t, with the hypocrisy. I take it to the wall:
White people: We matter most! We deserve preferential treatment!
Cops: You have the right to express your opinion. Here’s a permit.
Black people: We want equality! We deserve justice!
Cops: You’re out of control. Here’s a bullet.
MELODY
“We do not back down!” Brick is shouting. “We’re just supposed to walk away? While they’re still out there? Hell no!”
Zeke pulls himself up big. He’s tall, like Brick, but thinner. “Peaceful protest. We abide by the law.”
“Fuck that! We need some civil disobedience up in here.”
“Not now, not here.” Zeke’s one calm-ass brother. Between their shoulders, uniform fabric, coming closer. I crane to look.
“It ain’t right!” Brick’s raised voice draws the attention of the cops at the perimeter. Clusterfuck. They staring us up.
“Pigs at ten o’clock,” I say. “Simmer.”
“Listen,” Zeke says. “If we get rowdy, they’ll start arresting us. That’ll be the news tonight.”
“Tha
t’s the news every night, goddammit,” Brick thunders.
“Exactly,” Zeke explains. “Tonight, we want it to be different. We walk away, in keeping with our permit.” He points toward White Out. “They won’t. We need to see what happens. We have footage of tanks rolling up to peaceful protests in Underhill. If the same thing doesn’t happen here tonight, it’s evidence of discriminatory police tactics.”
“I feel you,” Brick murmurs. But it’s still fire.
I can’t lay claim to Brick, not even. It’s not like I’m his girlfriend. I mean, I don’t rightly know if I am. I do know he doesn’t want this fight. Not on the inside.
My hand on his sleeve, and he flinches. His body’s all tight and poised. Tense, like a finger on a trigger.
“I need a ride home,” I tell him. “You ain’t gonna ditch me here, are you?”
Brick lets me pull him away. Can’t keep my eye on the uniforms while we move, but they’re out there. Clinging to our trail like a shadow.
KIMBERLY
It’s only a twenty-minute ride, from the park back to the community center. It won’t be the end of the world. Only staff can drive the van, or I’d send Zeke with Al instead of me. He can’t get enough of the senator.
It’s growing dark, and the demonstration permits end at sundown. Today we follow the letter of the law, to make a point. The police say when we are gone, they will move in and clear the White Out protesters, too. Time will tell.
There’s not much to pack. We’ve given out all of the UNARMED buttons and most of the flyers. A few Underhill volunteers collect what remains of the poster board signs, while others walk around urging the crowd to disperse. They hand out “What to do if you get arrested” cards. It’s unlikely that everyone will actually choose to leave.
It’s hard to leave, to shut off our railing against the ongoing chant. White might! White rights! The torches seem to hiss against the gathering dusk.
I securely tuck the flyer box flaps under each other. It feels like giving up.
“Ready?” Al says. Senator Sloan. I keep slipping. “Our ride is here.” What he means is, Let’s step into the car, where we’ll be alone.
I already feel a way I don’t want to feel. There’s something masochistic about making yourself gaze directly at open hatred for hours on end. It’s like staring into the sun. You take damage. Even if the white spots fade and you can eventually see again, your eyes will never be the same.
The police hover and nudge people along. They can see that we’re leaving. It’s amicable. Remarkably so, considering how this moment tends to go back in Underhill. I snap a picture of a cop standing with his arms wide, smiling as he directs people across the street. I will tweet about it, when I can find the right words. #ObediencePays, maybe. Except plenty of people would fail to see the intended irony.
Al’s—the senator’s town car pulls up to the edge of the thinning crowd. He ducks inside immediately. The gathered photographers snap images of him until he disappears behind the tinted glass.
The police move barricades, to clear a lane for him. But the town car waits. For me.
Zeke squeezes my arm. “See you back there.” I wish he would lean in and kiss me goodbye, right in view of the senator, but he probably won’t. And I won’t. We’re working.
I cross to the door behind the driver’s seat. Breathing deeply. Twenty minutes, and I’m home. And maybe I’ll never have to see the senator again.
Wow. It feels good to sit down. I lean my head against the seat. Close my eyes. Breathe. For a moment I dare to hope we’ll pass the ride in silence.
“How did you think it went?” Al—Senator Sloan—asks. What he means is, Tell me nice things about what I’ve done for you today.
“We had a nice turnout.” I open my eyes. “We were peaceful. We were loud.”
There’s a silence. I’ve failed to answer the implied question.
“Your speech was good,” I add. “Two clips have already gone viral. I’m sure it will continue to get great coverage across platforms.”
“Anything for the cause,” he says. What he means is, I will do whatever it takes to get re-elected. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, presumably to confirm that my information is correct. He should just believe me. I’ve been tracking it all day.
We glide by rows of upscale housing. Uniformed doormen. Lycra-clad, down-vested joggers. SUV strollers, and everyone with a name-brand coffee cup in their hand. Sparkling sidewalks—literally, do they put glitter in them, or something? Stately brick, modern metal, walls and walls of windows. Who are the people behind all that shiny glass? Did they watch us on TV today, or will they tonight? Are they walking on treadmills and reading iPads and watching sitcoms while our world burns? Were they out in Griffith Park with torches? Did they want to be?
“It’s been nice to see you, Kimberly. You look well,” Al says. What he means is, You look pretty, or sexy, or something in that vein.
“I’m good.”
“I’m glad to see you’re still involved in the work.” What he means is, I was right to pluck you from obscurity so you could carry my briefcase.
“It’s become important to me.”
“You’re a natural.” What he means is, I made you from scratch.
“I don’t know about that.” Out the window, the buildings grow shorter, closer together and more worn down. We’re almost home.
“Nonsense, Kimberly. You’re a leader.”
The town car is generously sized, but so are we. It doesn’t take much for his hand to move closer to mine. Too close. His fingers walk and talk at the same time. Maybe I imagine them stroking slow circles over the back of my hand, where it rests on the seat between us. I’m still watching the city go by.
“I still think about that week,” he says. What he means is, I wouldn’t mind getting in your pants this time, if you’ll let me.
“I don’t,” I lie. “So much has happened since then.” I cross my arms over my stomach, even though it presses my boobs together, and I’m sure that is where his eye goes.
“You’re an amazing woman,” he says. What he means is, Who do you think you are? No one says no to Alabaster Sloan.
“I’m doing my best,” I answer.
“I’m proud of you.” There’s something about his voice that I never noticed before. Every word is full of so many things all at once. Layers and layers of meaning. Maybe it’s why people find him so pleasant to listen to. Why he moves them. It sounds like he is speaking with the voice of millions, and what I hear them all saying is, You are small.
ZEKE
I’m kinda wishing I’d taken time to clean up the SCORE office. It looks like a cyclone hit it. An anti-white-supremacist cyclone. This is what organizing looks like, I remind myself. We worked hard today.
Senator Sloan loosens his tie and settles back in the armchair in the corner. He takes a long swig from his can of Diet Coke. I slouch in the chair behind my desk. We’re silent for a while. It’s comfortable. Just two guys, hanging out. My brain can’t quite wrap itself around the fact of who he is anymore. Every once in a while my mind kicks me, like, Dude, you’re chilling with Alabaster Sloan!!! And then it goes back to feeling normal.
Senator Sloan glances around the room. I fight the urge to bustle around and straighten things up. It’s only a tiny mental fight. I’m too exhausted.
“Your work with SCORE is volunteer?” Sloan says.
“Yes, sir. We have a couple of grants but nothing that would cover an actual staff position.”
“Who writes your grants?”
“I do.” I grin. “Most of the behind-the-scenes work is me.”
“Impressive,” the senator says. “I know how much work goes into something like this.”
That’s not fair. Don’t be that guy, I chide myself. There’s a temptation, for sure, to puff myself up in front of Senator Sloan. I add, “At least, it was all me in the beginning. Kimberly has really stepped up in the last few months. I wouldn’t be able to do nearly a
s much without her.”
“And when you graduate? Nonprofit sector, politics? What do you envision?”
When anyone else asks me this, it feels like a can of worms. Like there is something squirming inside me yearning to get out, and I can never put words to it. The question itself feels like a game I can’t win. But when Sloan asks, it’s not hard to answer honestly.
“I don’t know. I want to do a bunch of things. To make a difference. Is that corny?”
“What’s the point of anything, if not to make a difference?” he answers.
“Yeah.” I muse on that. “I’m not sure everyone sees it that way.”
“Then they’re wrong,” he says, in that definitive, resonant preacher voice. His certainty fills the small space.
I riffle the corners of a stack of paper on my desk. “I’m supposed to want something concrete. Something simple. To be a lawyer. An accountant. A teacher.”
“Do you want to teach?”
“Not per se.” I pause. “But leadership is teaching, isn’t it? From a slant, maybe.”
Senator Sloan swigs the Diet Coke. Studies me. “You have a vision,” he says. “You just don’t know how to realize it yet.”
“I do realize,” I say quietly. It’s strange, that it feels like a secret, something to place in a vault, or to be ashamed of.
“Mmm.” He shakes his head. “I mean realize, in the sense that you don’t know how to bring it into fruition yet. How to make it real.”
“Oh. Yeah. For sure.” I shrug, smile as brightly as I can in the face of the uncertainty that is my future. “All things in time, or something like that?”
“Mmm. They do say that, don’t they.”
He is wise, beyond what I even knew. Even in his quiet moments, he exudes something loud. His very presence speaks. He knows how to realize his vision. I wonder what it feels like, to know who you are, and to stand in it.
