by Kekla Magoon
“All the way in Underhill?”
“It’s only about six hours.” I grin. “Sometimes five, the way I drive.”
A fleet of bikers zooms toward us. “Not sure,” DeVante says.
“Come on. We have to be there.” At least, I do. I have all this privilege, everyone is always saying. Because I’m white and male and my parents have money. So I want to use my power for good.
It’s just, I’d rather not go alone. Plus, what’s the point of protesting to support your black friends if your black friends don’t even show up?
“I don’t know.” DeVante sounds less excited than I expected.
“Come on. What’s the point of campus organizing? We live in a bubble.”
DeVante cuts me side-eye. There’s something he’s not saying, like usual. Apparently there are things I don’t get because I’m not black. Whatever. I’ve studied the issues. I do get it. Black people are oppressed and racism is alive and well in the twenty-first century, which sucks. But personally I think everybody’s equal and I don’t judge people on race. What else am I supposed to do?
“It’s a weekday,” he says. “That means missing class.”
“One day of class, maybe. Who wants to be cooped up in a classroom talking theory when we could make a difference in the actual world? No-brainer.”
DeVante moves behind me to let the bikers pass. We are subsumed by their wind. “Let’s wait until we get to the Black House,” he says. “We’ll have to talk together about what is the best plan.”
Blah. All they ever do is talk. Someone has to step up and take some action. It might as well be me. I know what’s right.
DeVante comes side by side with me again. He grips his backpack straps in his fists and stares at the pavement ahead of us. In this moment, he looks like Tyrell to me—calculating the logistics. But it’s not that complicated. I can do my part to help.
“I don’t care,” I tell him. “I’m going. I have a car. You can come if you want.”
BRICK
I’ve gotta get smarter about things. Sun streaks in through a gap in the blackout curtains. Melody cozies up against me, still half asleep.
I’m slipping.
This bed has a “no overnights” policy. Or, it used to. Can’t get comfortable with this kind of arrangement. I like sleeping alone.
But I liked waking up next to Jennica more. That night, the morning after, those memories are planted in my mind like a flag. Every thought is a breeze, stirring it. I can’t be awake, can’t move, can’t think without stirring it up.
I don’t mind waking up next to Melody, either. Any warm body is better than none, it turns out. But I can’t go making promises to women I can’t keep. I’m not into leading people on. My usual dates know how I roll. We screw, we snuggle, then we go our separate ways. No hang-ups. I sleep careful. I sleep smart. No drama.
“Morning,” Melody mumbles. “You good?”
Till now.
“I’m good. You?”
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Two missed texts from Jennica.
He’s stopped coming around. At all.
You didn’t do anything, right?
She might as well have walked in and poured some gas on the embers of my fire. I just got myself down to a simmer, and now this. Damn it.
I toss off the covers, startling Melody. Storm into the bathroom to deal with my situation alone.
What do I have to do? Jennica says she wants away from him, but it’s like some weird obsession. He fucks with her, and she’s pissed one minute and the next it’s like Come fuck with me some more. It’s messed up.
Melody’s sitting up in the bed when I return. Her shirt is off and the covers are pulled up right underneath her excellent rack.
Damn it. I have no resolve. She’s right there, and willing, and it feels good. I got nothing to apologize for.
Afterward, she says, “I have to get to work. Can we meet for lunch, maybe?” She strokes my cheek. “I want to see you.”
“I’ve got some things to do today,” I tell her. “You wanna come by tonight instead?”
“Dinner again?” she asks.
Right. Last night I took her out for dinner. Two nights in a row? I’m really slipping.
“Come over to my place. I can make you my paella.”
“Why don’t we do it here?” I suggest. “Leave me a list and I’ll send someone out for the groceries. I got pots and pans I never use. Gotta break them in sometime.”
And I’ve got a party to throw after that. Gotta get back to business as usual.
“Sure,” she says. When she kisses me, it is good and easy. Comforting. Not even confusing, in the moment. Not confusing until after.
* * *
The diner’s not crowded. I’m not sure I’m glad. Jennica’s face perks up when she sees me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I lean across the counter and she pushes her cheek forward. I kiss it. She smells good, and I don’t know how, after swimming in this grease pit all day.
“It’s been a few days,” she says. “You okay?”
I settle into my usual stool. “I been busy, that’s all.” Has it been a few days? Really? I didn’t mean for that to happen. Time is slipping away.
“How about you? You doing okay?”
She smiles. “Same old, same old. You wanna eat?” She hands me the menu, as if I don’t know everything already.
“Patty melt. Gimme some of that broccoli on the side.”
“It’s good today.” She scrawls my order onto the pad.
Her smile is a world unto itself. Jennica is gorgeous through and through. That night we kissed, everything came alive. But she was in a bad place. She didn’t really mean it. In the light of day, in the warmth of the diner, it’s a kiss on the cheek, a touch of the hand. The rest is in my head. A fantasy, that we could ever be more than that.
I don’t even know how much she remembers. I don’t know how to talk about it with her. I don’t know how to ask what any of it meant: Were you lashing out in pain, or were you loose enough to reveal what you really wanted?
We’re friends. We may never be more.
If I keep coming here, I’ll keep hoping. If I stop, I’m leaving her in the lurch.
KIMBERLY
“So … pizza night is not a thing anymore?” Jennica says. She’s sitting on the couch.
Crud. I forgot again. I’m being a terrible friend and there’s no excuse for it. I plop my purse onto the counter.
“We got really busy at the office this evening.” That’s a stretch, but what am I supposed to say? It’ll hurt her feelings if I say I forgot. Again.
“You weren’t at the salon?”
“I was, but my last appointment canceled. I went by the office after my shift.” I slip out of my shoes and poke around the kitchen. Maybe I can whip up something that will feel kinda special. But nope. We’ve got nothing great in the fridge. Pantry, either.
“We can order in,” I suggest. “We haven’t done that in a while.” The take-out menu drawer is nice and full. “My treat,” I promise.
“Okay,” she says. There’s a pause while I riffle through the menus. “If you really want to,” Jennica adds. “I mean, if you don’t have anything better to do.”
Oh, double crap. “I love hanging out with you. You know that.”
Jennica’s looking out the window, which is as close to turning her back on me as possible while sitting. “You never have time lately. But it’s not a big deal.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” I bring four choices over to her. All her favorites, including the pizza. “Really. It’s just you and me tonight, okay?” Zeke was going to come over later, but I’ll text him and tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.
Jennica smiles. But there’s something behind it that shatters my heart.
“Hey.” I pile myself onto the couch beside her. She leans into me instantly. No hesitation. The shards of my heart pulse. “I know I haven’t really been around much.”
“You have
a boyfriend now,” she says. “I get it. I know what they’re like. They want all your time and attention.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not like that.” Zeke’s not asking me for everything. Not in the destructive, controlling way Jennica’s used to. The thing is, I love him. I want to give everything. It’s different. But I don’t know how to explain. “This thing we’re doing, with SCORE … it’s bigger than us. It’s only for a little longer. The grand jury will come back within a couple of days. Everything will settle back to normal.”
It feels true, until I say it out loud.
Jennica lies very still in my arms. She doesn’t say it, but I can feel her thinking it. I’m thinking it, too.
We won’t settle. Nothing is normal. This thing with Zeke isn’t fly-by-night. Neither is my involvement with SCORE.
We won’t settle. The whole world is changing. No going back. There is no normal anymore.
WILL/EMZEE
It’s easier than it should be to sneak out of the apartment. My parents watch TV kinda loud, and if I just leave my door shut, they don’t bother me. A closed door means I want to be left alone.
I tiptoe through the foyer and then wait with my hand on the knob. It’s never long before a loud commercial comes on, and it covers the sound of the snapping lock.
I slip out, let the knob click back into place under cover of the same commercial. Scoot toward the elevator. Like clockwork.
Almost.
This time, the door clicks open behind me. “Hey.”
Uh-oh.
Steve’s in the hall with me. Busted. “Where are you going?” he says.
“What? No biggie. I’ll be right back,” I lie.
Steve pats his pockets, checking for his keys. He lets the apartment door close behind him. “Let me see your bag.” He holds out his hand.
“It’s only my books,” I tell him. “I’m just used to carrying it.”
Steve crosses his arms. “Would you rather talk to your mother about this?”
Hell freaking no. I swing my backpack off my shoulder and toss it at his feet. He unzips it.
My life is over. Being caught was always a possibility. I’ve known that. Caught by my parents, by a teacher, by the cops. I always thought I’d be mad when it happened. Defiant. It’s different. It’s worse.
Steve pulls out two of my paint cans, the gray and the white. When I see them in his hands, I feel like I’m crumpling, fading. Like I’m being dropped into a deep, deep hole from which I may never escape. Dirt walls and hopelessness, my very self stripped away.
“Put them back,” I whisper. “Please. Please.” There’s something raw in my voice. Steve reacts to my words as if I did lash out, as if I sounded all defiant and enraged. I’ve burned him.
He places the cans back, carefully. He re-zips the bag. Does he know that I’m dying in front of him?
Steve pulls out his phone. Clicks around a minute. I’m not sure what to do with the silence. This moment is nothing like I ever imagined. It’s all I can do to breathe. My bag is on the floor between us. I want to take it, but I can’t move.
Steve holds out his phone. “This is you?”
He has eMZee art in his photos. It’s kind of surreal. He thumbs through four images. The photos are taken through his car window, like he drove around looking for them. Not my best work, but … he’s seen me.
“Yes,” I admit. The fullness of the truth is refreshing.
Mrs. Nadinsky, our neighbor, opens her door. “Oh, hello, dears.” She has her gray hair in rollers under a cap. She’s carrying a small plastic trash bag.
“Hello, Mrs. Nadinsky,” I answer, from the surreal space. Some things come automatically. “May I take that to the chute for you?”
“Well, aren’t you the gentleman,” she says, stretching the trash bag out to me. “Such a dear. Such a dear.” She pats my shoulder, then retreats into her condo.
And suddenly I’m standing there holding Mrs. Nadinsky’s trash. Silent in front of Steve, who is seeing the real me for the first time, my heart in a bag on the hallway carpet. I feel exposed and dirty and cold.
Words fail me. Steve stands silent, too. I grab my backpack by the top handle. Where I go, it goes.
The trash chute is down the hall, behind a little door. Near the elevator. When the chore is done, Steve is right behind me.
“It’s beautiful art.” Not what I expected him to say.
“Thanks.”
“It worries me that you’re breaking the law.” Yup. Now he’s back on the parent track.
“To make a point,” I say. “It’s resistance.”
“It’s vandalism.”
“Call it what you want.” I slide my arms into my backpack straps.
“Your mother wouldn’t—”
“So don’t tell her!” This isn’t about her. It’s us. Right here. Right now.
“I haven’t. But I think you should tell her.”
“Pssshhh.” I move past him, toward the elevator.
“I can’t let you keep doing this.”
I spin around. “Let me? You’re not my dad!”
Silence. There’s no going back. It’s been, I don’t know, years now since I threw that at him. He is my dad, and we both know it. There’s nothing I can say that will hurt him more. I didn’t even mean it, but I’m too mad to take it back.
“I know that.”
“I—” I want to say I’m sorry, but I can’t. “I have to go.”
“Come here,” Steve speaks in this tight, controlled voice, like a spring pressed down hard. I know that feeling.
“Screw you. I’m outta here.” I stride toward the elevator. Pound the button with my knuckles. With my fist.
“I said, come here,” he demands. “Come here now.” His voice fills the hallway like thunder. I turn toward the storm, because I can’t help it.
Steve strides toward me. My whole body tenses. I didn’t even know I had other levels of tightness left, but I do.
It’s rare, one of those moments when I feel like he could hurt me. Like he becomes the black man the world fears, a vicious metamorphosis right before my eyes.
When he reaches for me, I’m actually scared. He’s never truly scared me before, not once. My arms go up, protecting my face. He grabs my shoulders, and I punch my forearms outward, against his arms, breaking the grip.
“Stop,” he says. “Come here.”
His hug is strong and soft. If I was anything but stone, I could melt into it. But I am stone.
“We love you,” he says. Bringing my mom into it is some ninja shit. But the warmth blows around me like wind. “You’re not alone.”
But I am alone. I am.
The elevator dings and the door slides open.
“You grounding me?” I ask.
“Is that what I should do?” he says. “Probably, yes. You’re grounded.”
The elevator door starts to close behind me. I wave my hand against the laser.
“It’s not safe out there, at night. I want you safe. Not dead.” His voice catches. “Not in jail.”
“You want me to jail myself instead.”
Steve’s face falls. He moves in a small circle, turning himself away and back. He runs his hand over his neck.
“I hear that,” he says.
The elevator door starts to close again. This time, Steve reaches over my shoulder and places his hand on the door, holding it open. I step back, into the opening.
“One way or another, a black man is ‘safer’ in an enclosed space. That’s what you’re telling me.”
A jail cell. A casket. My room. If that has to be my whole world, what’s the difference?
The elevator starts up its I-will-beep-until-you-make-a-choice alarm.
“Be safe,” Steve says.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Steve lets go of the door.
I get in, alone.
TINA
The TV is tuned to all the bad news.
My headphones do not help tonigh
t.
Mommy says, I’m sorry, baby.
I need to see what happens with the grand jury.
I don’t know what the grand jury is
or why everyone is waiting
to hear what it is going to say.
Everyone is angry and shouting—
that part, I understand.
When there was something scary on TV,
Nana used to let me crawl into her lap.
Now I only have pillows
and it’s not enough.
TYRELL
Robb is persistent. I’ll give him that. He is y =-x2 + 2x. A firm equation, easy to solve but annoying. Insistent and committed to its trajectory, however misguided. When you graph it, it plunges toward negative infinity.
“You gotta come with us, dog. That’s your hometown.”
“Listen.” I’m losing whatever patience I even have with him. “Just let it go, would you.”
“Not till you say you’ll go. Two nights, max,” Robb insists. “You miss only one class. I’ll get you back in time for the rest. It’s for a good cause. When the grand jury comes in, there’s gotta be a lot of voices calling for justice. We gotta stand up!”
It’s a relief when my phone vibrates, glowing TINA over my homework.
Her voice is small. “Hi, Tyrell.”
“Hey, baby. How’s my girl?” I try to sound sexy. Won’t make no difference to Tina.
Robb sighs and packs up his notebooks to scoot out of the way so we can have privacy. Good. I want him to think I’m talking to my girlfriend. That she’s who keeps calling me.
Tina laughs in my ear. “You sound so funny on the phone sometimes.”
The door closes behind Robb. My normal voice returns. “I know. It’s because I’m happy when you call.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. And the funny voice—it helps me with something.”
“You sound normal now.”
“Hey. Who you calling normal?”
Tina giggles. “You sound unique. You sound like Tyrell.”
I smile. “Well, okay, then.”
Quiet. I wait. Usually at this point she tells me about some thing or other that went on at school.
