Light It Up

by Kekla Magoon

  DeVante grabs his forehead. “You think this is some fucking video game? After all that news you watch? It’s just entertainment?”

  “Of course not.” I fucked up and I know it. I was trying to get a rise out of Tyrell, cold fish that he is. I took it too far, but everyone makes mistakes. “Can we move on now?” I say.

  “You’re taking us to a place where there are tanks in the street. Do you get that?” DeVante shakes his head. “White privilege at work,” he mutters.

  My skin stings. “It was my idea to go to the demonstration in the first place,” I remind him. “I’m totally on board with the protests.”

  DeVante crouches beside Tyrell. “Come on,” he says. “We have to go eventually, you know.”

  “Can’t…” Tyrell whispers something else.

  Oh, for the love of—

  DeVante reaches toward me. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”

  TYRELL

  Underhill. It is home, and it is another world. All at once. That thing they say about college being a bubble away from the rest of the world is true, I guess. Perhaps this is how it feels to be an astronaut reentering the earth’s atmosphere, free-falling, hoping your heat shield holds, hoping your parachutes deploy. You’ve been in a place so beautiful, a place few people where you come from can appreciate or understand, and now you must return … assuming the very sky will let you. The movie they showed in the dorm lounge last Friday was Apollo 13 and all I can picture right now is that moment at the end of the movie when everyone is holding their breath. After everything they’ve been through, will they survive reentry?

  Will I survive?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t know.

  We roll through the familiar streets, and my stomach clenches tighter with each block. “Right on Peach,” I instruct DeVante, who’s still driving. We’re almost home.

  “Are we almost there?” Robb wants me and my urine stench out of his car ASAP. I get it.

  “You can let me out anywhere,” I say. It’s easy walking distance from here.

  “Naw, man. I got you,” DeVante says. “Door to door.”

  We make the turn onto Peach Street and …

  “Oh, shit.” Robb grabs both front seats by the shoulder and pulls himself forward. “What the fuck?”

  Underhill is not home. It is another world. It is a police state, a war zone, a corridor of barricades and patrol officers. We can’t even drive all the way down Peach. They’ve re-routed the traffic around the section of blocks where the protesting has occurred. Across the concrete barricades, it is clear that storefronts have been burned out and looted. The sidewalks are littered with broken glass and debris.

  “Just drop me on the corner right here.”

  “Are you sure, man?” DeVante’s voice echoes my feeling. “You could come with us.”

  No, I’m not sure that I want to walk these streets tonight … but I’m equally sure that I live here. And accordingly, I have no choice.

  “We’re not staying in Underhill,” Robb says. “DeVante has an uncle who lives across town.”

  “A better part of town, you mean.”

  Robb throws himself back in the seat. Says nothing. Whatever. I can’t help it. Everything Robb says is like needles to me at this point.

  He pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures. I can hear the metallic little scissor-click over and over, punctuating our silence like one long ellipse.

  DeVante takes the turn and pulls the car over in front of a fire hydrant. Throws the hazards on for good measure.

  “Do you know how to get where you’re going next?” I feel bad for leaving him alone with Robb, but what else am I supposed to do?

  DeVante taps his phone, where it’s resting in the cup holder. “Gonna program it now.”

  “Tomorrow you should leave the car and take the bus back here,” I tell him. I glance in the rearview. Robb’s not the public transit type, but at least I’ve given fair warning.

  “Text to meet up,” DeVante says. I close the door.

  Robb and I exchange a glance through the rear window. I try not to think about the fact that this is nowhere near the end for us. I still have to live with him for another eighty-six days.

  Eighty-five, if you don’t count tonight.

  Tonight, when I’m gambling on Vernesha’s kindness. I can’t go home. If my parents knew I was here, they’d light me up.

  When I start walking, my jeans shift. The breeze hits and their wetness becomes uncomfortable again. Not like it ever felt great. At least my coat is long enough to somewhat cover my crotch.

  All I know is I can’t show up at the Johnsons’ place with wet jeans. I go into Rocky’s convenience store.

  “Tyrell,” Rocky says. “What’s good?”

  “Listen,” I tell him. “I spilled a drink on myself in the car. I can’t go walking around like this. You mind if I change up in your bathroom?” I point to my backpack, which luckily has a clean pair of jeans in it.

  The bathroom is not for customers, but Rocky’s known me since I was a kid. Maybe he’ll do me a solid. I only hope he can’t smell the pee scent wafting up from me.

  Rocky starts to shake his head.

  “Please?” I beg. “It’s kind of an emergency. I’ll buy whatever you want.”

  Rocky’s known me since I was a kid. A good kid. Always. He hesitates. “One time only,” he says. “In back on the left.”

  I scramble through the stockroom door before he can change his mind. I’m fast. Not taking advantage of anyone’s favors. The washroom is tiny. I can elbow both walls at the same time. Not ideal, but I’m just grateful. I scrub my thighs with soap and paper towel, rinse my pants and wring them out as best I can.

  Out front, I buy a soda, a sandwich, and three packs of the cookies I like. I need a treat. Rocky gives me an extra plastic bag for my wet jeans. I’ve always suspected he was a good person, underneath all the ways he acts like he doesn’t care.

  “Thanks, man. You have no idea.” When I stick out my hand, it surprises him. He shakes. Then I head for the door.

  “You stay out of trouble, you hear?” Rocky says.

  I turn back. This, from Rocky, who prides himself on staying out of everybody’s business. Underhill. It is at once home and another world.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” I assure him. “I’m just coming home.”

  DEVANTE

  The second Tyrell is out of the car, Robb says, “Get me to some kind of car-cleaning place. Stat.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “It’s disgusting. What are we, seven?”

  It’s all I can do not to pull the car over and scream at him, like my mom used to do when my sisters and I would be fighting in the backseat. Don’t make me come back there.

  “You just don’t get it,” I tell him, for the thousandth time. “People die that way. You could have gotten us killed.”

  “We were just driving. Nothing else.”

  Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. I’m driving in an unfamiliar city. I have to keep my attention on the road, but I can’t let it go just yet. “All that news you watch and you still don’t know that gets people like him and me killed?”

  “It was never just that.”

  How are we even having this conversation? Robb, who always wants to hang out at the Black House, who arm-wrestled us into coming here with him to protest. I grip the wheel tight. “Just because they were black? Sure it was. Eric Garner. Philando Castile.”

  Robb says, “He had a gun in the car, though.”

  “A legal weapon, that he never pulled out,” I remind him. “Sandra Bland only had a broken taillight.”

  “And she talked back to the cop.”

  Here it comes. I can feel it. I push harder, coming back at him. “She asserted her rights when they were being violated. Is that a capital crime nowadays?”

  “No, but if she hadn’t said anything…”

  Fumes of rage come up my eso
phagus. Worse than acid reflux. I choke them down hard. We’re not supposed to ever speak now? That’s what they all want, isn’t it? Our obedience, our deference, our silence.

  “Remember those guys that got arrested while they were waiting for their friend in Starbucks?”

  “That was messed up.”

  “Messed-up things happen. That’s the point.”

  “Technically, they were loitering, right?”

  “When’s the last time a coffee place like that arrested upper-class white people for loitering? Why only the black people?”

  Robb bursts out with, “They must’ve been doing something!”

  There it is. The thing white people think that they won’t say out loud. They don’t believe in bias. They don’t believe it happens for no reason other than racism and misplaced fear. When push comes to shove, for them, it is tragic because it was a “misunderstanding.” They think that kind of “misunderstanding” could happen to a white person, that it has something to do with our actions, even though we see time and time again that it doesn’t.

  “But they weren’t doing anything,” I insist. “Remember the guy who was on his cell phone in his own backyard.”

  “Mistaken identity.”

  “Because he was black.”

  “It’s—that doesn’t make sense.”

  “When cops see a black guy, their brains kick into heightened alert. A tiny flinch is a threat. A cell phone is a threat. Standing still with your hands up is a threat. That’s bias.”

  Robb is quiet in the backseat. He’s got his head down. The rearview mirror is full of his cowlick.

  “Look, if you’re gonna march with us, you gotta get your head around it. I’m serious.”

  “Two lefts and a right,” Robb says.

  He’s looking straight back at me in the mirror now. “What?”

  “Take two lefts and then a right. There’s a body shop that does upholstery.”

  I brake for a yellow light, and slam on the left turn signal. Goddammit. I’m speaking into a void and how can I call myself friends with someone I have to explain these things to?

  And at the same time, this is Robb, the guy who was nicest to me from day one. The guy who always remembers what I like on my pizza and always invites me to do cool things around campus. My first and best friend at school, the guy I clicked hardest with when everything was new and strange. We’ve talked about girls and kept each other from getting too drunk, or walked each other home when we’ve occasionally missed the mark. He’s the only one who comes close to my gaming skills.

  “Whoa, this is my jam, turn it up,” he says. My phone is plugged into the car. A good song is on. Upbeat. I spin the volume high, because, fuck it. I’m not getting through anyway.

  We bob our heads to the beat. I rub the plush leather steering wheel, remind myself that Robb is still my ride home.

  The thing is, I know that I will stay friends with him. We’ll march tomorrow and wear out our lungs. And afterward, he still won’t get it and I’ll be more enraged than ever. The knowledge spins out in front of me. And so does the knowledge that I won’t let him go because I don’t know how to. And I hate myself for liking him anyway. It makes me a bad black person, doesn’t it? If I’m not woke enough to walk away?

  STEVE CONNERS

  I can’t say no to my nephew. But as soon as DeVante and his friend arrive, I know this was a terrible idea. They’re college boys, roaming free. The last kind of influence we need on Will.

  Over dinner, the conversation is politics, protest. DeVante is well versed in the issues. His mother, my sister, made sure of that.

  Will hangs on his every word.

  DeVante’s friend is something else. He’s that guy. The one we all know, and like, and trust, until we don’t. Call me assimilationist, an oreo, whatever you want—I know who I am. There’s a difference between doing what you have to do to succeed and being some kind of Uncle Tom, shucking and jiving at the knee of some master. This Robb guy is destined to be a master, whether he can see it right now or not. All the marching in the world doesn’t take away the damage he’ll do when he finally steps up to daddy’s corporate table. And of course he will.

  “Fight the power,” Robb says. I wonder if he understands the irony. That’s a Bulova on his wrist. He’s wearing custom-tailored Diesel jeans. I know my high-end apparel.

  “Right on,” say Will and DeVante in unison. I wonder if someone is trying to bring back the sixties. Because that went so well for everyone.

  Robb and DeVante banter back and forth, and their energy is high. My wife is laughing, delighted, and I force myself to smile when she meets my eye. She doesn’t know what I know. She cut her political teeth on the streets of Underhill. It’s different. Me, I remember those days. College days, the late-night talks, the vibrant debates. Safe in those ivy-covered halls, where everything is theory, you can spout off anything.

  I don’t know how to tell them. This is the real world. Tough talk is dangerous. Just being right, being smart, doesn’t get the job done. Tomorrow, it’s real.

  WILL/EMZEE

  Steve puts Robb in the guest room, and DeVante takes my second bed. We putter around getting ready for bed.

  I like the quiet of just the two of us. There are things I want to say. But instead I hand him my toothpaste and sit on my bed to wait while he uses my bathroom.

  He comes back out, puts the toothpaste back on my bookcase. I like to walk around my room while I brush, which I guess is weird or something. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  We’re not real cousins, we’re slant cousins. DeVante’s mom is Steve’s sister. We were close until his grandmother died. There were Christmases, summer visits back and forth, a lot of time spent at her house. Since then, not so much. It’s been a few years.

  We sit around in our boxers, looking at our phones and stuff. I wonder, not for the first time, if this is what it’s like to have a brother.

  “How have you been?” DeVante asks. He plugs in his phone and gets under the covers.

  “I’m good,” I answer. “Busy. Senior year and all.”

  “Good times.”

  “For sure.” I’m okay with letting him think I spend my free time partying or something, not skulking around in a hoodie with spray paint. I try not to skulk, really.

  “You still painting?” he asks.

  “Tagging mostly. Sometimes I mural. Wanna see my stuff?” I offer. Until Steve cracked the case, DeVante was the only one who knew about my art.

  “This is killer,” he says. “Really woke.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You could come for a visit, if you want a taste of college life.”

  “That would be fun.”

  “I shoulda been more in touch, with all that’s going on,” DeVante says.

  I shrug. “No worries.”

  We hover in silence. After a while, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then he sighs.

  “You worried about tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Not really,” he says. “If shit gets weird, we bug out, right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I agree. “That’s what I always do.”

  TINA

  I watch out the window

  until Tyrell is on the stoop

  Then Tyrell is at the door

  Mommy is the one who answers but

  Tyrell is here to see me.

  Hey there, Tina. How’s my girl?

  I pull him to the couch

  I crawl into his lap

  His arms are warm and safe

  and strong.

  Mommy says things to us

  I pretend to forget how to listen

  I don’t want a lot of grown-up words.

  It’s been bad. I know, Tyrell says.

  I know. It’s been bad.

  TYRELL

  It’s odd, being in Tariq’s room again. The furniture is laid out the same, but most of his personal stuff is gone. The dresser, the desk, the bed are all as they were. The closet
door looks funny to me closed. Tariq always had a mound of clothes spilling out onto the floor. He didn’t really believe in folding or hanging anything. The bookcase is still full of his books, although it looks like some of Tina’s have taken over.

  Vernesha rubs my shoulder in this way that feels nostalgic.

  “Is this too hard for you?” I ask. “I can leave.”

  “No, baby,” she says. “I like having you here.” She glances around the room, with a soft smile. “It’s no harder, no matter what happens. No easier, either.”

  Yeah, that. “Okay.”

  “Take those with you when you go?” she says, pointing to a stack of papers on the dresser. It’s the only thing cluttering the room. “I don’t know why, but I never could…” Her voice trails off. She shakes her head of whatever thoughts of Tariq have just crept in.

  “Sure.”

  Vernesha wraps her arms around me. “I’m glad you’re doing well. He’d be so proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  “Haven’t done much yet,” I answer, settling into the warmth of her affection.

  “You’re on your way. That’s more than nothing.” She kisses my cheek. “Sleep well. If Tina comes in—”

  “It’s okay. I miss her, too.”

  Vernesha nods. “I find her sleeping in here sometimes.”

  “Sure, I get that.”

  She backs out and closes the door.

  I’m alone.

  First thing, check the dresser pile. Don’t want to forget later.

  It’s mail. All of it. As I sort through the stack of fancy envelopes, my heart crumples up like a wad of paper in a fist.

  Stanford. Howard. Lincoln. Northwestern. Morehouse. Penn. Hampton. Xavier. Dozens of state universities, too, from all around. I got all these same envelopes, some time ago. I loved them. Reading every one was like taking a different vacation in my brain. And all because I dragged T to some career fair and we put our names and addresses on a list. It would have been, I don’t know, a week before he died? Or a month? Maybe two? When we thought we both had a hundred years ahead of us.