“Mm-hmm,” was Mr. Pang’s only response.
“I want to go home and get back to summer,” Zed said, comforting Apollo with a conspiratorial side-eye. “And Dad, the Varsity is gross. Even the soda has grease.”
Apollo chuckled, helping Zed up. Mr. Pang sighed and led them out of the building. Outside, they were greeted by blistering heat, sunlight so concentrated that it felt personal, air so humid that Apollo could grasp it in his hand. Summer was overrated.
“I’d like to apologize,” Mr. Pang said as they pulled into Apollo’s driveway, snapping Apollo awake.
“For what, Dad?”
“Well, I took you guys out of the auditorium because I was annoyed at how big football seemed to be, and that isn’t fair to you. It’s okay to like football and rallies and organizations and all that other festive college stuff. College is your chance to give new things a shot. Just don’t lose yourselves. Sometimes you just have to stick to what you know, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dad, we’ll only try coke. No meth or molly. Please stop.”
“Zed, leave him alone. I feel you, Mr. Pang. No worries about us. We’ve got big plans, and nothing can stop them, not even the wonderful vices of college.”
Apollo hopped out of the car, pleased with his answer and hoping Mr. Pang didn’t think they really did coke. Apollo had always been warmly received by Zed’s family, but he was never sure if they were just polite or if they truly liked him. Apollo seemed to detect a hint of pride on Mr. Pang’s face as the car reversed out the driveway, but a glare on the windshield obscured his view.
Apollo’s house was empty, but his email inbox was full. Absentmindedly, he scrolled through it, jumping with delight when he read a message from his contact at Google Atlanta. Contacting a janitor actually was a pretty smart move, he realized. Solara was brighter than he’d allowed her to be, he considered, almost thrilled when he could think of no objection to this new thought.
He stood in place, amazed that it was really happening. Not only had Zed found more satellites with lax security, but right here, in his city, there was a supercomputer that could process the complex aerodynamics that were needed to actually reposition the satellites rather than just access their motherboards. They’d have to determine the satellites’ orbits, but that would be easy. Right now, all Apollo could think about was his purpose. He restated the facts, too thrilled to think further. In addition to there being multiple weaponized satellites, some were less guarded than others, and he would hack them. Small world.
His world history professor, Ms. Zarri, had always insisted that war was a competition of logistics—supply management. Weapons and tactics and information mattered, she taught, but only to the extent that they were expertly managed.
Fuck that, Apollo thought. In the US’s war against whoever the war was against, there seemed to be a lot more supplies than management. And he was going to show why that was a problem.
He suddenly wished he could rewrite his final term paper for his world history class, which had received an underwhelming B+. Zarri would shit a brick.
The wish petered out when he realized he had no way of confirming his sources. First person is for bloggers and shit journalists, Ms. Zarri had once said. That same day, Apollo had looked her up online. Ms. Zarri was a prolific vlogger, specializing in “investigations” of hair products, according to the video descriptions. There usually wasn’t much investigating going on, though, just a cursory Google search, filmed, followed by at least fifteen minutes of sycophantic endorsement or merciless critique. Apollo never brought it up.
Pouncing onto his bed and lying on his stomach, he thought of Cherise. So perfect, yet so flawed. Grabbing his laptop, he decided to look her up. Her Twitter page was the first result, followed by her blog. He clicked on the blog, perusing her archives. Most of the posts were images, making it easy to navigate. She seemed to go to a lot of rallies. End homelessness. Fuck the police. Citizens first. Save Syria. No GMO. Stop Zionists. Net neutrality. She had a picket sign, and a selfie broadcasting that sign, for every occasion, every objective. It was confusing, Apollo thought. All this awareness, yet she was hanging with AASU, an obviously feeble organization. And Zed wanted to join too. What a joke.
He moved to her Twitter page. It overflowed with retweets, all just as buckshot as her blog. Multitasking and politics never go together, he had read somewhere. You choose one mission, you complete it, then you move on. How did people not get that? He hadn’t even had to read that to understand it. Seeing it written just confirmed it.
Apollo rolled onto his back, his eyes resting on the ceiling. It was only 2:30 p.m. There was enough day remaining to get into anything, but he felt immobilized. If this next plan didn’t go right, he could end up just like Cherise, satisfied with merely being black in public, fossilized in the exigencies of 1961. Was there any mindset less Jurassic, less reptilian, less basic? It was repulsive how stupid people could be, even smart people. Even Zed. He’d have to make it obvious, for everyone.
Suddenly drowsy, Apollo took refuge in his thoughts, drifting into sleep. He saw the big picture. He’d seen it for himself, on that screen, on that night. But he was the only one, he realized, instantly aware of his true mission: to show everyone the light. Cherise was right, he thought. Things could change.
Sol wished that she could hail buses on demand. She always seemed to ride the buses on the forgotten routes. Buses with stops without rain covers, lone outposts nervously jutting out of the sidewalk. Buses with schedules that were too complicated to even attempt to fathom: normal stops on Tuesdays, except on streets running northeast to southwest, express stops on Thursdays, except between the hours of some inconvenient time and some other inconvenient time. Buses for brokeasses. Sol actually could afford a cab or a rideshare, but it felt bougie.
Accordingly, Sol stood still as rain continued to deluge her flimsy blue poncho. Cars zoomed by, reaching speeds only intended for highway travel, but she was undisturbed. Faster traffic means a bus should be here sooner, she assured herself repeatedly, never convinced.
Her poncho fluttered around her as the rain continued. After forty damp minutes, a bus finally arrived, lumbering to the stop. Only one patron was on board, flanking the driver, ready to exit. Sol could already taste the joint she would roll when she finally made it home, inhaling deeply as the bus doors opened, exhaling the sole rider.
Sol climbed the steps, her Breeze Card ready. “Sorry, ma’am,” the bus driver said, sticking out a gloved hand in obstruction. “This bus is out of service.” Sol shot the woman a look of pure malice then stepped off the bus, the doors whisking shut behind her. A loud decompression followed, the bus slumping over like a beached whale, gases expelling into the air. Why did unavailable buses insist on retiring in the fucking street?
Sol felt anger course through her, pooling in her right foot, which she used to kick a half-crushed Coke can into the street. She hated Old National.
The anger left just as quickly as it had come, settling down into disappointment. She had been looking forward to the long, slow bus ride, to the chance to collect herself before the guaranteed stress of dealing with her parents, but rain wasn’t relaxing when you were in it. Traffic it is, she decided, walking away from the stop and hailing an Uber.
The driver arrived quickly, beckoning her into a white 1991 Cadillac DeVille. Stepping in, Sol marveled at how spacious the back seat was. The driver, a slim Latino with a sullen face, said little as he sped through the rain, but Sol could feel his eyes flitting toward her.
“Keep your eyes on the fucking road,” she warned him.
“Sí, el jefe,” the man said sarcastically, suddenly turning on the radio. She understood what he said, but Sol ignored the slight and listened as two excited male broadcasters rifled through the day’s news.
“Fulton County Police have linked three separate shootings today to a man in lime-green sneake
rs. No further details are available at this time, but please contact the police with any tips. Witnesses say the sneakers were unmistakably lime.
“Activists of the political movement Black Lives Matter issued an apology today for tweeting out the wrong address for a flash rally. Fact-checking also matters.”
Sol rolled her eyes.
“Polls show that 40 percent of Metro Atlanta residents feel affected by last month’s terrorist attack, and 74 percent of Metro Atlanta residents feel another attack is imminent. The investigation of the atrocities is still ongoing. Please contact the FBI with any leads.”
“Atrocity? Yeah, right,” Sol muttered.
“In other news, charter school Our Children Deserve a Future has won its right to a countywide lottery system, enraging parents who were hoping a win would allow them to enroll their children this upcoming fall. Gwinnett County school officials called the ruling a step toward the fairness all children deserve. The parents who initiated the suit, who all lived within walking distance of the school, called the ruling a tragedy.
“Speaking of tragedies, Andre 3000 of rap group OutKast announced that over two hundred gigabytes of unreleased material were erased from his computer by an overzealous debugging program. A hacker group has offered to help him recover the files. The catch: they only take blank checks.”
The driver laughed, annoying Sol. She’d missed the news while she was locked up, but not this news, jokes masquerading as concern masquerading as information masquerading as truth masquerading as jokes. She knew everything had a spin, but this kind of news was centrifugal.
An hour later, the rain was still going strong, intensifying as they slid into a still neighborhood off Dekalb Avenue. Sol looked at the humble homes of Melrose Avenue with no nostalgia, watching the sidewalk inexplicably end as they drove deeper into the neighborhood. Sol used to hate having to step off the sidewalk and into the street, looking over her shoulder to avoid speeding vehicles. The only thing she hated more than being watched was having to watch out for the recklessness of others.
“You need me to stay here?” the driver asked, pulling into the driveway of Sol’s parents’ house. “You never know when the terrorists could strike again.”
“No,” Sol responded firmly, stepping out of the car. She watched him reverse, walking into the street to ensure he was headed back toward Dekalb. Sol hated when people tried to capitalize off fear. She wasn’t above it, but she only did it for survival, not for gain.
Her parents’ house was just as she’d left it four years ago, quiet and imposing. Sol struggled to open the door in the rain, eventually realizing the lock had been changed. She huffed, her breath making the hood of her poncho flap up, dampening her hair. She huffed again. The old lock had always been unreliable, jamming every other day, but not being told of the change felt personal. She pressed the doorbell lightly, suddenly hoping no one was home.
Sol’s mother appeared, opening the door slowly. Neither of them spoke, long past the stage of veiling their mutual contempt. Sol stared blankly at her mother’s half-finished makeup and curlers. She was headed to church. “I thought we would be seeing you soon,” her mother finally said, her voice flat.
Sol stepped past her, a perfunctory “Hi, Ma” begrudgingly slipping past clenched teeth. “Where’s Pa?” she asked, surveying the foyer.
“He’s out back. He made plans to grill without checking the forecast, but I want my grilled steak, so I’m getting my grilled steak.” She smiled. Sol ignored it, proceeding to the back patio through the kitchen.
A streak of lightning kept her inside. Instinctively, Sol planted herself in the corner of the kitchen, away from the back door. She removed her soaked poncho and scanned the room. Everything was the same: ragged towels hung sloppily from the refrigerator handle, a loaf of Sara Lee bread sat cozily on top of the microwave, sparkling marble counters. The familiarity was slightly sickening.
Sol’s dad burst into the kitchen, the door swinging open and hitting the doorstop on the adjacent wall. Sol had installed the stop after years of her mom pestering her dad about making such rambunctious entrances. It was her first home renovation. Neither of her parents had ever mentioned it.
“The prodigal daughter!” he exclaimed, depositing a tray of steaming steaks onto the counter and approaching Sol with open arms. The steaks smelled delicious, charcoal dashed with smoky rosemary. His police uniform was soaked, but he seemed to be in high spirits.
Sol evaded the attempted hug, placing her hands on his shoulders and locking her elbows, keeping him at arm’s length. He should have known better.
As usual, he ignored the obvious distance between them, smiling generously and speaking with casual intimacy. “I am pretty wet, aren’t I? So, you’re doing pretty all right, I hear?”
“You heard? From who?” Sol said, striding to the other side of the kitchen in one long step.
“Derrick said he saw you last month, said you fixed up Nana’s house all nice.”
“Is that all he said?”
“Not quite. He also said you own the house now.”
“Yep.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Sure.”
“It is,” her mother seconded, stepping into the kitchen draped in a purple Murphy robe, two crosses emblazoned on the sleeves. The curlers were gone, their job finished.
“Revival Week?” Sol asked.
“Of course,” her mother replied tersely, retrieving a bowl of salad from the refrigerator.
“I thought so. You always wear your ugliest makeup for Revival.”
A familiar silence erupted. Their patience should be running out soon, Sol calculated, excited to have a follow-up to her goading. She had grown out of provocation for provocation’s sake. She was now a provocateur with a purpose.
Something was off, though. Her parents had always been masters of the staredown, visible rage administered with invisible techniques, spooky action at a distance. But they seemed oddly relaxed, their faces calm as if they knew something she didn’t.
Frustrated, Sol broke the silence. “I’m not selling my fucking house.”
“It’s not really up to you, dear,” her mother assured her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We have evidence that you have been violating your probation. Drugs, alcohol, assault, vandalism,” her father stated calmly, using his police officer voice, a throaty drone. Sol had always been annoyed by the fact that he adopted this straightforward tone when he was explaining something arcane. “We’ve had a PI tailing you for a few weeks,” he revealed, opening a drawer and removing a stuffed manila folder. A large photograph peeked out from between its edges. Most of the image was obscured, but Sol saw a cute dog she’d stopped to pet just a week ago. What the hell was happening here?
“What does that have to do with my house?”
He continued. “There’s about three thousand dollars’ worth of mortgage payments left on the house. You make about thirteen hundred dollars a month. If we give this evidence to your PO, you’ll be fined for each violation. This folder contains at least seventy citations. At seventy-five dollars a citation, that’s over five thousand dollars, so you’re immediately in the hole. If your PO gives this evidence to any of the investigating officers looking into the vandalism cases—which he will—you’ll be arrested, which will entail bail, court fees, and probably some fines. Now you’re at about seven thousand dollars, and likely some community service. Now, obviously, all of this is theoretically manageable because you don’t have to pay these fees upfront. You can pay them over time, but then there’s interest. And interest with Georgia, whoo! We have a saying at the precinct: ‘You don’t want Georgia interested in you.’” He stopped to laugh.
Her mother chimed in. “Long story short, sell us the house for four thousand, and we’ll finish off the mortgage and even give you a l
ittle windfall.”
“You do realize this is extortion, right?” Sol asked, her fists quivering.
“This isn’t extortion,” Sol’s mom responded. “It’s a deal. You see, we initially hired the PI just to check on you, make sure you were okay. But based on his reports, you’re not okay. You’re doing everything that got you into trouble in the first—”
“Instead of asking me if I was okay, you hired someone to spy on me, and then you use that information to bankrupt me?”
“That’s not how bankruptcy works, dear. See, you don’t even know what you’re—”
“I know that you’re not taking my fucking house.”
“Child, I’m tired of your mouth. Cut me off again, and I will close it. Do you accept the deal or not? I have souls to save and a steak to eat.”
Sol stared at the steaks; they were no longer steaming, but their smoky aroma still filled the room. She hadn’t felt hungry earlier, but suddenly those steaks were all she could think of.
“Why do you want the house?”
“We need the money,” her father replied.
“For what?” Sol asked, her eyes on her dad.
“That’s beyond the scope of this transaction,” her mother replied.
“No, that’s exactly the scope of this conversation. Why am I selling the house of my dead grandmother, that I acquired fair and square, that I signed for at the goddamn bank, that I cleaned up, that I fucking live in, to two piece-of-shit parents who don’t even have the decency to come to their only daughter’s graduation?”
Sol’s mother lunged forward, her robes cutting through the air. Her father immediately caught her, grabbing her at the torso and lifting her up. She didn’t resist. It reminded Sol of juvie. All that was missing was an unnecessary body slam and someone restraining her as well. Maybe some spit and a “Bitch, you don’t want this!” or two for added authenticity.
In the Heat of the Light Page 9
