White Smoke

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “My work,” Mom whimpers as Alec ropes her into a hug, kissing her temple.

  Sammy and I glance at each other and take for the stairs.

  “Guys, wait,” Mom calls with a sniff, but we’re already on the first landing.

  What’s left of Sammy’s Xbox is in the hallway, his headset snapped in two, Legos like scattered ice cubes thrown everywhere.

  On the floor in my room, my laptop is smashed into tiny fragments. Clothing snatched off their hangers. There wasn’t much to destroy; I didn’t have much to begin with.

  But across the hall, Piper’s room is left untouched. Her lava lamp bubbles and glows blood red, illuminating her chilling satisfied smirk.

  “Police are on their way,” Alec says as we camp out on the porch.

  Mom, holding Sammy on her lap, nuzzles his neck.

  “I don’t understand who would do something like this,” she says. “Tear the place apart but not take anything.”

  As far as we can tell, no jewelry, money, or valuables were stolen. It’s as if someone came in just to fuck with our things like trolls.

  “You know who did it,” Alec seethes, pacing in front of us. “Our ‘friendly’ neighbors. Thugs with nothing else better to do than cause trouble.”

  Don’t know why he’s all upset; none of his stuff was messed with. He and Piper are walking out of this unscathed.

  “We don’t know that for sure. It could’ve been anyone.”

  “You know what, I don’t blame the Foundation for not trying to help these people,” Alec carries on. “They don’t even help themselves. Robbing and vandalizing their very own community. Why should anyone help them?”

  Mom shoots him a look. “Alec, you have no idea what these people have been through. You, as a white man, couldn’t possibly imagine.”

  Alec opens his mouth and shuts it quick, realizing he’s gone too far.

  “I don’t get it,” Sammy says to him. “Why did they leave your stuff alone?”

  Alec shrugs. “Maybe the police drove by.”

  “Down this block?” I roll my eyes. “Yeah right.”

  Alec blows out some pent-up air and sits down on the steps, facing the street, Piper quickly joining him. What no one else can see is the way she seems to be holding in an amused laugh.

  And I desperately want to know what’s so funny.

  Eleven

  “IT WAS SUPER weird, Dad.”

  Standing on the corner in front of the same house we snuck into, I give Dad an update.

  “It’s like they had it all planned out and ready to go. It looked like a totally different Cedarville, with strip malls and stupid fountains. And they acted like all these people are going to leave tomorrow and as far as I can tell, no one is in a hurry to pack up around here.”

  “Well, that’s what happens in cities that are controlled by investors. But I want to hear more about the break-in. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. For real. Aside from my computer, I didn’t have much they’d want.”

  “I would’ve thought they’d try to pawn off the computer,” he muses. “Could’ve gotten a few hundred for it, easy. Why destroy it? And what’s this I hear about you not wanting to join the track team?”

  I glance at the house on the corner, the curtain waving hello again. Didn’t want to tell Dad that this wasn’t just a regular robbery. That it seemed calculated and targeted, like someone was trying to send a message. And I definitely didn’t feel like talking about track.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, voice trailing off. “Hey, does Aunt Natalie still work for that nonprofit?”

  “Yup. Still at it.”

  “But she always complains about needing to fundraise. How can a nonprofit like the Sterling Foundation afford to buy up a whole city?”

  Dad laughs. “Ha! That’s my girl. Always thinking through people’s schemes. We couldn’t even trick you into eating veggies.”

  “And look at me now,” I chuckle. “Surviving on granola, tofu, and a prayer.”

  “You always get to things in your own time. But, Mari, I wouldn’t worry too much about the people in Cedarville. It’ll be a long time before they can push them out of their homes. However, to satisfy your curiosity . . . I would follow the money.”

  “Follow the money?”

  “Yup. Once you know where all the money is coming from, you’ll know who the real players are behind the scenes pulling the strings. It all may not be what it seems. What’s the first rule of chess that I taught you?”

  I take a deep breath, staring inside the broken window of the house.

  “Every move is a setup for the next move.”

  After we finish cleaning up and Mom locks herself in her office, attempting to hit her deadline, I try calling Tamara for the sixth time. She hasn’t answered any of my texts or FaceTimes. What kind of best friend leaves you hanging during a major life crisis?

  “Going for a run!” I scream before slipping out the door, first making a stop at the secret garden. It’s only been a few weeks, but the seeds are starting to show some life. I give them a good shower and check the room temperature. You can smell fall in the air. Change of season means change of sunlight, so I pull the bins closer to the windows. It’s a risk, since someone could spot them while walking by, but seeing how no one comes down our block to begin with, I feel cool chancing it.

  Except for that weird truck I keep seeing late at night. Maybe it’s canvassing the place. Maybe they’re the ones who trashed our house. But they didn’t touch Piper’s or Alec’s stuff. Which is probably why I keep hearing Piper’s words echo through my head.

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  With the garden tended to, I take off for my run, keeping to my routine to avoid raising any red flags about my whereabouts, Piper still in my forethoughts. Could she really have something to do with the break-in? I mean, she’s just a little bratty kid. How much power could she have? She doesn’t even have a phone.

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  I consider telling Mom about the car parked outside those few nights. But when you’re known for being “the girl who cried bedbugs” at every crumb or red spot you see, you’re not considered the most reliable narrator.

  Deep in the groove, I don’t even notice I’ve already made my regular lap around the park and am back in my neighborhood just as I hear a familiar voice.

  “Damn, girl, who you running from?”

  I spot Erika ahead, sitting in a broken lawn chair at the end of a driveway.

  “Dude, are you cooked already?” I laugh between pants, slowing to a stop in front of her. “It’s not even noon.”

  She gives me a glistening smile and checks the time. “It’s that late already. But yooo, you’re fast. You like the female Usain Bolt or something. You should try out for track team!”

  I swallow back the acid threatening to erupt. “Eh. Not interested in school-run extracurricular activities.”

  She nods. “Don’t want to work for the man? I feel you. Here, have a siesta.”

  She points to the chair opposite her and I take a seat.

  “Want a pop?” she asks, digging inside a mini red cooler.

  “Sure,” I say, even though I should probably drink some water after the miles I just put in. “Thanks.”

  I take a swig of the crisp ginger ale and glance back at Erika’s house, its white shingles dripping off the side, rips in the screen door, an old fridge turned sideways in the dead grass. Inside, I hear Scott Clark.

  “The Lord will send a blessing on your barns and on everything you put your hand to. The Lord your God will bless you in the land. . . . The seeds that blossom will bring anointing to your life and you will experience great abundance in areas you pray for. All you have to do is call the number below, place your order, and I will send you one pack of seeds absolutely free. Just follow the instructions in the detailed letter I will send to you.”

  “Sorry about your house,” Erika says.

  I almost ask how sh
e heard but forget that quick. Everyone knows everything around here.

  I wonder if they know they’re about to be evicted?

  “So, what are you getting into today?” I ask, changing the subject. “You always kick it in your driveway like a parked car?”

  She pauses for a beat, her face losing all lightness. “Only on special days. Waiting for my ride up to Big Ville to visit my pops.”

  “Oh! Uh, cool. Um, can I ask . . .”

  “What he did? Nothing, really. Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all.”

  “Right,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You ain’t prying. Nothing’s a secret in the Wood. I bet you right now someone’s on the phone telling somebody Leslie’s daughter is kicking it with that new girl from Maple Street. Soon, they’ll say we go together.”

  I trace my finger around my can with a shrug. “Well, you ain’t bad-looking. I’d smash.”

  Erika narrows her eyes and scoffs. “Girl, don’t go lying to me. I ain’t no pity lay. Besides, you ain’t my type!”

  We crack up laughing and spend the next thirty minutes lighting each other up. Kinda reminds me of hanging with Tamara. It’s the small slice of normal I needed, since she hasn’t answered her phone, despite all the emergency emojis I sent.

  Plus, I can smell the weed baked in Tamara clothes like the sweetest perfume and I’m ready to bury myself in her laundry.

  “You visit your dad a lot?” I ask.

  “Whenever I can catch a ride. It’s like an airport up in there. Everyone coming and going.” She sighs, kicking something invisible by her foot. “Them Sterling Laws fucked us.”

  “Sterling Laws?” I blanch.

  “Nah, not the Sterling that got you that house. His older brother, George L. Sterling. He was the governor back in the early 2000s. He was like this holy roller, thought drugs were the devil’s works. The moment he got in office, he doubled down and passed all these crazy laws. Mandatory minimum of twenty years if caught with just an ounce of bud.”

  I think of my secret garden and gulp.

  “An . . . ounce of weed?” I choke. “But weed is, like, harmless.”

  “Well, he convinced them white folks that weed would turn people into addicts who would rob, loot, and kill, and they all believed his dumb ass. He dedicated the entire city’s budget to ‘cleaning the streets.’ Everyone in the Wood was getting swept up. Police were riding around like an army, walking into houses, offices, restaurants, schools, hospitals with no warrants. After the first wave, they started getting greedy, planting drugs on folks . . . like my pops. Pops never smoked a day in his life, but they somehow found an ounce on him. I once read this stat that said in the two years after them Sterling Laws kicked in, the prison population grew nine hundred percent. That’s why they had to build them giant blocks you could see from a mile away.”

  “Whoa.”

  “With the budget gone, school and hospitals started shutting down, folks took to the streets. And that was the first match that lit up the last riots.”

  I cock my head to the side, sniffing Erika again. “So . . . why would you risk smoking at all?”

  “They got rid of the law about two years ago. As long as you not selling it, you good. But . . . they won’t erase all them prior sentences.”

  “So everyone up in Big Ville is just . . . stuck?”

  She takes a sip of her soda. “Pretty much.”

  “Dude . . . that’s fucked up.”

  Her lips form a straight line as she stares off into space. I can’t imagine what it’s like growing up through something like that. Your whole world flipped, seeing your family and friends corralled into prison, practically kidnapped, on bullshit charges.

  “But hey, it ain’t all bad here, you know,” Erika says, brightening. “There’s this party tonight over on the east side. You should roll through. Yusef’s gonna deejay. I give him shit but he’s actually not that bad. And I think homie got a little crush on you.”

  Oh no. That’s the last thing I need. Plus, won’t that be a party with girls from our school?

  But . . . it would be nice to do something normal for a change.

  “Um, I’m not sure,” I waffle. “Can I think about it?”

  “Dude! What the hell!”

  Tamara’s face finally appears on my phone screen after maybe the thousandth time.

  “I’ve been calling you all day,” I shout, slamming my door closed and flopping on the bed. “Did the dozens of 911 texts not register to you?”

  Tamara shrugs, seeming unfazed.

  “My bad,” she says, curt and not meeting my eye. “Didn’t know if you were still playing that stupid-ass prank. It was hella annoying.”

  “Prank? What prank? We had, like, a real-ass emergency here!”

  Tamara finally looks at me, her eyes narrowing, as if reconsidering something. “Well, maybe it could’ve been Piper. She did have long hair.”

  “‘She’? What are you talking about.”

  “Someone kept FaceTiming me last night from your computer, but I couldn’t see her face. She would just sit there in the dark, breathing all hard. I kept saying ‘hello, hello’ but she wouldn’t answer. It was hella creepy.”

  “Tam, are you joking? ’Cause now seriously is not the time.”

  “I’m serious! She called like twenty times. I stopped answering after a while. Hang on, I took a screenshot. Check the receipts.”

  Tamara sends a photo taken from her computer screen and as soon as I open it, my whole body goes numb. It’s a girl’s silhouette, sitting at my desk, on my laptop, backlit by the light in the hallway, her face hidden by shadows.

  She’s too tall to be Piper. . . .

  “Who IS that?” Tamara asks.

  The Hag, I almost whisper back, but stop myself. Because that’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as hags or any other craziness this town has cooked up over the years. But this must be the person who broke into our house. She was in my room, touching my things, pretending to be me . . . bile rises to my throat.

  “Dude,” Tamara pushes. “What is going on?”

  How do I explain? Where do I even begin without sounding . . . nuts?

  “Um. Long story. Lemme . . . uh, call you back.”

  Twelve

  WHEN ERIKA TEXTED me the address to the party, I expected a regular house. You know, one with running water and working electricity. Normal stuff. Instead, I follow a long extension cord down the cracking driveway of an abandoned relic on the opposite side of the park.

  Inside, the house is flooded with red Christmas lights and cigarette smoke. Now, it’s been almost a year since I’ve been to a party, and typically they’re pretty standard no matter where you go: bottles and kegs, red cups and chips, drunk girls, horny guys . . . and all the hard candy you could ask for: weed, cocaine, oxy . . . maybe even a little Molly.

  This party is different. For starters, it’s almost impossible to miss the huge holes in the ceiling and moldy furniture pushed in the corners, dust collecting on everyone’s kicks. Next, there’s, like, a really weird mix of people. Not just kids and college kids, but there’s some real-ass adults weaved into the crowd too, as if it’s completely normal to do shots with someone’s grandpa. Yet no one seems to find any of it strange. Just like the rest of Cedarville, everyone accepts this as normal when it’s anything but.

  Licking my lips, I scan the crowd, but no Erika in sight, and tonight I’m desperate to find her. She has what I need most. Something deeply unsettling is corkscrewing itself inside me. A familiar feeling when I’m close to the edge and about to do something . . . stupid. I have no way of texting her. Didn’t bring my phone since I know Mom still has that stupid tracker on it and my weak “going to the movies with friends from school, might be home late” lie wasn’t exactly my best work.

  What if she doesn’t show?

  I follow the extension cord straight to a dining room filled with people. And standing behind the deejay setup is Yusef, his father�
�s speakers set up on either side of him. He looks . . . legit and in the zone. I hang back, watching him from afar. With his Beats headphones, laptop, and a lit-up turntable, he flawlessly blends hit after hit, the party loving him, the vibes chill, and for a moment, I forget that I’m in a dilapidated house and lean against a nearby windowsill. But within seconds, it cracks under my weight.

  “Ah!” I scream, falling on my tailbone. Yusef’s head snaps in my direction. So does the rest of the party.

  Nice, Mari. Way to keep it low-key.

  “Cali!” Yusef says, helping me to my feet. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. You okay?”

  “Yup, yeah. Totally fine! I’m used to embarrassment,” I say, dusting myself off. “But, uh, is this place safe? The walls aren’t going to cave in or nothing, right?”

  He laughs. “Naw, they have parties in here all the time!”

  “Oh. Nice.” And I know it came out hella judgmental, but I’m still picking paint chips out of my twist out.

  “Well, I’m glad you came,” he says, beaming.

  I squirm under his joy and the curious eyes watching us.

  “Hey, I heard about what happened at your house,” he says. “You want a drink?”

  “Sure, but don’t you got to, like, work or something?”

  “I left it on a mix, we should be good for a few.”

  We walk through the crowd into the kitchen. Well, what used to be a kitchen since there’s clearly no appliances and barely any counters. Yusef pours us two vodka and orange juices. It’s the cheap stuff but definitely helps soothe my nerves. I’m not used to being at parties sober. Not saying I don’t know how, but I feel like an out-of-place puzzle piece. Or it could be the whole “house being vandalized, strange noises, neighboring house set on fire, lack of sleep, and some random girl playing pranks on my now-smashed computer” ordeal that has me feeling so . . . off.

  Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.

  “Hey, you okay?” Yusef shouts near my shoulder. “You seem out of it.”