Say Her Name

by Stefani Deoul

  And as I struggle to translate, understand, and ponder their meaning, I see Ava is watching. And as soon as she senses I am caught up, she goes for the kill, “If I can’t trust you to be my ears, why do I need you?”

  ELEVEN

  According to Ari, first fights are very good things. Normal people aren’t always lovey-dovey and perfectly thoughtful. Normal people have fights. It’s what they do. And, because Ava and I were obviously not dating the first two times Ava sent me away, those don’t count as disagreements, never mind fights. So there you have it. Welcome to the world of normal.

  I’m not sure I exactly agree with her logic. Although she’s right they weren’t fights, but still.

  However, Vik and Imani are vigorously nodding their agreement, and Jimmy is suddenly stretching his arms wide, cricking his neck in Ari’s direction while making bug eyes. Even in my addled state, I get the just-agree-with-her message-so-we-can-be-done loud and clear, so now I am nodding along with Ari’s pearls of wisdom, hoping she will run out soon.

  I confess, I never thought I’d be this happy to be back in the soul-sucking, cinderblock, fluorescent lit school cafeteria, dining on chips and mystery meat. And yet I am, wait for it, oddly nourished.

  Groaner, I know.

  But I am that kind of silly happy. The last few days sucked. There was more snow. The city was completely shut down, I was locked in, and our dead bodies were somewhere, literally “on ice.”

  And even though Ava and I were back talking, it was very stilted. I did, you know, think about saying she was still cool, rather chilly actually, but I’m not ready to be that cavalier. Not when it’s still touch-and-go.

  Messaging friends for help was remarkably unsatisfying. Partly because I didn’t know how to tell them what was going on. The thought of telling anyone Ava’s pissed off because I ran after Imani made me kind of queasy. And it was only half true. She was mad because I didn’t think of her first. But I don’t know. I need to be with my peeps and to have my peeps tell me it is going to be all right.

  And they do not disappoint.

  We all agree my actions were unwitting, that perhaps Ava was overreacting just a bit, but it didn’t mean she didn’t have valid concerns, and that this is all just another one of those “growth experiences” we all loathe.

  I raise my milk. “I’ll toast to that.”

  As we lower our assorted drinks, Imani’s black cherry soda remains aloft, no longer toasting, just denoting she is now holding the floor. “We have ten minutes left. Did anybody ever find a real body count?”

  And like that we are done with me and back to discussing the dead bodies.

  Although there really isn’t too much to discuss. There doesn’t seem to be any account we can deem “accurate,” and there are a lot of accounts. Even foreign papers have picked up the story. Trawling online brings up reports, which vary, on average, from four bodies up to fourteen bodies.

  There was one that claimed the grave held nearly a hundred bodies and the city was covering it up, but we all conceded that one was not just a random outlier, but really clickbait.

  And with that the last ten minutes of lunch passed by.

  “Hey, Sid,” Imani rises, slowly grabbing her tray, letting the others clear the space, working the super casual a.k.a. super cas. “So maybe you could give Tsarnowsky a call? See what he can find out for us? You know, if nothing else, he might at least tell us the real body count.”

  Now I don’t know why this makes me instantly defensive. Perhaps because the super cas is too casual, as in she is so casual as to be nearly nonchalant. Maybe, one might think, even rehearsed. As though she’s been lying in wait for this perfect, choreographed, moment. And worse, maybe it’s not just her. Maybe they have all been clued in to whatever this is.

  I feel the slight rise of the hackle. Which is totally unwarranted. I know. I mean, first of all, it’s a perfectly fine suggestion. Even, we might agree, a smart one. Even if she has stage directed this moment. And second of all, I have no basis for even thinking this, never mind accusing.

  Yet, despite her nuanced perhaps-performance, I’m hearing judgment. As though I am quietly being accused of somehow having been neglectful.

  Or, sidebar from my kazoo voice, maybe I’m just feeling a little guilty.

  Imani, or really any of them, actually could have called Tsarnowsky. I mean it would have been lacking in couth, but they all do know him.

  And I didn’t think to call him because, well, because I’ve had Ava on my mind. Argh. Fluck me, inconvenient random thought interruptus, Ava on my mind hops, skips, and jumps right to Annie on My Mind; a book I read for my Summer Fifty in the eighth grade. It’s about two seventeen-year old New York City girls who fall in love. I think it has a happy ending. I think.

  And refocus. Because while I’m busy having a bout of inconvenient random thoughts and trying to recall its potentially happy ending, the present is getting rapidly iffy. Imani’s still standing here. Staring at me. Waiting. For an answer. Duck a Flying Fluck!

  “Tsarnowsky. Absolutely. Great idea.”

  I force a smile, grab my tray, and as we head out add, “Maybe we shouldn’t call. Maybe we should head over after school. If we trap him, we better our odds.”

  I feel the cloud of disappointment lift.

  Imani shakes her head no. “I can’t.” But her face breaks into a big smile, totally at odds with her words.

  “It’s the senior musical auditions. Maybe you and Jimmy?”

  I nod, shoot Jimmy a quick text before we split up, heading off to our next class. And at first glance, there is nothing remarkable about this moment.

  But this my friends is the exact moment I open the door to my funambulist existence. Funambulism is a funny thing. It has two definitions, the first one being the simple tightrope walking. The second one being a show, especially of mental agility. Together they perfectly describe my sudden turn of events.

  Jimmy pings back immediately. He cannot make it today either. Which really shouldn’t be a big deal. I can check with Ari or Vik, or I can just head over by myself. And with two minutes before the door closes and science class begins, as I am debating my options, Ava pings.

  And it never occurred to me in that moment to say no.

  So, I didn’t.

  Not with my first thought. Not with my second. Didn’t think about a thing.

  Not until my post-Ava, making way back to the train station . . . and my phone pings. Which I don’t stop and answer because I’m too busy trying to navigate the street, still filled with huge patches of ice that are way harder to see in the dark, and bonus, it’s cold, freezing cold. So, all my FOMO will have to chill with the rest of me. I am not pausing to fish the phone out.

  Nearly there, I finally join the overcoated sea of humanity making their way down into the subway, which is still running erratically, causing the bodies to pile up. With the heat pumping in, we are all now trapped in a sauna. Thus, I unzip, and therefore I remember my phone.

  The ping was Imani on a group text, wondering how it all went.

  How. It. All. Went.

  As in Tsarno. The Barno. After school. Today. Like I promised.

  Panic. A can’t breathe, full-blown moment of panic. The phone in my hand is suddenly an alien species and I want to drop it and run screaming up the steps and back out into the dark.

  But I don’t. I take a deep breath and make a coward’s choice, and do something I have never done.

  “u—unavailable jimmy-unavailable texted tsarno told him coming tomorrow to see him waiting to hear.”

  And I hit the send button before I can stop myself. I hear the “zip” of it sending. Take a deep breath and text Tsarno. Tell him we are going to come by tomorrow after school.

  The train finally pulls in. I let the crowd push me in through the doors and down the aisle. And with my face pushed against someone’s backpack I tell myself it wasn’t really a lie, it was just taking a bunch of individual truths and clumping them togethe
r for a better narrative—which is not the same as lying.

  Of course, it’s not exactly the same as truthing, either.

  Which is why, when the text from Tsarno comes saying tomorrow he will be in court, but can probably be around the next day, I don’t hit the forward button to let everyone know. Nope. Even with my stomach-churning guilt I understand my original text will be on there too, and if anyone thinks to look, they will realize I didn’t ask him until way later. And this would be ugly.

  But I’m breathing and I’m thinking it’s okay; actually it’s all pretty good. I get home and send everyone, including Ava and Joe, a note saying Tsarno can’t do tomorrow, but he’s good for Wednesday.

  Imani’s good. Jimmy’s good. Ari’s good. Vik is out. Joe thinks he can get there.

  And then there’s one more ping. It’s Ava.

  “thought we were shopping on wednesday picking out a tie for saturday party.”

  I stare at the message. And for a minute I’m confused. Shopping? Tie? I don’t need a tie. But from the other side of my brain there’s an answer, a memory, scraffling like a New York City cockroach on speed, carrying a message I know and don’t want to hear. Delivering it so loud it’s as if she is standing next to me: “if I can’t trust you to be my ears, why do I need you?”

  And I know I’m being played, and that it’s some kind of test, but I don’t know what to do. And I don’t know who to ask.

  Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly who to ask, but I’m not sure how to ask. Nope. That’s not it either. What I really know is she won’t like the question.

  But I do it. No. Oh no. Not that night. Not even the next day. Yes, I wait until the morning of, when we are climbing the steps, heading into school, and then I finally ask. Bon Courage. Yeah. Not so much.

  My casual “hey, Mani, would it be okay” not only fools no one, but goes over way worse than I thought. Four heads swivel, eight eyeballs freeze, looking at me with near identical shock.

  Imani looks at me as though she has never seen me before. “Just so I am completely understanding this. You want to drop us and move Tsarno from today to tomorrow, all because you have shopping plans with Ava?” And although there is a slight pause, it’s only to heighten her disbelief with a flip of her hair and rise of her left palm. “Plans you somehow knew nothing about?”

  Everyone’s face registers as sharply as if I’d snapped a candid and was looking back at it. An image caught for all time. Imani, center of the photo, her face filled with contempt. Jimmy, over her shoulder, his face a face of puzzlement. Vik. Vik’s is embarrassment. Ari, frozen mid-eye roll. And me, I turn my imaginary camera around for a selfie. I am haunted, dripping with shame.

  I have never felt this small in my life.

  Ari’s snort of disgust breaks the freeze. She grabs Vik and leaves. Imani stares one moment longer. And I’m trying to understand the twist of her lip that suddenly happens. I can’t tell if it’s disgust or pain. I want to drop on the ground and plead with her to understand I didn’t know what to do and I’m sorry. But before I can move, she too turns and walks away.

  Now there is only me and Jimmy.

  His look I get. It’s pity. But he doesn’t turn and follow Imani. Instead he walks down the two steps between us and wraps me in a hug. And into my ear he whispers, “Really, Sid?”

  Then he releases me and walks away, taking the steps two at time. So now there is only me.

  I have never felt this alone in my life.

  TWELVE

  Which leads me to doing something I have, maybe not so shockingly, never done in my life. I ditch school. And I head directly to the station looking to find Detective Robert Tsarnowsky.

  Who, the desk sergeant informs me, is not in. So I park myself in the waiting room, which is as unattractive and germ-stricken as I remember, but perhaps because my current mood is scummy I currently feel right at home.

  I sit, but my body isn’t interested. It won’t stop twitching and pulsing. I force the has-a-mind-of-its-own left bouncing knee to still, and the right one takes off unimpeded. I cross both legs beneath me, but the right ankle is unleashed and on the bounce.

  Mostly I want to take my fists and pound on the side of my head, thinking if I can do that it will let the pain out.

  But I can’t. Well, not without attracting attention of the not-so-good kind.

  Wowzerhole.

  That’s it. Wowzerhole. I shall challenge myself to a round of “Expletivities!”

  Years ago, like way back in the sixth grade, “Expletivities” was a game Jimmy and I made up, which is really just your basic cursing competition. But we gave it a fancy name, and we had lots of scoring rules. The playing part, however, was incredibly simple. We take turns competing, seeing who could out-curse-word the other—the more unique the word, the more points.

  And there was a lot more strategy than you might think. Do you use up a good one early in case the other player knows it, too? Do you start with a cheap one or two just to get those points in your tally?

  At the time, it was incredibly amusing and, no surprise here, I was pretty darn good, and not just because I had hip pocket additions like my favorite, c’est des conneries, French for this is bullshit. Although I loved that one so much I think I probably said it to punctuate every sentence for at least a good two months. And before you start feeling bad for Jimmy thinking my French was some kind of huge, insurmountable edge, remember that courtesy of his mother he came with a few good Japanese ones to hold his own.

  The truth is I just like random words more than most.

  As a matter of fact, Expletivities is actually responsible for “wowzerhole” being born, but that’s a different story track and I don’t wish to get derailed for it right now.

  So, brain back on the main track, whether I was better or not, when Imani arrived on the scene with her ability to swear in seven languages, me, Jimmy, and Expletivities were all doomed.

  Losing got old, we got older, and the game kind of faded away, but every now and then I still find myself occasionally playing solo. One never does know when a “bejabbers” or “thunderation” will come in handy.

  I pass the next two hours or so perched on the bench, viciously engaged in my own battle, working to count every expletive I know so I might rack up my score. But some days bollocks are lacking a certain je ne sais quoi. Some days emotionally demand one stick with a basic merde, or even better a more direct fuck.

  Fuck me. Fuck this day. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Sid?”

  It’s Tsarnowsky. His girth is not so much towering over as bulging at me, but it’s the same basic effect. Considering he’s looking at me rather curiously, I realize I never heard him approach so I don’t know how long he has been standing here, which could have been two minutes or twenty seconds, watching my fist hitting the bench like an exclamation point for each swear word I think. And now that my metronomic accompaniment has been turned off, I have to say my fist hurts like hell.

  I shake it out. Jump up.

  “Great. Great. You’re back. That’s good.” I can feel my mind racing as fast as I am nervously jumping about. I try and stop moving, but my hands are now tattooing a rhythmic beat on my thighs. “I need your help.”

  He stares at me for just a second longer, then nods. I reach down, grab my backpack, and follow him past the desk sergeant and down the hall.

  When I emerge, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m feeling fine, but I can say I am feeling armed.

  I make it back to school in time for lunch where I find them through the crush of bodies. The only good thing I can report is they are all here, and no one is looking any happier than I feel. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders.

  I slow, approaching the table cautiously, knowing this is not going to be easy.

  “Hey.” I feel everyone look up, which in turn makes me feel glaringly exposed, really oversized, even a bit mammoth, but I fight the urge to slink down and sit. “I went and saw Tsarno, and he called
Yvonne and confirmed there were, are, eight bodies in the grave.”

  And with that Vik and Ari rise, grab their trays, and head out. Jimmy rises, leans over, kisses Imani on her forehead, shoots me a look, and then he too makes his exit. Message sent. This is between me and Imani. Message received.

  She stares at me, nods. I sit.

  “I got the lead.” She pauses for just a second. “In the play. We’re doing Man of La Mancha.”

  I nod. I maybe shrink. Maybe I am already so shrunken she can’t see me get any smaller. I don’t know.

  I don’t say anything. We both already know I forgot all about it. Some kid I don’t know bumps into my hunched back, squeezing his way past me. Whoever he is behind me, he begins muttering something about being sorry. I ignore him.

  “Also, just to let you know, I had a great time at the TKTS Booth by myself in the freezing cold three weeks ago.”

  I feel my mouth drop open in protest. Then I close it. Open it. Gaping fish anyone? She’s right. The night Ava and I went to DC is the night Imani and I have had a standing date four times a year for the past four years.

  Every three months, we get dressed up, get in line as early as we can, and begin making our way through the discount tickets booth jam, scanning the boards, debating the merits of each available show, choosing a backup in case we can’t get our first pick, and inching forward until we score our tickets.

  It started as her thirteenth birthday gift from me and we had so much fun she did the same for mine, and then it became “our quarterly night celebration.” This would have been our fifteenth one.

  Guilt collides with shame so fast it is nearly impossible to absorb so that I completely and totally forgot all about it, even having texted Imani to cover for me, when Imani comes in for the kill.

  “And, worse, you lied to me.”

  My lowered head pops right up, a sign I am about to hit my nearly automatic denial button, when I realize she’s referring to the first time I blew off calling Tarso. The shame is instantaneous, the guilt pounding through my body, making me physically ill. I think I’m going to vomit. I can’t imagine how she knows.