Say Her Name

by Stefani Deoul

  “I looked everywhere, all the time.” I begin with my confession. “Is this one smart enough? Is this one funny enough? And then I learned something unexpected. It wasn’t some sticker that I needed to go find. It was meaning. I needed to go find meaning. So I did. And then I went and made my own sticker. And now I’m ready.”

  Part of me wants to stand here and make everyone wait for it. Anticipation and all that, but I know it’s not the kind of thing I can tease. I keep going.

  “The quote I’ve chosen begins with, ‘To forget would be not only dangerous but offensive.’ It’s the first half of a sentence written by Elie Wiesel, and it’s from his book, Night. My sticker is actually the second half of his sentence, ‘To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.’”

  And that’s it. I stand here waiting, not sure what I do next.

  The room is now completely quiet. Mr. Clifton sits at this desk, his elbows on the tabletop, his chin perched on his clasped fists, assessing me. I wait, not nervously but maybe a bit uncomfortably. I don’t like having to stand here with the “all eyes upon me,” but I am confident in my choice, prepared and ready to fight for it. Until then I tell myself over and over “don’t fidget.”

  Mr. Clifton smiles slowly. He nods approvingly and says, “Pick a place.” Just like that. No argument needed. So I do. And until it gets covered over, it will remain about two inches from an end, wrapping upward on an angle.

  And maybe that’s the ultimate irony. It will be there until it gets covered over. And then perhaps it will be forgotten. I never thought about that.

  TWENTY-THREE

  But after all these weeks, well really months, two and half if you were counting, it is time to breathe again, at least for me. Imani and Marcus are in their final throes of rehearsal.

  And four nights later, Jimmy, Ari, Vik, and yes, Joe and I, sit right up-front waiting for the curtain to open and their night to begin.

  Somewhere in the back one might find the pack of parents if one were looking, which we are not.

  I glance over and watch Joe talking about something with Ari and I realize how happy I am we somehow got joint custody of him. He fits. And houselights to half, so focusing on my assignment I surreptitiously try to get Ze on the line, but sadly not happening.

  And now it’s too late. House out, light cue one, and enter stage left Marcus as Don Miguel de Cervantes.

  The applause is thunderous. And as he delivers his opening monologue, he turns, walking downstage, until he is upon us.

  And as he is telling us of Don Miguel de Cervantes’ intention to go out in the world as a knight-errant, I take one last time to look at Marcus, to think of our adventures, and then, then I sit back and let the music, the moment, the rightness of it all wash over me.

  When it’s over, we head backstage for a group hug that means so much more than we ever knew it could. And with that it’s cast party time.

  And here, my friends, is when I shall omit a few details. You might recall discretion, the saying goes, is the better part of valor. Suffice it to say, it involved fake IDs, a piano player, and a room filled with imbibers of the drunk, drunker, and drunkest kind, singing show tunes loud, proud, and pretty well on key. A good time was had by most is a fair summary.

  Imani and I somehow get back to her place somewhere around two.

  We are, to stay in our moment, fairly well debauched, or, in more modern lexicon-ology if you prefer, pretty well lit. I am so musically funny when, let’s just say, pretty well lit. We’re definitely somewhere on the very happy scale, stumbling about, and loudly shushing each other. Miraculously neither of her parents put in an appearance. I think we can safely guess this is a choice. There’re only so many times you can sneak in and say “shhhhh” before you wake them.

  As a matter of fact, because I’ve slept over so many times and this isn’t our first attempt at sneaking in, the number of times it actually works is less than once, also known as never.

  So tonight, or this morning, they are graciously ignoring us, and we are having a sleepover. I don’t think I’ve slept over in, wow it’s got to be at least over a year.

  Imani’s gone back out to the kitchen, and I’m propped up on her bed, just taking in old, familiar surroundings. There are so many pictures of us. I smile. There’s one with Ze. Oh wow, there’s even one with Tsarnowsky in it. And there are a bunch of new ones of just ’Mani and Jimmy.

  Small pang.

  Oh, not about the two of them. They’re such old news I don’t even think about it anymore. No, it’s a small pang for Ava. But just a small one.

  Imani comes back, carrying a huge bucket of freshly popped, or at least freshly microwaved, popcorn. Which, once I get a whiff, all protest thoughts of not being hungry fly directly out the window. Instant stomach growl.

  She plops down on her side of the bed and my hand snakes right on over. “I can’t remember the last time we did this.”

  Imani laughs, “Me neither.”

  She passes me the bowl and reaches over to grab the remote.

  “And, wait for it, it gets even better. I did some research and found us something to binge.”

  Oh my god, it really has been forever since we did this. We used to prop up Imani’s laptop between us, share one set of headphones, and stream something, sometimes really anything, all night long. Hours of stupid cat videos on our way to making it through, I think sixty-two, of some list’s top movies ever made. We sang through musicals, including one night where we watched Grease four times in a row before we passed out.

  We also watched every lesbian show ever made I think. We even watched pieces of shows if they had a snippet of lesbian or sometimes just the aroma of lesbian. All a show needed was l-attitude a.k.a. lesbian attitude, and you got a viewing slot.

  OMG, I laugh to myself. I remember the day I found out Rizzo was in a lesbian movie. The Truth about Jane. Yes, I know Stockard Channing isn’t Jane, but I don’t care. She’s Stockard Effing Channing and she rules. We got a copy and watched it that very weekend.

  But I’m A Cheerleader, Saving Face, Desert Hearts, and finally, both our favorite, I Can’t Think Straight.

  By the time we found I Can’t Think Straight, I knew for sure, and so did everyone else. Imani helped me tell my parents, and then Jimmy—not that, come to think of it, it was overly shocking to any of them.

  After that, between Imani and Jimmy, it was a floodgate of downloads, a tsunami of titles. Even if someone was just a guest star dying in the background of a show, if they were gay, they went on a list and we watched it. The more obscure, the better. Or if they were even super kick-ass they qualified on both potential and aspirational points. Sigourney Weaver because, well, Ripley; Charlize Theron, a triple threat with Furiosa, Atomic Blonde, and Monster, and let’s not even begin listing the supersheroes.

  I want to make a movie with all of them and call it Butch Like Me. Or maybe, Butch Like Me Wanna Be.

  Maybe Samantha Sidley’s I Like Girls will be the opening credits kind of like Adele’s Skyfall and Bond. Of course, then I’d have to change my title, which I don’t think works for me.

  “So, I’m skipping season one.” Imani’s voice suddenly interrupts my trip down movie memory lane, as she’s already cued something up and is hitting the pause button. I have managed to miss the entire event. “It’s really not important, and it’s already after two in the morning. I will, however, give you the CliffsNotes version, so we can jump right into season two, and you will be just fine.”

  My eyebrow must have quirked because Imani pauses long enough to blow me off with, “you don’t need it; pay attention.”

  Now, she is all business.

  “So, in Season One of Janet King, we meet Janet King, played by Marta Dusseldorp. She is a striking blonde lawyer, now heading up some kind of commission. It’s an Australian show, so the details aren’t exactly the same. In your missing season one, she had this intense case, and in the end the coparent of her twins is murdered. Tony,
played by Peter Kowitz, is her loving and exasperated, often funny, charming boss.”

  Imani comes up for air, but for just a second.

  “Anyway, probably too much info. Season Two picks up a couple of years later, Janet King is returning to work with this appointment, she’s going to bring in some of her old gang, and here we go.”

  And with that, Imani poofs her pillows, hits the enter key on her computer and we’re watching.

  I suppose my logical question would be how does she know I’ve never seen it. The answer will soon be clear.

  Although Imani won’t be awake to know it. I don’t know exactly when she fell asleep. I don’t know because I am spellbound. From pretty much the moment when Anita Hegh shows up as Inspector Bianca Grieve, I am team Bianca.

  It’s somewhere about six in the morning when I feel Imani move and roll over. With only eight episodes and some incredibly pointed and judicious fast forwarding, I am nearly done.

  “Well?”

  “It’s good.”

  Imani snorts. “Not that, you dodo. Team Janet or Team Bianca?”

  I feel the blush, but it’s still dark in the room as I confess, “Bianca.”

  “Hah. I knew it.” Imani’s voice is still all groggy. “Jimmy owes me ten bucks.”

  “Wait.” I’m thinking I may have to be appalled. “You bet on this?”

  “Oh yeah. When I found this show, he said you’d be all over the blonde. For the record, Vik agreed with me, but Ari went with Jimmy. I said there was no way. Blonde chick is way too mean for you.” Imani picks her head off the pillow and grins at me, incredibly lopsidedly. “You don’t like mean. You don’t have those defenses.”

  And with that she rolls back over, curling into a ball.

  “Hey, ’Mani, why didn’t you say anything when I was trying to sort Ava?”

  For a moment there’s no answer and I wonder if she’s going to pretend she’s fallen back asleep. But she answers, “Because my job wasn’t to tell you what to feel or how to feel. My job was to wait for you to feel and be here when you did.”

  I think on that for a moment when the immortal words of my newly beloved Bianca flit across my mind, “great things never came from comfort zones.”

  I sit watching the rise and fall of the blankets as Imani dozes back off, and memories flood through my mind. The first time I slept over, both of us getting ready for bed in our flannel pajamas—hers with unicorns, mine from the boy’s department with computer circuitry—suddenly so awkward. Pillow fights. Blanket forts. She was the first girl I kissed. Wow. I’d kind of forgotten about that. No, not forgotten. I just hadn’t thought about it in a while, a long while. Wow.

  It was a Friday night. I had decided I might be gay, maybe, but I didn’t know how I was supposed to know for sure. I can still see Imani, so sincere, so incredibly sweet, telling me I should kiss her, and if it works then we would know.

  I surprise myself and laugh aloud at that memory. A small snore is my only answer.

  I keep replaying memories until I am no longer awake, just sitting up. Finally, I slide down, deeper into the bed, my head on the pillows, listening to Imani’s quiet breathing.

  And I smile and roll over. Just like when we were kids.

  Me and ’Mani. Besties forever.

  Acknowledgments

  With each new escapade, my list of gratitude grows, but it always begins with you, my readers. Thank you for embracing Sid, Jimmy, Imani, Vikram, and Ari. To the librarians, bloggers, reviewers, fellow authors, and wonderful friends who continue to support me on this extraordinary journey, I appreciate you, and every kindness you have gifted me.

  And if you’ve read this far, please join me in recognizing, and in saying thank you, to those whose lives were stolen by slavers and sold to build my city, the City of New York, and my country, the United States of America. We may never know their names, but we owe them all a debt of gratitude, an honored place in our history, and a world in which they are always remembered.

  As with all of Sid’s grand adventures, it takes a small world of “otherly brilliant” people to make it real. Joe Saraceni, I am smiling big while the fingers of my “flat hand” are coming up to my lips, and now moving down and forward, right at you. Thank you. And Ellen Burditt, thank you too, for reading and checking, and reading again.

  Dr. Craig O’Connor of the Office of Chief Medical Examiner of New York. I hope I have taken your generously given time and explanations, and delivered them into my story with clarity and accuracy resembling what you gave me. Thank you so very much.

  Dr. Michael L. Blakey. First, thank you for all your work on the African Burial Ground project, and then, thank you for your insights on my thinking for this story. You may have altered my direction, but in return, gifted me an especially emotional core.

  To the myriad of people who answered cold calls, and graciously shared their time, talent, and expertise to help hone my story, including Michelle Commander, Associate Director and Curator of the Lapidus Center at the Schomburg Center for Research and Black Culture; Sara Cedar Miller, Central Park Conservancy; Dr. Hannes Schroeder, Section for Evolutionary Genomics, The GLOBE Institute, University of Copenhagen; and Sachi Gerbin, The Science & Entertainment Exchange, of the National Academy of Sciences, thank you all for being the most generous of resources.

  And Magdalena, thank you for teaching Sid the rules of “expletivities.”

  For Friends who are Family …

  Fay Jacobs, there is never an eleven o’clock number big enough for all your help, first as my friend, and second as my editor. So let’s toast instead to more misadventures!

  Bywater Books. Salem West, Marianne K. Martin. Editors: Elizabeth Andersen, Carleen Spry—come on, what’s a few extra commas between friends.

  Russell Kolody. Shamim Sarif. Hanan Kattan. Rachel Talalay. Bonnie Quesenberry. Cheryl A. Head. Ann Aptaker. Jesikah Sundin. Amanda June Haggarty. Tiffany Razzano. Lloyd Segan. Shawn Piller. Pam Kozey. Caroline Stites. Elizabeth Coit. Gregory Murphy. Michael Boyle. Brenda Abell.

  And Ann McMan, thank you once again for gifting my words with your incredible art.

  For Family who are Friends …

  Bernice. Cara. David. Jake. Andie. Evan. Joan. Hannah. Mike. Maddie. Kathleen. Shannon. Andy. Lori. Mark. Josh. Eric. Sheri. Rudy. Emily. Madison. And Neal.

  For now, and forever . . . for Nancy Prescott . . . with all my love.

  About the Author

  STEFANI DEOUL is the author of the award-winning novels The Carousel, On a LARP, and Zero Sum Game. She has written for numerous publications, including Curve Magazine, Outdoor Delaware and Letters from CAMP Rehoboth, penned short stories, and written both film and television treatments. As a television producer her resume includes TV series such as Haven for the SyFy Network, The Dead Zone, Brave New Girl, Dresden Files and Missing. Follow her at www.stefanideoul.com.

  Bywater Books

  Copyright © 2019 Stefani Deoul

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61294-161-5

  Bywater Books First Edition: December 2019

  Cover designer: TreeHouse Studio, Winston-Salem, NC

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  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61294-162-2

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.

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