Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  Lola’s is this imaginary place we made up. Back when we were freshmen, we thought it sounded like a quirky coffee shop you might find in the middle of an old-fashioned town, where housewives meet up to gossip and smoke. As we got older, we realized Lola’s actually sounds like the name of a sketchy strip club. Despite the connotations, we still use it. It’s our way of saying Let’s talk in private.

  Lola’s can be any place we’re alone together. In freshman year, the year we met, a teacher put us in pairs and Jamie introduced himself as the guy who was going to ruin my life, and I responded that he thought too highly of himself. Back when we first met, Lola’s was a corner in one of the empty classrooms. We would sit there during lunch and bitch about people in our year or talk about the people we wanted to be when we were seniors. I wanted to be the best. Best grades, best looks, best hair, best boyfriend … best everything—the person everyone envies. Jamie told me he wanted to be someone his parents respected.

  Then, all through junior year, whenever we weren’t in school, Lola’s was his bedroom and his bed, under the covers—

  “Yeah.” He smiles, winking at me. “Lola’s.”

  The sounds of text tones fill the air. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out.

  [1 new message from unknown]

  Hello, Niveus High. It’s me. Who am I? That’s not important. All you need to know is … I’m here to divide and conquer. Like all great tyrants do.—Aces

  Divide and conquer…? Who even talks like that? And who the hell is Aces?

  My phone buzzes again.

  This time a picture accompanies the message. Two guys kissing. One with a very, very bruised neck. Gasps and giggles ripple around the room. I roll my eyes. It’s the twenty-first century, people … is this really something gasp-worthy? But then I read the message beneath.

  Just in, the picture says it all. Dramatic arts and music do indeed mix well.—Aces

  Is that … Scotty? With … Devon Richards?

  Loud collective laughter pulls me away from the picture momentarily. I look up at everyone else as they stare at their phones closely.

  “Is that Scotty?” Jamie asks. I nod.

  Scotty is one of my ex-boyfriends. I guess that’s why he’d ask, even though it’s not Scotty I’m staring at. It’s Devon. He’s not a person I care for, or talk to, but it’s hard not to notice the only other Black person at school. What’s weirder than this picture is that until today, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard Devon speak. Now, out of nowhere, he got made a Senior Prefect … and then this?

  Have I missed something?

  “So … Scotty’s gay? Can football players even be gay? Well, he does do Drama too, so I guess—”

  “Jamie, football players can be gay and drama kids can be straight. Don’t be that straight white guy who sticks his foot in his mouth,” I say. “Besides, Scotty could be bi.”

  “Just surprised, that’s all,” he says, which I get. I’m surprised too. I feel like such a hypocrite. Telling Jamie not to stereotype even though a part of me questions whether me being so shocked by Devon is because he’s Black and kissing Scotty.

  People finish packing up, eyes still glued to their screens. I’m the senior Science Rep, so I help the science technicians make sure all the equipment is returned safely and secured. It’s not glamorous, but I’ll do anything to make my Yale application the best. It just means I won’t be walking to class with Jamie today.

  “I’ll see you at lunch?” I ask.

  He nods, kissing my forehead. “Lola’s.”

  His kiss is deliberate.

  Jamie pulls away and looks down at me, and we stare at each other for a brief moment. I smile, then look away first.

  “See you,” he tells me.

  “See you,” I say.

  I watch him as he leaves the classroom. My head still warm where his mouth touched it, heart still beating erratically—his gaze that told me everything I needed to know.

  I’ve got Jamie right where I want him.

  We’ve been playing this game for years, but I think today’s the day Jamie finally folds.

  * * *

  It’s the period before Lola’s and I’m in my English class. I can’t concentrate on anything but the prospect of finally being Jamie Fitzjohn’s girlfriend.

  I’ve waited a long time—three years to be exact—for Jamie to see me as more than just his best friend. I’ve watched girls fawn all over him, and I’ve listened to him drone on about his hypothetical perfect girlfriend, waiting for the moment he turns my way and realizes that his perfect girl could be me. And it’s been frustrating; I’m not usually afraid of making the first move when it comes to the guys I date, but with Jamie it feels different.

  Most boys are so predictable. I see right through them: their wants, desires, what makes them tick. My first boyfriend was a guy named Georgie Westerfield. He was the usual type girls like: tall, blond, and the great-great-great-grandson of the guy who owns Westerfield Socks—so in short, swimming in billions of dollars. Most importantly for me as a freshman, though, was that he was a junior and every girl wanted him. Being Georgie’s girlfriend got me noticed, took me from being the invisible, unimportant, miserable girl I was in middle school. When I joined Niveus, I knew I wanted to make myself everything that I hadn’t been. And being Georgie’s girlfriend not only made me someone people wanted to know, but someone they wanted to be.

  I discovered it wasn’t hard to get close to Georgie; one, Jamie was his friend and mentee through football, and two, Georgie liked that I was “different”—meaning, since I’m Black, it made him look cool. I ignored that, as I knew there was only so long I could fake being into someone like Georgie, and so I got to be Chiamaka, the girl who got the guy everyone wanted, and then the first to break his heart and move on to dating the next golden boy of Niveus.

  I always study them before I strike. Their social currency. Each boy, bringing something new. Georgie got me noticed and Scotty, the boy next door with ins to so many social circles, made me more likable. Jamie is the only guy I’ve actually liked as a friend, the only one I didn’t secretly hate. The only one who feels long-term. It’s hard to read someone like Jamie, though. We may be best friends, but I swear … most days I have no idea what that boy is thinking. Which is why I decided to wait, let him make the first move.

  And like always, my plan worked.

  Finally, at the start of last year—junior year—when I was still “seeing” Scotty but desperately wanting Jamie to see me, he did. He’d thrown what was meant to be the party of the year. We’d both gotten really drunk, so drunk I don’t remember much of that night. But I do remember how Jamie finally looked at me and saw us as something more than platonic. He’d smiled down at me, tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear, and asked if I wanted to go upstairs.

  And I said yes. He told me to meet him in his bedroom, and while that night we only made out, it was the catalyst for what happened the rest of the year: Jamie sneaking kisses, whispering things in my ear, asking me to come over …

  I’m not naive enough to think hooking up with someone means they like you. Things are just different between Jamie and me. I catch him looking at me sometimes, trying to rile me up on purpose, smiling widely whenever he succeeds. He makes me laugh … looks at me like I’m special.

  I’ve spent the past three years building myself up to be the most popular girl at school, the girl who has it all, wanting to secure the perfect ending to my time at Niveus. And now that I’m Senior Head Prefect, all I need are the final pieces: the Snowflake Crown, a Yale acceptance letter, and Jamie.

  I feel a nudge from Ava, who I share English class with. Sometimes we poke fun at the conspiracies our teacher, Mrs. Hawthorne, comes up with. Like the time she told us F. Scott Fitzgerald was really the reincarnation of William Shakespeare. To which Ava said, “And I’m the reincarnation of Jane Austen’s asshole.” I laughed so hard Mrs. Hawthorne threatened to separate us. I admit, class is more entertaining with
Ava around.

  Perhaps if hierarchies weren’t so important and people weren’t constantly trying to take me down, maybe I’d be more trusting of people, and Ava and I would be more than just two girls using each other to survive high school. But the reality is, Niveus will always be Niveus. Besides, I didn’t invent this twisted system that pits us against each other and makes us do crappy things for status—but I do know how to play it.

  I have Jamie anyway; I don’t need any more friends here.

  “You don’t even look like you’re trying to listen,” Ava whispers.

  “I think Jamie is going to ask me out at lunch,” I say, looking at her. Ava’s eyes widen.

  “Fucking hell, that’s something. I always thought you guys were secretly dating anyway.”

  That makes me smile inside. It’s one thing to convince Jamie that we are perfect for each other; it’s another to make others believe it too.

  “Well, soon it will be official—I hope.”

  Jamie always talks about looking for “the One.” He’s never dated, because he says he’s not yet found “her.” People used to think he didn’t like girls, but then he joined the football team—apparently that was confirmation enough he’s straight.

  I sort of believe in the One, that one person who makes your insides glow and makes you feel like you’re losing control, but not in the same sappy way he does. Jamie acts like the One is this predetermined thing that God or Santa came up with when he was born.

  I think we choose our own destiny. We choose who we befriend, kiss, and date, and I guess I choose Jamie.

  The bell rings and I stand, throwing my notebook into my bag and rushing out of the classroom, not wasting time by saying goodbye to Ava. I’ll see her later in the cafeteria.

  Jamie has history class, so I wait outside. Soon enough he’s out, with a wide smile on his perfectly freckled face. His brown, floppy curls look like they are in need of a cut, but I like his hair this way. He looks like a member of a boy band I might pretend to dislike.

  “Benches?” he asks, linking his arm through mine. I nod, trying to compose myself as we head out to the benches in the courtyard.

  Jamie’s told me how he plans to ask the One out. He said it’ll be romantic, with chocolates and maybe a poem if he has the nerve—which I think is really cliché, but … I still want to see it play out.

  The rest of the student body is spilling out of classrooms as we walk past them, some of them glancing at us like they know. First, Head Prefect and now this? The first day of school is only half over, and I can already tell that this is going to be the best year of high school.

  We take seats on opposite sides of one of the wooden tables. I rest my chin on my hands and he does the same. Wherever we go for Lola’s, however public, it always feels intimate.

  “So,” he starts.

  “So,” I reply.

  “I think I’ve found the One.”

  “You have?” I say, sounding way too eager.

  “I have indeed. She’s clever, stunning, makes me laugh—”

  “She sounds amazing,” I interrupt, my heart banging at the walls of my chest.

  “You might know her actually.”

  This is it.

  “Her name is Belle Robinson…”

  Wait … what?

  “I’ve seen her around school for years, and I always thought she was way out of my league…” He gives me a sheepish smile, face turning a little red. “But then we started talking and I knew she was special.”

  His words fade, going over my head as he speaks. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I can feel cracks forming, my chest aching. I blink, angry tears falling. I quickly wipe my eyes, not wanting to smudge my makeup.

  “I knew you’d be happy for me, but not this happy…,” he jokes, despite the concern on his face.

  I can’t stop myself. “I thought you were going to tell me something else.”

  His eyebrows furrow together. “Like what?”

  I feel stupid.

  “That you liked me,” I say quietly.

  There are a few moments of complete silence, broken only by the wind and distant conversations from inside the building.

  Jamie’s face screws up, like the thought of us together is wrong. “You’re my best friend, Chi. You know I don’t see you in that way.”

  Images push their way into my brain: that night he asked me to go to his bedroom at the beginning of junior year, all those nights since, the connection I thought we had. It was meant to be me and Jamie at the top of the school. We were meant to go to college together, get married, be wildly successful, have two wildly successful kids, then die.

  “I’m dating Belle. I thought you would be happy for me.”

  Belle. Blond-haired, blue-eyed fucking Belle Robinson.

  I know her from some of my classes last year, and she’s also on the girls’ lacrosse team. She’s semipopular, not because she worked for it, but because she’s pretty. People love to reward conventionally attractive people.

  He takes my hand in his. “You’re amazing,” he starts. But I’m not Belle, I finish for him in my head. “I don’t think you like me, Chi. I think you like the idea of me.”

  His words float above me once again, blurring into the background noise. He’s used this line on so many girls; he lets them down easy, tells them their idea of being together is a fantasy. And I can’t believe I fell for the fantasy myself. I’m so stupid. I tricked myself into believing I was above that. Better than girls like Belle. But apparently, I’m not.

  I always thought Jamie turned these girls down because he wanted to be with me. I guess I was wrong.

  Jamie’s the best at talking people into believing him; he’s the best at talking me into things. And he’s the best at pretending nothing’s wrong when things all go to shit. Leaving me to deal with the aftermath.

  Suddenly, even though I don’t want them to, memories start piling into my head. Junior year, winter break. The night I’ve spent every moment since trying to forget … Screeching tires, louder than our singing voices moments before as we yelled the lyrics to “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The sound of a shrill scream making him swerve and slam into a tree, jolting us forward. My head bashing against the dashboard—

  “Fuck!” Jamie shouts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck … I think we hit something.”

  My entire body trembles, chest squeezing as I try to breathe but can’t. The sound of the car unlocking sends a sharp wave of nausea into my system as Jamie staggers out into the road.

  “FUCK!” Jamie screams. He stumbles back, tugging at his hair. The sound of the radio drowns him out. I desperately hit the off button.

  “Chiamaka, we hit a fucking girl!”

  I can hear her scream in my head again—I’m going to throw up.

  Jamie leans into the car, hair wet from the rain that’s pouring down outside and sticking to his pale forehead. He’s breathing fast, like he just finished a marathon. The smell of the leather car seats mixed with Jamie’s musky cologne is overpowering, making my brain feel heavy.

  “Chiamaka, we need to do something. My dad can’t find out!” He’s pleading. Rain pounds the road as I peer out the window at the body—her body. Through the rivulets, I see her face. Blond curls, pale skin, a dark pool forming a halo around her head. I gag, gripping on to the cold, hard dashboard, closing my eyes.

  I feel so sick.

  I should get out—see if she’s breathing. But I can’t move; my limbs are stuck in place.

  “W-we should check if she’s breathing. And we need to call an ambulance, the police—” I say as I take my phone out of my coat, fingers trembling.

  Jamie’s eyes are desperate as he snatches my phone from my hands, shoving it into his pants pocket. “We can’t, my dad will kill me!” His voice rises. I jump in my seat as he kicks the side of his car, hard. “He’s gonna fucking murder me.”

  Jamie hunches over, the rain pouring down his face, and places his hands on his knees, breathing harder
than before.

  I shake my head. Jamie’s figure is getting hazy as tears blur my vision.

  “We have to, she looks really hurt.” My words clumsily spill from my lips. I need to get out.

  “It’s gonna be okay—no cops and it’ll be fine,” Jamie says, his voice cracking. “We can’t go to prison, so no cops. We need to do something. My dad … He can’t fucking find out about this.”

  Prison? I hadn’t thought of prison.

  The words stab at my chest, stopping my lungs from functioning the way they should. Each time I try to breathe, there’s not enough air; when I try to swallow, it’s like there’s something lodged in my throat.

  I can hear myself crying, but it’s almost like it’s someone else. I can’t feel the tears, but I know it’s me. The girl’s doll-like face is scratched into a distorted image in my mind.

  I should get out and make sure she’s okay. I reach for the door handle. I have to see that she’s still alive. She’s not moving. The blood. We hit her really hard—

  The next part happens so fast. I hear the loud slam of the car door as Jamie suddenly reappears next to me. The sound of tires screeching on the wet road as he backs the car away. There’s a pause and I look at him.

  I have to get out—

  There’s a click as the doors lock. I rattle the handle uselessly.

  “What are you doing?” I scream, banging on the window.

  We can’t leave her. We can’t leave her.

  Jamie looks at me briefly, eyes glazed over. Then in one quick motion, he swerves around the girl’s body and races forward, not looking back.

  “Chi?” Jamie says, dragging me back into the present.

  “You’re right,” I say, dizzy, gripping the bench as the sound of people talking in the distance fills my ears once again.

  He smiles.

  Jamie is good at rationalizing everything, making sense of the cracks in reality.

  Especially when it’s the things we need to forget.

  * * *

  My dreams, since the accident, always begin like this: Water enters my body in every way it can, flooding my organs, squeezing and squeezing as I yell for help, which only makes more water seep through, burning my lungs, my throat, while my skin prickles on fire. I turn to the side and Jamie is there next to me in the car, frozen, staring blankly at the road ahead. I wave my arms to swim out, away, but I’m no longer in water. I’m dry and I’m back in the passenger’s seat, watching her scream, eyes wide as we stop and she falls to the ground. In my dreams, I stumble out of Jamie’s black car, palms stinging as I hit the gravel. I try to stand. But I can’t. I drag myself toward the body, watching the blood seeping into the holes in the gravel, away from her blond curls—everything is silent. Her face is the last thing I see. The face I will never forget.