Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  I don’t take it.

  “Silly question, I know, but…” Her voice trails off. “Are you okay? You’ve been gone for a while … We still have five minutes until the first warning bell, so I thought I’d come and find you.”

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I say quietly.

  “Good, I’m glad.” She smiles a little, then opens her mouth to speak again but stops herself. Chewing her bottom lip, Belle steps into the stall and leans back against the wall.

  “Aces, whoever it is, is a coward hiding behind a screen. I think you’re brave for not letting it get to you, coming to school and facing everyone. Really brave,” she finishes.

  I can’t help but stare at her. Belle’s eyes burn angrily, as though Aces is attacking her and not me.

  Maybe she isn’t doing this for Jamie.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. And I mean it. Jamie didn’t care enough to look for me, but she did.

  She cocks her head to the side, smile growing.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she says again. My heartbeat quickens.

  I sniff, turning away from her and focusing on the wall in front of me.

  “How did you get the door open?” I ask. As with the rest of Niveus, the bathrooms are all strong dark wood, and the locks look pretty impenetrable.

  “I’m really good at picking locks. I learned one year at camp,” Belle tells me just as the first warning bell rings. She steps out from the stall. “Coming?”

  I shake my head. Accepting her kindness, going along with it, makes me feel like I’m giving in. To what? I’m not sure. But I know I don’t want to be friends with her.

  She nods, curls bouncing. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later,” I say, hating myself for seeming weak and fragile. People take advantage when you’re weak and fragile.

  I reach up, tugging some paper from the dispenser in the cubicle, and dab my eyes. I hold the paper up between my fingers, looking at the black lines of mascara and patches of brown foundation.

  I hate this out-of-control mess Aces is turning me into.

  I’ve worked too hard for someone to try to make me into a disgrace and a laughingstock.

  * * *

  Jamie and I haven’t spoken since lunch, and now it’s last period, chemistry. While our teacher, Mr. Peterson, goes on about chemical reactions, all I can think of is Aces. Every time a phone goes off, my heart skips a beat and I feel like my insides could spill out if they wanted.

  “… when certain chemicals are mixed together, the wrong reaction can take place. For example, we hear about celebrities overdosing all the time. But it’s not necessarily because they take too much of a particular drug…”

  Something slides toward me—a note. I open it, looking at Jamie’s messy handwriting:

  SORRY FOR LAUGHING ABOUT ACES.

  I reply:

  It’s giving me anxiety. I don’t know how you can find all of this funny.

  I watch out of the corner of my eye as Jamie reads the note.

  SORRY—AGAIN.

  He seems sorry enough. I take the note between my fingers, and I hold my index finger out.

  “Shake my hand and you will be forgiven.”

  He smiles and shakes my finger like it’s a hand.

  “… Sometimes it’s a matter of mixing things that don’t react well together. One popular example is alcohol and sleeping pills, which can trigger symptoms such as extreme drowsiness, memory loss, and in some unfortunate cases, death.”

  I look up when Mr. Peterson says that.

  “Besides,” Jamie continues, in a whisper, “I think Aces targeting other people is a sign. They know what your wrath looks like.”

  My mind is still spinning as Mr. Peterson’s words echo inside. “You’re right,” I say, trying to shake off the sudden strange feeling I got. This sense of déjà vu.

  But as soon as I say that, I hear the wicked green laugh of the universe, and, like a switch being flicked, a reprise of phones goes off.

  I reach into my pocket, my heart hammering away against my shirt, and my stomach convulsing even more. I scan my phone. One notification from Unknown. I hear the hubbub of chatter around me as everyone starts to dissect the text.

  [One picture attached]

  We have a gangster among us, folks! Devon Richards, look at you. Hanging about on the wrong side of the tracks. What can be expected, when he makes frequent visits like these to very influential, and not to mention good-looking, drug dealers. Be careful, Vonnie, Juilliard isn’t too keen on criminal records. I hope he’s worth it.—Aces

  There’s a photo of Devon standing by some building.

  I read the text over, drumming my nails on the table. Who’d be that interested in Devon? This almost reads like an angry or jealous ex …

  I tap my screen, selecting a contact I haven’t spoken to in months.

  Hey, Scotty, it’s Chiamaka

  I watch my screen, only looking up to check that Peterson’s focus is away from me. We are allowed to use our phones in school—just not during class. Apparently, they cause distractions. I bet the teachers never imagined anything like this, though, when they made that rule. How can anyone concentrate when there’s a snake on the loose?

  I drag my finger down the screen, tapping the table impatiently.

  “Who are you texting?” Jamie whispers, startling me.

  I whack him lightly. “None of your business. Focus on your work,” I say, before tilting the phone a little to block Jamie’s prying eyes from seeing.

  The three dots appear, indicating that Scotty’s typing, and I sit up.

  Long time no speak.

  Just texting to ask a question, and I want a direct answer. I try to sound intimidating. I probably should have spoken to him at lunch, since my intimidation works better in person. But I wasn’t in the right headspace.

  Ask away.

  I look up, catching the teacher’s eyes, so I pick up my pencil and pretend to write with one hand while tapping a reply under the table with the other.

  Are you Aces?

  There is a short pause before the three dots appear again.

  You’re the second person to ask me that this week. I thought we were friends.

  I wouldn’t call us friends … In fact, the last time we spoke—sometime after our fake breakup at the beginning of junior year—he’d laughed at my shoes, in the hallway, and I’d threatened to cut off his stupid ponytail. But I thought we were on good enough terms too. He’s friends with Jamie’s friends, so we’ve always kind of been in the same circles anyway.

  I thought we were too, yet you’re the only connection I can think of who’d have any dirt on both me and Devon.

  …

  As I told the other person, why would I implicate myself?

  There’s something inside me that knows it isn’t Scotty. That for all the shitty things he’s done, he doesn’t stand to gain anything from this.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Scared that Aces will talk about that night?

  Frozen, I stare down at the message, trying to figure out what he means by that night. Does Scotty somehow know about the girl we hit?

  What night? I send.

  Waiting for his reply feels like an eternity, but eventually I feel my phone vibrate.

  Jamie’s party at the beginning of junior year. You were wasted, remember? Kept telling people their outfits sucked. It was funny, actually.

  I only remember snippets of Jamie’s party. I remember the kiss … But the rest is a blur. I don’t even remember drinking that much, but I’m a lot more careful now if I do drink around people. I want to be able to recall everything, keep their secrets in my bank rather than the other way around.

  Why’d I be scared about that? The worst Aces could do is show everyone a video of me dancing badly on top of some table. I’ve been through worse attempts at people trying to embarrass me.

  Is that all you remember? Scotty writes back almost immediately.

  I pause, try
ing to figure out what he means by that.

  Yes, why?

  I hardly remember that night and wanted to piece things together too in case Aces has anything on me. I do stupid things when I’m drunk. All I remember is talking to you, kissing some guy, and throwing up in the rosebushes outside.

  I don’t remember speaking to Scotty that night. I close my eyes, trying to recall something, anything. And as if a bucket of ice water has been tossed over my head, a massive chill pulls me into a memory.

  * * *

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Scotty asks, his voice startling me. I’m in one of the guest bedrooms. The door was supposed to be locked … I’m not sure how Scotty got in. The music blaring from the party downstairs is making my head spin.

  “It’s about you…,” he says with a loopy smile.

  “What secret?” I say, trying to sit up, panic rising inside.

  He smirks a little, then takes a seat on the carpet next to me, almost spilling the concoction in his red Solo cup.

  “I heard that Cecelia Wright isn’t a natural blonde,” Scotty says.

  I blink at him.

  “That’s not about me.” I stare.

  “No, of course it isn’t … Your name is Chi, not CeCe.” He wipes his mouth and leans in close. He smells like death, and that’s the nice way of putting it.

  “You know, I wasn’t meant to be here tonight … Snuck away when Mom wasn’t looking,” Scotty says.

  I want to sleep, but I feel so nauseous and shaky. And I want to know what Scotty has on me.

  Scotty looks up and takes my face in his hands. “You’re so pretty, Chi. Pretty as a doll.”

  I pull at his hands. “What’s wrong with you?” I reach up to smooth my cheeks, but they feel wet. Was I crying? Why was I crying? I was … supposed to meet Jamie in his room, but he wasn’t—

  “Why’re you hiding up here in this room? It’s a lot more fun downstairs.” Scotty’s voice slurs as he sways, knocking me a little. He completely ignored my question.

  “I could ask you the same,” I say.

  “Came to look for my girlfriend,” he says, laughing at the word girlfriend like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. I don’t know if I should be offended or not.

  “Well, she’s fine, so … you can go now.”

  Scotty thrusts his hand out, this time spilling a bit of his drink, before concentrating hard on placing it down straight. When he does, he watches it suspiciously, holding his hands up like he has magical powers that will prevent his cup from defying gravity.

  If it wasn’t obvious before, the moment he starts singing the chorus of “Hit Me Baby One More Time” it is clear as day that he is way too drunk to deliver himself home.

  “Did you come here with anyone?” I can ask Jamie if he minds Scotty crashing here. Jamie’s friends will probably sleep in the guest rooms or one of the living rooms.

  “No, but I might leave with someone … Let’s see where the night takes me.” He smiles sheepishly, and I hit him.

  “You know, you are the worst boyfriend ever,” I say. He and I are only fake dating, since he’s on the football team and is semipopular and I’m on the verge of being very popular. We need each other. It’s political.

  “I know,” he says, throwing his head back so hard it smashes against the wall, making me cringe. He groans, his fingers lost in the messiness of his hair as he cradles his skull.

  “Are you okay?” I ask as his head slumps forward. He sniffs and I lean in, noticing his wet cheeks now.

  Is Scotty crying?

  “Do you need an ice pack?”

  He shakes his head before I can even finish asking the question. “I’m such a shitty boyfriend.”

  I don’t say anything. Is that why he’s crying? Because I don’t care about the whole authenticity of this relationship behind closed doors.

  “All I do is cheat and lie and drink and be a fucking disappointment to Von and my parents and Niveus…”

  Maybe he’s not talking about me after all.

  He cries a little harder, picking his drink up again. I awkwardly pat his back.

  I feel really sick. I’ve already thrown up in the bathroom, but I’m probably going to puke up my entire digestive system and die next to Scotty in this bedroom while everyone else adjusts normally to teenage life downstairs.

  Scotty hugs his cup like it’s a stuffed toy. There’s a hole in his sock. His big pale toe sticks out, and it’s funny because he’s nothing like this sober. He’s always put together, in the finest clothes every legacy kid is expected to wear.

  “You’re not a disappointment, Scotty. Trust me,” I say, smoothing down my dress. “And it’s my duty as your fake girlfriend to not let you die from alcohol poisoning.” I tug the cup out of his hands. He slumps back.

  We are quiet for a while. I almost think he’s fallen asleep.

  The door to the guest room opens once again.

  “There you are. I went in my room to look for you, but you weren’t there … Everything okay?” Jamie asks.

  I nod, still shivering. Face dry from tears. I probably look like a mess. I force a smile.

  “Everything’s great,” I say.

  “Good…” His eyes drift down to Scotty, next to me, now fast asleep. “Wanna go somewhere to talk?” He says this with a smirk.

  I start to get up, surprised by how painful it is to do so.

  An image flashes suddenly in my mind: someone pushing me down, me falling hard, crying, screaming for help—

  “I’d love to talk,” I say as his arms slip around my waist, brushing over the bruises on my hip …

  * * *

  There’s a sharp pang in my head, the memory jolting my nervous system out of whack. I take a shaky breath and smooth down my school skirt, feeling a little sick. I don’t bother replying to Scotty’s message. I got the answer I was looking for: He’s not Aces.

  Jamie taps my arm, his smile and eyes wide. “You’re thinking too hard. I can literally hear your brain cells screaming Help … there’s only two of us left!”

  I roll my eyes. “My brain cells can manage,” I reply in a whisper. Jamie quirks an eyebrow up with an if you’re sure look, then turns back and continues defacing the instructions sheet we were given. He scrawls numbers and symbols all over it, like he usually does to pass time. I sometimes wonder how Jamie and I are in AP classes together—he literally never pays attention.

  I tap his arm and he looks at me again.

  “You forgot one of your passwords at my house the other day,” I say, staring at his thick black marker pen.

  He looks confused. “My password?”

  “Yeah, the 1717 one.”

  His grin fades into a subtler expression. “Ah, that password. I don’t need it anymore,” he says.

  “How can you not need a password anymore?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Needed it, then didn’t.”

  I nod, not pressing further. Jamie is random like that sometimes. He goes back to writing on the page.

  My head still throbs, so I try to focus on something else, hoping the pain subsides. My gaze drifts past Jamie, landing on Belle, sitting at one of the tables nearby. Her hair is falling over the side of her face while her chin rests on her manicured hand, face flushed. I notice she’s gripping the pencil so hard her knuckles are white.

  I’d ask her if she’s okay, but we aren’t friends.

  And so, I don’t.

  I imagine her blond hair matted in red, blood dripping all over her uniform and forming a puddle on the ground.

  Then I blink, and the image disappears.

  13

  DEVON

  Friday

  We need to talk—Dre

  Daniel, the weird quarterback in my music class who’s taken a sudden interest in speaking to me, had the courtesy to show me the Aces text when I got to class this morning, before asking me what my “street name” is.

  So I think I can guess why Dre messaged me. He wanted me to stay out of A
ces’s mouth, yet for some reason I’m basically all Aces seems to talk about. I want to find out who is behind this, so I can ask them how they know so much and why they won’t leave me alone. It must be someone I accidentally pissed off.

  My heart is thumping so hard I hear it in my ears as I walk toward Dre’s apartment. My school shirt is drenched and clinging to me, despite the chill of the afternoon air.

  I grew up here. Right here, with the rest of these boys. We went to the same elementary school. We witnessed things no kid should see, like snitches getting stabbed and shot, fathers being handcuffed and taken away. We went to middle school together too, until one day an older guy, Malik, decided to beat me so hard after school that I had to drop out.

  I remember everyone joining in—even the boys I thought were my friends.

  They were shouting slurs, laughing as I screamed and bled.

  The words “bitch boy” and “fairy” rang in my ears as they punched and kicked. Just like that, the boys I grew up with were no longer my boys. They were the boys I was made to be scared of.

  If I could have fought back, like Dre, my life might have been so different. He’s always been able to fit in here; it’s like he has a handbook or knows unspoken rules that I don’t.

  I’m at Dre’s apartment block now, staring at the guy at the door, Leon. Another boy from middle school. His brown curls nearly cover his eyes, but his stony gaze is set on me. He’s been close to Dre for years, never seemed to like me.

  “It’s Devon,” I say, always holding my head high in front of them.

  He disappears inside, coming back moments later with the confirmation.

  The floorboards creak as I step inside. I walk through Dre’s apartment, then into his room, and there he is, with his back to me, hands in his pockets and his shoulder blades visible through the dark, clingy material of his T-shirt. I close the door behind me. “Hey.”

  He twitches.

  There’s a long silence; I can hear him breathing and sniffling. He brings his hand up to wipe his face, then pushes it back into his pocket.

  “We should stop seeing each other,” he says abruptly, still not facing me.