Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  I stay calm on the outside, despite the fact that my chest aches like I’ve been stabbed.

  “What?” I say, swallowing hard.

  “We should stop seeing each other,” he repeats. It stings. My eyes water slightly.

  I heard you.

  “Why?” I ask, even though I know.

  He scratches his head, still refusing to look at me.

  “Not everyone goes to your fancy school, Von. Not everyone has the privilege of not caring about their reputation. I have one—I need one. I have nothing else but this, and I can’t have you ruining it.”

  I step toward him. “And how am I doing that, Dre?”

  He turns to look at me now, eyes red, but I think it’s a mix of whatever the fuck he’s been taking and tears. I step even closer. He moves back like I’m gonna hurt him.

  Dre tries to act all hard, but he’s not. He’s this teddy bear who needs to be hugged and kissed and loved.

  I know this because I know him. I’ve known him for years, been friends with him for years—despite Ma’s disapproval. We love the same music. That’s how this all started. Tupac, Biggie—they made our friendship. Rap, R&B, Soul, we love that shit.

  We used to lie on his bed for hours, listening to the oldies till day was night, before his ma kicked him out when he was fourteen.

  I remember the first time he kissed me—we kissed way too late if you ask me. I’d been dating Scotty for a few months at that point. I didn’t even know Dre liked me until that moment, or that I liked him.

  The memory clouds my brain.

  “I’m sort of seeing someone,” I tell him, despite my heart racing like I just ran a marathon and won.

  Scotty, I’m seeing Scotty. I shouldn’t feel like that’s suddenly something I don’t want.

  He scoffs. “Rich white boy, huh?”

  I want to kiss Dre again …

  “Yeah, rich white boy,” I whisper.

  “Get out.” Dre’s deep voice cuts through my memories.

  My eyes are watering as I shake my head.

  He comes close to me now. “Get out. Please, get out.”

  Closer …

  I shake my head again.

  He presses his head against mine, digging into my skull, but I don’t care. I grab him and he kisses me, long and deep, and I cry, tears tickling my chin as they leak down my face. I hold him and we kiss and kiss until he’s pushing away and shouting.

  “Get out.” He shakes his head, moving back a little. “Get the fuck out!” he yells, wiping his face roughly. I jump back as the doors burst open.

  Two of his boys bust in. Leon is one of them.

  “Want us to drag him, Dre?” Leon asks, his eyes avoiding mine.

  I look back at Dre, who looks at me with red eyes that are glassed over with regret.

  “Just get him out. Don’t want him dealing my stash anymore.”

  The knife in my chest turns and my heart crumbles. I close my eyes as they drag me away, pushing me down the stairs so I stumble. They shove me out so hard that I fall to the ground.

  I can feel so many eyes on me. The boys outside—the boys I was made to be scared of—ready, waiting.

  There is silence before it happens. The wind rustles through the trees nearby. A lighter clicks. Then footsteps.

  And before it happens, I remember the first time Dre told me he loved me. It was days after we started dating and months after the first time we kissed. Only weeks after I’d ended things with Scotty. We were listening to music in his apartment, the place he was before here, arguing over senseless shit, and he just said it. I remember thanking him for his honesty, and we started laughing. I said I love you hours after, and everything was so light. Was that wrong? Us saying that so early on?

  The first blow hits my side and I hiss.

  I love you.

  The second blow hits harder. I think that this, paired with Dre’s words, is as painful as a gunshot.

  I love you.

  The rest of the blows come at once, puncturing me over and over. Someone punches my eye and I scream.

  I love you.

  I feel it swell up. I can’t see. I can’t see. I can’t—

  “I love you,” he tells me, straight after telling me I’m dumb for thinking Destiny’s Child is better than TLC.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” I tell him, even though I’m dying inside. I look at him and he looks at me, eyebrows slit in a way that makes him look weirdly attractive, and eyes dark and lusty.

  He smiles at me. “That all I get?”

  I wrap my hand around his neck, bringing my head closer.

  “I said thank you, though…”

  There’s a pause and then we are laughing for no reason.

  He is smiling when he kisses me, leaning in and kissing me. And I feel so light.

  God, I feel so light.

  * * *

  I don’t know where I am. I was in front of Dre’s, and now I’m here in a room, lying on what feels like a bed.

  I let my fingers brush against the material beneath me.

  “You’re awake,” a deep, invisible voice says. My heart skips a beat.

  I spot the shimmer of a figure in the corner. Using my good eye, I squint, trying to see if it’s someone I know or at least recognize. He’s tall, with brown skin, eyeglasses, medium black dreads, and shaved sides. He looks about my age. But that’s all I can really see; my eye hurts so bad …

  “It’s Terrell,” he starts. “Terrell Rosario—I saw how badly they hurt you and brought you back to my ma’s place. Hope that’s okay.”

  Terrell. Sounds familiar … I think.

  My whole body throbs, like pins have been jabbed into the really sensitive spots. I can only imagine what my face looks like, when I can’t even open my right eye.

  I nod.

  “I put some water on the bedside table,” he says, pointing to my left side. I look over and there’s a blue plastic cup.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I can feel his gaze on me, probably wondering what I did to get beaten up by them.

  “I’m going to head home,” I tell Terrell. Ma always warns me about people who try to do you favors.

  He says nothing, watching me as I hold back tears. My arms shake violently as I try to push myself up. The pain isn’t as bad as other wounds I’ve gotten before, but this hurts so much more because of Dre.

  “I’ll get you more ice packs.”

  I look at him again, his face becoming clearer as my vision focuses. He has this soft, worried expression on his face that makes me feel like this stranger and I are friends.

  I watch him leave the room. Moments later, he’s back with a bag of what seems to be frozen vegetables. “We only had these,” he says, holding up the bag.

  He walks toward me cautiously. “Where does it hurt most?”

  I point to my right side, and he climbs onto the bed, looking at me quizzically. I nod, figuring he wants consent or something, before he lifts my shirt a little and places the icy bag on the part I pointed out. I squeeze my eyes shut. It stings, but it’s manageable.

  The room goes silent as my side tingles and numbs. Terrell stands, observing me carefully, gazing across different parts of my body.

  I can’t help but notice his Spider-Man pajama bottoms. My brothers both own similar pairs.

  “I know the guys who beat you up,” he starts nervously. Most people know them. “And … I don’t know if me saying this makes you feel any better, but they went easy on you.”

  I guess that doesn’t surprise me.

  “I didn’t see the fight happen. If I did, I wouldn’t have watched, trust me—I would have tried to help if it meant you being a little less hurt…” He bites his lip and looks away, his sentence feeling incomplete.

  There’s something about Terrell that feels so familiar.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him.

  Silence creeps in again, crawling into the bed and hugging me, trying not to graze itself against my cuts and bruises
.

  I slip away, Dre’s face floating in my mind, the breakup replaying in a loop. I’m not that surprised by it, just hurt. I always get a little hurt when I lose parts of Dre. Like when he first started dealing after his ma and her boyfriend chucked him out. I lost another part of him when he started beating people up for popularity and respect. I lost another part of him when he moved up the ranks in his gang. I lose parts of him constantly. This was bound to happen someday.

  I should have prepared better for the inevitable.

  “Do you feel a little better?” Terrell asks.

  I almost forget where I am again.

  “Yeah, I do, thanks,” I say, just wanting to get home. He smiles at that, and dimples appear in his cheeks. They really suit him.

  “Good, I was worried for you.”

  I pause, wanting a moment to go by before I have to tell him again that I’m going, but before I get the chance to, he’s talking.

  “Do you still play music?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips like he’s daring me in some way. I scrunch my eyebrows together in confusion.

  “Music?”

  He nods. “I remember you played the piano.”

  I feel really freaked out all of a sudden. Who is Terrell?

  I squint at him again, taking in all his features. I still can’t figure it out.

  “You’re trying to remember me,” he states.

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling bad.

  He shakes his head, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. “Nah, it’s okay, memory is weird like that—I just find you really memorable…” He pauses, eyes drifting to my side. “It’s probably melting now … I’ll take that away for you.” He lifts the frozen bag up, and my side immediately misses the cold sting.

  I wish he’d finish his sentence. I want to know why I can’t remember him.

  He leaves the room and I poke my side, the feel of my finger sending shocks to my chest.

  I scan his room slowly. It’s clean, but small and old like mine. Wallpaper peeling at the corners, and a torn-up desk chair with the foam spilling out.

  Terrell walks back in and I see this as my chance.

  “Where should I know you from?” I ask.

  “Middle school,” he starts, looking away. “We used to talk quite a bit before you left. I was new to the school in eighth grade and you were … nice to me. We also kissed once, I guess, and … It was my first kiss, and you don’t really forget those—”

  “We kissed?” I splutter, not expecting that.

  “Just once,” he repeats, stopping himself like he wants to say more.

  Why don’t I remember him?

  “And you remember me?” I ask.

  He nods, like it’s a weird thing for me to ask.

  “I could never really forget you, Devon. Besides, when you got into that fancy school, you were the talk of the neighborhood.”

  I remember the eggs thrown at my house when I got in. Resentment breeds contempt.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much from around that time—it’s like my memory is faulty.” There’s a twinge in my side.

  “Memory is weird like that,” he says again.

  I knew something was familiar about him, but I feel like I would remember someone I kissed.

  Maybe I don’t know myself like I thought I did.

  Memory is weird like that.

  * * *

  Terrell didn’t really give me a choice in this—him walking me home—but I’m glad he didn’t. I can’t walk well without it hurting, and him helping me hop along makes the journey a little more bearable.

  Plus, he doesn’t talk too much.

  We get to my front door about twenty minutes later—it would have been half the time if I wasn’t injured. He finally lets go of my waist, letting me stand on my own.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling like those two words are inadequate.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t sweat it. I’d do it for anyone in trouble.”

  I nod, moving to turn.

  “Wait,” he says, and I stop.

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t give you a goodbye hug.”

  I can’t help but smile slightly at the statement. “Goodbye hug?”

  “I’m not sure when I’m gonna see you next, so I at least want a hug for the road.”

  A hug for the road. That’s a first.

  “Sure,” I say, and his dimples appear again.

  He moves toward me and gives me a hug, and even though it hurts, I try not to let it show.

  “Thank you,” I say again. It still doesn’t feel adequate. With the week I’ve had, it’s hard to remember the last time someone has been this nice to me.

  We pull away, and I can breathe again, my sides angry at me for letting an intruder touch them.

  “I could give you my number,” I suggest. “We could meet up or something.”

  My friendships are disappearing daily, so I should find more of them before I become one of those real loners. At least before, I could pretend Jack and I were as close as we used to be in middle school, and I had Dre for company.

  Terrell’s face lights up as he digs into his hoodie for his phone. I give him my number, and he looks down at his phone like he’s searching for something in it, then puts it back into his pocket.

  “I’ll see you, then?” he says.

  I nod. “Yeah … and thanks again.”

  He starts walking backward, and I watch him. He keeps walking back and I keep watching him, and then he smiles and turns away, disappearing quickly in the direction we came from.

  After a few moments lost in thought, I push our front door open to find Ma seated at the dining table in our dimly lit kitchen, reading through letters.

  I can guess what they say, because they always say the same thing. I sometimes feel like I’m stuck in a loop, reliving the same day over and over. I come home, and Ma is always tired, always sorting through bills.

  “How was school, Mr. Senior Prefect?” Ma says, not looking at me, just shuffling papers. She’s been calling me that a lot since I told her. I’m glad it makes her happy. It makes me feel like I’ve really accomplished something.

  I don’t know how to answer her question. So I just say, “School was good, my music piece is coming together well, and I think I might have a decent shot at Juilliard—getting a scholarship too…”

  She breathes out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. I take this chance to shuffle toward her, trying not to make my injuries obvious as I bend down to kiss her bowed head.

  “I’ll be back, lemme just grab something,” I say in an almost whisper, before abandoning my backpack and climbing the stairs as quickly as I can to my bedroom.

  I hate seeing her look so broken all the time. She didn’t want me to get a job, said it would distract me from school, and she’s probably right. But I can’t just sit back and let her struggle like this. Watch her cry like that.

  When you grow up like this, whether it’s in your nature or not, sometimes survival overpowers doing the right thing.

  I search in my drawer for the envelope filled with twenties. I try not to make much noise, despite feeling like my ribs are cracking against each other. My brothers are already asleep, and it’s hard to get them both to sleep at the same time.

  I close the drawer quietly, hobbling back down the stairs now. My thighs ache from the uneven pressure I’m placing on them. When I finally get to Ma, I place the envelope in front of her.

  She looks up at me, eyes tired and glassy, and then she moves to stand, cradling my face in her wrinkled Black hands. She says nothing about my face and why it’s beaten; she just strokes it.

  We’ve been here before.

  “I’ll get you some ice for that…,” she mumbles.

  I shake my head, knowing we don’t have any frozen food bags in the freezer this week.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, my voice breaking, but not because of the injuries. My heart really hurts.

  She nods, looking
away from me and down at the money now.

  “Vonnie, where did you get this kind of money?”

  “Don’t ask, Ma, please,” I say.

  We always have this conversation when money gets really tight. She always wants to know where I get it from. Always.

  And as I said, sometimes you have to do things that don’t exactly align with your morals, and I did those things so that we can have a little cash when we need it. I try not to think about how I’m gonna get the money next time now that me and Dre—

  I stop myself, pushing him down a hole in my mind where I keep all the things I don’t want to talk about.

  I go to school, I put on the costume the rich kids wear, and I pretend for a few hours. I could act all high and mighty. I could think I’m the shit, lie to myself, but it doesn’t change the fact that this is my reality.

  Ma works three jobs for us. She does everything for us. And I do everything for her.

  “Thank you, Vonnie,” she says. “I love you more than words can tell you, you know that?”

  I nod.

  I know that.

  14

  CHIAMAKA

  Monday

  I wake up late.

  Dad kept me up all night with stories from his trip to Italy to see Grandma. Not that I minded much. I couldn’t sleep anyway, with the guilt and worry weighing on me. I think it was three in the morning by the time I’d finally made it into bed.

  When my brain registers the time, I’m already late, having to rush my morning routine as a result.

  I pick up my straightener and hold it up to my curls, anxiously watching the time pass. The lights suddenly switch off, and my straightener beeps, indicating it’s not heating up anymore.

  “Mom!” I shout.

  She rushes into my room.

  “What is it?”

  “The electricity!”

  “The builders have started the work downstairs. It’ll come back on later.”

  “But I can’t go to school like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “My hair.”

  Mom gives me a confused look. “Your hair is fine.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t go in like this.”

  There’s a pause.

  “You should love your hair, Chi,” Mom says with a small frown.