Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

The pain meds can’t stop me from caring about what people are saying in school either. What Aces will say next about me, and what it might do to my future.

  A figure passes me, and I look up to see a familiar shaved head, pink skin, and a green backpack.

  “Jack?” I say loudly, but he ignores me and crosses the street. I watch him fist-bump one of Dre’s boys, putting his backpack down as he leans against the car parked in front with them. I’d messaged him, asked if he wanted to walk home together. He didn’t reply.

  Jack never wanted to associate with them when I did, and now he does.

  My phone beeps.

  Want to hang out?—T

  I haven’t heard from Terrell since Friday night, when he asked if I was okay.

  I look at Jack, who’s taken a joint from one of the guys now, his eyes crinkled from laughing too hard at a joke one of them must have told. He turns, focusing on me. I pause, rooted to the ground as a chilling smile creeps onto his face, joint hanging from his lips. I think back to the message about him doing drugs and hanging out with Dre’s boys, and how little Jack seemed to care. Maybe … it wasn’t him Aces wanted to get a reaction out of.

  What more does Aces want from me? I don’t get it. They’ve successfully pushed away my only two friends, outed me at school, and made me lose the only way I could get some extra money for Ma. And for what? Surely there’s nothing else left? I’m just going to keep my head down, concentrate on my music, and get the hell out of here.

  I pull my focus away from Jack’s face, texting Terrell back. Sure, I’m on my way.

  I have a good memory. People, places, things. That’s why I do well on exams. I got a really high score on my SATs, which I don’t think proves whether or not I’m smart, just that I can remember a lot of basic shit, like how to get to Terrell’s place. But apparently not the important things, like who Terrell is. And when I kissed him.

  His house is white, with a bright-red door and 63, large, at the top.

  It has a white picket fence, but some of it has fallen over, and each panel is cracked and chipped.

  There’s a creak of hinges, followed by the slam of wood. I look up and Terrell is there—huge smile, circular eyeglasses, and medium dreads pulled back.

  “You look tired,” he tells me as I walk in, and we go down his short hallway—wallpaper dark green, carpeted floors black—and straight into his living room. I didn’t really get a good look at Terrell’s place when I came here a few days ago. First thing I notice are the shelves, brown wood, filled with well-worn books and magazines. There’s a bulky, old TV in the center, placed on top of a DVD player with DVDs cramming the little shelf space beneath.

  “School’s tiring,” I say, still scanning the room.

  Going to Niveus has afforded me the unwanted knowledge of what is good—expensive—and what is not. Despite the fact that the curtains are old and dark, the dining table and wooden chairs are scratched and worn, and nothing in here is remotely expensive, it feels like it is. It’s nice and homey.

  Nicer than I’m used to.

  Terrell takes a seat on the green armchair, and I settle on the bigger sofa. He watches me, and under his gaze, I feel naked.

  “Tell me about it?” he asks, and the way he does almost makes me think that he actually cares. People normally say this to further the conversation, not because they really care, but his face looks interested in my answer. Today was particularly crappy, though. Mr. Taylor wasn’t in, so I couldn’t use the music rooms outside of class time.

  “I don’t like complaining about school usually, because I guess I’m lucky I even go there. I just…” I pause, trying to think whether it’s even worth going into. I usually block out the bad and move on. I never really talk things through with people, just kind of hope things’ll get better on their own, which they often don’t.

  “There’re a lot of rumors spreading about me,” I start.

  Terrell nods. I wonder if he’s heard them too, like Dre has. Or seen the pictures, or the video.

  “Do you know who’s spreading them? Why they might be doing it?”

  I shrug. “No clue.”

  He nods again. We sit in silence, the conversation complete.

  “How’s music for you these days?” he asks, which reminds me that I’m supposed to know who Terrell is.

  “I’m applying to a few decent colleges for composition,” I tell him.

  He perks up, interested again.

  “Like?”

  I hesitate. “Juilliard is my first choice. And I’m trying to go for one of the scholarships.”

  He whistles. “That’s tough.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it is, but my teacher, Mr. Taylor, is helping me. He went there.”

  Terrell smiles at me. “Got a piece you’re working on?”

  “There’s this one I’m going to send in for the audition, but I keep getting stuck on it. It was so clear in my mind over the summer.”

  I think everything going on at school is blocking the flow.

  “Maybe you need another pair of ears on it,” Terrell suggests. When I don’t say anything, he pulls at his ears and smiles. “My ears are always available.”

  He lets go of them and I realize how big they are. It’s kind of endearing.

  Only Mr. Taylor and Dre have really heard my piece, and Dre only did because I was lying next to him and started humming the tune.

  I blink hard, erasing the memory.

  “Thanks. That would be great.”

  There is a silence, where Terrell just stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say something. It makes me nervous. I look around his living room again.

  What if he’s seen the video? a voice whispers. What difference would it make if he has? He’s still talking to me, isn’t he? Doesn’t think I’m a burden because of it, like everyone else. I need to stop thinking about these possibilities.

  “And you? What are you planning on doing after high school?” I ask, feeling really hot.

  “Nothing too interesting, probably gonna try to find a job.”

  I haven’t heard a response like that in so long. I used to think like that too.

  “In an ideal world, I’d maybe go to college.” He shrugs. “The world’s not ideal, though.”

  I nod, feeling awkward and privileged all of a sudden, even though I’m really not. I’m counting on scholarships, and if I don’t get one, then that’s it for me and college.

  “Want to watch a movie?” Terrell asks, now up from the chair, leaning beside his TV.

  “Sure, I don’t mind anything.” All I watch are kid films because of my brothers. I stopped watching movies when I realized they were a magic trick. In real life, prom isn’t the best night of your life. In real life, your first time is with a boy called Scotty in the back of his dad’s Rolls-Royce. In real life, parents aren’t together. Not even close. In real life, your dad, the only person who’d probably get your music struggles, is behind bars.

  Terrell looks back at me. “White Chicks it is.”

  He puts the disk in, then stands, his big ears poking out, before climbing over the coffee table and taking a seat next to me, closer than I was expecting. I can smell his cologne, fruity but at the same time not. It’s a hard scent to figure out.

  “Ever watched this before?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s funny, one of my favorites.”

  My palms are sweaty. “I’ll probably like it, then. I’m quite easy.”

  Terrell laughs. “Easy, huh?”

  My face burns.

  “Didn’t mean it like that,” I say, smiling, leaning back now.

  “Sure, either meaning is good for me.”

  I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

  I hadn’t given it proper thought before, but now I can’t stop thinking about it: the fact that Terrell seems to be open about his sexuality and so casual about it. It’s not something you can be casual about around here.

  The way he told me we’d kissed—that I was his first
kiss—was so casual too. And weird. I know I couldn’t have kissed Terrell. I’d remember something like that, especially in middle school. I always remember kisses because they always mean something.

  My first girl-kiss was with Rhonda White in third grade. She was also my first girlfriend, and I really liked her. I thought her Afro was pretty cool. She ended up dumping me for some fifth grader, which I got completely. There were no hard feelings.

  My first boy-kiss, though, was Scotty, and that wasn’t until the end of freshman year, when I finally figured myself out. My first everything was with Scotty, really. I don’t regret it, though. I don’t like regretting things, even things with bad endings.

  A weight on my foot pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look down, jumping back when I see a tiny ball of fur with claws and a tail.

  “Is that a rat?!” I shout, bringing my feet up onto the couch, looking away from whatever it was that violated my foot.

  “That’s Bullshit—”

  “I felt something!”

  Terrell looks amused by my discomfort.

  “Yeah, I know.” He bends over and lifts something up onto his lap. “It was my cat, Bullshit. Didn’t know he was in here. Sorr—”

  “Who the fuck names their cat Bullshit?” I ask, face warm as I try to distract from how much I embarrassed myself just now. The cat sits on Terrell’s thighs, staring up at me with its honey-colored eyes. It meows casually, like it didn’t just give me a mini heart attack.

  Terrell shrugs. “The name suits him.”

  He looks serious, stroking the cat with one hand. It’s so small it could probably fit in Terrell’s palm.

  “Any more surprise pets you want to warn me about?” I ask, placing my feet on the floor again.

  Terrell shakes his head. “What? You don’t like animals?”

  “They’re…” I look at Bullshit, who stares back at me like he couldn’t care less about my existence. He meows again. “… okay, I guess.”

  Bullshit hops off Terrell suddenly, and I jump again.

  “I think you could grow to like him,” he tells me as the cat saunters off. I swear I see a smirk on its furry face.

  Bullshit.

  * * *

  Tuesday

  The stares aren’t as annoying as they usually are when I enter school. But that could also be because all the lights are off.

  In fact, the majority of students hardly seem to notice me as I walk through the hallway. Most are distracted by the lack of light, and others are focused on Chiamaka, standing next to my locker. She’s holding this ugly green bag and a Starbucks cup, with her straight brown hair pushed back by a matching green headband.

  When I get to her, the focus shifts to me. My heartbeat increases but I pull my shoulders back, trying to show them they can’t get to me.

  “Can I help you?” I ask Chiamaka, who still hasn’t moved. The overhead lights suddenly blink back on. Chiamaka winces when she sees my face properly in the light. I can imagine how my face looks, what with all the bruising.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I told Headmaster Ward about Aces and their lies and practical jokes … so this should all be over soon,” she says quietly.

  She looks up at me, her deep-brown eyes filled with certainty.

  I can’t help but laugh. I haven’t heard this much crap in such a long time.

  “You think Headmaster Ward is really gonna help us?” I ask, because I’m genuinely perplexed. She looks at me strangely, and I think it’s because I can’t stop smiling.

  “Yes, of course he will.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  She shakes her head. “He only wants what’s best for the student body; you’ll see that in the prefect meeting today.”

  I’ve been trying not to think about that meeting. It means more time trapped in Caucasian-ville.

  “Okay, Chiamaka,” I say, purposely looking between her body and my locker, hoping she’ll get the hint and move.

  She stays, staring at me for a while—I swear there’s a flash of something I’d describe as almost human behind her eyes. Then she finally moves to go.

  “Wait,” I say.

  She turns back. “What?”

  “I think you need to be careful,” I say, and I’m not sure why. I just don’t like how trusting she is of Headmaster Ward. This is the same guy who looks like he dismembers cats for fun.

  “I don’t need protection. You think lies can affect me, Richards?”

  I think we both know they aren’t lies.

  Her eyes plead with me.

  I shake my head instead. She looks relieved, probably because I didn’t challenge that.

  She gives me a tight smile. “Good. I think I’ve wasted enough time talking to you now. Goodbye.”

  And then she’s gone.

  I finally open my locker, rummaging through all my crap to find my notepad for AP English and my music sheets. I notice the glimmer of something at the back, purple and silver.

  A USB stick?

  I lift it out, noticing that it is taped to the back of a playing card. I flip it around. The ace of spades.

  I look around the hallway as the crowd thins. I think the first warning bell has already gone off. Turning the card back around, I see the edge of a word peeking out from behind the USB. I rip off the flash drive, revealing a handwritten message.

  Everything is on here—Aces

  The second warning bell startles me, and I throw the USB and card into my blazer pocket, before grabbing my sheets and book and heading to registration.

  * * *

  As soon as the bell rings for lunch, I head to the library, an internal chain of what-ifs swirling through my thoughts as I quickly grab a free computer. I switch it on, then plug the USB in. The library is semi-crowded, with students mostly sitting around tables in the center or getting on with their own work. Even though I picked a seat in the corner, where no one can see my screen, I worry that someone somewhere is watching me, because they always seem to be lately. Who knows what might be on here?

  I sigh, anxiously waiting for the USB to load, leg bouncing up and down.

  I could just pull it out. I don’t have a gun pointed at my head. There’s no need for me to be scared.

  It loads. My muscles tense up.

  I click before I can overthink it.

  There is only one folder: The Life and Crimes of Chiamaka Adebayo.

  What the …

  I let the cursor hover over the file.

  Why do I feel guilty? Chiamaka and I aren’t friends. I owe her nothing. In fact, she and I are the furthest from friendly that you can get—if you discount earlier. We are basically strangers.

  I click again and the screen flickers as a bunch of subfiles, all with different labels, descend the page. They are all time-stamped to last night.

  One labeled Two-timer grabs my attention. I double-click, ignoring the guilt. It’s a picture of Chiamaka and that guy she’s always with, kissing at some party. It’s probably from when she was dating Scotty, which would explain the label. I got the message about her and some girl’s boyfriend too.

  She seems to have a thing for other people’s boyfriends.

  My cursor hovers over the other files, but my moral compass is screaming at me to stop.

  I wonder if Aces sent files on us to everyone else they’ve spoken about. Does that mean Jack, Scotty, Chiamaka, and her friend have a file on me? But then why don’t I have a Scotty or Jack file?

  My chest is heavy, dragging and achy. Why us? Chiamaka and me. We’re at the center of this, even if other people have been pulled in. I mean, there is the obvious thing … I catch a glimpse of my dark skin in the monitor, staring it down like it’s gonna jump out at me. I shake my head. I’ve gone to this school for years, and I’ve never had anyone bother me before. Unlike in my middle school, where I was everyone’s favorite punching bag, because apparently, my whole essence screams gay easy target. Even when I tried to hide it from everyone and myself.

  I look at
the list of files again, scrolling a little, stopping when I see one labeled Murderer.

  What? I look at it closely, moving forward in my seat. A murderer? Head Prefect and professional teachers’ ass-kisser, a killer?

  If this is true, could I be implicated if I click on the file? Is that Aces’s angle here? I shakily move away, closing the window instead.

  I glance around the library. People are still lost in their own worlds, so unaware of the chaos in mine. I pull the USB out of the port, watching the files disappear from the screen one by one.

  Who is Aces and what do they want? They’re following me; getting into my neighborhood, my home, my mind.

  And I don’t know how to stop it.

  * * *

  I have been watching the clock since I entered the meeting room after school.

  I’ve managed not to say a word so far, thankful that the other prefects in here are such smart-asses that they take up most of the discussion with their thoughts and opinions.

  We, or more like they, are discussing the legendary Senior Snowflake Charity Ball, happening in two weeks. It’s legendary because non-seniors are always told about the pranks pulled off at the ball. For most of the seniors, their biggest worries are what dress or suit to wear, and who they’re going to prank—or be pranked by. All I can think about now is that the ball would be the perfect time for Aces to do something. The ball is compulsory—part of “Niveus’s special school spirit”—but I’m considering faking a serious illness.

  Headmaster Ward looks at me all of a sudden, as if he can read my thoughts.

  “Bringing the meeting to an end with a final point, we’ll be closing parts of the school one day in the coming weeks to do a basic check of the electric networks and facilities in the building. It was meant to be done over the summer but wasn’t, so this may affect events such as the homecoming football game. We will be discussing alternate locations for the match in the next meeting.

  “Cecelia, thank you for taking the minutes. You’re free to go. Can Devon and Chiamaka stay behind, please.” Ward’s eyes stay on mine as he drags out each syllable, every word bursting from his mouth like dark bubbles.