Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

Me and Chiamaka glance at each other. She has a small I told you so smile on her face.

  I watch the other prefects leave. Headmaster Ward locks the door sharply behind them. Why does he have to do that?

  He turns back.

  “We have found the so-called ‘Aces,’ if you will,” he says.

  What?

  My heart jumps out from my chest.

  Chiamaka sits up. “Thank you for looking into this, sir. Who are they?”

  Ward says nothing at first. “Chiamaka,” he starts, voice low. “When you came to me, I thought it was out of genuine concern. But your ill sabotage of each other proves to me that you are not serious and that you do not deserve your titles as Senior Prefect and Head Prefect.”

  The fuck?

  I’m so confused. Is he trying to say that we did this to each other?

  Chiamaka looks horrified.

  “What?” she says.

  He looks so bored.

  “It has been brought to my attention that you have both been collecting defamatory information about each other. Information I discovered earlier today while looking through your personal school accounts. We do not tolerate this kind of uncivilized behavior at Niveus, and so, Devon, I’m revoking your badge for three weeks, since you have no prior record and good grades. You, Chiamaka, on the other hand, since this is your second misdemeanor this week alone, I’m afraid I will have to revoke your badge until further notice. You will both have detention every day after school—also until further notice—and that will go on your record—”

  Shit.

  “I’m not behind this, Headmaster—” Chiamaka starts.

  “Quiet!” Ward shouts, which freaks me out because his voice changes completely. “Detention starts tomorrow at four—please be prompt. You may leave.”

  Chiamaka looks sick.

  I feel anger bubbling inside. Juilliard will see this, and there’s nothing I can do about it because Ward won’t even let us defend ourselves. He’s made his mind up, we’re guilty. I just want to get home.

  I take my backpack, unlock the door, and walk out. Hands on my back push me forward and I turn quickly.

  “So it was you!” Chiamaka shouts, eyes glassy.

  “Chiamaka—”

  “What type of lowlife spends their time trying to ruin—”

  “Chiamaka—”

  “This is going to go on my record, then Yale won’t accept me, and I will be stuck at some community college where my efforts won’t even matter, and I won’t be able to go to med school.” Tears are spilling down her face now.

  I feel a pang in my chest. Remorse?

  “I didn’t do it,” I tell her calmly.

  She looks at me in disbelief.

  “Why would I leak my own sex tape, call myself a drug dealer, or out myself? Or bother you, for that matter? We don’t even talk. How do I know you’re not behind this?”

  She says nothing, just stares at me as I stare back. I think it’s the longest we have ever really looked at each other, and I’m not sure how long it lasts, but it’s long enough to be significant. Her face is round, pretty, and wet. She’s crying. Why is she crying?

  I always assumed people like Chiamaka—people with money—could buy their way into college. Why is she acting like that is not an option? And even without college, she’ll have a trust fund. They always do.

  I watch her shoulders, which shudder like a cold breeze has passed through her. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a red USB.

  “Did you get this too?”

  Why does it feel like I’m in a horror film?

  “Yeah, I did,” I say.

  She looks up at the ceiling, wiping her face.

  “Follow me,” she says, walking down the hallway. I follow. The heels of her shoes click loudly against the marble, while mine squeak after each step. Every sound feels deafening. We finally turn into one of the smaller libraries.

  She sits on a chair in front of one of the computers, and I watch her type in her school login, throwing me a look when I’m still watching as she types her password in.

  I sigh to myself. Why would I want her password?

  She plugs the USB in.

  “I didn’t get to look at your file much, since I had class, but it had a lot of folders. Maybe if you see them, you can anticipate and prepare before they strike, or maybe we can show Headmaster Ward these with the notes—”

  “So after he blamed us for doing this to each other, you seriously want to trust him again to catch the real culprits?”

  Chiamaka ignores me, focusing on the screen instead. The computer makes a loud sound, and the message USB NOT RECOGNIZED appears.

  She takes it out and puts it back in. The same thing happens.

  I think with everything going on and the rate at which my heart has been going, it seems natural causes could very well be the reason for my death.

  “Give me yours,” she says, holding her hand out. I take my bag off and reach inside, rummaging through books and papers, before feeling the cold metal of the USB. I grab it and give it to her.

  She plugs mine in and it does the same.

  “No no no no no!” I hear her mutter.

  She hits the computer, then puts her face in her hands.

  “The USBs were a setup,” she says. “Aces planted them on us. There must be something in the coding that destroys the files once they’ve been viewed.”

  I swallow. “Why give us the information?”

  “To confuse us? Or, I don’t know, make us scared of what the other person has seen…” She squints at me a little, like she’s searching my mind for what I saw.

  I think back to the file labeled Murderer. I wonder if that has anything to do with it.

  She stands, shutting the computer down. “I don’t know why, or how, but…” She pauses, lowering her voice now. “I think someone is trying to get us expelled.”

  “Scotty and Jack too,” I add.

  Chiamaka looks confused.

  “Who’s Jack?”

  “The other guy Aces blasted,” I say as I get my phone out, showing her the message. “Jack McConnel.”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t get that. I don’t think anyone I know got that either.”

  That doesn’t make sense … Thinking back, I don’t remember there being the usual sea of text alerts when I got the message. Was I the only person who did? Why?

  “So what do we do? How do we not get expelled?” I ask her. This is starting to feel very real. Even more real than before.

  “I don’t know.” Chiamaka pinches her nose and sighs. “I need to go home and think. I’ll be in touch,” she says. Then she moves past me and disappears through the dark oak double doors, leaving me here with my thoughts.

  Alone.

  PART TWO

  X MARKS THE SPOT

  16

  CHIAMAKA

  Tuesday

  It’s unexpected—Belle approaching me on my walk home.

  I do a lot of that now—walking. Since the accident, I haven’t been able to drive without having a full-blown panic attack. It’s funny—last year I begged my parents for a car, and now I can’t even bring myself to drive it.

  “Hi,” she says, startling me out of my depressing thoughts about the USB I found in my locker and Ward taking my badge.

  I don’t say anything to her at first, because I feel like I’m hallucinating her being here. Why would she be talking to me? I extend my hand slightly, reaching out to touch her, make sure she’s real. But I stop myself, in case she is real and thinks I’m weird for doing that.

  “Hello,” I say back.

  “I was a bit harsh to you yesterday … I’m sorry,” she says—which is even weirder, because it should be me apologizing. I mean, I did sleep with her boyfriend and then lie about it, even if I didn’t know they were going out when Jamie and I were still sneaking around.

  “I came to ask about your side of the story. I always told myself that if there was ‘another woman,’ I wouldn�
��t do the basic thing and fight the girl and not the guy, but that’s exactly what I did.”

  Belle’s cheeks are dusted pink from the cold, her blond curls trapped beneath a gray beret. Her eyes look so open and kind, but I can’t help feeling strange about this. Why does she suddenly want to talk to me after everything? Especially now that someone is trying to get me kicked out, and especially since Belle is also applying to Yale, which, in the entire history of our school, has only accepted one applicant each year. I know it sounds stalkerish but I did some digging on my Yale competition months ago—I wasn’t being creepy or anything. I just needed to know who I’m up against.

  “Truthfully…,” I start, stopping to think about whether telling her anything would make matters worse. “I did like Jamie, and it’s silly because it should have been clear to me that it was just sex—”

  Okay, way too truthful, reel it in a little.

  “But he was my best friend. I should have known he didn’t like me like that.”

  Belle shakes her head. “Then why would he sleep with you? I want to believe that this is one-sided and blame you, but I can’t.”

  I don’t know what she wants me to say.

  “You should blame me and move on. It’s easier that way. I can’t explain anything Jamie ever does.”

  I try walking ahead but she catches up to me.

  “Who initiated things between you two?”

  “He did,” I say, blinking fast. “But we both did it, and I wanted to. I can’t tell you what his reasons were, but I wanted to be with him, so why would I say no? I felt like things could work out for us somehow … then he tells me he’s with you now and that it meant nothing, and I feel like I mean nothing and I—” Once I start, I can’t stop. There’s a pressure in my chest, like I have had this weight here forever. “That’s just who Jamie is.”

  Belle looks at me, shocked.

  “Jamie’s a dickhead,” she says.

  I don’t know why my first instinct is to defend him, but admitting all that out loud makes me stop and think.

  I never really question whether Jamie doing bad things makes him a bad person. Everyone does bad things sometimes, makes poor choices. I know that more than anyone.

  “He is,” I say.

  “I broke up with him,” she says.

  I’m shocked. She doesn’t even look regretful.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a dickhead.”

  There’s a smile she’s holding back, I can tell.

  “And I had a gut feeling about this whole thing, so I ended it.” She pauses, her hesitation making the atmosphere awkward. “I know it’s weird … but I wanted to be your friend, Chiamaka. The whole time I was dating him, even … Except it seemed like you hated me—and I guess I know why—but as messed up as this is, you seem nicer than people say you are. Besides, we’re both too good for Jamie,” she says.

  I say nothing. I do nothing. Don’t even breathe. Belle’s words are so confusing. One moment she’s angry at me, the next she wants to be friends.

  Jamie has been my only “real” friend in high school. Everyone else has been a chess piece in this popularity game. I don’t know if I even want friends; all they seem to do is hurt you.

  Belle is looking at me with expectation in her blue eyes, her face making my heart beat fast as I look away.

  We are better than him.

  “You’re wrong in thinking I’m nice, by the way. Everyone was right. I am a bitch,” I tell her, which only makes her smile even more.

  “I guess we all are sometimes.”

  My arms and legs are so cold, and the wind makes it worse. I really just want to go home.

  I look back at her. The meeting is still weighing on my mind, as well as Aces.

  “I was going to go home and watch Project Runway … if you want to join?” I ask, like my life isn’t on the verge of collapse.

  She nods. “I’d like that.”

  As we walk on, I think about the USBs again. I asked a tech guy I know about getting into Niveus’s CCTV to look at who planted the USBs this morning, as well as tracking down the origin of Aces’s blasts. Maybe I could ask him to recover the files from the USBs too, in which case, I’ll need to bring Devon into my plans. I can’t have Aces taking any more from me—the deeper they dig, the harder it will be to come back.

  And I refuse to let them bury me.

  17

  DEVON

  Wednesday

  “Your school looks like Buckingham Palace,” Terrell says from the seat on his bright-yellow bike.

  I’ve finished with today’s detention, after a whole hour scraping gum off the tables in a random classroom, alone. I think Ward separated Chiamaka and me on purpose. I’m not sure why. Maybe he thought we’d try to do more damage to each other, that I’d slit her throat with the edge of the scraper or something.

  Ward was so quick to blame us. Make us out to be delinquents. If anything, I’d stab him first, before I’d even think of doing anything to Chiamaka. In reality, though, someone like Ward could easily crush me like a bug. I can’t fight to save my life. Not that he’d believe me if I told him that.

  When I finally walked out of Niveus, hands raw and achy, Terrell was there, waiting for me outside. He’d texted me earlier with a mysterious message: I need to tell you something.

  And now here we are. I’m on one of the swings and he’s seated on his bike. I walked and he pedaled all the way to a park nearby. I avoid the big park in my neighborhood, knowing that Dre and his friends hang there sometimes. My heart squeezes at the thought of Dre.

  “Nothing royal about it, though,” I say.

  “Isn’t it hella white and full of rich people? Sounds a lot like a palace to me.” His dimples appear, which force me to smile back. I guess he has a point. Niveus is like this weird love child between America and England, from us calling our principal “headmaster,” to saying “registration” instead of homeroom, to the way the building looks. When I first came here, I thought it was really strange. It took some getting used to.

  “Apart from that, it’s hell.”

  “Are people still talking about you?”

  I nod. “It’s all because of Aces. People at school don’t normally focus on me.”

  Terrell’s eyebrows rise. “Aces?”

  I forget Aces doesn’t mean anything to anyone outside of Niveus.

  “This anonymous texter. They’ve been bothering me and some girl, Chiamaka, a lot, spreading rumors about us.”

  Terrell nods to himself, like he’s trying to figure something out.

  “Is this Chikkaka girl Black too?” he asks. I want to laugh, but I stop myself. Why do I feel so loyal to her this week? It’s pissing me off.

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t say anything else at first, thinking back to my thoughts in the library about being Black and that maybe having something to do with it.

  “And they only bother you guys?”

  I nod slowly, hoping he doesn’t go there—to the race thing.

  Terrell shakes his head, squinting at me. “Are you guys blind or what?”

  I sigh, turning away a little. “What?”

  “Are there any other Black people at your school?”

  I suspect his question is more rhetorical than not, but I still shake my head.

  “So, you go to a white school, in the white part of town, where bad things are happening to the only Black students…,” he starts, like he’s decoding a really complex math problem.

  I want to interject and debunk his theory, but I can’t bring myself to speak. I shiver as a gust of wind blows my way.

  “I think it’s racism.” Terrell looks at me straight.

  “Not all of them are bad, Terrell.” And it’s true. I may not be friends with any of the Niveus students, but most of them have been nice enough over the years.

  He climbs off his bike and takes a seat on the swing next to me.

  “Name three good people there, and I don’t mean decent,
I mean really good.”

  I’m not that social, so my circle really only ever included myself and Jack at school. Besides him, everyone else is okay—decent. Good. No, everyone else is good.

  “My music teacher—Mr. Taylor, Jack, and this guy Daniel.”

  “Jack, as in the friend who abandoned you?”

  I forgot I texted Terrell about that.

  “He’s from around our area, has a family to think about. He’s just protecting himself while all those texts come out. They can hurt him too.” And I’ve known Jack practically my entire life. If he was racist, why would he be my friend or pretend to care about me? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Terrell smiles at that. “I sense that it has nothing to do with his family.”

  What does he mean by that?

  “Who’s Daniel?” he continues, like he’s not convinced by what I’m saying.

  “This popular guy at school; he’s weird and annoying, but nice, I guess.”

  “And Mr. Taylor?”

  I’m confident in him as an example of a good white person I know.

  “He’s the best music teacher I’ve ever had. Lets me stay in the practice room all day making music, and he really wants me to get into Juilliard.”

  “Does he, now?” Terrell asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Yeah.”

  He nods. “Okay, fair enough.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe it.”

  He shrugs, nudging me. “I don’t trust white people like you do. I obviously don’t think they are all murderers, but I think they are all racist.”

  “All?” I say, eyebrows raised.

  “It sounds wild, I know, but racism is a spectrum and they all participate in it in some way. They don’t all have white hoods or call us mean things; I know that. But racism isn’t just about that—it’s not about being nice or mean. Or good versus bad. It’s bigger than that. We’re all in this bubble being affected by the past. The moment they decided they got to be white and have all the power and we got to be Black and be at the bottom, everything changed. If we can’t talk about it honestly, and I mean really talk about it, then what’s the point? I read some Malcom X last year, and I agree with him. Some might even treat you good, like an owner might treat a pet.”