I jump as another text buzzes.
By the way, I think Aces followed me.—D
What do you mean?
Someone in a mask followed me home, I think. They were taking pictures.—D
Are they still following you?
No, I don’t think so. I tried chasing them but they got away.—D
That makes me feel uneasy. If they are following us … then all the more reason we need a solid plan for Sunday.
He better be in tomorrow –
“Hey…,” someone whispers. I look up to see Belle in the doorway, blond curls packed up in a high ponytail and wearing her bright-blue lacrosse uniform. My eyes move down to her bare legs, then away again as I turn, bend over, dip the toothbrush in the bucket filled with soapy water next to me, and proceed to scrub at the nonexistent dirt on a random table.
“Hi,” I say.
Scrub. Scrub.
“Finished practice?” I ask.
“No, just on my way there, actually … Wanted to see if you were here, say hey, maybe avoid Coach and her screaming for a few moments,” she says.
I stop scrubbing, turning to face Belle and her apparently really long legs.
“Glad I can be your break from that.” I watch the door carefully. “If Ward comes in, though, I’m going to tell him you were bothering me,” I say with a smile.
She laughs. “You’d sell me out?”
I shrug. “Maybe, maybe not, depends on how I’m feeling.”
I was sure that saying no to Belle’s The Notebook invite would dampen our new friendship, but she’s here, in front of me, making me all flustered and nervous. It’s almost as if I like her or something, in a more than friends way. But that’s absurd.
Isn’t it?
“And how are you feeling?” she asks, head tilted to the side.
“Tired. It’s like I’m scrubbing away at nothing,” I say, gesturing to the tables.
“Why did you get such a long sentence anyway?”
That’s kind of a funny way to describe it. It basically is a sentence. I’m surprised she doesn’t know why. I assumed everyone would know about another position of lowliness I’ve been forced into.
“Ward thinks Devon and I have been spreading the rumors about each other. That we’re Aces.”
“Who do you think it is?” Belle asks. I pause, considering whether I should share my list of suspects.
“It could be anyone,” I answer. Anyone. I look down. I keep going back to my list, but I just can’t see how any of the people I thought it might be would be capable of doing all of this. “Who do you think it is?”
“Maybe someone jealous of your perfect looks and grades,” she says. My skin burns.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t.
There’s silence for a little while, which is only filled by my scrubbing and sighs, until I hear the sound of Belle’s sneakers as she steps forward, taking a seat on one of the desks in the room.
“I’m kind of in the mood to ditch lacrosse and stay in here with you. Do you have a second brush?”
Why would someone want to clean on purpose?
“I haven’t got a second one … but you can take mine,” I say, holding it out with a smile.
She stares at me with a smirk on her pink lips. Then she places her lacrosse stick on the table and strides over to me, inches away. I’m taller than Belle, with or without these knitted Chloé sock boots, yet I feel small next to her.
Her eyes flick over to the door, then back to me. She looks mischievous, like she wants to do something that could get us both in trouble. I feel the same way, but I’m not sure what she has in mind. She grabs the toothbrush out of my hand and takes the bucket in her other, and I watch her.
My heart is going faster than it does when there’s an Aces blast.
“So I just dunk it in, swish it around, then scrub the table?” she asks, turning.
I don’t think I can form an answer with the noise in my mind. All I can think about is whether I should do this—test out this unstable theory I have.
Her head moves back when I don’t answer. “Or am I wrong? Is there some profound way to clean a desk?”
Belle being nice to me could just be a symptom of wanting to strengthen this friendship that came out of nowhere. Or it could be something else, something that doesn’t fit into the odds. You can’t calculate emotion.
She steps closer. The soapy water swishes as she puts the bucket back down on the desk. She waves her hand in front of my face.
“Earth to Chiamaka.”
Belle always smells of vanilla, with a hint of something even sweeter. It makes me want to drop everything and be unscientific about this.
I want to be unscientific about this … so bad.
But what if I test out this theory and it isn’t correct? What then?
“Are you okay?” Belle asks, looking worried now.
“I’m confused, trying to work out whether we are friends or not.” I surprise myself as the truth just slips out.
Belle looks a little hurt by the statement, but I didn’t mean it the way it came out.
“I thought we were.”
“What if I don’t want to be friends?”
I don’t want to say the rest out loud.
“You don’t want to be friends?” Belle looks really hurt, which makes my body feel like heated explosions are going off all at once.
“I don’t.”
Belle nods and puts the toothbrush down. “Okay, that’s fine,” she says quietly, before walking past me.
I think I want her to leave, stop confusing me, but at the same time, I don’t want her to go. I want her to stay and let me explain.
“I think I like you in a non-friend way … I-if that weirds you out, you can go,” I say, stumbling over some of my words. I look down, and even though I can’t see her, I know she’s still in the room. I didn’t hear the door close.
I keep going.
“I just don’t think I can be friends with you if it weirds you out or if you don’t feel the same way—for now at least. I was friends with Jamie for ages, and I always wanted more … I don’t want to repeat that again,” I say without taking a breath.
This is embarrassing.
Closing my eyes, I add, “So leave, please, if that’s not something you want too.”
In the distance I can hear screams, from the gym or the grounds outside, but there’s dead silence between us.
The sound of the door opening and then slamming shut shatters something inside me. I breathe out raggedly, turning around to look at the empty room. Only I’m met, face-to-face, with the smell of vanilla and blond hair and pink lips that smile at me.
Belle leans in, closing her eyes, and kisses me. And then, within nanoseconds, I’m kissing her too.
23
DEVON
Thursday
I meet Chiamaka in Morgan Library during lunch.
Until today, I’d never really been in Morgan before, but, like the other libraries, it’s huge and old, with dark brown shelves that reach the ceiling, books that carry this old dusty smell, and rows of computers. Computer 17 is tucked into the corner. Some guy’s using it to watch videos, so all I can do is stare and wonder what’s being kept on there. Hundreds of secrets, locked away on Aces’s account.
Chiamaka’s writing something down on a tiny notepad.
“If we hide behind the cart of books over there by the computer, we’ll have the best view and best cover,” she says in a whisper. I look over at the cart.
“What if it’s not there on Sunday?”
She sighs, looking around. “The carts don’t move. I’ve come here a few times this week to check, and there’s always a cart by the entrance. But if for whatever reason it isn’t here on Sunday, then we hide behind the first bookshelf and wait for them to arrive.” She flips the notepad shut as the first warning bell sounds, signaling the end of lunch. Despite Chiamaka’s confidence, I still worry that something will go wrong.
We walk out of Morgan separately—Chiamaka a few steps ahead, so that it doesn’t look like we were in there together—and I head toward my locker. The crowd divides us as people make their way down the hall.
There’s a shift in the air as I near the senior lockers. Something feels different. For one, it is completely dark in the hallway. Two, people are slowing down, their mumbled voices growing louder, and at first I’m unsure what all the chaos is about.
Then the lights blink on and I see them.
Posters plastered to every single locker.
Posters of a passed-out Chiamaka in a short silver dress, black tights, black heeled boots, mascara dried on her cheeks, and her hair a tangled mess. Some of the posters have Bitch written in big black bold text, others Slut.
I move closer to the posters. Surrounding her body are these weird identical blond dolls.
I scan the crowd for Chiamaka, swallowing the lump in my throat when I see her in the center of the hallway, frozen.
The quiet chaos is interrupted by pop music blaring from the school speakers as a figure dressed head to toe in black, with a black hood and a terrifying Guy Fawkes mask, carrying hundreds of posters, appears out of nowhere and rushes forward.
The hairs on the back of my neck are raised and a chill runs through me unexpectedly. My mind flashes back to the park, the figure with the camera.
In one swift movement, they toss the papers they’re holding into the air. The sheets fall from the ceiling like giant snowflakes and people reach up, jumping to catch the paper, like it’s some game. I block my face as the sheets rain down, but I glimpse the printed images. I reach down and pick one up.
It’s me and Chiamaka’s junior yearbook photos. Only our eyes have been scratched out. It’s like a punch to the gut.
Without thinking, I push through the crowd, walking toward the masked figure. They notice my sudden movement and look me dead in the eye before sprinting away, pushing through the crowd. They’re fast, black sneakers carrying them quickly.
I start running but I’m quickly blocked by bodies, shoving me back as they grab at the posters that litter the floor. I fight my way through, not wanting to lose the person, but by the time I break out from the crowd, the figure has disappeared once again.
Aces?
Taking a shaky breath, I turn. My face is hot, limbs quaking, as all eyes fix on me now. Some sneer, others stare blankly. I scan the hallway for Chiamaka, but she’s disappeared. Her picture comes into view again, lined up along each locker. I run at the first one, tearing it down, move to the next one, yanking it off, then the next, and the next, blood boiling. Whoever took this photo meant to do harm. She’s passed out, unaware of the picture being taken. It’s nasty; it’s a violation.
I spot Mr. Ward at the end of the hallway, holding one of the posters. Then I watch as he crumples it up and throws it in the trash, before walking away.
The second warning bell rings, and the students around me abruptly start walking away, moving toward their classes. I stand in the center of the hallway, the picture of Chiamaka clutched in my hand, the floor filled with copies of my defaced school photo.
* * *
Mr. Taylor looks down at the crumpled posters of Chiamaka and me. His brow is furrowed and mouth twisted as he scans the page.
“I’m sorry, Devon. These were just in the hallway? You didn’t see who put them up?” he asks.
I nod. “We didn’t see who put them up, but there was a person throwing some of the posters around. They were wearing a mask, so I didn’t see who they were either.”
Mr. Taylor sighs and looks up at me.
“I’m going to find out who did this, Devon, okay?”
I feel relieved. “Thank you.”
“Just go home, and try not to let this get you down.”
I do exactly that—I go home and I try not to think about it. But it’s impossible.
I’m at home, in my bedroom, knees bouncing like I’ve had too much coffee, seated on the edge of the bed trying to do homework, but I can’t shake the image of those posters on the hallway floor, of the figure in a mask. It’s like my mind can’t comprehend what is going on.
I feel guilty that Chiamaka is probably on her own somewhere, dealing with this all by herself. I’m barely holding it together here, and the attack on me today wasn’t half as personal. I couldn’t find her after class, in the labs; she’s not answering her phone, and I don’t know where she lives. The posters made me feel sick; they were a threat to me and Chiamaka. Letting us know that someone is out for us and won’t stop until they’ve destroyed us.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and I jump. My brother James is staring at me, a serious expression on his face as he holds up a drawing. My brothers have been watching cartoons all evening, like they usually do after they get back from school. Ma’s in the kitchen making dinner. I normally help, but I’ve been falling behind on everything lately, and I have to get my homework done.
I survey the picture, trying to look really impressed. Nine times out of ten, the picture is of an elephant—James’s favorite animal—but this picture is pink and brown and lopsided.
“So cool, J. That an elephant?” I ask, pulling him onto my lap.
He shakes his head. “No … it’s meant to be you,” he says, sounding disappointed at my wrong guess.
I look at the picture again. The creature’s face is big, the body small and crooked. James gave the creature two ears and two earrings, one that’s a Christian cross and the other a normal stud, just like mine. The creature has a frown on its face and a teardrop under one of its eyes.
“I see it now, it looks just like me,” I say, feeling a little offended, but it makes him smile. He crawls off my lap and joins Elijah again on the floor, by the small TV in the corner.
I watch the shapes move about on the screen for a moment, then I turn back to the shapes on my homework sheet. I feel my phone buzz next to me and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s Chiamaka telling me she’s okay, that the posters are fucked up, that everything is definitely directed at us and that we need to do something now, before Sunday.
But it’s not her, it’s Terrell.
You disappeared on me yesterday.—T
He messaged me yesterday too, but I ignored it, hoping that if I pretended not to see the text I could erase how embarrassing the whole conversation at his house had been. After our exchange yesterday, I decided to go home. Facing him directly after that would have been too awkward.
Sorry for disappearing, hope your sister is doing better.—D
Immediately, he texts back.
She is.—T
We’ve only been friends for a few days and already I’m being clingy and annoying. What the hell is wrong with me?
Want to come over now? You can bring me your music.—T
I look down at my homework, the sound of the cartoons drowning out the yells from the good angel on my shoulder as I slip my sneakers on and put my assignment sheets away.
I couldn’t focus anyway, I reason, as I type back a response.
Will be over in 10.—D
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m lying back on Terrell’s bed. It’s really comfortable, in a don’t have to share with nobody way. I miss the days when I was an only child and didn’t have to share a bed with my brothers.
Terrell is seated in front of me, listening to my audition piece. I feel nauseous watching him.
What if he says my piece is bad and that I should scrap it all?
Sometimes I feel like the time I’m spending perfecting this audition piece is pointless. With the way things are going, if this Aces bullshit reaches Juilliard, I don’t think it will matter how good my audition piece is. They won’t want a student who’s been accused of all the things Aces has accused me of.
Especially since none of the accusations were entirely false.
Terrell’s shoulders move under the black cotton of his hoodie, and I watch them out of the corner of my eye. He almost se
ems to be dancing. I want to laugh, but I don’t want to alarm him and disrupt whatever flow he has.
“I know what’s missing,” Terrell says, turning to face me now. His voice startles me, but I try not to show that it does.
“What?”
“Drums.” He takes the headphones out of his ears and passes my player back to me.
Drums?
“Really?” I ask, because it seems so strange to me. I know how to play them—kind of—but I haven’t had to since freshman year band practice, which I quit as soon as I could. Working with others isn’t something I like doing when it comes to music. I’m not even sure if the Juilliard composition faculty would like that.
“It’s too soft without them, like that white-ass school you go to.”
I nudge him. He nudges me back.
The piece has the keyboard and the clarinet. I guess I can see where he’s coming from.
“You might be right…,” I say, voice trailing off. My thoughts once again occupied by the posters in the hallway. My face. Chiamaka’s face. It’s hard to ignore the lack of white faces on the posters. It’s hard to ignore the obvious thing tying Chiamaka and me together now: our Black skin.
There’s so much cramming my mind. I don’t feel safe at school, or anywhere, really—like I’m constantly having to look over my shoulder.
I learned when I was younger to keep how I really felt buried, deal with feelings later, on my own. I’m good at burying things in deep boxes in my mind. I’m good at being okay most of the time. Until I’m not, and the boxes burst open and I explode.
“Hey … Terrell,” I say quietly, fingers edging toward one of the boxes in my head.
Ace of Spades Page 18
