Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  “I didn’t realize I liked you until Wednesday … Well, I guess I was denying it,” I say. “And for the record, I never hated you.”

  “Right…,” she says after a long pause.

  We’ve reached Belle’s house now. We stand, looking at each other like it’s a contest. I try not to blink, in case it is a contest. Then she blinks, and I win.

  “Can I kiss you again? We never really got to finish, which I think is so unfair,” Belle asks, moving closer.

  “Just to be fair,” I say, and she kisses me again, this time uninterrupted.

  From watching TV and reading books, I always got the idea that a girl liking someone who isn’t a guy is meant to be a big deal and that there should be this pressing self-hate that comes with it. I feel almost weird with being this okay with being attracted to Belle, but then again, there’s nothing weird about this in my mind; it feels right.

  Belle says goodbye, closing her front door. I start to walk toward my place, a headache forming as I’m left alone with my worries. I can’t imagine not following through with the future I’ve dreamed about; I can’t imagine going to jail; and I also can’t imagine how disappointed my parents will be. I’ve only ever worked to make them proud. Now they’ll think all their sacrifices were wasted on a monster.

  I don’t notice the black car following me until a few houses down. It moves steadily, stopping and slowing when I do, then speeding up when I pick up the pace. I swallow, walking faster.

  I’m probably being paranoid, I tell myself, glancing at the car window. My heart stops. Though the reflections on the glass make it hard to see clearly, I spot a pair of black-gloved hands on the wheel and the same creepy mask from Thursday covering the person’s face.

  I start to run down the sidewalk, breathing hard now, eyes stinging as I try not to fall over.

  What is this?

  My toes feel numb in my stilettos as I try to outrun the car, the sound of the engine revving making my whole body tremble. I can see my house’s gates in the distance, and by the time I reach them, stumbling down the path, I can hardly breathe. I’m hyperventilating. As I push the keycode into the pad and rush through, I hear the car engine switch off.

  I unlock the front door and dive inside, slamming it shut, sliding both bolts across.

  I back away from the door like it’s a bomb about to go off, trying to catch my breath but finding it hard to get air in. As I watch, there’s a distant movement behind the blurry panes of the door.

  They can’t get through the gates. They can’t get through the gates.

  There’s an angry beep of the keypad, before a figure approaches the door, and the distorted smile and pale skin of the mask come into view. I scream, backing farther down the hallway.

  “Mom! Dad!” I yell, sobbing as I watch the door.

  No one answers. Not that I should be surprised. They’re usually at the hospital when I get home at this time.

  Hardly ever home at all.

  “Someone, help … please.” I whisper the last part, voice breaking.

  Again, no answer.

  I watch as the figure stands there, watching me. Then I watch as the mail slot opens, heart rattling my rib cage as a gloved hand pushes an envelope in. It falls to the ground as the metal flap shuts.

  I don’t move.

  After a few moments, the figure starts to back away, a single black line that thins as it gets farther and farther in the distance.

  I stand in silence for a few minutes, my tears drying up, fingers still shaking as I try to gather myself and work out what to do.

  I move toward the door slowly, snatching the envelope up and opening it. It is filled with Polaroid shots.

  The first picture is of my house from inside the gates …

  The next is a zoomed-in photo of me through the window as I stand in my bedroom.

  The next is of me again, tugging my shirt off.

  The next, I’m in my underwear, the photo taken through the gap in my curtains …

  I shakily pick up the next Polaroid.

  I’m in a towel, just out of the shower this time.

  I already know what’s coming.

  I let out a breath as I pick up the final photo.

  No photo. Just writing.

  All will be revealed … I’m ready to have a ball, are you?—Aces

  This isn’t just texts and high school pranks.

  This is now all of my deepest secrets.

  This is my house. My home. Where I thought I was safe.

  Aces must have gotten my address from the central administration system. But I have no idea how they got through the gate. I look around my empty foyer.

  I move toward the stairs.

  It’s so quiet, my footsteps echo.

  If a tree drops in a forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?

  If a girl all alone in a big fishbowl screams and no one is there, can you hear her? Does she even make a sound?

  My phone buzzes.

  It feels like I’m reliving the same nightmare over and over, and it will never stop.

  [one picture attached]

  I see London, I see France, I see someone’s underpants, past the swing, in the purple tunnel, our favorite music student likes to snuggle.—Aces

  Devon making out with some guy on a jungle gym.

  My phone buzzes again.

  There’s more where all of this came from, Chiamaka. And I’m not afraid to share.—Aces

  What does Aces want from us? What is the end goal? It feels like everything is out of control; I am out of control. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re three steps ahead, and everything we’re doing is playing right into their hands. Sunday feels so far away, but I don’t know what else to do.

  I go to my phone and watch as my fingers hover over the 9 and 1. But I can’t call the police. However bad it gets. I can’t call them, because Aces knows about the hit-and-run. Or at least, I can’t call them before we catch who is behind this. So I open my contact list and scroll down. I hesitate for a heartbeat before hitting the call button.

  25

  DEVON

  Friday

  “Do you think she actually killed someone?” Terrell asks.

  I shrug. Chiamaka does scare most people, but an actual murderer? I don’t know. She has been in denial about a lot of Aces stuff we both know is true; plus there was the stuff on the USB.

  But I also know Aces is trying to twist everything against us, so who even knows if it’s true, or the entire truth. And after the masked figure in the hallway, those posters of Chiamaka and of me, and being followed, I’m scared about what they might be plotting next. It feels like the tone has changed this week. It was nasty before, but now it feels dangerous.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to tag along on Sunday? I’m really good at fighting people; I’ve watched a lot of spy movies too,” Terrell says.

  “We’ll be okay. I’ll send you updates so you’ll know we’re alive,” I say.

  A ringtone startles me, and I grab my phone out of my pocket.

  Speaking of the devil …

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Devon?” I hear Chiamaka’s voice ring out.

  She sounds off.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  There’s a pause. I hear her sniff. “Someone, Aces, followed me home, practically chased me—”

  “What? Did you see who it was?” I interrupt.

  “No … they were masked, plus I was running for my life. Thanks for asking if I’m okay,” she says.

  “Sorry.” Terrell looks at me with a puzzled expression, and I move off the bed. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” I ask.

  “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice wavers. “They pushed some pictures of me through my mail slot … They’ve been taking pictures of me, of us. They sent me a picture of you on some jungle gym … It looked private.”

  My mind flashes back to the park. Terrell. The kiss.

  “Devon?”
<
br />   “Sorry, I got lost there.”

  “That’s fine. It’s just … Sunday has to work out, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding.

  She sounds really shaken up.

  “Good. I’m going to go now. Stay safe and try not to do anything incriminating between now and Sunday,” she says.

  I’m confused. “What do you mean?”

  She sighs. “Try to keep your dick in your pants; that’s what I mean.”

  Oh.

  “Oh … you too, I guess,” I say.

  “I will,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  And then the line goes dead.

  “Who was it?” Terrell asks. I almost forgot he was here—somehow.

  I don’t want to tell him everything, make him worried. This is dangerous enough.

  “Chiamaka. She just wanted to go over the plan again,” I lie, climbing onto the bed and sitting next to him, avoiding looking him in the eye.

  “Did you tell her about your headmaster possibly being behind this?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s just a theory. One I don’t think she’ll believe. She’s so far up his ass. She’s more concerned with getting her titles back. But if it is him, we’ll know soon enough.”

  I anxiously watch Terrell’s window, worried that someone is lurking outside. Watching, collecting secrets, plotting.

  A cartoon plays in the background, the one Terrell somehow roped me into watching. I swear Terrell has the same taste as my kid brothers.

  My eyes drift, landing on certificates and plastic medals hanging on Terrell’s walls. I never looked at them closely until now. They all say Star pupil or Highest-achieved grade point average, with different years marked on each.

  Terrell is smart, so it isn’t surprising. He doesn’t seem to go to school much, though. I don’t feel like going back either; I feel like running from Aces.

  I wonder why Terrell doesn’t go. I wonder what he’s running from.

  I feel myself getting sleepy. I’ve been at Terrell’s for hours. I close my eyes for a moment, drifting off slowly.

  I hear him say, “Promise me you won’t die on Sunday.”

  And I can’t tell if I dream that or if he really says it, but I answer anyway.

  “I promise.”

  26

  CHIAMAKA

  Saturday

  I’m seated in between Mom’s legs getting my hair cornrowed while we watch Girlfriends reruns and I eat ice cream, occasionally lifting my spoon up to her when I feel generous.

  I love getting my hair plaited; it’s relaxing—and somewhat painful, but in a good way.

  “How was school this week?” Mom asks casually, like it’s a casual question to ask.

  I think of the figure outside our door. The envelope stuffed through the mail slot. My body, exposed. Aces getting closer and closer and closer. I haven’t opened my curtains all day, scared of who might be lurking outside in the shadows.

  “Great,” I say.

  “High school feels a lot slower than it is, but trust me: It’ll all be worth it when you’re at college—whether that be Yale, or Stanford, or NYU, it doesn’t matter.” Mom always loves to stress the fact that the college I go to doesn’t matter—but why would she and Dad send me to private schools all my life, get me the best of everything, and then expect me to give them mediocrity in return?

  “And college is way more fun, less stressful; flies by like that.” She snaps her fingers.

  People are always telling me this about college, that it’ll be better than high school. Given the way the last three weeks of school have been, anything could be better than high school at this point.

  “I’m scared I won’t get into college at all.”

  “Don’t be silly—you have the grades, the attitude, the extracurriculars,” she tells me, finishing up now.

  All of that made me feel safe last year, when Aces didn’t exist.

  Now I’m a thief, a liar, a murderer …

  I look down at my knees, blinking back the tears.

  “Done,” Mom says, sighing loudly. I get up, knees clicking and aching from the long sit as I walk over to my full-length mirror.

  In the reflection is a girl who looks like me, only different. Normal me has her hair whipped into straightness, a full face of makeup five days out of seven, and the look of eternal confidence. Now I stare at myself, like I always do, confused by this thing my hair can do. It can go into this style and change me completely. I’m no longer Chi, but Chiamaka, daughter of a Nigerian mother who loves the hair on my head more than I ever could.

  “Thanks, Mom, it’s great.” And I mean it. I love having my hair like this. But I never go outside like this, ever. It’s too risky. I’d rather straighten than get prodded and stared at, stroked like an animal and questioned. Like Jamie looking at me yesterday as if I were some science experiment he’s intrigued by.

  I want to stand out for being the smartest and the best, not because my hair frizzes and fascinates.

  Mom appears behind me in the mirror and I turn to face her. She smiles at me, like she’s so proud. If only she knew all the things I’ve done. Who I really am.

  “Did I ever tell you the meaning of your name?” Mom asks.

  I shake my head. I’ve never really given it much thought.

  Mom’s eyes look sad. “Well, I named you after my mother. Like you, she was smart and beautiful, knew what she wanted—and what she didn’t.” Her smile widens. “Chiamaka means ‘God is beautiful,’ and Adebayo, from my father, means ‘she who came in a joyful time.’”

  Mom never talks about her family; I’ve never even met them or been to Nigeria. But I know Mom loves them. Sometimes she’ll cook something and say, This was my mom’s favorite, or she’ll tell me about her childhood and the busyness of Lagos—where she grew up: Think New York is busy? Lagos is truly the city that never rests. But she never goes into detail, just gives me glimpses of her life before she married Dad. I’m always left feeling unsatisfied, like I’d dreamed of eating a meal after being starved for a year, got to have a bite, and then had it quickly snatched away before I could sate my hunger.

  I sometimes wonder if Mom’s family was as disappointed in her for marrying Dad as Dad’s family was when he married Mom. I wonder if they ever met me, whether they’d hate me for just existing, like Dad’s family does.

  “Did your parents ever get to meet Dad?” I ask, treading carefully, wanting to get as much as I can out of her before she snatches it away for good.

  Mom shakes her head.

  “Although, like your dad and I, my parents came from different worlds. While they were both Nigerian, they were from different tribes. My mother was Igbo and my father was Yoruba. I felt lucky growing up to have that mix of such rich cultures, and I wanted you to feel that too. I wanted you to see your name and feel the richness of where you’re from. I wanted you to know that when I call your name, Chiamaka, I’m saying My daughter is beautiful and smart, and she brings me so much joy.” Her eyes are glassy as she takes my face into her hands and kisses my forehead.

  I smile, feeling teary, but not because I’m sad. I never thought to be proud of my name like that before, or knew that it had some special meaning.

  “I have to go and get ready for work now,” she says, wiping her eyes and pulling away.

  I wish Mom would stay and tell me more. I wish she’d work less and spend longer telling me all about the world she grew up in, who she was before me. But instead I watch her move away.

  “I love you,” I tell her before she goes, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I don’t say it often, so I don’t blame her for looking so shocked.

  “Love you too, Chiamaka. There’s rice and stew in the kitchen for dinner, if you get hungry,” she tells me, and I nod. Then she leaves me—like she always does—her footsteps echoing in the hallway.

  A heaviness weighs me down as I watch the door silently. I sniff, letting my eyes blur and watching the now-quiet
room disappear.

  The sound of two distinct buzzes, sharp and clear, draws my attention.

  It doesn’t seem possible, but I swear my brain rattles, like it’s quivering in my head. I close my eyes, clutching my chest as my breaths gets shallow.

  I walk toward my phone, the only thing in focus on my bed, and pick it up like it’s an explosive.

  I know this is kind of forward, but my house is empty.—B

  The feeling of dread slowly washes away. Its remains filter into the edges of my bones, another feeling taking its place.

  * * *

  I put on a beanie to cover my hair and rush over to Belle’s place, knocking on her white door before she drags me inside.

  “Want juice or something?” she asks. I nod and she gives me this green juice. We sit at her kitchen table and awkwardly sip in silence. Then she goes, “Nice hat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a hat before…”

  “I do … sometimes,” I answer pathetically.

  There’s more silence, me drumming my fingers against the table. I put the empty cup down and she smiles at me. It’s the first time I’ve been inside her house. It feels very cold and clinical, but not as cold as Jamie’s house. His feels like a museum rather than a house; Belle’s just feels more modern.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a frame. A family photo. I notice it because it’s the only one I’ve seen in her house so far. Usually, people have photographs of themselves hanging all over, but Belle’s walls are blank—there are no signs that tell me she lives here at all, just the fact that she has the key. I smile at her slyly, getting up and walking toward the frame. She gets up too and moves in front of me, covering the photo with her body—her eyes panicked.

  “I want to see what a young Belle looked like!” I say, trying to peer over her shoulder, but she blocks me again.

  “She’s ugly and has no front teeth. Wanna go to my room?” she asks, her eyes lighting up, panic dissolving. “I have a bunch of movies I haven’t watched yet, if you’re interested.”

  I raise an eyebrow, trying to peer over again—everyone has photos of them as a kid that they’re embarrassed about—but she places her hand on my cheek and kisses me. Then before I know it, we are in her room, lips locked, my fingers in her blond curls and her arms wrapped tightly around my waist.