Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  I kicked my shoes off when I entered her house earlier, so now I can feel her soft, stringy rug through my socks, bunching up my toes, then releasing. I can smell her perfume, rosy and light like her.

  Suddenly, Belle’s mouth is away from mine, and her face is pink. Her arms release from around me as she steps back, slowly, before sitting heavily on her bed, eyes glued to mine. It’s not cold, but something rushes through me, my hairs sticking up, goose bumps on my neck, my arms, my legs.

  Belle is all I can think of, all I can see. I follow her path to the bed and place my hand on her pale cheeks, lifting her face up so that the blue stares into my brown. Placing my head on hers, I breathe her in again, her scent making me want to dissolve forever and forget about everything. The mission tomorrow, how scared I am, how my future is hanging in the balance.

  Our lips touch, and move, deeper and deeper, and I feel myself falling forward. I feel her falling, and then we collide, her back springing off the mattress.

  I break our connection when I feel her hands rub my scalp.

  Where’s my hat? I panic as I move away a bit.

  “What?” she asks.

  “My hat…,” I say weakly.

  “It’s hot in here, you don’t need it on … and besides, I like your hair, it’s nice. I do my hair in French braids too, but I’ve never seen tiny French braids like those before,” she says, inspecting my hair.

  French braids. I laugh.

  “They aren’t French braids, they’re cornrows.”

  Pink dusts her cheeks again. “Ah … sorry, didn’t know.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay, really.” I’m just glad you don’t look at me like I’m other or something, I think to myself, but I don’t say it, because I’m not sure if she’ll get that completely.

  Belle nods, a sly smile on her lips as she reaches up to her shirt and starts to unbutton it.

  “Want to continue not talking?” she asks, the yellow of her bra making everything inside tingle.

  “Not talking is my favorite thing to do,” I tell her.

  27

  DEVON

  Sunday

  I knew she was serious when she said, “Wear all black,” but I never thought she meant Dress like a criminal too.

  Chiamaka waves to me by the back entrance of our school, with a set of jangly keys in her hand and a balaclava covering her face. I got in through the back gate, usually left open for cleaners to come through. It’s one of the rare places in Niveus without any CCTV. I kept watching my back on the way here, looking for scary masked figures with sharp knives ready to kill us both. But the streets were empty, with no sign of anyone following me at all.

  I approach Chiamaka and her eyes survey my outfit critically. Then she lifts the balaclava up slightly, revealing her unimpressed expression.

  “That’s the best you could do?” she whispers. I’m wearing all black; I don’t understand why she’s making a big deal about it.

  We are basically wearing the same thing, except she’s wearing red-bottom heeled black boots and I’m wearing Converse. At least my shoes aren’t going to click loudly and alert Aces and all the other anonymous people out to get us that we are here.

  “What?” I say.

  She shakes her head, pulling the balaclava back down roughly. “Nothing, just come and watch the window with me.”

  “What does this see into?” I ask, walking up to the back door and the window next to it. I can barely see anything with Chiamaka’s big head in the way.

  “The library,” she says.

  Convenient.

  “Anyone there yet?”

  “Obviously not. Do you really think I wouldn’t say anything and keep watching them play on the computers?”

  I look up at the dark sky. God, please give me eternal patience.

  “I thought we were going in and hiding behind the cart by computer 17.”

  She sighs loudly. “Let’s go in.”

  She pushes the key into the hole—loudly—and opens it—loudly—and then steps in—loudly.

  I’m no crook, but I know how not to get killed, or found out, and Chiamaka clearly doesn’t. I follow her inside, watching her try to tiptoe but fail. We turn in to the library. The room is cold, quiet, and empty. I scan our surroundings, my eyes landing on computer 17, at the very edge, still. Untouched. Ominous.

  “Hey, look,” Chiamaka says. I follow her gaze to one of the walls adorned with what feels like hundreds of black-and-white framed photographs, all with years labeled clearly on the frame. Freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years for each graduating class. It’s kind of creepy, the school keeping all of these in Morgan Library, of all places. Like the students make out while the Niveus alumni watch.

  I’m almost positive the photos weren’t here when we came on Thursday.

  I scan the wall for the junior year photo for our graduating class, crouching a little to focus on it. There are so many of us. At any other school, my face would blur and blend in with the rest of the class, but I find myself easily. Dark skin as prominent as Chiamaka’s; the sea of white making us stick out comically.

  I spot a sophomore pic from 1963 out of the corner of my eye, where two Black straight-faced strangers stare back at me. I see the change in them in the next picture over—their junior-year photograph—one of the girls seemingly taller in this one. It’s weird seeing black-and-white photos of Black people sometimes. TV had me thinking we didn’t exist until the eighties.

  “We should probably go and hide until Aces comes … It’s getting close to nine, and I don’t want to be caught and have to die wearing polyester,” Chiamaka says. I start walking toward the cart by computer 17, but I’m quickly pulled in the opposite direction, toward computers 6 and 7.

  “Go under and drag the chair to hide your body,” she whispers, completely abandoning the plan she was so adamant we follow. But I do what she says, taking a seat next to her on the floor, under the table, then dragging the chair forward to cover me.

  I peek out slightly, computer 17 in my direct vision.

  Maybe this plan is better.

  We sit in silence for a while. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, leaning back against the wall but hitting my head against the table in the process.

  “Shh!” Chiamaka says, looking annoyed at the fact that I injured myself.

  I don’t trust myself with words right now, so I don’t reply.

  “That reminds me … What took you so long to get here?” she whispers, hitting me across the head, her balaclava now off and in her lap.

  God, please … patience … thanks.

  What took me so long? I was with Terrell, actually, at an ice-cream joint near his place.

  “I was eating dinner,” I tell her, because ice cream technically is dinner.

  I can feel her roll her eyes. Apparently, now eating’s a crime too.

  “Next time, waste someone else’s time with eating; we have a creep to catch.”

  “Sorry, I’ll starve and faint right in front of Aces instead—”

  She pinches my leg.

  “What now?” I almost shout, looking at her. Her eyes widen, and she shoves her hand over my mouth quickly.

  “I saw legs!” she whispers harshly, her head turning toward the figure. There’s a pounding in my ears as I catch a glimpse of movement.

  Holy shit.

  Inching forward, I peer out through the gaps between the chair legs. I see a person dressed in black, an oversized hoodie covering their small frame, with black jeans and shiny Docs. Their footsteps are heavy, boots scratching against the carpet, gloved hands limp by their sides as they step toward computer 17.

  This is it.

  “Shit,” I whisper without thinking, triggering an abrupt pause from the figure. I freeze for a moment, and I swear my heart stops, my body vibrating as I scooch back slowly. The figure turns toward us, scanning the room, and I see the scary smile of the mask from Thursday, the one that’s been haunting me since, with its pale, vacant expres
sion making it look so monstrous and terrifying. They stop looking around and continue heading toward the computer.

  Through the small gap, I see Aces pull out the chair in front of computer 17, sit down, cross their legs, and reach for the mouse.

  My heart is beating so fast. Chiamaka’s breathing turns shallow.

  She sits back against the wall and curls into a ball. Her lips move, but no words come out; she looks so freaked out.

  I watch Aces’s legs as they swivel gently in the chair.

  Chiamaka sits up slowly, passing me the rope she somehow fit in her hoodie pocket. She’s going to tackle them, and I am going to tie them up, then we’re going to take a photo. Hard, undeniable evidence. We’ll also take pictures of the account and anything they have saved on there. We planned this, but somehow here, in the library, it feels like we’re way ahead of ourselves.

  Before I can even catch myself, she’s up and charging toward them.

  “Reveal yourself, bitch!” she screams, which I guess is my cue to stand.

  Chiamaka pushes the figure onto the floor and tries to remove the mask from their face. A few blond curls slip out from their hood.

  I move closer, only slightly. I don’t want to get any blood on Terrell’s hoodie. I hold the rope up, getting ready to jump in and tie their hands.

  Chiamaka finally rips the mask off, but instead of holding what I quickly realize is a girl down, she stumbles off the body, visibly trembling. As Chiamaka stares at her, frozen, the girl stands, turns, and rushes away from us.

  What the actual fuck?

  I throw down the rope and run to the library doors as they swing back toward me, hard, and then I race down the corridor. But there is nothing. No one. No sound of feet or movement in the dark hallway. I can’t even tell which way they went. I walk up to some of the doors of the nearby classrooms, and they’re all locked from the outside.

  I stand for a moment, watching and waiting, before I walk back to the library.

  “What the fuck, Chiamaka? You let them get away!” I shout as I open the doors again, but she doesn’t even seem to really hear me. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Her face is drained of color, mouth hanging open.

  Before I can say another word, she rushes out of the library too.

  After all that talk of wanting to take “the bitch” down, Chiamaka bails when the mission needs her most.

  As I bend to pick up the rope, my eyes catch the blaring bright screen of computer 17 instead.

  I lean in. The girl left the computer logged in to a page with black spades symbols decorating the border.

  I sit down and scroll to the top of the page.

  ACE OF SPADES SECRET SOCIETY

  Generosity, Grace, Determination, Integrity, Idealism, Nobility, Excellence, Respectfulness, and Eloquence.

  Aren’t those our school values?

  An animation of a smirking guy dealing cards grins at me in the corner. The words Press enter for some fun! appear across the screen, and even though I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack, I press enter. The school values dash across the screen, swirling and spinning, before arranging themselves in a line. Press enter again! the screen tells me, and I do. In a flash, most of the letters disappear, leaving the first letter of each word, like an acrostic.

  N

  I

  G

  G

  E

  R

  D

  I

  E

  Cold rushes through me; it feels like someone is walking over my grave.

  Nigger die?

  The fuck?

  There’s an arrow pointing down at the bottom of the screen, so I scroll, heart hammering. A folder comes up titled Checkmate. I double-click, and three more folders appear, labeled Rook, Bishop, and Knight. Chess pieces? I click on Rook, and a short table full of names loads on the page, some I recognize, some I don’t. In one row I spot the name Jack McConnel, a sharp checkmark next to it, and beside that a short sentence I have to reread to make sense of.

  Distribution of DR’s messages.

  Distribution of DR’s messages.

  DR … Devon Richards.

  Messages … All the shit Aces has been sending to everyone. The screen blurs and I shut my eyes, squeezing the tears out. Jack’s been sending the messages to people. Jack’s the reason Dre found out about all of this. Jack’s the reason Dre broke up with me. Jack’s the reason I can’t breathe whenever I enter the school.

  I wipe my eyes and drag the mouse down, watching as more familiar names appear. Unable to process, I’m numb as I click back and choose the Bishop folder. Like before, there are rows of names, with short sentences detailing more tasks next to each one—all of them checked off. The lists in the files aren’t long enough to be the names of every single person at Niveus, but I recognize a lot of them as students. Anger bubbles inside as I read more familiar names, like Mindy Lion and Daniel Johnson and other people I’ve shared conversations with, sat next to in classes for almost four years. All of them, in on this. This.

  What is this?

  I come out of Bishop, now hovering over the next folder, Knight, scared of what I might see if I click. The files here seem to be lists of names and vague duties, nothing else. I decide to exit the Checkmate folder altogether, wanting to find more than this. Something that will tell me what the hell is going on. There’s another arrow underneath Checkmate. I scroll and find two more folders beneath.

  One labeled The Girls, the other The Boys. I select The Girls first. A list of folders with names and old dates pops up: Dianna Walker 1965, Patricia Jacobs 1975, Ashley Jenkins 1985 … Each folder has a picture of a Black girl. At the end is Chiamaka’s name and her yearbook picture. The same one that was on the posters on Thursday.

  I click on Dianna Walker 1965, pressing the mouse again at a document labeled Aces 1. My hands are shaking.

  Immediately, scanned photographs of handwritten letters appear.

  Looks like our favorite negro has been up to no good.—Aces

  What the fuck is this shit?

  I wipe my eyes again, clicking on Aces 2 in Walker’s file. There she is, sprawled out on a bed, no clothes, eyes closed. The photo is black-and-white and crinkled. There’s something about the picture that feels like her body is being used, no consent. Something about the way this picture has been taken feels so wrong. It reminds me of the posters of Chiamaka, hung up on the lockers for everyone to see.

  My stomach turns, and I close the file, feeling sick.

  Suddenly, there’s a zapping sound. The graphics on the screen slowly start to fizzle out. I reach into my pocket quickly, grabbing my phone to take pictures of everything I’ve seen. I scroll up and down, hands shaking, the screen getting darker, and before I can take any more, a loud bang makes me jump back.

  I scramble away from the computer like it’s an explosive ready to go off. Shielding my head, I frantically move backward, breath shaky, heart wild. I hear more zaps, like the sounds in old video games, before the screen flashes. The ace of spades card appears and then disappears, and the background turns a dazzling white.

  The words Ready to play? materialize in bold black writing.

  I push myself up from the floor, running toward the door. My hands vibrate as I watch the screen, heart skipping several beats when it switches off with a final zap, returning to its dark, ominous state.

  There’s so much going through my mind right now. My face is wet, my body tense. This is bigger than we’d imagined. So much bigger. Aces isn’t one person, or even a small group … It’s so many people. And there were so many files I didn’t see. My mind is racing.

  But the most prominent thought over all the noise is: Who was that person in the mask?

  PART THREE

  BALLOT OR BULLET

  28

  CHIAMAKA

  Sunday

  I don’t stop running until I’m far enough away from school that I feel safe. Tears blur my vision, the cold stinging my face.


  I look around the street. It’s quiet and dark. It feels like I’m the only person left in the whole world. But I know I’m not, because I saw her. She was really here. I shakily pat my pockets, searching for my phone. I start panicking when I can’t feel it.

  I must have dropped it somewhere, but I didn’t hear it fall—not that I was paying much attention to anything except getting away. I sniff, more tears falling. I shudder as cold sweeps into my body. I squint and spot a pay phone in the distance.

  The fact that I know her number by heart already is a little embarrassing, but I’ve always had a good memory. When I get to the pay phone, I push in some coins from my wallet, desperately press down on the worn numbers, and listen to the sharp ring while looking through the glass, worried I’ll see a mask—or worse, that face, her face, watching me.

  “Hello?” Belle’s voice sounds uncertain, probably because I’m calling from an unknown number.

  “Belle, it’s Chiamaka. A-are you free right now?” I ask, sniffing again.

  “Oh hey, what happened to your phone?”

  I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about what happened tonight yet.

  “I can’t find it,” I say.

  A dog barks in the distance and I jump a little, eyes darting around again, waiting for her face to emerge.

  “Are you outside?” Belle asks.

  “Y-yeah, I went for a jog—c-can I see you?” I ask, teeth chattering.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine; I just … don’t want to be alone right now,” I say.

  I have a feeling if I go home, she’ll be waiting for me there too. If she’s the person who was driving the car that chased me home on Friday, then she knows where I live. Mom and Dad aren’t home, so it would just be me, all alone.

  “Are you sure? You don’t sound fine, Chi … You know you can tell me anything, right?” Belle says.

  I nod, squeezing my eyes shut.