“Dre, why the fuck are you in here—why’d you call me?” I whisper, because it has been playing on my mind ever since I received the text from Dre’s phone yesterday, then the call. I glance at the uniformed guards a little, not sure if mentioning the calls from his phone will get him in trouble.
He shrugs. “Wanted a conjugal visit.” His voice is worn out, like he’s been yelling and it’s broken or something.
I glare at him. “We haven’t got much time, stop playing.”
His eyes are so red, bluish purple on the edges, bags exaggerated.
He sniffs, wiping his arm over his nose. “Cops raided my place, found a lot of shit—”
“How?” I ask. None of his boys are snitches, or at least I didn’t think they were.
“Someone must have called them, told them where to look.”
Someone …
Aces…?
My heart races and I feel a little sick.
“Have you got bail?” I ask, swallowing the guilt. Bail can get him out, right?
“Too expensive.”
“Did they give any info on how long they’re keeping you in for?”
“Until the trial.”
Trial?
I rest my head in my hand. Dre can’t go to trial, let alone prison.
It’s all my fault: If we’d read the signs earlier, dropped out sooner, did what they wanted us to do, Aces wouldn’t have come for Andre.
I hear a knocking sound, and I look up a bit.
“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he says, eyebrows knitted together. He places his hand on the glass. I look at it at first, then him.
“You’re not fine, Dre.” I place my hand on the glass over his, our hands similar in size, but so different at the same time. I know his hands are rougher than mine, thicker.
“Your face is fucked up.”
He looks at our hands. “My face is fine.”
“Is fine slang for messed up? Dre, look at me. Who did this to you?”
Andre looks at me, and my face goes warm, because he’s really looking at me, not just my face, but my eyes, my mouth … eyes flickering.
He sighs heavily. “Just some guys, told me they’d heard of you and me, and—” Dre’s face scrunches up as he starts silently crying. “They beat me every night, said they wanna knock sense into me.”
I wish I could hug him, but this stupid glass separates us. He wipes his eyes harshly, then puts his hand down and sits up.
“How’ve you been?” he asks, voice cracking a little.
Stressed is the first thing that comes to mind. Stressed and tired.
“Good,” I say.
“Good,” he repeats.
I feel like I’m gonna die from an overactive heart. It beats fast, ringing in my ears and in my mind, throat vibrating, hard to swallow, fingers moving like I had too much coffee again.
“You need to get out of here,” I tell him. “You need a good lawyer.”
He nods slowly. “My boys are working on it.”
Working on it. That can mean so many things. One being, using drug money. But he’s got to do whatever it takes to get out of here, so I won’t judge him, especially since I did the same to help my Ma.
He looks so small in his orange uniform, like he’s drowning in his own clothes. It’s all rumpled too. I remember Pa, and how he wore his uniform like it was a second skin almost. The white plastered to his bulky arms.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, just wanted to see you, catch up…” He looks around. We are the only people in here—other than the guards—despite there being other booths. “I just wanted to tell you that despite everything, I love you, always will.”
My heart hammers away like no tomorrow. I’m breathless and a little shocked. A huge part of me wants Dre to love me, but that same part of me didn’t think he still did.
“What do you want to talk about?” I force out, trying to look unbothered, but I’m convinced he can hear my heartbeat.
He shrugs, eyes cutting through me. “Anything.”
Anything?
I almost want to tell him about Aces, but I don’t think we have enough time for that.
“Why’s your uniform orange?” I ask instead. He looks down at it.
“All newbies wear them, different colors for your crime. It all depends.”
I nod, looking in between his eyebrows now. Faking eye contact.
“What does white mean?”
Dre’s eyebrows shoot up. “White?”
I nod. “Mm.”
“Those are the death row guys,” he says, and it’s like several shots bang in my direction, shooting me all in the same place, puncturing my vitals. I’m silent for a few moments, trying to find a response to that.
“Death row, are you sure?”
Dre’s face scrunches up. “You’re crying.”
I wipe my eyes, shaking my head. “That can’t be right.”
Dre is silent as I try to process what his words mean. Is Pa on death row?
How long does someone stay on death row before…? I’ve wasted so many years, listening to Ma, not visiting him, doing what he wanted. I was so angry at him when he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore that I didn’t even try. God, how long does he have left? How can we stop it?
“You okay?” Dre asks. I nod.
“Just get sad thinking about that.”
“I get it, it’s s—” His voice disappears as the line disconnects. He stares at the phone in his hands. The look on his face is devastating.
Two guards come up behind him, tall, muscular, and cold-looking. One taps his shoulder, and Dre stands.
The look he gives me before he disappears, like my dad did, makes me think he’s about to cry; it’s so pained, and lost.
I know if I was in this situation, I’d have my ma, my brothers … Terrell.
But Dre has no one. No ma who cares what’s happening to him, no pa.
I don’t know how long I sit here for, but the guards don’t tell me to leave.
I just let myself drift, aching as I think about Dre and how it hurts to see him here, where they beat him for being a boy who likes boys.
This world isn’t ideal.
This world, our world, the one with houses as crooked as the people in them. Broken people, broken by the way the world works. No jobs, no money; sell drugs, get money. That’s what this world is, that’s how it works.
I don’t want it to be like that for me. I don’t want to stay here.
And I don’t want Dre in here either. He has no one. His world is a lonely and miserable one.
After some time, when my cheeks feel stiff and the tears have dried up, I push myself out of the chair, not thinking as I walk up to the entrance and over to reception.
There’s a woman behind the desk, the same woman who signed me in earlier. She has deep-brown skin, red braids, and thick glasses, and sits behind a glass that separates us. I wipe my face and knock on the glass, which makes her look up sharply.
“Yes?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. She looks a little annoyed, like I interrupted something important.
“S-sorry, I … I wanted to know if I could find out about an inmate here? It’s m-my dad. I just wanted to know if he still accepts visitors? Whether I could see him today … or at some point this week or something,” I say, voice cracking. I feel tears well up again. I desperately try to push away the overwhelming need to cry, but it’s difficult.
She pauses, looking a bit more sympathetic now. “I’ll see what I can find, okay? What’s his name?”
I wipe my eyes. “Thank you. His name is Malcolm Richards,” I say, watching her write on a piece of paper.
“Could you write down some information here to help me find him quicker? His date of birth, the year he came in…” She slides the paper under the glass and I nod, even though I don’t know many details about him. He was practically a stranger to me. A stranger I’ve made into a father in my mind.
I feel bad going against what Ma said,
wanting to see him anyway, but she lied to me and I don’t know how much time I have left to speak to him, to stop this. A part of me has always hoped that one day Pa would come back and be the person I always painted him as being, and they can’t take that away. I won’t let them.
I only know the year they put him in here, not the exact date, which isn’t so helpful, but at least I know his birthday. July 4, like mine.
“Here,” I say, passing the slip back.
She smiles and starts typing into the computer system. I focus on the sound of footsteps and doors slamming in the background.
The tapping stops; it’s replaced by her clicking and then complete silence for a few long moments.
“Were you visiting anyone today?” she asks, drumming her long nails on the desk and looking up at me.
There goes my focus.
I nod. “Yeah, a friend.”
“Good friend?” she asks.
The best, I think. “Yeah,” I say instead, chest tightening.
I hate small talk, especially this kind of small talk. I just want to know when I can see my pa again.
“I’m sure it means a lot to him that you came to visit. You’re a good kid,” she says.
I nod slowly, watching her computer impatiently.
“Sorry, did you find anything?” I ask.
She looks visibly uncomfortable. “Yes … the Malcolm Richards that matches our records—he passed away quite a while ago. I’m sorry,” she says.
Passed away?
“My pa is dead?” I ask, feeling numb when she nods. “When?” Not sure how asking this helps me.
She looks back at the screen. “About seven years ago; September 9.” She pauses and looks at me, as if trying to see what my reaction is before she continues.
That was the day I saw him. When I was ten years old. It was the last time I saw him.
I’m still, quiet. But my limbs feel like they could give out any moment now. My face feels hot and I feel like screaming, but I don’t. If I start, I won’t stop.
I’m in so much pain, but at the same time I feel nothing. Nothing at all.
“You knew he was on death row, right?” she says cautiously. “We usually try to inform family members beforehand, so they can come and speak to them on the day. We usually give them a room … some time to say goodbye.”
I didn’t get that. I didn’t get to know it would be the last interaction I’d ever have with him. I didn’t get a room, I didn’t get time. He was here, and then he was gone. If I knew, I wouldn’t have spoken about me so much, would have asked him everything I needed to; asked him if he was okay, if he still loved Ma, if he loved me.
But I know the answer. Of course he didn’t.
If he loved me he would have been there, wouldn’t have gotten himself locked away. Wouldn’t have let me think he didn’t want to see me.
I wouldn’t have spent all these years on him, thinking he was coming to rescue me from the bullies at school, and the bullies in my head. The ones that tell me I’m not enough, never will be. The ones that make me feel like drowning to be at peace; letting the ocean take me, forever.
“Are you okay?” the receptionist asks.
I nod. “Thank you,” I say.
“This must be really upsetting, I’m so sorr—”
I shake my head, cutting her off. “I’m good. Was never close to him anyway, didn’t care about him. Was just curious,” I tell her.
Everything hurts.
She nods, looking unconvinced. “Okay. Well, look after yourself,” she starts, but I’m already walking out of the building, wanting to escape, disappear somewhere far, far away.
I’m walking so fast, it’s almost like I’m running. I can feel the tears fall freely, as cries slip out and my chest gets tighter and I can’t breathe.
I feel so lost and out of control.
Andre, my pa, Niveus, Aces. All of them, and the memories I have with them, strangling me.
“Hey!” someone shouts, and I turn. It’s the receptionist. I suddenly forget about being unable to breathe, the panic falling away a little.
She’s holding my phone, my keys, and the fake ID I used to get in here since I’m a minor. “You forgot your things…,” she says, handing them over to me.
I can’t bring myself to speak, so I just take them.
She looks like she wants to say something, so I wait.
“Look after yourself, okay?” she says.
I watch her walk back inside.
When I look down at my phone, I notice my fingers are trembling, so much it’s like my phone is vibrating even though it’s off. I turn it back on and I’m immediately met with messages from Chiamaka.
We’re supposed to go to my place and talk about next steps.
I’m not sure why I agreed to it; I never have anyone over. The only person I ever let inside was Jack, and he was basically family. With everyone else, I never felt comfortable enough showing them where I live.
Going to Niveus made me feel worse about it.
I text Terrell as I start walking out of the parking lot, heading toward the bus stop.
Hey, you at school today?
Everything is still aching, but I remember my promise to Chiamaka and myself to find a way to stop Niveus.
No—T
You mind if I come over and bring Chiamaka? I ask, selfishly hoping he’s not with his sister.
Sure—T
Wiping my face with my sleeve again for the millionth time today, I pocket my phone and I sit down at the bus stop. I told Chiamaka to meet me at this ice-cream joint in my neighborhood so she didn’t just turn up at my house. I push away all the feelings that keep coming back, sealing them shut in one of the boxes in my mind for later, when I have the time to think about my pa and Dre.
Right now, what matters most is Niveus.
34
CHIAMAKA
Tuesday
I meet Devon in a rundown ice-cream bar in his neighborhood.
The place is practically deserted, apart from this random guy in the corner drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. Devon arrives after me, looking as tired as he did last night. Eyes red, hair messy, sullen expression on his face.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he replies.
I push myself up. “Still heading to your place?” I ask, slightly hopeful that he’s changed his mind and doesn’t mind walking all the way back to my house.
He nods, much to my disappointment, as we start walking out of the place.
I follow him down the path, taking in the surroundings. The houses are small and unkept, some with smashed-in windows and graffiti on the walls.
This place looks like the aftermath of an apocalypse.
We reach a house with a red door and a large 63 front and center. I wait for Devon to take out his keys, but instead he knocks, and I raise an eyebrow.
Why would he knock on his own front door?
I hear a sound from inside the house, and I instinctively step back. There’s a sharp turn of a lock, and then the door swings open, revealing a smiley four-eyed stranger with brown skin and short dreads tied back, making his head look a bit like a pineapple. His gaze goes from Devon to me to Devon again.
There’s an awkward tension in the air.
Devon steps in and disappears, walking past the stranger without a word.
There’s definitely something I’m missing here. Several somethings.
“Hey, I’m Terrell!” the stranger says.
“Chiamaka…,” I say.
He smiles wider. “I know, come on in.”
The guy moves aside to let me in, and I pause, hoping Devon hasn’t led me into a death trap. I step over some of the weeds by the entrance and walk in, through his hallway and into a small living room. The TV is on silent and some cartoon is playing. The place makes me feel claustrophobic; there’s hardly enough space to breathe properly.
Devon is sitting on one of the old-looking sofas. I take a seat next to him on the edge
.
Terrell walks in and picks up the remote from the coffee table, turning the TV off.
“Welcome to my humble abode. You guys want anything? I went to the grocery store before you came, so there’s a bunch of stuff if you want, kitchen’s that way—”
“Wait, Devon, you said we were going to your place. Who is he and why are we having our meeting here?” I interrupt, growing more annoyed.
“Terrell’s my friend, he knows everything, and he’s good at figuring stuff out. I thought it wouldn’t hurt for him to help us plan. My house isn’t really guest friendly anyway,” Devon replies. Whatever that means.
If he’d just told me that, we could have gone back to my place.
“But you said we were going to your house—” I start.
“Well, I lied. Sorry,” he interrupts, leaning back now. “Can we just move on? Decide what the hell we’re doing next.”
I sigh. “After you left, I was thinking of how to take Niveus down, but after speaking to Belle, I realize they’re too powerful for us to do this alone,” I say.
“Who’s Belle?” Terrell asks.
I really hate Devon for not consulting me on involving a complete stranger.
“She’s a girl I know from school, she was in on it too … When I confronted her, she told me a bunch of things about how her family is involved, and this—Aces—is a tradition they call social eugenics. Some of the kids from our school, legacy kids, the ones with family that have old money and old power, they all go to this camp. It’s where they plan to ruin our futures, and from what she told me … Niveus isn’t the only school that does this.”
Terrell’s eyes are wide. “Eugenics?” he asks.
I nod.
“Whoa,” he says.
Whoa indeed.
“Need me to fill you in on anything else before I go on?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too sarcastic. He’s trying to help, I guess.
“So, from what I’ve gathered and what Devon’s told me, your school accepts two Black students every ten years, then the immortal Aces target them in their final year, spreading rumors, secrets, and lies they’ve collected … until those Black students drop out. No college prospects, mentally traumatized, with their chances of achieving everything Caucasian-ville promised them crushed,” Terrell says.
Ace of Spades Page 26
