Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

  So he does know everything.

  “Yeah … that’s pretty much what we think is going on. Which is why I think this is something that can’t be fixed without outside help. So, I propose we go to the local news, tell them what we know, and offer an exposé on Niveus Academy. What do you think, Devon?” I ask him.

  I think my plan is brilliant.

  “I think your plan is stupid,” Devon says. “How can we trust anyone but ourselves after this? This whole experience has taught me that we only have each other in this fight.”

  “How do you propose we go about taking them down, then? Since you want to be cynical and irrational.”

  I fold my arms, waiting to hear something better. He doesn’t say anything. I smile triumphantly.

  “Exactly. This is a good plan. You just need to trust me. I didn’t get voted Head Prefect for no reason,” I say.

  “You got voted because you kiss teachers’ asses—and I’m not irrational,” Devon mutters.

  “Oh? Says the boy who dated Scotty, literally the worst person anyone could choose to date, and a drug dealer!”

  “You dated Scotty too, and you shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Devon says, raising his voice.

  “Who’s Scotty?” Terrell asks.

  I rub my temples. “You know what, we haven’t got time to argue about this. You either trust me or you don’t. I’ll go to the journalist on my own if I have to. It’s not only a good idea, it’s our only option. Terrell, tell him it’s a good idea.”

  Terrell looks between me and Devon, then nods. “She’s got a point, Von. It is your only option … and the idea doesn’t entirely suck…”

  I smile. “So, are you in or are you going to continue throwing a tantrum?” I ask.

  Devon wipes his eyes. “Whatever.”

  I feel a little bad that he’s visibly upset, but we haven’t got time for paranoia. We need to take Aces down before they hit back harder.

  “I have the number for Central News 1 and US This Morning. I’ll try Central News 1 first … see what they say,” I tell him, taking my phone out to call.

  I dial the number before looking up at the two of them. “Any objections? If so, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “Just call the number,” Devon says.

  And so, I do.

  35

  DEVON

  Wednesday

  I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was up thinking about everything.

  My pa—how he’s gone and how Ma knew that but didn’t tell me. Andre sitting in that cold, dark cell, alone and scared. How I don’t have complete faith that this plan will work.

  Chiamaka called Central News 1 yesterday, and we got a meeting set up with a journalist for today. I’m meant to meet Chiamaka at her place, but I’m already dreading it. I’m tired of having faith things will work out, only for any hope I have to be violently crushed.

  I hear a vibration that I don’t register until I look at my bedside table and see the screen lit up, a spotlight illuminating my dark bedroom. I grab it. It’s already five in the morning.

  Time flies when your life is going downhill.

  It’s a text from Chiamaka.

  Are you up?—C

  Yeah, I’m up.

  That feels like an understatement. Yeah, I’m up. Not because I’m an early riser, but because every time I try to close my eyes and dream, it gets twisted. The images become monstrous and violent. I’m scared to sleep. So, I’m here drowning, rain spilling outside, the open window making it louder, brothers snoring beside me. Up.

  How are you?—C

  I don’t know.

  I answer honestly. I just feel so lost and angry.

  Same.—C

  Then a moment later, the phone buzzes again.

  We’ll be fine. This plan will work. Just going to print out all our evidence. Make sure you bring the posters.—C

  Okay, I say, not believing her We’ll be fine. We aren’t, and we probably won’t be. And I’m tired of it, tired of living like this.

  As the rain lightly hits the window and the cold rushes in, I scan my cramped bedroom, and it’s like I’m looking at my life through a new pair of eyes. Our weird floral-patterned green carpets that I never really minded before, making me feel itchy and sick; large dark closets with clothes that spill out; peeling bright-yellow wallpaper; and that battered TV my brothers love so much. I look at this room now and it hurts to think that life might never get better than this. I feel destined to drop out of high school, stay here, in this house, in this room, listening to Ma pray to a God who covers his ears when she chants.

  I used to tell myself this wasn’t permanent, that I’d live somewhere someday where I wouldn’t have to share a bed with my brothers or sit in this home of mismatched things. But who was I kidding.

  Boys like me don’t get happy endings.

  The stories I was fed about working hard and being able to achieve anything … That’s all they are, stories. Lies. Dangerous dreams.

  I close my chat with Chiamaka and find myself mindlessly scrolling, searching for a game, social media, something to get lost in before I have to get up, put on my uniform, and play pretend with my ma. I’ve decided I can’t tell her about this yet, but I will soon, once I’ve seen this plan through. To be honest, if it works, she’ll see it for herself.

  I scroll through Twitter, curling up in a ball and letting my thumb move up and down the glass screen. Then, as if smacked in the face, a thought occurs to me.

  New tweet. The cursor blinks at me, waiting for me to write something. Amid everything that’s happened, I’ve let so many people tell the world who I am. I’ve let Chiamaka tell me what we should do. I just want, for once, to say something and for someone, anyone, to listen. I can do that on here.

  But what would I even say? It’s not as if I have many followers; I hardly use this account.

  The screen shines bright, making my eyes hurt a little. I move my thumbs, then read over my words one last time.

  @DLikesTunes: #NiveusPrivateAcademy exposed: This school sabotages its Black students. Every Black student who has attended since 1965 has been targeted and forced to drop out. I was one of the most recent victims. Here’s proof.

  I attach the images I took of computer 17—the acrostic, the names, the checklist. Then I add the picture of me and Chiamaka’s scratched-out yearbook photos.

  I still feel sick looking at it, but I’m finally controlling something, even if it amounts to nothing.

  I hit send and the tweet floats away.

  I drag myself into the shower and then downstairs, where my ma sits, eating toast, dressed in her work clothes, like every morning.

  “Morning, baby,” Ma says when she sees me.

  “Morning, Ma,” I say, walking over to the counter to make myself some toast.

  “How was your sleep?” she asks.

  “Good,” I say.

  “Good.”

  There’s silence as I wait for my toast.

  It pops out and I butter both pieces before taking a seat opposite her. There’s more silence as I chew, spacing out as I try to block the thoughts that kept me up in the first place.

  I watch her, wondering why she lied and did it so easily. I didn’t think Ma lied to me, but I guess we all lie.

  Is it selfish of me to be angry? To want answers? To tell her that while she was working hard to keep this roof over our heads, I was fantasizing about someone who never cared about us. And that his absence really hurts, even though I don’t want it to.

  Ma rises and puts her dish in the sink before walking over to me, and giving me a tight hug.

  “Going to get Eli and James up for school now. Are you leaving early today?” she asks, still holding my face after the hug. I feel tears well up again for no reason.

  I nod.

  “Okay.” She lets her hand drop and I immediately miss the warmth. “I love you,” she says as she moves toward the stairs. I watch her until she’s out of sight
and I’m in our dark kitchen, alone again.

  * * *

  I arrive at Chiamaka’s house at one o’clock on the dot. I ring the buzzer on the gates, then walk through when they release. The sharp sound of heeled shoes and the front door slamming shut makes me focus on Chiamaka. I meet her halfway, where she startles me by forcing her bag into my arms.

  “Hold this for a moment—I need to fix the strap on my shoes.”

  It literally seems like she just woke up and rushed out. Not that I know much about girls’ hair or clothes and how they’re meant to look, but hers definitely scream I woke up like this.

  “Thanks,” she says, taking her bag back. “Get in the car. The news station isn’t too far from here, half an hour’s drive tops,” she tells me as she clicks toward this sleek black car like it’s nothing. I watch her open the car door and throw her bag in.

  I move toward the passenger side, only to be stopped by her hand on my arm.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing, I just think you should drive…” She hesitates before handing over her keys. “Here.”

  “You want me to drive your car?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  “Yes,” she says, like there is nothing weird about her suggesting that.

  “I can’t drive,” I say, handing the keys back.

  She looks annoyed. “And why is that?”

  “I don’t have a license.”

  She sighs loudly. “But you can drive, right?”

  I drove my first car when I was twelve. It was to get Ma to the hospital, back when we still had a car. She was giving birth to my littlest brother, Eli. Sometimes I’d drive Dre’s car when I’d do drop-offs for him.

  “Yeah, I can—”

  “Get in.”

  We have a miniature stare-down. The bags under her eyes and her tangled hair are in hyper focus now. She looks really tired.

  I sigh. “Okay, fine.”

  She mutters “Thank God” before tossing the keys back at me, narrowly missing my face. I nearly make a comment about that, but I figure it isn’t worth being insulted again and also she clearly isn’t doing so good, so instead I silently unlock the doors and watch as she walks over to the passenger’s seat, slamming the door shut.

  I get in, closing the door and clicking my seat belt into place. I press a button and the engine bursts to life. If this was another time, another day, a different context, I might’ve commented on how cool her car is.

  “Wait,” she says. I look over, watching her chest move up and down rapidly. It calms after a few moments. “Okay, you can go.”

  I place my hands on the leather wheel of her car and my feet on the pedals.

  Even though I have little faith in this plan, I can’t help thinking, This is it. This is finally it.

  I press down, and the car starts to move out from the front of her house. The gates open immediately and before I know it we’re racing down her street, filled with white picket fences, large black gates, and perfect rooftops with perfect families beneath them.

  “Let’s repeat the game plan,” she tells me.

  “We go to Central News 1—” I begin.

  “We go to Central News 1, we speak to the person at the desk, telling them we have an appointment with that journalist I called yesterday,” she interrupts. “We show the journalist the files, with the printouts, the picture of the yearbook and the posters. We show them the texts—wait, you do have the posters, right?”

  In my backpack, safely stored away.

  “Yep.”

  “Good, where was I … We show them everything, and then we plan our attack on the school with the journalist, and we take it from there. Today is the last day that Niveus can control us,” Chiamaka finishes.

  “Right,” I reply, trying to sound as convinced as she does.

  From the corner of my eye, I see a police car.

  “And what’s the worst that can happen? Really … we’re going to be just fine,” Chiamaka says, I suspect, to herself rather than me.

  “Yeah,” I reply, eyes still focusing on the flashing lights of the car behind us. I hope they aren’t flashing at us. The last thing I want is to speak to a cop right now.

  “Even if Central News 1 doesn’t want our story, we can go to any other station that wants this,” she continues, oblivious to the car, oblivious to how agitated I am.

  The flashing hasn’t stopped.

  I think they want me to pull over.

  Sweat beads on my scalp. My hands are slippery. I haven’t got any other option—I have to pull over.

  I could throw up all over the interior of this nice car.

  “Chiamaka, I think I have to pull over. That police car has been flashing at us for a while.”

  Chiamaka turns around to look, then turns back.

  “We need to switch seats,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt.

  I follow suit, unbuckling mine.

  I try remembering Ma’s words.

  If they ask you questions, answer politely. Don’t go searching for your phone, don’t touch your pockets! Don’t, please don’t, just do as they ask, put your hands where they can see them.

  I love you.

  “Pull in there, we need to switch before they see us. My windows are tinted, so let’s hope they can’t,” she says as I pull over with shaky hands. She hits me, whispering, “Hurry,” as our limbs tangle. I finally get to her seat, and I jump when I hear the tapping on the car window.

  Chiamaka winds down the window and says, “Good afternoon, Officer.”

  His eyes meet mine. I look away.

  “Realize you were doing thirty-five in a twenty-five lane?”

  Really?

  “Sorry, Officer, apparently I can’t read properly,” she says. I ignore the jab at me.

  “Giving me lip?” the officer asks.

  Chiamaka shakes her head. “No, sir,” she says.

  He looks at us, unimpressed. “License and registration, please,” he says, getting out a notepad.

  Chiamaka reaches up into the top section of her car and shows him something. He takes it, scanning it slowly. The guy is the stereotype of every cop we imagine when we picture how the gun pointed to our head could look in the all-too-normal narrative.

  He’s big, broad, with a blond beard, beady eyes.

  “You two look like you should be in class, not out on the road,” he says, still staring down at her details.

  “We’re in college,” Chiamaka lies.

  “Got any college ID on you?” he asks.

  Why the fuck does it concern him?

  “With all due respect, Officer, we are not obligated to show you that,” Chiamaka says.

  Clearly, her parents didn’t give her the talk. Her hands visibly shake from their position on the wheel.

  Or maybe she just knows, because we all know, that the feds kill us all in their own game of social eugenics.

  The officer stares at Chiamaka silently, his gaze cutting through her, frustration swirling in his eyes. My stomach flips.

  He writes something down on his notepad, then hands her back the papers.

  I can finally breathe again when he moves away, but in the same breath, he turns back and leans into the car. It feels like my nightmare. The monsters attack and chase me, but I can’t run or hide because they just always seem to know where I am.

  “Boy,” he says sharply. I look up, chest pounding, aching.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer, hoping my hands are visible from their position in my lap.

  “Do your seat belt.” His eyes scan my clothes. I look down with him.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, not wanting to move too much, give him a reason to “defend” himself.

  My hands shake, my face heats and sweats as I softly click it in, his gaze on me the entire time.

  He finally taps the car and leaves to go back to his own and I can breathe again, even though everything aches.

  I hate that these systems, all this institutional shit, can get to me. I hate h
ow they have the power to kill my future, kill me. They treat my Black skin like a gun or a grenade or a knife that is dangerous and lethal, when really it’s them. The guys at the top powering everything.

  If it isn’t Niveus that does it, any one of them could get us.

  The guys at the top are bombs and explosives, killing millions, getting away with it.

  “Need a moment?” Chiamaka asks.

  I nod, sniffling now, not able to hold back the tears that escape, or the cries that leak from my mouth. I place an arm over my face, and I let myself go.

  Chiamaka’s hand slides through mine and squeezes.

  And even though I hate to admit it, I’m happy she’s here.

  * * *

  We are in the parking lot, surrounded by few cars, watching the Central News 1 building like we’re waiting for it to come to us, not the other way around.

  “I’m scared,” Chiamaka admits.

  Me too.

  “Like you said, nothing to be scared of,” I reply. This is the only option we have left.

  “Exactly … nothing.”

  There’s a lot to be scared of, though. Who knows what’ll happen in there.

  We sit in silence, waiting for the other to make the first move.

  This is it.

  Freedom.

  36

  CHIAMAKA

  Wednesday

  We walk into the building together. I take a deep breath, leading the two of us as we enter through the open double doors. This is it.

  There’s a woman at the front desk whose blue eyes pierce into us as she looks up.

  “Hi, how can I help you?” she asks. Her rubbery skin makes me a little uncomfortable.

  “We have a meeting with Ms. Donovan.”

  “What are your names, please?” She types something into her computer.

  “Chiamaka Adebayo and Devon Richards.”

  Her typing slows, and she glances up at us again.

  “Okay, take a seat. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  I sigh. Thank God. I was worried our meeting was canceled or hadn’t even been scheduled. I’m so used to everything going wrong lately.