We sit on the chairs on the opposite side of the front desk. I look at Richards. His eyes are closed, like he’s sleeping. I wish I could drift off and relax. But all I can think about is getting this right.
I already messed up once, in the library when I ran out—I refuse to mess up again. We’ll go in, show the journalist the facts, and she will write the story that will expose Niveus. She has to. What kind of person would see what’s happened and not be outraged—
“Devon and Chiamaka?” a soft voice calls out, and I snap my head up in the direction it came from.
There’s a woman wearing tall cheap heels, a black pencil skirt, and a frilly blouse. She gives us a smile, which is a little intimidating with her wide blue eyes, bouncy perfect blond hair, and red-stained lips.
She reminds me of the girls I’ve gone to school with all my life.
“Yes?” I say as Devon wakes up and looks in the same direction as me.
“Follow me, I’ll show you to Alice’s office,” she says, which is Ms. Donovan’s first name. We stand, following the Barbie doll down the long hallway. The walls are mostly bare, white with areas where the wallpaper is peeling. It feels clinical, like the hospitals Mom and Dad work in.
We come to a stop and she knocks twice on a door labeled Donovan.
“Come in!” a low voice yells, and the woman pushes the door open, standing to the side to let us in. I walk in first and Devon follows. There is a woman behind a desk, typing something into her phone, not yet looking up at us. Unlike the woman who showed us in, this woman has thick brown hair and a tan and can’t be a day younger than forty. The door slams shut behind us and I jump.
The sound pulls her away from her phone and she finally looks up at us.
“You must be Devon and Chiamaka! Sit, sit—just making a note of something in my diary,” she says, typing some more before locking her phone and putting it on the desk, facedown.
She leans in, chin resting on her folded hands as she smiles.
“So, how can I help you two today?”
Before I can speak, Devon answers her question.
“We spoke on the phone yesterday, or, well, you spoke to Chiamaka, but I was there too. Anyway, we have evidence that our school is trying to sabotage its Black students, and we wanted to publish something about it,” Devon says.
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Yes, I remember talking with one of you. I get so many calls, sometimes I just need my memory jogged a little, but I remember. How could I forget such an interesting story? An anonymous racist bully out to get the only two Black students at a private school … only to discover it’s a plot that the whole school is in on. Quite the story,” she says, then stares at us unblinking like she’s waiting for something. “Do you have any physical evidence? I can’t report anything without it…,” she says finally.
I nod. “Yes, we do.” I unzip my bag, sliding over the folder of everything I could find to present to her, as Devon pulls everything from his backpack. Ms. Donovan picks my folder up and flips through the pages, her eyes getting wider—hungrier.
If I were told about this story, I don’t think I’d believe it. Even with the evidence. It seems too twisted to be true. But Niveus is that twisted—I know that now.
“This is…,” the journalist starts, flipping another page.
I swallow, leg bouncing up and down, scared she’ll say it’s BS or that we’re making this up.
“This is awful … I’ve never seen a story like it before,” she says, looking back up at us. “You kids have gone through so much, I’m so sorry.”
I feel relieved; my eyes water, but I blink away the tears.
She believes us.
“Could you run a story? Get some coverage in the paper?” I ask.
She shakes her head and the sinking feeling returns. What does she mean no?
“I can do something even better for you guys.” Ms. Donovan leans back, a serious expression on her face as she brings her fingers up to her chin. “People don’t read papers these days, not the people who count for a story like this, anyway … You want to be heard? We need to broadcast this live on TV.”
“Broadcast it live, how? We’ve dropped out. Going back just to get evidence of them in the act might get us killed—” Devon says, sounding unimpressed by Ms. Donovan’s plan.
“We don’t necessarily need to catch them in the act, just film a live exposé where you confront them. Have them cornered, unable to escape the truth about what they’ve done—what they’re doing,” Ms. Donovan says.
She’s right. We need to catch them off guard, expose the truth on camera for the world to see. I think it sounds great, even though Devon doesn’t seem to yet.
“Do you have a school event coming up? A homecoming dance maybe, where we might be able to film?” she asks.
I nod. “We have an annual charity ball. The Senior Snowflake Charity Ball; it’s tomorrow, actually—”
“Perfect! Just perfect!” Ms. Donovan says, writing something down on a notepad.
“You want us to go to the ball and do what exactly?” Devon asks. Still snippy, still rude. I wonder what’s up with him. I know he wasn’t entirely convinced that we should talk to this journalist, but he’s here. He didn’t have to come.
Ms. Donovan remains unbothered by his tone.
“Give a speech, tell them how you feel, what they’ve done to you; let us catch it on camera and broadcast it on every TV in every state in America. We’ll bring security, of course, make sure you guys are safe. Sound like a good plan to you?” she asks.
I nod. It sounds like a brilliant plan.
The sort of explosive ending we need if we want to take Niveus down and restore any hope in becoming who we’re meant to become.
“Good,” Ms. Donovan says with a wide smile. “Let’s talk strategy.”
37
DEVON
Wednesday
We get to Terrell’s at around four o’clock.
The entire drive back, Chiamaka wouldn’t shut up about how excited she is about tomorrow and everything we now have in store for Niveus, with this new plan the journalist came up with.
A plan she has full confidence in. The meeting made her feel more secure in the idea that we stand a chance. It made my doubts even worse.
The plan is complicated and risky. I don’t want to put my trust in something so dangerous. But even if I decide not to join in, she’ll still go through with it.
And I can’t let her do that alone. She might get herself killed. I don’t think I could live with myself if I knew I could have prevented it in some way.
We were originally going to go back to Chiamaka’s place, but I told her I wanted to be dropped off at Terrell’s and she agreed, told me she wanted to tell him about the plan and how successful today was (in her opinion). Weirdly, they seem to get along.
Terrell’s bright-red door looks gloomier in the rain. I can hear Terrell moving about inside. The lock sounds and the door opens wide.
Terrell is standing there in his gray jogging pants, a Black Panther shirt, and his signature dimples.
“Come in, we can go up to my room,” Terrell says as Chiamaka steps in, immediately climbing the steps.
“Hey,” Terrell says with a smile.
“Hi,” I say, smiling back at him.
“Did it all go okay at the news station?” he asks.
I shrug. “Chiamaka’s happy.”
As if on cue, Chiamaka is shouting, “Are you guys coming or not?”
“We’d better go up,” Terrell says, and I nod, following him up to his room. When we get inside, Chiamaka is seated on his bed, scrolling through her phone, so I sit next to her. When Terrell walks in, he sits opposite us, on the chair next to his desk.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“It went well, we have a solid plan. I know it’s going to work, I can just feel it,” she says.
She seems so certain. Almost naively so. But then again, she is smart, and she is apparent
ly the rational one. So maybe I’m wrong.
“So, what’s the plan?” Terrell asks, swiveling the chair side to side with his foot.
“Niveus has this Snowflake Ball they hold for seniors. They invite their donors, important representatives from top colleges; it’s a chance to prove yourself…,” Chiamaka says, trailing off at the end, voice growing quiet. “We’re going to crash it,” she adds after a moment’s pause.
“Crash it? You’re going back to Niveus, after everything?” Terrell asks, eyebrows raised.
Maybe he’ll see how dangerous this plan sounds, and back me up for once.
“The journalist and her team will be crashing too, filming it all. I’m going to tell the cameras what Niveus has done, and it’s going to be broadcast across America.”
“Holy shit, that’s genius,” Terrell says.
“Right?” Chiamaka replies.
Okay, so they’ve both clearly lost their ability to summon common sense. There’s no point in arguing; tomorrow is happening whether I think it makes sense or not.
“I need to get home and plan for the big event,” Chiamaka says, pushing herself off the bed.
“Do you have a dress?” I ask.
She looks offended.
“What am I? Of course I have a dress. I picked my ball gown out before we went on summer break last year. Do you have a tux?”
I shake my head.
“You can come over to my place before the ball tomorrow; my dad has tuxes he hasn’t worn. You guys have a similar build … small, bony … Something in his closet should fit you.”
“Thanks…,” I say, not sure whether or not to be offended by that description of me.
“You sure you don’t want to stay over? My ma’s at my sister’s place until Saturday; I could build you a fort out of my spare sheets to sleep in or something,” Terrell says.
“That’s so sweet of you, but in the nicest way possible … I’d rather die than sleep here … in a … fort? So, no thanks,” Chiamaka says.
Terrell nods like she didn’t just insult his home. “I’ll walk you out.”
“See you tomorrow,” Chiamaka says. I mutter a goodbye and they both disappear through the door.
I can hear them shuffling downstairs. Chiamaka laughs at something Terrell says and then I hear the door slam shut.
Terrell’s walking in again moments later.
“You good?” he asks, before falling back into the chair.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“Is it the plan tomorrow?”
“Partly, I think I’m just in shock. There’s so much I’m trying to deal with at once.”
“Like?” Terrell asks.
I sit back, feeling heavy. “I feel like I have no closure. Even if tomorrow goes well, there are people who I’ve known for years, been friendly with, who I still want answers from … I just—I’m so angry.”
I’m not being completely being honest. It isn’t people, just one person who I’m angry with, really.
“So, get your closure,” Terrell says.
“How?” I ask.
Terrell slides forward in his desk chair, stopping inches away from me.
“If these people meant a lot to you, tell them how much they fucked up, let them hear how you feel,” he says softly.
I nod. I need to confront Jack somehow.
“You give good advice,” I tell him.
“Thank you, Quick,” Terrell says.
Meow.
The sound startles me, and my eyes dart around the room for the devil incarnate.
Meow, meow.
The cat crosses the floor of Terrell’s bedroom, seemingly appearing from the shadows, and curls up next to his feet. I give it the evils.
“Hey, BS,” Terrell says in a cutesy voice.
“I’m going to head home now, I think,” I say, standing.
Terrell looks up while stroking his cat with one hand. “Let me walk you out.”
He walks me to the door and gives me a big goodbye hug. I hug him back tightly.
“Tell me how it goes tomorrow,” he says as he lets go.
I nod, promising him that I will.
* * *
Like this morning, I spent most of the evening in my room, zoned out, thinking about how shitty the world is. Thinking about Jack and how he was the one constant I had in my life.
I’m curled up on my bed, head buried in between my knees, trying to calm down; not feel so lost and out of control. I try to drown, but it doesn’t seem to work anymore. I can’t get my head below the surface—something is keeping me afloat, forcing me to deal with the thoughts I usually keep locked away.
Someone with the key has broken in and unlocked Pandora’s box.
I keep wondering why Jack would do this, why he joined in. Why, after everything we’ve been through, did he want to hurt me so bad?
Terrell is right. I need to go and get closure.
I sniff and reach out for my phone on my nightstand. It’s only eleven.
I put my phone into the pocket of Terrell’s alien hoodie. I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I’m slipping into my sneakers, creeping out of my room, down the stairs, and out of the house, making sure to close the door gently. Ma is a light sleeper, and on the rare occasions I sneak out, I need to make little to no noise.
Our neighborhood is never all that quiet at night; there’s always guys doing shady stuff in corners, loud music, and the occasional sound of firing into the sky.
Jack’s uncle lives in the part of our neighborhood Ma never liked me going to, but because it was Jack and I’d known him forever, she allowed it. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep or got bored at night and Dre was busy, I’d go to Jack’s.
There’s a gap at the side of his house, and if you walk through, you find yourself in his backyard. Jack’s bedroom is on the first floor, and he has this huge glass door that you can see into.
Like I expected, the lights are on.
He’s seated on the floor doing homework, eyes focused on the pages. I remember when we were trying to get into Niveus, Jack wanted to prove to himself and his brothers that they were more than this place, this neighborhood, this life. I wanted to go somewhere I wouldn’t get beat up all the time.
We’d stay up until three o’clock sometimes, testing each other, trying to get into this school that was meant to change everything for us. I think that was the closest we’d ever been. I feel tears tickle my chin as the memory floats above the noise, and I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
I used to come here, knock on Jack’s door, and he’d let me in. We’d play video games or talk about stuff we wouldn’t say to other people. Sometimes we’d argue over stupid things, like the world being flat. Jack would say, What if we’ve just been made to think it’s not, and I’d tell him he was stupid, even planes flying around the earth proves the world isn’t flat. Then he’d say, in all seriousness, Pac-Man theory! Maybe the planes just start again from the same point. And I’d burst out laughing, tears streaming down my face, a stomach-aching kind of laughter.
Other times, we’d talk about serious stuff.
Some days, breathing is really fucking hard. I feel overwhelmed by it, you know? Jack would say, and I’d nod, because I did know. Jack hasn’t exactly won the lottery in life either. His parents are gone, his uncle is a drunk, he practically raises his brothers. He’d shake his head, hitting the buttons on the game controller, his eyes glassy as he breathed out, cheeks stained. But I have to keep going, for my brothers, he’d whisper. I don’t have a choice.
Days like that, I’d put down the game controller and pat his back. Sometimes he’d pause the game and we’d forget about the world and the unspoken rules about boys not being allowed to talk about things that bother us or hug each other, and he’d rest his head on my shoulder and cry.
This was all before things changed. Before I came out to him, before I started dating Scotty. There was a time when I thought we’d always be there for each other.
T
he words from computer 17 stab at my thoughts. His name in bold: Distribution of DR’s messages.
I sniff, looking up to the sky, trying to stop more tears from falling. I wipe my face with my sleeve and then, like I have done so many times before, I knock.
Jack’s head whips around and he squints, recognition slowly bleeding into his features. His eyes widen, like he’s seen a ghost. I watch him watch me for a few moments, unmoving, like he’s waiting for me to break in and hurt him.
Then slowly, he stands. He’s wearing a black shirt and shorts. I swallow the lump in my throat as he slides the door open.
I don’t move; I look at him, not bothering to wipe the tears from my face anymore.
“What do you want?” he asks, voice low.
“I know about Niveus.”
Silence. His skin is pale and blotchy as he looks away.
“What about them?”
“You know what. I know about Aces, and all the shit you’ve done to me.”
Jack shifts a little, eyes still avoiding mine. “I have work to do—”
He tries to close the door, but I block it with my body. “When you had no one, I was there for you, Jack. When you wanted to try and get into Niveus too, my ma paid for us to sit for those tests. She fed you, made sure you were okay, because she loves you like you are her own son. Then you stopped coming over, and that was okay, she was working all the time anyway, she hardly noticed…” I choke out a cry, and I can’t stop. Jack’s just staring at me blankly, like he wants to be anywhere but here right now. “What did I ever do to you for you to hate me this much?”
Jack sniffs, not saying anything at first. Then it pours out.
“I work hard for everything I get. You’d still get in with affirmative action or whatever scholarship they give to you guys, while I have to work twice as hard.” He shakes his head, wiping his eyes. “I didn’t ruin your life.”
He says this like he’s reciting some bigoted script that was fed to him. Says it like he’s remembering lines he doesn’t quite get but believes in anyway.
“That’s not how life works, Jack. I don’t just get given things—for you to say that is just— It just shows you don’t know me at all.”
Ace of Spades Page 28
