He looks up for a moment before lifting his glass too.
“To destroying Niveus Academy,” he says.
“To destroying Niveus,” I repeat.
39
DEVON
Thursday
We get to the back entrance of the school, our masks covering our faces.
In the distance, there are people screaming, students laughing as they enter the building.
Chiamaka takes out the key for the back entrance and quickly unlocks the door, and we both step in. We agreed to go into Morgan Library and wait there for the journalist, Ms. Donovan, and her camera crew. We chose Morgan both because Chiamaka wanted to grab the yearbook from 1965 to take in with us for physical proof and also the convenience of it having no cameras.
We turn in to Morgan. Chiamaka walks up to the first bookcase and bends down, grabbing a blue hardcover book from the shelf.
“Got it,” she says, opening it up and flipping through some of the pages. She has a small clutch tucked under her arm, holding the posters and printouts for later, when we have to get up in front of everyone.
I swallow, feeling nervous as I scan the huge library.
I feel like someone is watching.
“Could you go and wait outside by the back door entrance, be on the lookout for the journalist and her crew? She said they are almost here,” Chiamaka says.
I nod.
When I get to the back door, the area smells like smoke. The fun and games are already beginning. People love to drink and smoke and pull pranks each year and then tell the lower-years all about it, getting them excited for the day they’ll become seniors and do the same. It’s weird that this is what excites them, as if they don’t already do this at home all the time: drinking, smoking, meddling with people’s lives. But I guess there is something about doing it at school, right under the teachers’ and donors’ noses, that thrills them.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out.
Incoming call from Terrell
Why is Terrell calling me? He knows today is the day of the ball.
“Hello?”
“Are you at school yet?” Terrell asks.
“Yeah, I’m just waiting for the journalists to arrive, why?” I say, lowering my voice.
“I’m here,” he says.
“What? Why?”
“Hey,” Terrell says, but this time his voice isn’t coming from my phone. I turn and he’s standing there, dressed in black, like he’s here for a funeral. Black shirt, black jeans, black sneakers. I don’t think I’ve seen Terrell wear so little color before.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, still shocked.
It doesn’t feel like he’s real.
“I needed to tell you something … I thought about telling you after tonight, when everything calmed down or when you weren’t as overwhelmed. But that’s not fair to you. I won’t blame you for hating me after this, okay? I just want you to know I’m so, so sorry—”
“Terrell? What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling breathless.
“I should have told you a long time ago, but … I was scared.” I look at him closely. His eyes are glassy, like he’s about to cry.
“What is it?” I ask. My heart is racing.
Terrell looks away from me for a moment.
“I … I helped your school—I helped Niveus spy on you.”
40
CHIAMAKA
Thursday
Ms. Donovan messages me that she’s here and so I text Devon:
They’re here
I push myself up from my seat and walk toward the door, but as I approach it, the door begins to open.
I step back, looking for somewhere to quickly hide myself. I pull one of the chairs out, ready to duck under the table, my mask falling off in the haste just as the door swings open and Jamie walks in.
There’s a cold expression on his pretty face. His hair is shorter than when I last saw it; his suit is a crisp, dark blue, with a black bow strangling his neck.
“Hello, Chiamaka,” he says, voice filled with venom. He takes his hand out from his pocket and brings out his favorite lighter. When he presses it down, a gentle flame appears, and then disappears.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, proud of myself for not stuttering or stepping back. I stand here, with my arms folded, staring him down in the same way he stares at me.
“Should be asking you that. You’re not welcome here.”
I laugh. “Who made you God? My parents pay my tuition—I’m more than welcome here,” I say.
He steps forward, pressing the lighter down once again, letting the flame come as fast as it goes. The lighter has his name engraved into the gold exterior. His hands are wrapped around it tightly, like he’s scared to lose it.
Jamie and his lighter remind me of a spoiled child and their favorite toy. I always thought his love for fire was born from camp, but I bet his twisted desire to watch things burn and become ash began before then. While other children played with dolls and trucks, Jamie probably played with this. Watched the flame swirl to life and then die, over and over until it became his obsession.
“You have no right to be here,” he says, voice getting darker. “I don’t understand you guys. Even after I chased you, even after showing you those pictures…” He clicks the lighter, the flame glows. “After Martha.” Click. “After giving you so many chances to disappear … you keep pushing. Don’t think I didn’t see your friend’s tweet. Think you’re so clever? Little miss senior head girl. I thought you’d at least have the sense not to show up here, but you just … can’t seem to take a fucking hint.”
He laughs a twisted sort of laugh, spinning the lighter again. It’s a laugh that makes my insides shake.
“Are you in love with me? Is that it?”
I’ve come to realize that what I felt for Jamie was not love or even infatuation. I didn’t care about how I truly felt about him. I just knew I wanted to be on top, by any means necessary. Even if it meant letting a sweaty brainless jock hold my hand and tell everyone he was my boyfriend, or letting a wicked boy like Jamie wrap his slimy hands around me whenever he wanted.
What I felt was a desperation to be powerful in a world that doesn’t let girls be. Especially girls like me.
The only time I felt love or anything close to that was with Belle. I don’t think any guy I’ve ever set my eyes on even came close to comparing to how I saw Belle.
So … love? Jamie can wish.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
He smiles wider. “No, you don’t.” He steps even closer. I stand my ground. “You love me, but I don’t love you. Who could? You’re a whore. Everyone knows it. It’s why I kissed you at my party. Why I knew you’d eventually sleep with me. You’d sleep with anyone…” He tilts his head and comes closer. “I never liked you. But I was curious. I had to try it, and I did…”
My heart is in my throat. I feel so disgusted. I’m trying not to cry.
“You were decent … Belle was better,” he adds, clicking the lighter once again.
It is dangerously close to my face. I can feel the heat against my skin. I blink and a tear slips out. But I don’t move. I don’t dare move.
“I’m giving you this last chance to get out of this school, where you aren’t wanted, otherwise you’ll really see what I’m capable of.” Jamie clicks one more time, so close my hair catches on fire. I stumble back a little and as I pat it out, Jamie’s laughter rings through the library.
I’m not going to let what he said hurt me. I won’t give him that power over me. I’m Chiamaka fucking Adebayo—I don’t need some prick telling me who I am and who I should be.
“Are you done with your speech?” I ask, not waiting for a reply before continuing. “Call me a whore, I don’t care. But you, Jamie, you bring it up because you do care.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“You care that a girl like me can do what she wants, and not give a crap about what you or anyone has to say. Yo
u care that you liked it, and that your racist parents and this racist school gave you one job—to get close to me and then stab me in the back—but instead you liked it, every second of it. You liked kissing me—”
“Shut up,” he growls.
“Liked the sex, the sneaking around—”
“I said shut up!” Jamie yells.
Which only gives me more energy.
“You care that I kissed your girlfriend.” I smile, even though it hurts. “You care that we did more than kiss—”
He pushes me back against the wall hard, and I laugh in his face, more tears falling. But they aren’t sad tears. It feels like I’m free. Like I’m flying.
“You’re a loser, Jamie. A failure. A disappointment. You failed to bring me down to your lowly level and that kills you—” I’m cut off by Jamie wrapping his hands around my neck and squeezing. He’s shaking as he strangles me and I’m wheezing, laughing and gasping for air.
I can’t breathe, but I can’t stop smiling.
He keeps squeezing, his face red and vibrating with anger as he stares me down.
I don’t want Jamie’s face to be the last thing I see before I die, and so I summon all the remaining strength I have, and I kick him in his crotch.
Jamie staggers back, releasing me. I cough, throat hurting, chest aching. I don’t give myself time to pause before I kick him again. This time he falls to the ground. Groaning loudly, his lighter falling with him.
“Fucking bitch,” he wheezes.
I rub my neck, and I tilt my head to look at him. He’s so pathetic, lying there, writhing around on the floor. I press my heel down where I know it will hurt him most, and he screams.
I get a twisted sense of joy, seeing him cry.
I knew I picked the right shoes.
“Rot in hell, Jamie,” I spit, before stepping away, grabbing my mask, and striding toward the exit of the library.
When I get out, I notice my legs shaking, my heart beating in my ears. I touch the strand of my hair where he placed the flame. Crusty and burned.
I can still smell it, the smoke. I can still feel his hands wrapped around me.
But regardless, I feel some of that power returning. The power I used to feel flood my body each morning when I’d walk into school and know I’d earned this position at the top. Now, I feel powerful because I’ve taken my voice back, stopped letting Jamie squash me into the image he has of me.
Of a weak girl he can push down and hurt without consequence.
That girl doesn’t exist. She never did.
41
DEVON
Thursday
“W-what the fuck do you mean?” I ask, moving away from Terrell.
“I didn’t want to hurt you. I never would hurt you. Some old guy came into my school, told me he’d pay for my sister’s medical bills if I watched over you, reported back to him.”
I feel so dizzy. This can’t be happening.
“This was after we first hung out, and at first I considered it. I just want my sister to get better. I was desperate, so I thought about doing it … did it for maybe a day, but quickly knew I couldn’t. I told the guy I wouldn’t do it. That I couldn’t do that to you. Then you started talking about your school, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to hate me, and the guy told me that if I mentioned him or our deal, things would get worse for you, so I just tried to help you guys out the best I could…”
My phone vibrates and I look away from Terrell and down at the message from Chiamaka.
She sent one a few minutes ago, saying the journalists had arrived.
They managed to come through the front entrance, I’m with them at the back door to the ballroom. Hurry.—C
“I have to go,” I say, feeling too sick to even look at Terrell right now.
“Von—”
“Just, stop! Okay?” I shout, not wanting to ruin the makeup Chiamaka did around my eyes. So I blink back the tears and I turn around, walking into the building and leaving Terrell alone outside.
I become a shadow, walking quickly, head down, mask on, finally reaching the back of the ballroom where Chiamaka is standing.
“Where are they?” I ask.
“They’ve taken their positions.” She lowers her mask. I notice bruising around her neck that looks like fingers. Did something happen?
There’s no time for me to breathe, let alone ask questions. She threads her fingers through mine and opens the back door.
Before I know it, we’re stepping through the doors and into the ballroom together.
42
CHIAMAKA
Thursday
No one notices us slip through. There’s a curtain by the back entrance, currently blocking us from being seen. Through a slit, I see everyone. They are all seated at large round tables, talking away to each other. The room is as beautiful as I’d always imagined it would be. High ceilings, diamond chandeliers, and tall picturesque windows looking out onto the ocean. It’s perfect. Feels like I’m in a movie.
This ballroom was specifically built for this event and has been used for the Snowflake Ball for decades. They keep these doors locked throughout the year, except for today. I’ve dreamed of this since I joined Niveus.
I thought that when I finally got here, it would be a happy moment. Another marker of success.
I thought I’d be crowned Snowflake Queen. It’s what I wanted the most after valedictorian and Head Prefect.
But as I look at the crowns sitting on deep red cushions at the front of the ballroom, I realize how stupid this all is. The prefect badge, the crown. Lumps of metal I’d tied so much of my self-worth to.
I take a breath and I step forward, through the curtain. Voices get lower, whispers louder, as faces turn to stare at us.
I’m at the front now and I take in the room, trying not to shake. There are tables filled with familiar strangers, their faces covered by sparkly masks.
They hate me. Every person in this room hates me … and knowing that gives me the confidence to abandon any pride I have left, and march over to the cushions and grab one of the crowns. Devon gives me a weird look as I place the meaningless metal on my head.
People look surprised, amused, ready to see what I do next.
I see a figure slip in through one of the doors at the back. Terrell? Did Devon invite him after all?
It’s good, he gets to see us take Niveus down. He was there helping us with the details, it seems right that he’s here now. Plus, now I know that there is one person in the audience besides Devon who probably doesn’t hate me.
I scan the hall for Ms. Donovan, and her camera operator. They’re both dressed as waiters, blending in with the rest of the servers at the back. I don’t see the security, but I assume they are hidden somewhere in the room, waiting to jump in if necessary. Donovan starts counting down from five with her hands, the camera operator points the camera in our direction, then Donovan gives me a thumbs-up, and I begin, speaking clearly into the little microphone Donovan gave me to pin to my dress.
“My name is Chiamaka Adebayo and this is my friend Devon Richards. And by design, we are the only Black students at Niveus Private Academy. Every ten years, Niveus accepts two Black students. Niveus waits until their senior year to really strike, to enhance its campaign of psychological and physical abuse. The aim? To force these students to drop out, ruining every hope they had for a future. It’s a game Niveus calls social eugenics.”
I open up the yearbook from 1965.
“Here is a picture of Camp Aces, a camp set up for legacy students at the school and their families to plot how they were going to destroy the lives of the Black students at Niveus. And, since this project was started, every single Black student has dropped out before graduation. There is no explanation for where they went. They just vanish. And they vanish because Niveus made them. But that’s why we are here. We are going to break that cycle by telling everyone what is really going on at this school. We are here to expose Niveus, its students, te
achers, and donors for what they are.”
I unfold the posters from my clutch, passing the one with our yearbook photo scratched out to Devon and holding up one of the less-incriminating photos that Aces had taken and shoved through my mail slot. I look away from the camera and stare them all down.
“We have had physical threats, we have been followed, we have been set up. We have had our privacy invaded and personal photos and information leaked across the school. And now we say NO MORE,” I finish.
I’m standing here, like I always dreamed I would be. At the front, the queen to them all. It’s nothing like how I envisioned it. Not in the slightest. Yet I still feel powerful.
I turn to find the journalist again. But I furrow my eyebrows in confusion as I search the crowd. Where did she go? The camera operator is missing too.
There is movement across the crowd as people begin shuffling around in their seats. I soon realize what they are doing. They are swapping out their masks. Exchanging them for identical ones. The mask from the hallway. The mask that chased me home.
Everyone in the hall has one on.
They sit there.
I know it’s silent, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
This is Aces. Every person I have spent the past four years with. Every person who I have looked in the eye. Sat next to in class. Passed in the hallway. Every person who, all along, wanted to humiliate me, see me work to get to the top, only to tear me down. Every person who knew they could hide behind these masks—online or here, now; a cult, that wants nothing more than to see me and Devon fail.
“Is your performance over?” a deep, dark voice says from behind me. I turn sharply and I am met by familiar jet-black hair; a wrinkled, expressionless face; and eyes devoid of light, staring down at me.
“We gave you the chance to leave with some of your dignity intact, but instead you two clearly want the Dianna Walker treatment,” Headmaster Ward says.
“What did you do to Dianna?” Devon says, sounding terrified.
Ace of Spades Page 30
