“What’s he getting at?” Terry asked her silently. Regina shrugged and looked up again at Mr. Dodge. Terry could feel her shoulders rise and fall as if they were his.
“I heard the way the other kids laugh when I called your name during attendance,” said Mr. Dodge. “I just want you to know that I’m not going to tolerate anyone being made fun of in my class.” Regina offered a slight nod to show her appreciation, but then he went on. “Jerome and I also talked about your speech problem.”
Her eyes fell to the floor. And Terry bolted from his seat in the library. Regina and he had made a pact to avoid all discussions about her speech problem. Her ability to connect to other people’s minds was strange—and maybe they should have asked for help when it first emerged—but they’d learned to deal with it on their own. Besides, no one else would understand it. And they certainly wouldn’t understand why Regina wouldn’t speak anymore. Only Terry and she knew why.
Terry was moving quickly now, out of the library, down the stairs, through the corridor that led to the middle school—all while trying to distinguish between what Regina was showing him and what was right in front of him.
“Jerome told me,” Dodge went on, “that you don’t have a physical problem—that you’re not…that you’re able to speak. So if you’re embarrassed about your voice—if it’s a stutter or something…and if you want help—there are people who can help you. My wife is a speech therapist. She’s worked with other kids who’ve had trouble fitting in at school and just stopped talking for whatever reason. She’s here twice a week after school. Perhaps I could give your father a call and…”
Regina was nodding no and moving toward the door before Dodge could even react. She was already out of the room when she turned back and waved—just to say thanks. Dodge held up his hand to wave back, but Regina was gone. As she exited the room, she almost collided with Terry. Instinctively, she shut off the broadcast. “He wants to call Pop!” she shouted in his mind.
The words resounded in Terry’s head as his sister’s eyes shot and back and forth. He could feel her agitation. Terry almost flinched at the thought of Dodge calling home—the less their father knew, the better—but Terry responded gently and aloud, “He’s just trying to help.” He leaned toward the doorway, trying to get a look at Jason Dodge. Terry had heard Jerome speak highly of the man, a Black man who had graduated from HCS and gone on to an Ivy League university but returned to teach in Harlem.
Regina looked up at her brother with a pleading expression. “Jerome has to stop. I’m fine!”
“I know,” said Terry, “I’ll talk to him. I’ll convince him that you’re just shy and you don’t need any help.” Regina nodded. “Now we’d better get into lunch while we can get a seat.”
As they made their way down the hallway of lockers and open classroom doors, Terry tried to tell himself that the others—the ones propped against the walls, the ones passing them in the corridor, the ones seated on the floor—were not staring at his sister and him. He tried to imagine that nobody noticed him—that they didn’t recognize him as the weakling brother of Jerome Kelly, that they didn’t know his sister as the little mute girl. But he felt certain that they were staring at him, that they were thinking those things.
Terry had always been an easy target. He was skinny, and he had a gentle manner, and both attributes seemed to invite bullying. He’d kept up on the hip-hop fashions and the latest rap songs. He’d tried wearing baggy pants, headscarves, chains, sunglasses. He’d learned the street slang. None of it made a difference. He still seemed out of place and out of touch. Worst of all, he looked self-conscious; his self-consciousness hung like a target across his chest.
As expected, the lunchroom was full. Stepping through the doorway was like passing through a wall of sound. The administration had begun testing a new theory the previous year, scheduling lunchtime for all grades in the same timeslot, attempting to make students intermingle more, and in a place where they could all be watched. The cacophony of nearly eight hundred voices—talking, yelling, laughing, singing—was an assault on Terry’s ears. He kept his head down as they entered, pulling his sister with him to the counter to grab two orange juices. The counter was an escape, a few moments of solace with his back to the masses. No one could see his face, and no one could see him emptying his brownbag lunch onto his tray.
“Your bag,” he told Regina, “empty it. I don’t want them to know we brought lunch from home. It just gives them another thing to laugh at.” They, he knew, were always finding some reason to single out Terry and belittle him.
She did as he asked. Her sandwich and apple slumped onto her tray, looking as nondescript as the cafeteria food. Terry crumpled their empty bags and tossed them in the trash, and then the siblings turned toward the neat rows of tables that lined the massive room. The athletes sat nearest to the food counter, always ready to return for seconds and thirds. Jerome would have welcomed them there, of course, and no one at his table would complain—he was Jerome Kelly after all—but Terry always felt worthless when he hid behind Jerome’s notoriety.
After the athletes, the students ordered themselves by grade, beginning with the seniors and working backward, so that Terry’s sophomore classmates were, more or less, in the middle of the room, and Regina’s eighth graders were next to last. Terry had already decided, though, that Regina shouldn’t sit with her class. She was too small, too fragile. She couldn’t be left alone. She would sit with him.
The students sat segregated almost entirely by gender. Here and there, a girl or two sat at a boys’ table, or a boy at a girls’. Nearly all of the students were Black. The rest, a smattering of Hispanic, white, and Asian, were relegated to two tables at the very edge of the room—after even the seventh graders. Those were the tables that Terry was steering toward. He and Regina had eaten most of their meals at those tables for their first year at HCS. Sitting there again would ensure their continued outcast status, but it would also keep them out of the fray, safe among a pool of fellow misfits.
They had barely passed the sophomore section when a gruff male voice sounded behind them. “Yo, faggot…”
Terry walked on. He recognized the voice and knew that the words were intended for him, but he kept his eyes focused on the far tables, checking peripherally that Regina was still with him.
“Yo, Terry Kelly,” Stephon Akins’s voice rang out again, “I’m talking to you.”
“Hey, you,” a girl’s voice joined in, “you with the mute bitch.” It was Leticia March, Akins’s girlfriend.
At this, Terry turned, though he hadn’t meant to. He knew he had no good comeback to offer and no strength to support it, but his instinct to protect his sister was innate.
“Yeah, faggot,” said Stephon Akins as he stood up, “we’re talking to you.”
Akins was actually slightly shorter than Terry, but he outweighed Terry by at least thirty pounds. Though they were both fifteen, Terry looked his age while Akins looked like a small adult. He’d been shaving since seventh grade, and he puffed his chest constantly, his t-shirt outlining dense biceps that dwarfed Terry’s. Beside him, still sitting, was Leticia. Her middle finger went up as soon as Regina glanced her way. Regina didn’t react. She just stared back expressionless.
“You got something to say, mute bitch?” Leticia asked. “I ain’t heard you talk since you came here. What’s your problem anyway? You only talk to kids who ain’t Black? Maybe you ain’t noticed you’re as black as I am. Or if you really can’t talk, maybe you shouldn’t be at a school with normal people…”
Terry had been in only a few fights ever, and he’d lost them all. Most of the time, he walked away from altercations. He never understood what could be gained through violence. But when he heard his sister being abused, he found a reason to take a stand.
“Leave her alone,” said Terry.
“What?” said Stephon Akins as he climbed out from his bench and walked toward the siblings. “Who said you could talk to my girl? You got
something to say to her, you say it to me, faggot.”
All of the talking at Akins’s table stopped. As the students at each adjacent table noticed the ensuing silence, their attention was grabbed as well, and they became silent too. By the time Terry spoke, Akins was only a foot away from him, and much of the sophomore class could hear Terry’s stammered response, which came out much louder than intended.
“T-t-tell your girlfriend not to talk to my sister that way.”
“What?” shouted Akins as he threw his chest against Terry’s, forcing him backward. “Tell my girlfriend? Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” His face was inches from Terry’s now. Several more tables had quieted down. Some of the students had even stood. A fight was brewing, the first of the young school year.
Terry was about to answer, but Regina reached for his sleeve, and he turned his head to her. “Don’t,” she told him in their private-speak, but his pupils were enlarged as he met her gaze. He could feel his heart pounding, feel everyone’s eyes on him.
“Is that it?” asked Akins. “You ain’t got nothing to say to me, faggot?” He shoved Terry, who stumbled but didn’t fall.
Then Terry noticed that Regina was glancing back toward the athlete table. “No,” he told her, though he had not meant to say it aloud. “I know what you’re…”
“You don’t know shit,” Akins responded. You spent all last year sitting with the trash at the end of the room, and now you come and tell me to shut my girlfriend up!” The crowd noise was dying all around them. The conflict was the center of attention, and Akins seemed to love it. “Come on!” he yelled as he grabbed Terry by the shoulders and flung him to the floor on his back.
Terry’s head struck the linoleum, bouncing up just in time for him to see Akins leap on top of him, pinning Terry down. Akins laughed as he pressed his hands against Terry’s shoulders, holding him tight to the floor in a wrestling pin. Terry struggled, flailing his fists and managing to connect once to Akins’s jaw before the stronger boy caught the swinging hands and pressed them over Terry’s mouth.
“You fight like a fucking girl,” laughed Akins. “Look at you with your stupid green eyes. Are those colored contacts, or are you actually white?” He laughed, and his friends howled.
Snapping his head up and down, Terry freed his mouth and shouted, “Get the hell off me!” His voice sounded fuller, deeper than he’d expected, but he wasn’t sure why. Instantly, Akins’s grip loosened, and his arms fell to his sides. He stood and backed away, his eyes fixed straight ahead—straight into the massive form of the approaching Jerome Kelly.
“Yeah!” shouted Terry. He rose to his knees, shaking his fist. “You’d better…” And then he noticed his brother’s colossal presence behind him.
“You,” said Jerome calmly as he pointed at Akins, “if you come near my brother or sister again, I’ll…” He paused as if searching for the right threat. “I’ll end you.”
Akins didn’t answer. He simply stared into Jerome’s hulking chest. He didn’t seem scared as much as transfixed.
The two security guards at the ends of the room finally noticed that something was happening, but they were too late. The silence was breaking. Students were returning to their food and chatter. Everybody knew who Jerome Kelly was—the biggest and strongest boy in the school. He’d never actually been in a fight, but that was only because no one had ever dared to challenge him. The sight of Jerome towering over Akins meant that the conflict was over.
Akins looked smaller as he receded to his bench, oddly befuddled, but his friends welcomed him back to the table. There was no shame, after all, in yielding to Jerome Kelly. But, even seated, Akins’s eyes were still focused on the Kelly brothers.
“You all right?” Jerome asked Terry, feigning nonchalance. He straightened his shirt collar though it needed no straightening.
“I’m fine,” said Terry in a rushed tone, as if he had somewhere else to be. He gathered his lunch and books from the floor and stood again. “I’m fine. You didn’t need to come over. I didn’t need your help.”
“Yeah,” said Jerome, nodding. “Yeah, I know.” He turned away, speaking softly, trying not to shame Terry. “I really just came over to make sure Regina was okay.” He started toward the athlete tables, his large frame moving gracefully through the packed room.
Terry moved to Regina. “Did you see that—the way I shoved Akins off me? I didn’t think I even pushed him that hard.”
Regina stared up at him and tilted her head sidewise.
“Akins saw Jerome,” Regina told him. “That’s why he got up.”
“What—no way! Akins didn’t see Jerome! He was looking at me. I think he was so surprised that I stood up to him that he just jumped off of me …”
She lowered her eyes to the floor, embarrassed. For him.
Terry replayed the scene in his mind, trying to remember exactly how the altercation had played out. Akins pinned him down. Terry hit him. Akins covered his mouth. Terry yelled at him. Then Akins got up because… Terry nodded reluctantly through a steely pout. Regina had convinced him: Akins must have backed off because he’d seen Jerome approaching.
Terry gathered his pride and called, “Hey, Jerome.” Jerome swiveled his head, and Terry gave him a thank-you nod of the head. In response, Jerome waved his hand as if to say it was nothing and kept on walking. Then Terry turned back to Regina and told her to wait there for him. He caught up to his brother. “Hey, Jerome,” he repeated. “I don’t want Regina to hear. That thing you said about Warren this morning—do you really think he’s not going to get better?”
Jerome sighed. “I don’t know. We have to stop giving him money—that much I know. I just don’t know how we stop.” He opened his mouth as if he had more to say, but then he simply patted Terry’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” he said as he headed back to his table.
Terry’s eyes were on Jerome, so he didn’t notice that Regina had approached him until her voice resounded in his mind. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” he told her. “I just wanted to thank Jerome.”
Regina nodded, but Terry say the doubt in her eyes: she knew that her brothers were keeping something from her. And she didn’t like it.
Five
Van Owen is just as I saw him in my visions. Tall, lean, with skin so pale—so white—it is almost transparent, almost blue. His eyes are that color too—they are lifeless eyes like those of a fish pulled from the water and left to drown in the open air. He does not notice me yet. I am a woman after all, an African woman. He looks through me as if I am not even there, as if only the men could pose a challenge for him.
He strides toward us, reloading his pistol as if he has nothing to fear from any of us. He comes closer, closer, and then Kwame steps in front of me, protecting me and yet impeding my view of Van Owen at the same time. I have seen this in my visions. It was out of order then, but I recognize all of it. And so I struggle to find some way to do something different—to make things end differently, but the visions are still coming, and I cannot even tell what is happening now and what is to come another day. So I act out of instinct.
“Kwame,” I shout, “we must run! We all must run.”
“You must run!” he tells me. His first words to me. He does not turn to look at me. He stands strong, blocking Van Owen from seeing me. “Run!” he repeats, turning back this time.
Then, in front of Kwame, I see my father’s arms rise, extend out to his sides as if he is reaching for something. I wonder if he is trying to surrender, offering himself in supplication.
Then the dirt at my father’s feet begins to rise in a twisting pattern around his legs, as if blown by a whirlwind in a storm. But there is no storm. The sky is clear and cloudless. I hear a faint hum, a buzzing in my ears as my father’s hands ball into fists.
Van Owen’s eyebrows arch, and he grits his teeth as the wind grows stronger, but he is not afraid. He struggles against it, throwing one hand up in front of his face as he tries t
o comprehend what is happening. The hand with the gun remains down at his side. Then the humming sound grows louder. My father moves one arm in a sideways motion, and Van Owen is lifted off the ground as if carried by an ocean wave. His body rocks in the air, and he looks down in disbelief, his feet kicking at imperceptible waters. He looks for strings, for hands, for some plausible reason why he has left the earth. Then my father raises his palm and Van Own sails backward on the air, careening into his men. They tumble to the ground, rolling over one another as if struggling not to drown.
The wind grows fiercer, louder. More white men arrive, pushing through the trees into the clearing. My father lowers his arms again, and the wind withers. Whatever force he has called on to make the wind blow has taken a great effort from him. He struggles to catch his breath.
“Berantu,” he shouts to Kwame’s father. He turns to see that Berantu is already there beside him.
“Stop,” Berantu calls to the approaching white men. His voice is deep and rich as thunder. It fills the air, echoing in our ears. He does not speak their English, but the men stop as if entranced. “Turn and leave this place now! Turn and leave Mkembro and return to your own land!”
Like tamed beasts, the men pivot, expressionless, and begin walking back toward the trees. Their arms hang limp at their sides. Their eyes do not blink. They shuffle across the dirt, bumping into one another. One trips over a vine, stumbles, but then rights himself and continues on, spellbound.
Suddenly a vision consumes me. I am in a cage, looking out, watching the ocean rush by me. I look out through the bars and see Berantu—here, now—falling. Even before the gun is fired, I see him falling. I scream and close my eyes. When I open them, the bars and the cage are gone, but Berantu is still there. The gun has not been fired yet, but I can see Berantu falling.
Chains of Time Page 3
