by K L Going
“Let’s go,” Keisha said. “This place is giving me the creeps.”
I followed her to the door, but before I could slip away, Kenny caught up to me.
“Are you sure you’re o-o—”
Bruce Abrams banged into him from behind. “Move it, l-l-loser.”
There was a crowd of boys heading for the door and all of them snickered while Kenny blushed.
“Don’t listen to them,” I said. “You’d think they’d get tired of the same old jokes.”
Kenny nodded, but he still didn’t look up. “Can I get you a drink of w-water or something? You look f-f-f—”
It was wrong to rush him, but I couldn’t help it. When Kenny stuttered, it was hard not to get impatient. “Flushed?”
Kenny sighed. “Yeah.”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I have to go.”
Kenny glanced at the doorway as his mother burst in, fear etched on her face. I could tell he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t try.
“Well . . . g-g-g-good night,” he said instead.
I studied his dark tousled hair and his deep, coffee-brown eyes. Kenny was kind of handsome when you stopped to look at him. “Good night,” I said, wishing he’d said whatever it was he’d been thinking.
“Ready?” Keisha called, waiting by the door.
“Yeah.”
I glanced around the sanctuary one more time. Kids and parents were pairing off, bustling around as they gathered up their things. Was I the only one who still heard the gunshots?
I touched my head where I’d cut myself, expecting to see blood on my fingers, but there was nothing.
Nothing to show that everything had changed.
CHAPTER 6
POLICE CARS filled the road outside the church, their red and blue lights flashing silently under the neon-pink sunset. Made my nerves prickle. I knew Ms. Evette and Keisha felt it too, because Keisha was stone-cold quiet, and usually she never stopped jabbering. She’d handed Jerome back to her ma, and now Ms. Evette hugged him tight to her chest.
In the middle of the police was a single car with a bullet hole through the back window. Spiderwebbed cracks extended outward on the glass. Yellow caution tape marked off the area around the car where three officers stood writing in little white notepads. They looked up when they saw us, and their eyes stopped on me. They looked at Ms. Evette like she was stealing me. I knew that Ms. Marion wanted us to believe in a rainbow vision, but I suspected these cops still saw things in black and white.
Ms. Evette raised her chin defiantly, as if daring them to say anything.
“Move along,” one of the officers grumbled. Baby Jerome pointed at the policeman and Ms. Evette pressed his soft belly against her waist. I paused, studying the bullet hole, and Keisha gave me a look that said hurry up. I meant to follow, but I couldn’t stop staring.
It was odd the way the car sat there in the road. Not parked near the sidewalk, but abandoned as if the driver had run out of gas. It was old, and I knew I’d seen it before. That made my heart beat faster and my stomach churn. Ms. Evette held out her hand. It was time to move on, but I kept looking back, wondering Who? What? Why?
I stumbled the rest of the way home, my feet betraying me on every step.
When we finally reached my house, Ms. Evette peered in through the front window. “Your mother is home, right?”
I felt like a worn-out quilt, unraveling. “Of course,” I mumbled, although it wasn’t true.
Ms. Evette sighed. “I hate leaving you when there’s just been a shooting and you’ve had a fall. I’d rather talk to your mother first.”
“She’s sleeping,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’ll wake Ma up as soon as I get in.”
“Tia,” Keisha said, “why don’t you run inside and ask your mama if you can sleep over tonight? If she’s asleep, why would you want to—”
I put my key in the lock and thrust the door open.
“I can’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”
Ms. Evette’s frown deepened. “You’re certain your mother is inside? Asleep?”
“Of course,” I said. “Why would I lie about that?”
“Well . . .” Ms. Evette said, and I knew she couldn’t figure out the answer to that question. “All right. It’s getting late and I need to get Jerome home to bed. Tia, you lock this door the second you get inside, and you wake that mother of yours up immediately. Do you hear me? Tell her everything. Understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, stepping inside my dark, empty house. I shut the door behind me and doubled-locked it, leaving the chain off for Ma to come in later.
Then I slid down the back of the door and closed my eyes.
What had happened tonight? Something awful. But why hadn’t the adults told us what it was? Was it so horrible they thought we shouldn’t know? Maybe that was okay for the nine- and ten-year-olds, but most of us were older now. We even had a few fourteen-year-old guys in the bass section.
A flash of anger surged through me, and for just a moment I hated those adults for keeping secrets—Ms. Marion, Ms. Evette, Mary-Kate’s mom, the pastor—but then I tamped the feeling down because none of this was their fault.
They didn’t shoot anyone.
But someone had.
CHAPTER 7
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke with my sheets twisted around my ankles and my forehead drenched with sweat. I’d had nightmares, tossing and turning all night, waking to the sound of imaginary gunshots, only to fall asleep again and dream about Ma driving the car with the bullet hole in the back window and my father standing in the road with his fingers shaped into a gun. In the dream I screamed until I was hoarse.
It was a relief to finally see daylight, but the feeling was short-lived. I’d never dreamed about my father before. Not that I could remember. It’d been a long time since I’d last asked Ma about him. I’d been six, maybe seven? Old enough to wonder if Daddy was ever coming home, but not old enough to understand the answer. I shivered, remembering the coldness in Ma’s eyes, as if she’d been angry at me for asking.
I’ll answer your questions this once, but after this you need to understand: Your father is dead to us, and there’s nothing new to say about a dead man.
I tried to remember my mother’s exact words about what he’d done, but the facts were scattered in my brain—just out of reach. I wanted to force them to the surface, but I was exhausted. My stomach churned, creating a sour taste in my mouth, and I swallowed hard before stumbling into the bathroom and splashing cold water onto my face. I didn’t even bother to warm up my vocal cords. For the first time I could remember, I didn’t want to sing.
When I finally made it to the kitchen, I was surprised to see Ma still up, sitting at the worn table we used for meals. Ma rarely stayed up after she worked a night shift, and she looked tired. She also looked hard as iron.
“There was a shooting last night,” she said, without even saying good morning. “Near your church.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded. “How did you hear?”
“Morning edition got delivered to the store just before I left.”
She pushed a newspaper across the table. The front page had a black-and-white photo of the abandoned car, and a fragment of the church was visible in the background. The headline screamed, INFANT KILLED, GUNMEN FLED.
I gave an involuntary gasp. “A baby.”
Immediately, I thought of Keisha’s brother, Jerome. He was eleven months old now, all big brown eyes and rolls of fat.
I sat down heavy, my legs giving way beneath me. Ma hesitated, like she wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, she reached over and patted my hand before drawing back to scrape at a splotch of dried ketchup on the table with her fingernail. Then she stood abruptly and went over to the refrigerator to get out the eggs. Her movements were quick and jerky, as if she couldn’t
decide whether to comfort me or punish me.
“So, did this happen during your rehearsal?” she asked. “Why didn’t you call me at work?”
I mumbled something about not wanting to bother her, and Ma grunted a response, but what that response meant, I couldn’t be sure. She moved to the stove and scrambled the eggs while I read the newspaper article.
The baby, ten months old, had been shot by accident during an attempted carjacking. Two gunmen had fled on foot and police were trying to locate them. There was a number to call if anyone had information, and there was also a picture of the baby and his mother.
“The Raven woman,” I breathed. It was the dark-haired woman who lived on Seventh Street. She didn’t speak English and dressed in long skirts and shirts with flowing sleeves. We didn’t really know where she was from, but Keisha and I thought she looked like a raven because her hair was so black it almost shone blue. Plus there was something mystical about her that made it seem as if she might take flight. She lived with her husband and her—
No, not her son. Not anymore.
For a split second, the world went fuzzy, like it had before I fainted. But this time I held on, forcing my fists to unclench and my breathing to slow.
“Tia?” Ma studied me hard and then she walked over to snatch the paper off the table. Ma’s auburn hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, tied back with an old gray scrunchie. The lines on her face were strained as she dished me my scrambled eggs and cheddar grits. “You aren’t dwelling, are you?”
Dwelling was what Ma called it when I thought too much about bad stuff. I didn’t answer, and she frowned.
“Now look,” she said, real stern, as if dwelling were something I could get grounded for doing. “What happened to that baby is horrible, and we will hope for justice and mercy, but this burden isn’t yours to carry. We’ve each of us got our own burdens and they’re plenty big enough. Do you understand?”
She looked me in the eyes and I nodded, but I’d already thought about those gunshots again. Why do things like this happen?
A voice whispered in response.
Because of people like your father.
I pushed the food around on my plate until I couldn’t sit still any longer. Then I stood up. “I’m going to meet Keisha early and hang out at her house today,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. “The choir’s singing at the festival tonight, so Ms. Evette will bring me home.”
Ma said, “Finish your breakfast,” and gave me a good hard stare until I sat back down and shoved in another bite of eggs and two more bites of grits. They tasted like paste and I could hardly make my throat swallow.
“I’m not sure I like the idea of your choir being out so soon after—”
“I’m not skipping choir,” I said. “I sing the lead, so I have to be there.”
Ma took a step back, and I could tell she was surprised that I could be hard as iron too.
I softened. “You could come tonight. Hear me sing.”
Ma was shaking her head before the words were even out. “I’ve got auctioning to do online.”
I looked at her as she stooped to pick up a giant stuffed dog from the kitchen floor. “Ms. Evette will be at June Fest,” I said. “She works a side job too.”
I couldn’t believe I’d said that, but Ma pretended she didn’t hear. “I’ve got to get this boxed and into the mail,” she said, shuffling toward her bedroom, where she kept the postal scale.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, scraping my fork against my plate. It made a sound like nails on a chalkboard, which I knew drove Ma crazy. So I did it again. Finally, Ma snapped.
“Fine. Go to Keisha’s then. Lock the door when you leave. Don’t talk to strangers, and call me if you have any problems.”
Same thing she said every day.
“Fine,” I echoed, getting up to leave. “I’ll stay out of trouble.”
But even as I said those words, I knew they were a lie. Trouble was like a hurricane. If you were in its path, it would barrel down on top of you, no matter how hard you tried to shore things up.
CHAPTER 8
I BOLTED OUT the door, taking off toward Keisha’s apartment. Usually I sang while I walked, marking time with my feet, but that day I couldn’t sing a note. My whole body felt hot and tense, coiled like a rusty spring. When you sing, your body has to open up: lungs, diaphragm, throat, shoulders. Even parts that don’t seem involved with making music need to let loose, like when you lift your chin and straighten your back.
Imagine the top of your head lifting off, letting your spirit free, and then the music overflows.
I could hear Ms. Marion’s voice, but I couldn’t unclench my muscles. By the time I got to Keisha’s, I still hadn’t found that place in me where my singing should have been.
I took the outside emergency staircase one flight up to Keisha’s floor. The metal frame was already hot from the sun, so I puffed on my fingers after I pried the window open. Keisha must have heard me coming, because she appeared and reached out to pull me inside.
“You’re here early,” she said. She was still in her pajamas, her braids loose and disheveled, looking crazy with flyaway curls. She chewed on her lower lip, and there was something odd about the way she looked at me, as if she wished I’d arrived later. Or maybe hadn’t come at all? But that was silly. I practically lived at Keisha’s house.
I waited for her to start our secret handshake.
“Well?” I said at last.
“Oh.” Keisha let out her breath in a nervous whoosh and held out her hands.
Shimmer, shimmer,
superstars,
Keisha and Tia,
we’ll go far.
We smacked our hands together, up and down, side, side, then once in the middle. It barely rhymed, but we’d only been in second grade when we’d made it up.
“Tia? That you?” Ms. Evette called.
“Yes ma’am. Ma says hey,” I lied.
Ms. Evette sashayed into the doorway. “You feeling better today? How’s that cut?”
“It’s healing,” I said, flopping down on Keisha’s purple comforter.
Ms. Evette glanced at Keisha, then cocked her head to one side. “Did you see the paper this morning?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“And did you talk to your mother about what happened?”
I hesitated only a moment before nodding again. Technically, it wasn’t a lie.
“There’s going to be a vigil for the baby at June Fest tonight,” Ms. Evette said. “I spoke to Marion this morning and she’d like the choir to perform the song you’ve been practicing, if you feel up to singing the lead. Is your ma coming out?”
I shook my head, but I noticed the way Ms. Evette hadn’t really waited for an answer. In fact, she almost seemed relieved, which was strange because normally she got exasperated real quick when it came to Ma not showing up for things.
“Well, you girls keep it down in here.”
As soon as Ms. Evette stepped away, Keisha queued up “Pyramid” on her laptop. It was an old pop song by Charice that had been our favorite when we were nine years old—the one that convinced us to join the Rainbow Choir. Keisha hadn’t played it in a long time, though, and I’d started to think we might be outgrowing it. I wondered why she’d chosen that song today.
Keisha drummed her fingers in rhythm, and her eyes danced around the room, landing anywhere other than my face. “I’m surprised your ma didn’t lock you in the house today,” she said at last.
I snorted. “Me too.”
Keisha opened her mouth, and then she shut it again, as if she’d changed her mind about what she’d been meaning to say. When “Pyramid” ended, Keisha didn’t queue up anything else, and we were quiet for a long time.
“Were you scared last night?” Keisha asked at last. “I thought someone w
as going to bust into the church and we’d all end up on the news, like one of those school shootings. Me and Ma stayed up late talking about it.”
Even now I could hear the pop, pop, pop of the gunshots. I’d been terrified.
“Kenny Lin held my hand,” I said. “I was looking for you, and I guess I must have seemed scared, because he came up beside me and said everything would be okay.”
“C-c-crazy Kenny did that?” Keisha said, her eyebrows shooting up. “Wow. I never would’ve guessed he had it in him. He’s so quiet.”
“I know,” I said. “But it was nice. I mean—”
I hadn’t even finished my sentence before Keisha was tossing one of her pillows at me. “Do you like him? Do not tell me you have a crush on Kenny Lin.”
My cheeks burned. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Keisha said, flopping backward. “I can see it on your face.”
Instead of responding, I crossed my eyes, and that made Keisha laugh. It was impossible to win an argument with her, so it was better not to start up in the first place. For a moment, things felt normal between us, but just as quickly, the feeling slipped away.
“So did you really talk to your mother about the shooting?” Keisha asked.
I shrugged. “Sort of. Ma told me not to dwell on it.”
“Figures.”
My brows creased. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Keisha got that look in her eyes—the one she got when she wasn’t messing around. “It means your mother doesn’t like it when you think about bad things because she doesn’t want you to ask any questions. She wants you to live in a bubble.”
I paused. “Well, it’s not like we can change any of the bad stuff that happens, so what’s the use in knowing about it?”
It’s useless to live in the past, Tia Rose. Keep your eyes ahead, never behind.
Keisha got real quiet. “If it were me . . . I’d rather know the truth.”
