Blackout

by Dhonielle Clayton

He hands back my phone and digs out his wallet. “How much money you got?”

  “Why?”

  He huffs, waving at the station ahead. “’Cause if there’s no power, it means there’s no trains either. We need to get a cab.”

  Damn, he’s right. The trains will be down, and I definitely don’t want to be caught in them tunnels in the dark.

  He counts the cash in his wallet. “I got twenty. You?”

  I only have five dollars.

  “That ain’t gonna be enough to get us back home,” he says. “With the stoplights out, we’d be lucky if this gets us ten blocks.”

  “Um, there’s a bank across the street,” I offer. “I can use my debit card.”

  “Power out means ATMs are out too.”

  “Shit,” I mumble. “What do we do?”

  I don’t know why I asked him. Probably because there’s no one else around and I’m trying to keep calm despite the growing panic in my chest.

  He looks up at the street sign and takes a deep breath. “Aight. Let’s do this.”

  He starts walking away and I follow.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. Where else?”

  “But how?”

  He shrugs. “Walk.”

  “Walk! From here?”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  “That’s, like, mad far! It’ll take you days.”

  He scowls. “Quit playing. Ain’t like we in the Bronx.”

  I look up at the street sign. He wants to walk from 125th Street back to Brooklyn? We might as well be in the Bronx.

  “Welp,” I say with a wave. “Later, then.”

  “What you mean? You coming with me.”

  “Pssh! The hell I am!”

  “Look, we don’t know how long this thing is going to last, but I’m not waiting to find out. It’s after five thirty. I ain’t trying to get caught out here after dark. You ain’t got no money, the ride apps are surging, and I ain’t got no phone. So we gonna have to stick together ’til we make it home. Then you can go back to hating me or whatever.”

  Hey, I never said I hated him! Well, out loud.

  Glancing around, I weigh my options. Maybe the power won’t be out for that long. Maybe it’ll just be a few more minutes, two hours tops. But what if he’s right? What if it takes all night to fix and we’re stuck here?

  “We’ll take Frederick Douglass down to Central Park West,” he says.

  MTA workers tape off the station entrance. Wonder how many people are stuck down there in the dark . . . with the rats? Just the thought makes my hands tremble. But there are worse things . . . one in particular that I’m desperate to avoid.

  “You coming or nah?” Kareem snaps.

  I sigh at the setting sun and take the first step in his direction.

  Mask Off

  Nic Stone

  A subway car, 5:26 p.m.

  TREMAINE WRIGHT ISN’T a fan of enclosed spaces. A fact that I, Jacorey “JJ” Harding, Jr., only know because six years ago in sixth grade, a group of my goon-ass friends chased Tremaine through the boys’ locker room and shoved him into the tiny custodian’s closet.

  So dude’s in there and he’s pounding and shouting, “Let me out, man! This ain’t funny!” And while I wasn’t one of the fools standing against the door to hold him in, I knew my half-assed “Come on, y’all. Let the mans out,” didn’t have enough gas for them to take me seriously. . . . Not my proudest moment, but it’s whatever.

  The bell rang, and we all jetted.

  I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Tremaine had showed up a few minutes late to our next class like I expected him to. No harm, no foul, my young (dumb) self thought.

  But he didn’t.

  Clock ticked on. Tremaine’s seat stayed empty. And I remember looking around the room in a daze, like, wondering if anybody else noticed that homie’s tardy had morphed into a straight-up absence. Which is when I started getting nervous. What if something happened to him? What if, worse (in my twelve-year-old mind at least), he snitched on the group and included me as a culprit? Probably my guilty conscience yacking at me for not actually being helpful to the dude, but your boy was shook, is what I’m saying. I could feel the sweat beading up at my hairline and dripping down my sides from what would soon be funky armpits. What if I got in trouble? If I did, my pops wouldn’t let me hoop. He’d said as much at the beginning of the school year.

  Halfway through the class period, I couldn’t take it no more. Asked to be excused to the bathroom. Took everything in me not to run back to the locker room. Walking past the toilet stalls and the showers to that custodial closet was like the longest, scariest fifteen seconds of my young life, swear to God. Wasn’t a single sound coming from the other side of the door. Which to my horror-movie-loving ass meant he was (1) gone and probably telling on us at that very moment, or (2) gone and not coming back . . . aka dead. As a doornail, or whatever they say.

  I’m the one who screamed when I pulled the door open and found him sitting between a tower of giant toilet paper rolls and one of those big yellow rolling mop buckets—full of water the color of gargoyle snot.

  Craziest part? He didn’t even look up. Just kept staring straight ahead into what must have been some sorta great beyond abyss or something.

  “Uhhh . . . Tremaine?” I dropped down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Tremaine!” Gave him a shake. He snapped out of it and turned to me.

  And that’s when he screamed. And knocked the TP tower down. Then just sat there breathing mad hard.

  I peeked over my shoulder. Scared. “Yo, you good, man?” Great, homie was alive, but getting caught in here when we were supposed to be in class wasn’t a good look. “We umm . . . kinda need to get outta this closet . . .”

  He looked at me in this sorta weird way . . . like confused, but also a little bit sad with a dash of surprise on top? Hard to describe.

  Then he nodded. “Don’t really like enclosed spaces,” he said. Mad flat.

  “Cool. Let’s exit this one.” I stood and extended a hand. He took it. Climbed to his feet.

  He looked around at the scattered toilet paper rolls. “Should we, uhhh—”

  “Nah, nah,” I said. “They won’t know it was us. Let’s just go.”

  He nodded, and we left the locker room in silence, but as soon as we passed the half-court line in the gym, he said, “Umm . . . so can we maybe not tell anybody about this?”

  “Huh?”

  “The whole . . . claustrophobia thing. I know your guys like to mess with me or whatever, but I’d prefer if they didn’t have anything extra to use.”

  “Oh.” Made sense. “Yeah, of course.” And then that guilt over not doing more started creeping on me. Making my throat itch. “I’m uhh . . . sorry I didn’t stop them.” (And at the same time, my ass was hoping he’d never tell anybody I said that. Just terrible.)

  “I heard you tell them to leave me alone,” he said. Which shocked the hell outta me, let me tell you.

  “Oh.”

  “Could you have tried harder? Yeah.” He looked at me then. “But at least you came back to get me.” And he smiled. I swear I could see his whole set of braces. They alternated blue and green. I quickly looked away because him grinning at me like that made my face feel kinda hot.

  Shit was uncomfortable, though I wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “I do appreciate that part,” he said.

  “It’s cool, man. Don’t mention it. I’ll umm . . . I’ll try to be firmer if they bother you again.”

  “That’d be nice,” he said.

  And that was it. We broke apart at the front office since he needed to scoop a tardy slip, and I continued back to class with the pass I used to leave.

  Zero acknowledgment when he finally did enter the classroom—from me or him.

  I kept my word and told my guys to lay off. And they did. But between Tremaine and me? Not a word (that he knows of at least) in the almost six years since that incident.

>   Zero acknowledgment.

  Right now, though? On this dark-ass train? Tremaine Wright is the only thing I can see.

  It’s been a little over four minutes since all the lights went out and the train slowed to a stop. We’re on the A headed to Brooklyn. I got on at my regular stop—145th, literally three blocks from our apartment. Then at the 125th Street stop, the doors slid open, and Tremaine stepped on.

  My first thought was What the heck is Tremaine Wright doing in this neighborhood when school is out? But then I noticed that he’s got his trusty camera with him, so I figured maybe he was taking pictures or something. Homie’s been on the yearbook staff since eighth grade. Always got some kinda camera on him.

  The car we’re on is full but not packed to the brim—seats are all taken and there’s a smattering of folks standing here and there: lady pushing a stroller; hipster-lookin’ bearded dude with his bike; trio of girls in ballet clothes who couldn’t be more than thirteen; pair of guys who I assume are a couple based on how close together they’re standing.

  However, despite it not being too jammed, it’s enough people on here for that initial simultaneous Gasp! when it went dark to make me feel like all the air was being sucked out the universe.

  Within seconds, the conductor’s bored-sounding voice crackled over the intercom talkin’ ’bout “mechanical difficulties.”

  Held breath quickly turned to a collective huff. Mumbling. Grumbling. Sucked teeth.

  And then the cell phone flashlights started coming on.

  It was eerie as hell at first, but after a few minutes, once my eyes adjusted, I relaxed a little bit. Enough, even, to look in Tremaine’s direction.

  Both of the people beside him and the three folks sitting across the aisle have their phone lights on, so despite him being in shadow, I can see him pretty clearly. When he first got on, I tried not to think about whether or not he saw me—so of course that’s all I could think about—but right now he’s got his head leaned back against one of them If you see something, say something posters. And his eyes are closed.

  I’d almost say he looks mad relaxed, but every few seconds—and yeah, I do watch long enough to notice—he pokes his lips out like he’s about to whistle. Then his mouth closes again.

  I look at his chest to see if I can tell when it’s rising, and as I do, I’m thrown back to a moment I must’ve stuffed deep down somewhere nobody could ever find it—myself included:

  Starts with me. Last year. I was the only sophomore to start varsity, an honor I wore around like an invisible S on my chest. Couldn’t tell me nothin’. That is until game four when I went in for a smoooooth lay-up, got fouled, and came down real funky on my right ankle. Major sprain. Never felt pain like that in my life.

  I’m sitting on the ground, eyes squeezed shut, hugging my knee to my chest. Scared out my skull, but not wanting to let it show, because according to every coach I’ve ever had, Real men never show fear. Trainer is talking all calm: “Breathe in through the nose . . . mmhmm, that’s it. Now purse your lips, and out through the mouth. You got it.” Then when she gave the word, a couple of the senior guys came over to help me up so I could hop my deflated-ego-havin’ ass to the locker room. When I was on my feet, I happened to look into the crowd. And who did I lock eyes with?

  Tremaine Wright.

  He was standing in the bleachers, a few rows up from the floor. Bulky camera in hand. Just staring at me. All . . . concerned.

  Intercom crackles on the train: “All right, folks, word from up top is city’s experiencing a blackout. Not a whole lot we can do ’cause all the signals are down. So sit tight, and I’ll update you as soon as I know something.”

  Another round of mumbling. Grumbling. Sucked teeth.

  Settling in.

  Except for Tremaine. Homie’s chest is definitely expanding and contracting real heavy right now. Taking deep breaths, I assume.

  And his leg is bouncing like crazy. Like a video game controller during a mad intense round of Call of Duty. Not sure I realized a leg could bounce that fast.

  My eyes drop to his foot—without my express permission, mind you—and when I see his utterly pristine white-on-white-on-white Jordan Retro 1s (so pristine, they practically glow on this dark-ass train), I look away.

  Quick inventory: The two dudes are now sitting on the floor looking at something on one of their phones with heads literally together (gotta be a couple). Trio of dancer kids are huddled in a clump, looking like they wish their parents were here. Bike dude has turned his headlight thing on and aimed it at the ceiling. Looks real proud of himself for having the idea.

  The baby in the stroller starts crying at the opposite end of the train, and my head turns (even though nobody else’s does—#NewYork). The moms has her cell phone lying flashlight-up on the top of the stroller, so I can see her swoop down and scoop up the little homie. Then quick as a flash, she’s got a boob out, and the kid is getting its grub on.

  It makes me smile. At least one person on this joint won’t have a growling stomach. And real talk, I admire this mom for not covering herself up or whatever. Like fine, it’s dark as hell and nobody can really see anything, but still. I personally don’t think a moms should have to cover the baby when he’s—or she’s, or . . . they’re—eating.

  Not that I would say that shit out loud.

  I shake my head.

  Of all the times for there to be a blackout. Not only am I stuck inside this damn tin can with Tremaine for the foreseeable future, tonight was supposed to be a fresh start. End of basketball season was rough—lost my mojo for a minute—but ya boy was on fire during this whole first week of summer training camp.

  Teammates been gassing me up. I’m feeling like a new me. And more than that, Langston’s cousin—Tasha’s her name and she’s visiting from down south somewhere—saw a picture of me with Lang and apparently took a liking. I’m typically not one to entertain even the idea of interacting with the family member of a teammate beyond a certain level (read: saying whassup if I see them in the hallway). But Lang is the one who told me she was feelin’ me. And she’s gorgeous.

  So.

  When I got that DM asking if I’d come kick it with her at this party in Brooklyn tonight, I said yes. Told said teammate I’d come through and help him pick his ’fit and all that, and figured if I left early enough, I could also pop in on my granddad (gotta love living in Harlem—basically the opposite end of the city from where all the stuff I’m interested in goes down). It’s why I’m on this train in the first place: New season, new girl, new start. New me.

  Well . . . as far as anybody else knows, Old me. Ball me: JJ “Jump-Jump” Harding. (And though the “JJ” is technically for “Jacorey Jr.,” it works real nice, don’t it?)

  Would I ever tell anybody I’m not really feelin’ the hoop life no more? That where basketball used to be the light of my path/my reason for being/the only thing I looked forward to, it’s just kind of . . . a thing now? Maybe even a slightly tedious one?

  No sooner than I’d tell ’em I think women should be able to nurse without a cloth cover joint making the baby all hot.

  Speaking of hot, might just be me, but this train car is starting to feel a tad toasty.

  Now I take a deep breath. Sneak another peek at Tremaine. His eyes are still closed, and his hardcore deliberate breathing is still evident, but both of his legs are going now. Alternating like a pair of sticks in the thick of a drumroll. I kinda wanna check on him, but after what happened a couple months ago . . . man, I don’t know.

  My guess is he was headed to the same party as me. The DJ is his older sister’s ex-boyfriend after all, and I’ve heard Tremaine takes all the “in-action” pics for homie’s website and gets paid pretty well to do so. (I mean, why else would someone follow a sibling’s ex around with a camera?)

  I peek back at them white-on-white-on-white J’s before shutting my own eyes and letting my head fall back against the rail map behind me. Honestly feels like self-desecration consider
ing the fresh cut I got this afternoon. Tempted to hold my own cell phone flashlight up and aim it at my head so people can at least see the wonders my barber works.

  I think about Tremaine’s chest and try to match my breathing to the rhythm I just saw in his.

  In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  His shoes fill my head.

  At some point, I’m gonna hafta stop keeping everything quiet.

  Twelve minutes down.

  I lied before.

  That whole “zero acknowledgment” thing?

  Yeah . . . it’s not true. At all.

  I’ve always wanted it to be, but if Imma be honest—and that’s all I can be on this dark train with nothing keeping me company but the thoughts I usually drown out with Shit-To-Do—since that day in our middle school locker room all them years ago, “zero acknowledgment” has been impossible.

  And I kinda hate it. Not only because I know, and have always known, what it “means” (though admitting it to anyone—myself included—is a bridge I haven’t crossed yet), but also because I’m not the only one acknowledging the guy. Homie could scoop just about anybody he wanted. Like . . . across the gender spectrum, as my baby sister, Jordy, refers to it.

  I can’t say for sure because I never let myself get close enough to him to confirm, but I think we’re about the same height. Both six three-ish. He might even have me by an inch or so.

  Homie ain’t no lanky joint either. That’s the wild part. He’s as cut as half my teammates. That’s one of the things that bugs me out, honestly. Ain’t nobody saying it aloud, but we all know people expect dudes like me and Tremaine—tall, “athletic”-looking fellas of a certain racial demographic (I’m rolling my eyes real hard right now)—to be athletes. Hoop. Have “hands” conducive to throwing and catching different types of “sports balls” (another one from the baby sis). Hell, I was four the first time my pops put a basketball in my hands.

  But Tremaine has always seemed so unfazed about the whole expectations thing. I remember being in the hall at school once and overhearing one of my asshole teammates say, “Tragic that a mans with your height and build would rather handle a camera than a rock” (as in the orange-and-black sphere central to my sport of choice).