Now he laughs. “Good to hear, man.”
We lapse back into quiet, but the dark is starting to make me itch.
“You think the lights will come back on soon?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond immediately, but I don’t press. Just . . . sit. No idea what comes next or where we go from here.
But I also find that I don’t really care. Not in this moment.
Just when I think he’s not gonna answer, he does: “I don’t know. But I hope so.”
It occurs to me: “Is the darkness messing with your claustrophobia? Anything I can do to help?”
He laughs again. “Nah, that’s not it at all,” he says, leaning into me. I swear if melting was a literal thing, I’d be a puddle of goop on this floor instead of a person.
He goes on: “I’m honestly not scared at all right now. Just looking forward to seeing you with your mask off.”
The Long Walk
Act 2
Tiffany D. Jackson
Central Park, 6:05 p.m.
KAREEM AND I head down Broadway, the humidity making it hard to breathe, and it feels like we’re trekking across the surface of the sun. Or maybe it’s because Kareem is walking like a damn speed racer and I’m jogging to keep up. By the time we reach the top of Central Park, I’m covered in sweat.
“Damn,” I gasp. “Why you walking so fast?”
He sucks his teeth. “Why you walking so slow? Some of us got places to be!”
“Hmph. Damn, she really got you whipped, huh?”
“What was that?” He spins around and I run right into his chest with a thud. He has . . . muscles? When did he get those? His arms are filled out. And he even has some facial hair.
I pat down my edges nervously, and maneuver past him. “Nothing.”
He hangs back, as if debating whether he should go through with this crazy plan of his. I’ve been debating the same thing for the last thirty minutes.
I can’t be stuck in the city with no money, and he definitely ain’t leaving me and my phone, his only contact to the world. We’re all we got right now, whether we like it or not.
He catches up to me, slowing his pace by a fraction, and we walk in silence for a few minutes, down Central Park West, bordering the biggest park in NYC. Plopped right in the middle of Manhattan, it has meadows, woods, fountains, lakes, gardens, playgrounds, restaurants, a zoo, and even a castle. It’s also full of bougie rich people and their ankle-biting dogs (I like Prospect Park in Brooklyn better).
Daddy always laughs while telling us stories of tourists being lost for hours in the middle of the day because they can’t find an exit. I hope they find their way out of there before the sun goes down.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Kareem starts. “But I’m supposed to deejay at Twig’s block party tonight.”
Block party? I didn’t know about that. Guess that’s another thing that happens when you stop being someone’s girlfriend: You stop getting invited to stuff like your neighbor’s annual blow-out block party. Almost everyone goes.
“How they gonna have a party with no power?” I ask.
“Said he’s gonna get a backup generator.”
I shake my head. “That don’t make sense.”
“Don’t gotta make sense. Twig’s paying me eight hundred for this party and I need the money. But he ain’t gonna pay me shit if I’m not there and ready to go.”
I shrug. “Well, with all these parties you got lined up, maybe you don’t really need that internship.”
He chuckles. “Nice try. But every dollar counts. You ain’t the only one trying to go to school in the fall.”
My heart cracks but he probably can’t hear it over the traffic jam, so I keep my face straight. We were supposed to go to college together. That was always our plan. Now he has new plans. Plans I know nothing about. Kind of wish I hadn’t unfollowed him on social media. Then I’d know what school he’s going to. It’s not like I want to ask because then he’ll think I care, and I definitely don’t.
“Oh,” I mutter, struggling to hide the hurt in my voice. “Well, guess we’ll see which one of us she picks.”
“What’d you need that job for anyways? Ain’t your daddy paying for school?”
There’s a bitterness in his question but I ignore it.
“Yeah.”
“But?”
The idea of telling him swishes around my head until I relent.
“Well . . . there’s this special program that’ll let me start school early and earn credits.”
“Early? Like, leave for school early?”
“August eighth,” I say proudly. “And I’m trying to pay for it myself!”
He looks away, palming his knuckles. “Oh. So . . . you’ll be gone for our birthdays?”
“Oh. Uh . . . yeah. I guess so.”
Kareem’s birthday is August fourteenth. Mine is the thirteenth. He used to joke that he loved the idea of being with an older woman for a whole twenty-four hours. We haven’t spent a birthday apart in seven years, and it wasn’t until he brought it up that I felt the pinch of this lost tradition. Recognizing that nothing will ever be the same, between us or with life in general.
Still (and yeah, I know I shouldn’t be thinking this), it feels real good walking with him, side by side, just the two of us again. We used to take long walks all the time. Well, not this long, maybe around a few blocks or so. This is on some other level. But before, those warm summer nights always made us bubbly, like we were falling in love for the first time. We’d lazily drift down the streets, shoulders bumping into each other, as if we’d forgotten how to walk straight, only stopping so he could retie my sneakers like he used to when we were kids. Nothing but cheesy grins, hand-holding, and kissing.
Lots of kissing.
Scenes right out of those old Black romance movies from the ’90s my mom put me on to. The same kind I want to write and direct someday. Well, maybe. Not sure if I believe in happy endings anymore. Probably end up doing those depressing art house films instead.
“Heard you going to Clark Atlanta,” he says, flatly. “Congrats . . . I guess.”
I shake the memory away, crossing my arms.
“You guess? You knew I wanted to go to college.” We were supposed to go together, I almost add but stop myself.
“I know! You had that whole list, but I thought NYU was your first choice. Film school.”
Just hearing “NYU” makes my throat clench. “Yeah . . . well, Clark Atlanta has a media program too.”
“Hm. Guess I never thought you’d really want to go so far from home . . . so soon.” He shrugs. “Guess things change.”
“Don’t you mean you’ve changed?” I snap.
As we reach the corner of Eighty-Sixth Street, he ignores that last dig and quickly stretches out his arm. My heart balloons. He still doesn’t like me crossing without holding his hand, even with standstill traffic. Always so protective . . .
“Aye, lemme see the phone real quick,” he says, wiggling his fingers.
Pop! Heart deflates.
“Why?
“What you mean ‘why?’ I need to make a call, that’s why!”
“Who you got to call?”
“Yo, why you trying to be all up in my business?”
He’s already called Twig and his mom. Who else is left except—
“Ugh!” I shout. “Are you for real right now?”
“What?”
“You’re trying to call HER? On MY phone!”
He sucks his teeth. “Come on now, I’m not stupid.”
“Then who you calling?”
“Yo, quit playing. I told you, we gotta work together, then—”
“Then what? You can go back to ignoring me? That’s what you want, right?”
I dig the phone out my purse and slap it into his hand. “Here. Call whoever!”
He stares at the phone for a minute, gripping it tight, about to turn it into dust.
“You know, it’s funny how you got
so much to say to me now when you been the one ignoring me!”
“What? You’re the one acting brand-new—”
“Yo, why you being mad difficult right now? Don’t you want to get back home to your real bae, the TV?”
Low. Blow.
“Don’t try to act like she ain’t got you so whipped that you trying to stomp across the entire city to get back to her!”
“Man, whatever! You the one who broke up with me. Remember?”
That’s . . . not exactly true. Yeah, I sent him a text. But I didn’t exactly break up with him. I didn’t say the words “we’re done.” What I said made everything a hazy gray. So really, it was his silence that finished us off. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“What? Got nothing to say now,” he snarls before turning his back to me, stepping closer to the street, letting the traffic drown out his voice. Because he doesn’t want me to know who he’s talking to, when before, we told each other everything. Guess that doesn’t matter anymore.
A girl in overalls exits the underpass from the park with a giant black pit bull. We back out of their way and she gives Kareem a curious once-over, walking by.
Wait . . . is she really checking him out? Right in front of me! Like I’m not standing right here? Well, six feet away from him.
Everyone told me to be careful with Kareem. “Girl, it’s gonna be hard keeping him!” my cousins had told me when we first started dating. “Tall, perfect teeth, a cute-ass smile. He’s a pretty boy. You can’t trust those types.”
Yeah, I guess he’s cute, but he’s also Kareem, the one who can burp the alphabet, rarely uses utensils properly, and thinks Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2 deserved an Oscar. Didn’t think I had much to worry about.
Until I saw it for myself. How all the girls slyly made it known they wanted him. Random text messages, hearts under every online photo, music requests in class. He didn’t seem to notice the thirst, but I did. I just never imagined he’d prove everyone right.
“You were probably going to break up after high school anyways,” my sister had said after it happened. “I mean, you’re pretty and all but he probably wanna be with chicks who be out in these streets. You don’t even like going to the supermarket when it’s crowded. And if you think high school girls are bad, college girls are a whole different beast. Just be glad it happened now.”
And I am glad . . . for the most part. I moved on, took a different route to school, sold my prom ticket, accepted Clark Atlanta, and made Kareem a forbidden subject in the house. As far as I was concerned, he ceased to exist. I don’t even think about him . . . well, that much . . . anymore. But seeing him today totally blindsided me. All I know is, I need that job so I can get out of this city.
Then I’ll never have to see Kareem again.
Made to Fit
Ashley Woodfolk
A brownstone, 6:37 p.m.
I’M STOMPING OUT a literal fire when she walks in with her dog. And all the senior citizens are screaming.
“Nella, be careful!”
“Don’t distract her!”
“This is your fault in the first place!”
“Yeah, Mordy!”
“Oh, shut up, Aida, wouldja?”
“Do you want us to be homeless?”
“Or worse—dead!”
“Won’t be long now for you anyway.”
“Can everyone just shut up?”
Seconds later, I’m breathing hard and standing over a singed playing card, which is still partially under my boot. The elderly residents of Althea House, one member of the senior living facility’s staff, and the girl in the doorway are staring at me. I’m looking down at the carpet. There’s a hole burned into the bluish-greenish rug and I can see clear through it to the hardwood underneath, even though the rec room is lit only by a dozen or so candles.
“Whoa,” the girl in the doorway whispers. She’s surrounded by a halo of light because the sun hasn’t set yet. The room we’re in is pretty dim, but it’s still light enough to see her. And she’s gorgeous.
She’s wearing overalls with a white midriff tank underneath, and I feel peak-gay when my eyes immediately go to the strip of soft-looking brown skin I can see beneath the denim. She has a ton of thick, dark hair, and it’s twisted into two heavy braids, one flopped over each of her narrow shoulders. She has a handful of silver bangles on each wrist and they tinkle every time her dog moves because she’s holding the leash so loosely.
Her dog—an all-black pit bull with a wrinkly muzzle—has a blue bandanna tied around his neck and is wearing a vest that says Love on a Leash. His tail wags so hard it looks like he’s twerking.
The girl’s wire-rimmed glasses are a little crooked and they’re sliding down her wide nose. But she pushes them back up, smiles at me, and slow claps.
I’m not proud to admit it, but staring is one of my (many) vices. And I’m still straight-up ogling her when my phone starts buzzing against my thigh. I jump like I’ve been caught cheating, knowing it’s a text from Bree, and my heart is racing, but I can’t tell if it’s because of my recent stint as a literal fire extinguisher, the message waiting for me, or the girl in the doorway.
I check my phone. It is a message from Bree. I swallow hard and don’t write back.
“Okay!” Mimi, the director of enrichment, says. She was leading the activities and was the one who suggested playing cards in a room full of candles. I suggested not playing in the windowless rec room during a blackout, but she disagreed. Said it would provide “atmosphere.” I glare at her as she claps her hands once, loud. “Card game over.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” says Queenie, my favorite old broad in this joint, tossing the rest of her cards on the table.
“I’m no good at poker anyway,” Miss Sadie says, shrugging. She used to be a kindergarten teacher and it shows. Everything from her pink cardi to her soft voice makes me want to recite nursery rhymes.
Pearl, who pretends to be above it all, elbows her best friend, Birdie, who just moved in. “Told you these people were crazy,” Pearl says, and Birdie looks nervous and adds, “Yeah, but at least it’s distracting me from thinking about how dark it’s gonna be in here in a few hours.”
Aida shakes her head, adjusts her hijab, and rolls her eyes at her husband, Mordechai, whose yarmulke is crooked atop his balding head, while setting down her cards too. (I still don’t know how the two of them ended up together.)
Grandpop Ike sighs and puts his heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Good job, kiddo,” he says, looking down at the burned rug.
But I’m still looking at her.
“Thank God you’re here, Joss,” I hear Mimi say as she walks over to the girl in the doorway. “I know it’s going to be a long night, and Mordechai already almost burned the place down. If Nella hadn’t been here . . .”
So this is Joss. Which means this dog is the all-time famous—
“Ziggy!” Mordechai shouts. He’s rolling his wheelchair across the room, leaning over to scratch the dog behind the ears as Joss says, “Oh, you remember Ziggy today, huh? What about me? Who am I, Mr. M?”
“You’re Jocelyn Williams, of course,” Mordechai says without hesitation, and I grin, pleasantly surprised. It’s touch and go when it comes to his memory these days. “What is it you kids say?” he continues. “Duh?”
Joss is laughing and now she’s hugging Mimi and telling her she came as quickly as she could. It’s like all the residents of Althea House have forgotten about the mortal danger they were in seconds ago because Joss and Ziggy are here now and nothing else matters. Ziggy is still doing his butt-shaking tail wag and is licking Mordechai’s face, and I’ve never seen Mr. M so happy. Even Aida, who is normally a total grump, is smiling, and when Ziggy flips onto his back, she bends down and gives him a belly rub.
Joss walks over to me and extends one of her jangly arms. I look at her bracelets and then up at her eyes. They’re such a dark shade of brown that they look black, and her gaze feels as heavy as th
e color. “Hey. You must be Ike’s granddaughter. He talks about you all the time. I’m Joss, and don’t tell anyone but,” she steps closer and whispers, “your grandpa is my favorite.”
Pop totally hears her, and he wiggles his eyebrows. “Feeling’s mutual, little lady,” he says.
I’m remembering all the things Grandpop Ike has said about Jocelyn, the girl who brings her therapy-certified dog to Althea House every Tuesday afternoon. That she’s pretty and sweet and so, so smart. That her dog has the purest soul on earth. That together they seem almost too good to be true. That I’d love her if we ever met. “I think Joss likes the ladies too, boo,” he told me with a wink just last week; icing on the She’s-Perfect-for-You cake he’s been baking since school let out for the summer, and really since I came out to him. I’ve never had a girlfriend, and it seems like everyone is really invested in changing that for me before I go to college.
It’s why I’ve avoided visiting him on Tuesdays—I didn’t want to bump into Joss and Ziggy, the dynamic duo he was convinced I’d be obsessed with.
But now, even though it’s a Friday, they’re here. And I’m here. I can’t hide from the possibility of her anymore, even in the steadily growing dark.
I swallow hard and reach for her hand, reminding myself that I can’t afford to fall for another perfect girl. When people seem too good to be true, they usually are, and if I learned anything at all from Bree, it’s that.
“Hey,” I say, trying to push thoughts of Bree far, far away. “Cute dog.”
“I know, right?” Joss says, glancing back at him. “Zig’s the best.” She looks at the burned carpet and makes a face. “So, like, what exactly happened?”
Althea House is an actual house: a hundred-year-old, ivy-covered brownstone on the Upper West Side where a pair of best friends, Marie-Jeanne Beauvais and Althea Walker, had lived together after their children grew up and their husbands passed away. They were friends until the literal end, and when Althea died suddenly a decade ago, Marie-Jeanne converted their house into a senior living facility and named it after her friend, hoping it would bring joy to the later years of other senior citizens’ lives the way it had for them.
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