“Mississippi,” we all said.
“Oh my God!” She acted like we said Mars. “Your accents!”
I honestly didn’t notice that I had one until I started talking in New York. Now I realize that my words ooze out like maple syrup, a foreign sound to them. They spit theirs out fast, like holding them too long will burn their tongues. A southerner just has to try to catch up.
My uncle Graham claims he was quiet when he first moved to New York because he was ashamed of his accent. He likes to tell people he “ran from Mississippi like Flo Jo with a fire on her behind” and never looked back. He and his husband, Jean Claude, live in Brooklyn with their daughter, Lana, and son, Langston. I was hoping to go to Brooklyn to visit them somehow, but I doubt I can get away from Mrs. Tucker for a couple of hours.
Jaysean leans over the rail of the tour bus. We’re inching along at the end of the park. Washington Square Park, I think that’s what it is. “I could fuck up some pizza right now,” Jaysean says.
“Forget pizza, I’m tryna holla,” says Rashad. He leans over the railing and yells out, “Ay, shawty! What that mouth do?”
Ewww! He would say some nasty mess like that.
“Man, have some manners!” says Micah. “Act like you been somewhere before.”
“You know damn well that fool ain’t been nowhere,” Tre’Shawn says, and he and Micah share a laugh. Tre’Shawn doesn’t know that in some ways they’ve been sharing parts of me too.
Tre’Shawn looks at me, a boyish smile playing at his lips. “I’m just lucky I ain’t gotta holla at nobody. I got everything I need right here.”
He leans over to kiss me, and I feel Micah watching.
I pull back, but not ’cause of Micah. I don’t think.
Tre’Shawn sighs. “Dang, Kayla. You won’t let this go, huh? It’s been almost a week.”
“You lied to me, Tre.”
“Yep! On period,” Jazmyn says behind us.
Tre’Shawn glares back at her. “Mind your business, damn!” He looks at me. “I told you I’m sorry. Is it really that big of a deal?”
“It must’ve been for you to lie about it,” I say. “All you had to do was tell me you were hanging with your boys. Why say you were sick just to skip being with me?”
It aches my throat to even say that. Now, let me be clear: I am not a clingy girlfriend. And even if I was, that doesn’t make it cool to lie.
Tre’Shawn is quiet at first. The bus picks up a little speed and makes a turn, causing a car near us to honk. That’s the soundtrack of New York City—honking horns. I’ve heard more of them in two days here than I’ve heard my whole life back home. Our driver, Mr. Wright, fusses from the main level of the bus, spitting out cusswords in his thick Jamaican accent. Earlier, Mrs. Tucker asked him where he was from too.
“Earth,” he said. “Still debating if I’m staying, though.”
The class group chat agreed—he’s our favorite bus driver so far.
After a moment, Tre’Shawn sighs. “I guess I didn’t wanna upset you, Kayla. You know I don’t like to let you down. And if we keeping it one hunnid? That show you wanted us to binge-watch looked corny as shit.”
“For your information, I pick out good shows.”
“The same way you pick out good football teams?” he says.
“Um, as a Falcons fan, you cannot ever talk about other teams being bad,” I say. “Y’all were up twenty-eight to three and still lost the Super Bowl to the Patriots.”
He winces. “You had to go there, huh?”
“You asked for it by throwing shade at my Saints,” I say. “Don’t be mad because you’re probably the only Falcons fan in the entire state of Mississippi.”
Tre pretends to cough. “The Ain’ts” he says, and coughs again.
I examine his hand. “That’s a nice Super Bowl ring you’ve—ah, nope. Not one.”
Tre snatches his hand away, and I bust out laughing. Back home, football is religion, and the Saints are . . . well, the patron saints. I was practically born in black and gold. The first outfit my daddy put on me was a Saints jersey. (The second one was a Jackson State University T-shirt because JSU is a sub-religion in our house, followed closely by Delta Sigma Theta sorority and Omega Psi Phi fraternity.)
We watch every Saints game as a family—me, Momma, Daddy, my big sister, Ciara, and my big brother, Junior—and we often make the three-hour drive to NOLA to our beloved Superdome. It’s a miracle Tre’Shawn and I have lasted this long with him being a fan of the Falcons. My family calls them the Failcons. One time the Saints were playing the Falcons, and Daddy and Junior forbid Tre from coming in the house. Said he’d have to watch from the porch. Momma let him in but made him sit on the other side of the den. At least she compromised.
Tre cups my cheek. “Awful football choices aside, I love you,” he says. “Hanging with my boys was fun, but at the end of the day I would much rather been with you, watching that corny show.”
“Or even a Saints game?” I ask.
Tre frowns. “I guess. But I’d definitely root against them.”
“You’re a sad, sad man.”
“Whatever, Kay,” he says, with a laugh. “Can you forgive me?”
Out the corner of my eye, I see Micah watching us. The fact that I care that he’s watching gives me no right to be mad at Tre’Shawn.
“Yeah. I forgive you.”
I let him kiss me this time. It’s comforting and familiar. I could kiss a hundred people with my eyes closed, and I could easily pick out Tre’Shawn’s lips from the rest. He’s been my first everything—first kiss in fourth grade, first boyfriend in eighth, first love, first person I had sex with. We’ve been a couple for so long that people at school practically combine our names. Tre-N-Kay. Everyone expects us to be together forever. What do I look like, not living up to their expectations?
That’s who I am. Kayla Simmons, expectations meeter. Besides, I love Tre. I could honestly see myself with him for the rest of my life.
But every now and then there’s this little voice in my head that wonders if that’s because he’s the only person I’ve ever been with. It’s kinda like jeans. I know that sounds weird, but when you get that one pair that just goes right with everything, it’s hard to let them go. That one pair is usually as comfortable as sweatpants, too, and they’re perfect on those frustrating days where nothing else fits right. That’s Tre’Shawn for me.
Wait, am I really comparing my boyfriend to a pair of jeans?
I ignore all of that and kiss Tre some more. I love the taste of his lips, sweet and sticky ’cause of the cotton candy we shared earlier in Times Square before we hopped on the tour bus. His hand travels under my T-shirt, fingers gently grazing my back. That his go-to move. He likes the way it gives me goose bumps.
“Hey, hey, hey! No, no, no!” Mrs. Tucker bounds down the aisle. She pulls me back from Tre’Shawn. I almost ask her what gives her the right to touch me.
“No hooking up, please!” she says, sounding real strained. I mean, the Karen is all up in her voice. “Kayla, sit with Jazmyn. Tre’Shawn, you sit with Micah.”
Oh, shit.
No.
New York City just got a whole lot smaller.
“This is SoHo,” Mr. Wright, our driver, says, “where they’ll charge you a salary for a glass of water and call it gourmet.”
Everybody laughs, even Mrs. On-the-Edge Tucker. We’ve finally gotten away from Washington Square Park. Mr. Wright has been cussing other drivers out left and right so he can maneuver the streets and continue our tour of the city. Either Mrs. Tucker went Karenator on him, aka the final form of Karen, or he’s dedicated to his job. I doubt that man is shook by her, so he’s probably dedicated to his job.
SoHo seems to be my kinda place. There are upscale boutiques everywhere that sell clothes I may never be able to afford. A girl can look, though. The architecture of the neighborhood screams artsy. In fact, the word artsy was probably made just to describe SoHo. This is the one neighborhood
Momma still talks about to this day. She said it was her favorite place to people watch when she and Daddy visited.
Now here I am, watching people sit at tables outside of restaurants and have candlelit dinners. This one couple has their chairs together close and they cuddle up to look at a phone, the light of it illuminating their faces. It’s too cute not to stare.
I bet neither one of them ever compared the other one to jeans or caught feelings for someone else.
I stretch my neck to try to catch a glance at Tre and Micah for the millionth time. Mrs. Tucker’s new seating arrangements took Rashad from the front row and put him directly in front of me. Mrs. Tucker’s in his old seat now so she can “have a good view of all of us.” But wide-shouldered Rashad is making it hard for me to see my boyfriend and my—
My nothing-but-something. That’s what Micah is.
“Girl, you okay?” Jazmyn asks beside me.
Not in the least bit. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Leave it to Tuckaren to kill somebody’s vibe,” she says. She uses a pen to scratch a hard-to-reach spot under her bun.
She says something else, but I miss it because Micah and Tre’Shawn are laughing up front. I know both of their laughs well enough to recognize them without seeing them. Tre does this kinda ki-ki laugh that literally sounds like he’s saying “ki-ki.” Micah’s laughs come straight from his gut and sound like somebody’s granddaddy who used to smoke.
Fact: Being fine does not mean you automatically have a nice laugh.
Listening to them laugh makes my brain do that annoying thing where it immediately thinks the worst. My therapist says it’s part of my anxiety—expect bad stuff as opposed to good things so I won’t be hurt. Anxiety plays the most frustrating mind games. My therapist gave me some exercises to try to combat it, but not a single method is working right now. Instead I’m wondering if Micah and Tre’Shawn are laughing about me. I’m one of the main things they have in common, right? It would make sense.
Micah’s probably like, Yo, did she freak out the first time you tried to kiss her too?
And Tre goes, Nah, bruh, but we were in like fourth grade. Didn’t know what the hell we were doing anyway. She was scared as hell that she got pregnant ’cause our tongues touched.
And that would lead to them laughing like they are right now.
“Kay!” Jazmyn says my name like it’s her tenth time calling me. “Dang, girl. What’s wrong with you, for real?”
I seriously have to get out of my own head. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“I said, are you and Tre’Shawn good?”
“For now, yeah.”
“For now?” Jazymn says. “Is he on some fuck boy shit?”
I roll my eyes. “Jazzy. Tre’Shawn is not a fuck boy.”
“He lied so he could hang out with those idiots he calls friends. Sounds like one to me.”
I shake my head at her. I’ve gotta admit, every single person on earth needs a Jazzy in their life. She’s been my best friend since before I knew what a friend was. Our parents were soros and frat brothers, and they tailgated at every JSU football game together. Jazzy’s parents filed for divorce a few months ago, so that’s not happening anymore. She’s quick to stick up for me. Probably too quick at times. But hey, I go just as hard for her too. You mess with one of us, you mess with both of us. And that’s on that.
When it comes to Tre’Shawn, she’s not a fan at all. I don’t honestly get it. Pretty much everybody loves Tre. But ever since our elementary school days, Jazzy will take one look at Tre’Shawn, roll her eyes, and hiss, “Ooooh, I can’t stand him!”
In other words, this ain’t new.
“He wasn’t being a fuck boy,” I tell her. “He just didn’t wanna binge-watch my shows.”
“That’s a sorry reason to lie, Kay,” she says. “I don’t be wanting to watch your corny shows either, but at least I tell you to your face.”
“Excuse you?”
“Kayla,” she says, tilting her head. Her tone makes it seem like this is a come-to-Jesus meeting. “Don’t nobody wanna watch Gilmore Girls reruns but you. Own that.”
“Whatever. It’s better than watching the same episodes of Supernatural over and over like some people.”
“That is one of the greatest shows to ever exist, and you will deal,” she says.
“Mmmhmmm, sure,” I say, as my phone vibrates in my lap. It’s my family. Again. Because I’m the baby of the Simmons gang, you’d think that my parents would’ve been a bit more chill with me. They managed to get two other kids to adulthood in one piece each, you know? Maybe they could loosen the reins a bit. Never. In fact, instead of having two parents, I kinda have four with my brother and sister. The family group chat has been popping since the blackout. This time, it’s my sister, Ciara. It’s around nine a.m. in Tokyo, where she’s doing a semester.
Kay-Kay, y’all still stuck on the bus?
Before I can even reply, my brother, Junior, butts in.
Get out and walk, sis.
Then he adds, You and Tre better not be fooling around in the dark.
Oh my God. I quickly type out, I’m not walking. I don’t know where to go. And don’t worry about us.
I barely put my phone down when it dings again. This time, it’s Daddy.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I can’t with them right now. I can’t.
Luckily, Momma comes to the rescue.
I’m sure Mrs. Tucker is keeping a close eye on them, Freddie. That woman could work for the Secret Service, as thorough as she is.
Then Daddy goes, I still don’t trust that New York mess. This could be more than just a little blackout. Something more serious.
It wasn’t in 2003, Momma adds.
Luckily, Daddy writes. Besides, you were the one who panicked the most back then.
Ooop, Ciara writes.
I send the two eyes emoji.
Momma sends back the side-eye one.
Kay-Kay, keep trying your Uncle Graham, Daddy writes. If you can’t get him, find the US Embassy. Tell them your granddaddy was a Vietnam vet. They’ll help you out.
Is this man serious?
Ciara writes back, Daddy, there’s no need for a US embassy in New York. It’s part of the United States.
Daddy goes, Could’ve fooled me! Whole different country from here!
Here comes Junior.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. . . .
Then Daddy says, Boy, you’re Mississippi born and bred. Don’t act brand-new ’cause you’re in Dallas.
Momma says, Now that’s a whole different country. Texas is like its own continent.
Ciara says, It’s bigger than some countries too.
Hold up. How did this become a geography lesson all of a sudden? I sigh and type, Gotta save my battery. Putting my phone away. Will keep y’all posted. Love you!
I stick my phone in my backpack and peek up ahead again. Tre’Shawn and Micah are having a real animated conversation. Micah’s hands never stay still as he talks, and Tre tends to nod a lot. In some universe, they would be best friends. They like the same video games, the same music, the same sports. The same girl.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why I caught feelings for Micah, because he’s so similar to what I already know. Same brand of jeans but a different style. I’ve quickly realized though there’s not always logic with feelings. Logic is a brain thing, and the heart has a mind of its own. It doesn’t need the brain, no matter how much I wish it did.
“Okay, what’s up?” Jazmyn says.
I look at her. “Huh?”
“Why are you on the verge of freaking out over Tre being up there?”
“I’m not freaking—”
“Kay, you can’t see your face, but I can,” she says. “You’re almost breaking a sweat, and don’t tell me it’s ’cause of this ‘heat wave’ either. This is cool compared to at home.”
Very true. New Yorkers love to complain about the heat and humidity here,
and I’m still trying to figure out what humidity they’re talking about. Mississippi is a gigantic sauna for most of the year. This is nothing.
I rub the back of my neck. Jazzy’s gonna bug me ’til I spill. I haven’t told anybody about me and Micah. Not that there’s a me and Micah. But the stuff going on between us, if there’s something going on between us—see? I don’t even know where to begin.
So I don’t. I pull up the text message and hand Jazzy my phone.
It lights up her face in the dark, and her eyes get wide. “Holy sh—Kay.” She looks at me. “This is from—”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Have y’all been—?”
“We’ve nothing,” I say. “Well, we hung out a few times. That’s it.”
“When? You didn’t tell me!”
I should’ve known that was coming. “It wasn’t a big deal, Jazzy.”
“Um, it was to someone.” She holds my phone up.
I sigh through my nose. “Apparently.”
“You feel the same way?”
I shrug.
“Damn,” she says, and hands me my phone. “This is a lot, Kay.”
“I know. And now—” I nod at my boyfriend sitting with my crush.
“No wonder you’re freaking out.”
“Right.” I close my eyes. My head throbs from all the drama. “What should I do, Jazzy?”
I’ve wanted to ask somebody that for months now, but I never knew who I could ask. Jazmyn’s usually my first choice, but her parents’ divorce is enough for her to deal with. My second option is Ciara, but I didn’t wanna dump this on her. It seems minor compared with all she’s dealing with while being Black in Japan. There’s no third or fourth option who won’t tell my business all over the school. My mom? She’d be like, Give it to God, baby. I doubt that God cares about high school love triangles when there are famines and disease all over the world.
Jazmyn scratches her hair with her pen again. “The answer is obvious, Kay. Drop Tre’Shawn and get with that fine-ass Micah.”
I almost choke. “What?”
“You heard me. You should’ve been dropped that fool. I can name a thousand legitimate reasons why y’all shouldn’t be together.”
Blackout Page 14
