We Are Not Like Them

by Christine Pride

  In the small room of a Korean karaoke bar near campus with the strobe lights flashing, a giant disco ball floating over the stage, Riley and I belted out the lyrics to “Shoop,” “Since U Been Gone,” and our go-to classic: “Real Love.” It was strange to see how much Riley had come out of her shell—singing, laughing, even grinding her hips against some guy from her Intro to Psych class. She seemed so confident, sure of herself, now that she was out here in the world and basically the model student: editor of the college newspaper, dean’s list, treasurer of her class. It made me wonder how Riley saw me now. As a loser who hadn’t gone to college? Someone she was outgrowing? I hated all this self-doubt and threw myself into shot after shot of something called a Wild Willie, to chase it away, until my mood finally shifted from gloomy to sentimental. I watched as Riley sang “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” one hand in the air, the other around a bright pink vodka concoction, and I danced right up next to her, our sweaty bodies moving side by side.

  “We’re always going to be friends, right?” I screamed into her ear.

  She turned to look at me like I was a little crazy. “Of course, silly.”

  I could barely make out the words over the music, but I know that’s what she said. Then she grabbed my arm so I’d look at her again, raised her finger to her left eyebrow, and pulled me close to her as the bass pulsed through us like a heartbeat.

  I woke up with a throbbing headache the next day, pressed against Riley in her twin bed, staring at the calendar over her desk, the little squares filled with due dates and tests and plans, and thought, This could have been my life. This should be my life. I tried to blame the bitterness on hangover anxiety. I know it was something else though, something uglier: jealousy. Riley was having the time of her life, while I was waitressing at the Olive Garden, which left me smelling like garlic and was giving me love handles thanks to all the unlimited breadsticks.

  It didn’t help that every single time Riley had introduced me to someone, they’d asked where I went to college, and all I could say was, “Oh, I’m not in school,” trying not to sound defensive about it. I wasn’t going to admit that I’d already dropped out of community college.

  Their surprised and awkward reactions were humiliating, as if I’d confessed I didn’t own a pair of shoes. All those kids assumed college was a foregone conclusion, like breathing. It didn’t even occur to them that Riley would have a friend who didn’t go. I remember the day we both got into Drexel. I must have stared at the photos on the “Welcome” brochure for hours, imagining myself lying in the grass in the quad, laughing with my new friends, or tapping away on a shiny new laptop covered in cool stickers. Riley and I side by side for everything. And then there’d be Lou’s proud expression when she saw me in my cap and gown and toasted me as the first in our family to graduate from college. Instead, Lou narrowed her eyes when I handed her the acceptance letter and financial aid documents. “I don’t do banks, and we ain’t gonna qualify for free money, because I don’t want the government knowing how much I make. That’s exactly why I don’t file taxes. Don’t need to let those imbeciles waste my hard-earned money. Sorry, Charlie.”

  I pretended I only applied to see if I could get in and that I didn’t care one way or another. And I pretended to be happier than I actually felt when Riley was offered scholarship after scholarship, three total to my none, even though we ran the same relay in high school, got the same times, won the same medals. I celebrated at the Wilsons’ with a sheet cake under a giant arc of purple and white balloons when Riley decided to go to Northwestern, but the bitterness was something I could taste, like the too-sweet strawberry icing, every time I thought about how I could have gotten a scholarship and gone to college if I’d been Black like my best friend. Then I hated myself for thinking that. Riley worked hard, harder than me, harder than anyone. And of course she deserved good things. She deserved everything.

  This keeps happening to me lately, random memories of Riley popping up, stuff I haven’t thought about in years. As if to taunt me, unbelievably, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” blares out of the speakers. I flick off the radio, shutting Whitney Houston right up. Now there’s only the muffled hush of heavy snow falling around the car, broken by the rhythmic swoosh of the wipers. The car fishtails again as I slow at a light on the empty road and curse myself for how incredibly stupid I was to have snuck out of my in-laws’ house in this weather, but there’s a box of photos I gotta get from our place. I need the pictures to finish Kevin’s present—a scrapbook—in time for Christmas. Cookie’s got all the supplies in her craft room, and I keep telling myself it’s thoughtful and not lame, the tried-and-true rationale for everyone who can’t afford a real gift. I have one more payment left on Kevin’s new bulletproof vest, and I could have swung it, but what’s the point now, with him on leave, everything in limbo? The wheels spin as I accelerate, searching for traction, and Chase does a flip in my stomach as if to remind me of the stakes of my recklessness. If Kevin knew I was out here in this weather, he would lose it—he’s seen too many fatal accidents. I snuck out of the house after everyone was asleep. Kevin FaceTimed with Ramirez for a good hour earlier, after I begged and pleaded with him to finally call his friend back. Ramirez has called twice a day since the shooting, sometimes more, but Kevin’s been dodging him.

  “I can’t handle talking to him, Jenny,” he told me. “I keep thinking about how if he hadn’t left, then I wouldn’t have been paired with Cameron, and none of this would have happened. I can’t blame Ramirez for moving. That’s crazy, but…”

  Tonight I shoved the phone in his face when Ramirez called. “Just talk to him. He loves you.” I needed his mood to be someone else’s responsibility and I thought it might cheer him up, but it completely backfired.

  “Ramirez kept asking me to go over exactly what happened, like I haven’t already done that a thousand times.” He was clearly upset about something Ramirez had said to him but wouldn’t tell me what it was. When they drove together every day, they might have bickered like two old men on a fishing trip, but I couldn’t remember a time when they were actually mad at each other. He stomped off to the basement to play video games, and by the time I slipped out of the house, he’d fallen asleep on the ratty old futon.

  I hit the brakes to slow down, and the car slides again, sending a fresh wave of anxious chills through me. You’ve come too far to turn around now. Besides, this late at night, in the middle of a snowstorm, is probably the only time I can get into my own house without being harassed by the media or protesters. Even after nearly three weeks, there are still a few stubborn reporters camped out there, hoping to thrust a microphone in our faces, or protesters who throw eggs at our front door. Mrs. J still texts me constantly with updates, including the fact that other people on our street have been complaining.

  Please say sorry to the other neighbors, was all I could send back. What else was there to say? Our neighbors hate us now too. Join the club.

  I switch off the headlights as I pull into the cul-de-sac and sit in the car, squinting into the darkness. The street’s eerily quiet; a few lights dot windows here and there. It feels safe enough to go inside. Still, my heart races as I trudge to the front door, keys at the ready. Between my huge belly and the heavy snow boots, tight on my swollen ankles, I’m about as graceful as a moose in heels, but I move as quickly and stealthily as I can, a thief breaking into my own home.

  By the first step of the porch, I spot the streaks of dried egg yolk that dribble down our black front door. As I turn the key in the lock and step forward, something squishes beneath my boot—a white plastic bag that had blended in with the snowdrifts. I know exactly what’s inside without touching it: someone has left a bag of human shit on our doorstep.

  I choke back a gag and throw open the front door. It catches on a mountain of mail, mostly bills, some catalogs and grocery store circulars. I groan as I bend over awkwardly to gather up the pile. Bending over has become such a challenge that anything I drop on the fl
oor is just dead to me. I tiptoe to the kitchen before I have a chance to wonder why I’m sneaking around an empty house. Am I worried I’ll wake the ghosts of our former life?

  The pile of mail lands on the kitchen table with a thud; I jump at the sound. I turn on the light over the oven instead of the overhead. No reason to alert the neighbors that I’m back after all this time. Shards of my POCONOS IS FOR LOVERS mug, the one I was drinking from the morning after the shooting, are still scattered across the tile floor. The daisies on the table are brown and wilted.

  I glance over at the Realtor’s exam book on the counter, its glossy cover dulled by a thin layer of dust. The test is scheduled for next week. I’ve already decided not to bother; it feels silly now. It’s not like I told anyone other than Kevin that I was taking it anyway. I was waiting until I passed—if I passed—to spring the news. Riley would be so proud of me, and maybe even a little shocked. I can still see the look on her face when I told her I was quitting my job. I didn’t imagine the judgment there. It’s not like I’m dying to be a stay-at-home mom; it’s not really a choice. We did the math, and day care costs more than my salary, so we’d essentially lose money if I continued working. But now I’ll have to find a way. I have to be prepared to support my family, whatever may come.

  I drag the trash bin over to the fridge and open it, holding my nose against the spoiled food that awaits me inside. I pour the rancid milk down the sink, drop the carton in the trash. I walk over to the table, grab the dead flowers, and dump them in too, then drop the vase in the sink after pouring out the thick sludge of brown water. A sharp stab of pain in my back makes me double over and grab the counter ledge. Just a cramp, but it’s happening more and more. Everything hurts all the time. My boobs throb like they’ve been slammed in a vise; my lower back pinches; a dull ache has settled into my hip bones. At least my blood pressure is better. As soon as I left my doctor’s appointment last week, I went straight to Walgreens and bought myself a monitor. I take my blood pressure obsessively now, at least a dozen times a day.

  When the pain lets up, I ease myself into a chair at the kitchen table and flip through the mail. I don’t know why I bother when I know exactly what’s inside this stack of envelopes: angry demands for money with lots of red ink. The electricity will be shut off if we don’t pay the PECO bill soon. We owe the fertility doctor about ten grand, and our credit cards are maxed out. For now, Kevin still has his health insurance, even though he’s on administrative leave, but if something happens before the baby is born and we lose our health insurance… I press my fingers to my temples, hard, to shut down the thought.

  The stack of bills reminds me that we’ll never get out of debt: $36,460. The exact amount flashes in my brain like a neon sign. I lied to Riley that it was $30,000, told myself that I was just rounding down. Besides, at a certain point, it doesn’t even matter. It’s like a six-foot-deep hole; what’s another six inches when you’re trying to climb out?

  I let the bills fall into the trash one by one. I’d rather set them on fire, watch all these stupid numbers go up in smoke. I settle for the garbage, without even opening them, because what the hell—they’ll just send more anyway. At the bottom of the stack of mail are two plain envelopes, hand-addressed to Kevin. At least they’re not bills. They’re probably something worse.

  My index finger catches on the lip of the envelope. It tears a small gash across my skin. I put my finger in my mouth to suck away the blood and examine the paper inside. It takes me a second to register what I’m seeing—an image of a coffin, Justin Dwyer’s coffin—and to make sense of the words across the top. BABY KILLER. I toss the paper away from me like it’s on fire.

  Seeing this picture is almost as wrenching as the real-life version. Attending that funeral has to be one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done. I’m still not exactly sure why I forced myself to go—maybe to torture myself? To make amends? To prove something? But what was I proving? I have no idea. Maybe it was that I owed them, him and his mother. I owed it to them to acknowledge what happened even if I, we, couldn’t take it back—no one could. Obviously, Kevin couldn’t have gone. But no one thought I should go either.

  “For God’s sake,” Cookie had said, “what good will it do?”

  Nothing. It would do absolutely nothing. It wouldn’t bring the boy back. It wouldn’t return the bullets to my husband’s gun. I went anyway.

  In a sea of all those people, Riley was the first person I saw, or the back of her head, really. I fixated on her sleek French twist the entire service so I could avoid making eye contact with anyone around me. The few faces I glimpsed looked wounded or angry.

  When the uncle stood to speak, his eyes had been wide with fury. It was like he was speaking directly to me when he asked, “Why, why, why?” in a voice so desperate I had to look away.

  The middle-aged Black woman sitting beside me in the back row moaned like she had a hurt deep in her bones. “When will they stop killing our boys?” she said. It was almost exactly what one of the LEO wives, a white woman, had said back at Jamal’s funeral.

  “When’s it going to stop? When are these streets going to be safe for our boys?” Same streets, different boys.

  During Justin’s funeral, each time I caught Riley glancing over at Tamara, all distressed and concerned, was like being stabbed with a dagger. I get that this is unfair, horrible of me, petty even, but sometimes it’s easier to be angry. It’s easier to let myself think, Fuck Riley.

  At the end of the service, as I was walking out, emotionally exhausted, I sensed her eyes on the back of my head. I even had this pathetic hope that she’d call out to me, that maybe we could talk for a few minutes, though I know this was stupid of me—dangerous even—on a lot of levels. I’d hoped to at least see that familiar affection on my friend’s face, but there was only her blank canvas stare, her mask, as I raised my hand, a hello and a goodbye at once.

  I pick up the picture of the casket and slowly tear it in half, then in half again. I’m furiously ripping it into smaller and smaller shreds. The white flecks litter the floor around me like the snow outside. When I’m done, I reach for the other envelope, ready for something else to destroy. What will it be this time? A death threat? Anthrax? I’m surprised to find a personal check made out to Kevin from something called the Order of Kings. For $10,000. I must be seeing things. I hold it up again, closer this time, and the numbers are right there: $10,000. The note is one line in a handwritten scrawl.

  We protect our own.

  Who the hell are these guys? I google “the Order of Kings” on my phone. Their website has a hazy description, but its imagery (a skull made of the Confederate flag) and their mission statement (“righteous people, fighting to preserve White Western culture”) tell me everything I need to know.

  I’m about to click on the menu to learn more about “Our History” when an Instagram notification appears on the screen.

  The fact that I’ve kept my Instagram account is a dirty secret. Julia Sanchez made it clear that we’re supposed to be completely off social media. It makes sense to protect myself from the online equivalent of shit on my doorstep. I deleted my Facebook account altogether after it filled up with vile rants. Annie says I should have kept it just to log in to the police wives FB group so that I would have support, but I still haven’t been active at all, really, since I posted a couple of cute pictures of Kevin in his uniform back in the early days. Annie sends me screenshots sometimes of the messages, which is nice. A woman named Barb I met at the FOP coat drive last year wrote, God made strong women police wives, you know. If He didn’t think we could handle it He woulda given us accountants or dentists. But He gave you and me cops because he knew we could take it. When other people walk away from danger our men walk toward it. And we have their six. And all of us have yours too, Jennifer. But the couple of times I logged on myself before I deleted my account, there were a few messages that made me queasy. Like one chick who said, Hey, they’re either with us or against us an
d we’re the ones with guns.

  But somehow I can’t quit Instagram. From time to time over the last few weeks—mostly in the middle of the night—I force myself to look. The pain is like pressing on a bruise as I read endless rants about the police, or look at happy carefree families on stupidly gorgeous beaches, or see ads for extensions that make me miss my long hair—the usual terrible but addictive schizophrenic medley. It’s all a bunch of empty bullshit, like everyone’s just trying to outdo each other for the likes. If only we could keep it completely real. Like, what would happen if I posted right now, bloodshot eyes, ratty hair, a caption that reads, “I give up. We ARE monsters.” How many likes would I get for that? My fingers keep swiping. Don’t do it, I tell myself, even as the app opens.

  I navigate to the home feed, the most recent photo, and I’m overcome with that disorienting feeling you get when you see someone out of context, your teacher at the grocery store, your doctor in a public restroom. I know the person is familiar, but I still can’t quite place her. It’s an old black-and-white picture from the sixties—a tall Black woman leans against an old car, wearing white gloves, a pillbox hat.