by Natasha Díaz
The moment everyone is gone, Jesus’s knees buckle and I hug him tight until his breathing calms and he is able to hold his body weight up on his own.
“We’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay,” I say in his ear as he clutches my back, shaking.
I wait inside the school until my parents can come pick me up—school policy after a physical altercation. They could expel me right now and I wouldn’t care, I just want to go home. My worry for Jesus feels like a cement block on my heart. Pulling my soul to the depths of despair. He could barely get himself into a cab. I told him he could wait, we would drop him off, but he didn’t want to be here, and I don’t blame him.
“NEVAEH!” my mom screams as she runs down the school hall like a lunatic, passing me accidentally.
Principal Lackey runs out of her office, bumping my mother with the door.
“Whoops! Mrs. Levitz.” She greets us as though we are being welcomed to a holiday party. “How lovely to see you!”
“It’s Ms. Paire now,” my mother snaps, cradling me in her arms.
“I’m sorry, of course. Will, um, Mr. Levitz be joining us?”
My mom steps forward and assumes the stance of a racehorse before the starting shot. “What is being done about this?” she demands. “There are videos all over the internet. That man should have never been an employee here!”
“Mr. Miller was a temporary replacement, and I assure you, he has been let go,” Mrs. Lackey says, regaining her composure. “Since you have seen the videos, you also know that this all started with Nevaeh initiating a physical altercation. As I have just informed the Jacksons, Nevaeh has been formally suspended while we decide how to handle this. We will have copies of homework assignments sent home every day, and…I think it best that you have a lawyer present when we reconvene.” Mrs. Lackey waits for a moment and then turns and closes the door to her office behind her.
“I’m so sorry that happened.”
We turn to find Mr. Bowels sitting in a chair in the hallway. He looks up at me, still in disbelief, and asks, “Are you okay?”
My lip quivers as fear and pain and horror and humiliation rush through my body after an hour of numbness. This is the first time anyone has asked me that question since everything went down. My nerve endings feel like they have been exposed and set on fire, and the room closes in. I can’t breathe or see or do anything but fall into an unknown inferno.
Strong arms with the softest skin I’ve ever felt catch me.
“I’ve got you,” my mom says. “I’ve got you now.”
Chapter 37
There was a flower
Who grew on the edge of a hill
That overlooked a city filled with buses and children and ice cream,
And five golden retriever puppies who trotted behind their owners wherever they went.
There was a man as well.
He chattered about dreams and wept for loss.
Translated through petals and soil,
What the flower heard was wind and bees,
And the spray of grass across his forehead,
And his breath adorned with scotch and caramels.
He was hers,
As was the city.
The new buildings sprouted from the center below, a challenge.
Or a bull’s-eye.
Or a monument.
Or a tombstone.
She watched locusts sheathed in slim-fit jeans and vapor.
Marching, small as ants from her vantage point,
Spilling waste and terror.
The man came on his final day.
When grass molded to fit his body, a God-made Tempur-Pedic pad,
She reached her petals up to try to speak,
To beg him to fight,
To not give in,
But it was too late.
And he fell back onto her, pulling her from her place.
Only four puppies returned in the sun,
Panting and glad and unaware that everything was over.
The clouds cried when his body was removed,
Carrying the flower over what was left of the city,
Ashes scattered onto those she had so carefully protected for the longest time
and failed.
* * *
—
Jordan and Janae and Anita receive me on the stoop steps with blankets and bowls of ice cream and announce that Sister Act 2 has been cued up on the TV. Their wet eyes scan my person for damage before ushering me into the house like a guarded treasure.
The force of Jerry’s body when he barrels toward me sends us both slamming against a wall. My arms barely fit around his chubby frame, so I rub the spot on his back between his shoulder blades until his breathing calms.
“Hey.” I pull his face up to mine. “I’m okay, okay?”
“You almost weren’t,” he blubbers, and pushes his head back into my chest to squeeze me a little longer.
“All right, that’s enough.” Anita sniffles and peels Jerry off me, passing him back to Zeke. “Come on.” She takes my hand and leads me and my mom deeper into the house.
Everyone keeps checking in, asking if I need anything. I know they’re trying to help and process what happened and be grateful that no one was too badly injured and let their anger out and make sure everyone gets fed. They want to keep living, because tonight, at the end of this story, we all did—I get it, but I just want to shut everything out.
I am fine; I always was. That guard didn’t consider for a second that Abby or I could have been the ones at fault, even when I told him so. I confessed, and it didn’t matter. How could I have allowed myself to be so ignorant? Why did it take someone I love being assaulted to make me really listen?
The doorbell rings and Anita goes to see who it is because my mom refuses to move from my side.
“Nevaeh?”
The sound of his voice makes my stomach turn.
My mother and I march into the hallway, where my father stands behind my aunt, who is seething. My father looks at me, then hardens when he meets my mom’s eyes for the first time since they split.
“I called your office a hundred times, Samuel. I told them it was an emergency!” she shouts. “This is your daughter!”
“My daughter, who has never been in trouble in her life and is now dating some thug who almost got her killed and possibly got her stuck with a criminal record? My daughter, who has become reckless, cutting school and acting out, ever since she came to live here with you?” my father spits back.
“Don’t you dare try to put this one on me,” my mom says. “Nevaeh was defending herself—or do you only assume innocence when the case comes with a hundred-thousand-dollar check and late nights in the office with your secretary?”
They go tit for tat, unleashing the depths of their hate for one another.
“If you loathe me so much, why won’t you sign the divorce papers?” my dad demands.
“I’d love to, but I can’t! Because every good lawyer I call refuses to take me on as a client. You’ve made sure of that. So we’re going to be married for the rest of our lives!” My mom stands on her toes and rises to his eye level.
“Stop it!” I screech.
“Honey, come here.” My father reaches for me, but I dodge him.
“You don’t know anything about Jesus,” I tell him. “You don’t know anything about love or trust. I thought I knew you, but it was an act, wasn’t it?”
My father’s mouth hangs open. For a moment, the three of us are still as statues as the truth sinks in.
Anita speaks up. “You need to get out of this house.” Zeke has joined us in the foyer and placed one of his giant hands on her shoulder like an anchor, but Anita breaks free of his grip and lunges at my f
ather. “Now! And don’t come back here again.”
My father runs his hands through his thinning hair. His hesitation stings like a rubber band pulled and released against my skin, until finally, he leaves.
At some point, dinner is delivered or picked up—rotisserie chicken, rice and beans, and maduros with extra green sauce. The smell makes my mouth water, but I have to spit the first bite into a napkin because it tastes like mud and grit.
We move back into the living room, where everyone continues to pretend to be fine and force out laughs. They are so committed to the act that no one notices when I get up and walk out of the room.
* * *
—
“I found her!” my mom shouts, jolting me awake in the morning.
“Well, this is some impressive architecture,” she says, joining me on the floor.
I upgraded my attic nook last night by building a proper sheet tent; they have this magic power to transport you back to a time when your imagination was at its peak and all you needed to do was step inside to leave the real world. It’s been years since I made one, but last night, it was the only place that made sense to sleep, because in here, I knew I could turn off my thoughts.
“I’m sor—”
Mom puts her fingers over my mouth to stop me from finishing the apology. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Nevaeh.”
When she kisses me, her lips leave a sticky print on my forehead that I rub in like moisturizer.
“There’s someone downstairs I think you might want to see,” she says after a while.
* * *
—
Jesus is in the living room. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his hands grip his shoulders with white fingertips from the force of pushing down. He sees me and stands as I enter the room, and his parents follow suit.
I rush over to them. “It was all my fault. This girl at school, she got under my skin and I shouldn’t have let her. I am so sorry.”
Mrs. DeSantos stands and takes my wringing hands in hers.
“You listen to me, mija,” she says. “I watched that tape. That man was bigoted before you were even born. This wasn’t your fault.”
Mr. DeSantos turns to my mom. “Mrs….”
“Paire,” my mom says firmly. “Corinne Paire.”
“Ms. Paire, I wanted to tell you in person that we are filing a lawsuit against the security guard, as well as the school.”
His words are measured, but there is passion in his voice.
“What can I do?” I jump in.
“Well, it would increase our odds enormously if you could be a character witness, Nevaeh, as well as walking us through the events of the day.”
Mr. DeSantos is a good lawyer. I can tell because he reminds me of my dad, but with a heart.
“I will. Of course I will.”
“Nevaeh—”
“Mom, I might already be expelled,” I remind her, and nod at Mr. DeSantos as a go-ahead to bring it home; he catches my drift and sticks the landing.
“What if I walk you through what we have so far, Ms. Paire? I understand you want to protect your baby. That’s what we’re trying to do for our baby, too.”
While my mother listens to Mr. DeSantos, Jesus and I go out to the front stoop. The steps are damp from the rain that I couldn’t hear last night because I was protected in my tent. He rubs his neck in discomfort when he bends down to kiss me. I make him move his hands so I can see the tiny purple dents in his skin.
“I tried to make my parents just go after the guard, but they said they have to sue Pritchard because the school didn’t do a thorough background check on him,” he explains apologetically.
“I want you to sue them for everything they’ve got.”
He tries to protest, but I won’t let him.
“Why are you worried about me? I’m the diversity in that place. They can’t expel me. They’d be crucified in the news.”
I don’t know if that last part is true, but it seems likely enough. Jesus’s gaze relaxes a tiny bit, which is all that matters to me right now. I hug him, sick that after what he has been through, he still feels like I’m the one who needs protection.
“For a second, I thought you were gone, and I couldn’t see anything clearly,” I say. “The world around me melted like a candle, and all that was left were blurry patches of colors that made no sense.”
Jesus kisses the tip of my nose and then my lips and then my neck. He holds my earlobe and rubs it between his thumb and pointer finger and leans down so only I can hear him.
“Hey,” he says. “I love you too.”
Chapter 38
Pritchard called yesterday. After two weeks, they’re ready to have us back in tomorrow.
Pa shouts for me at the bottom of the stairs, dragging me from my bed and thoughts.
“Take these,” he commands, handing me a kerchief and goggles. “And follow me.”
My eyes and throat burn the moment I walk into the kitchen. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but I can’t speak through the pain, and Pa pulls the goggles over my eyes and ties the bandana over my nose in the style of a fugitive bandit.
“You’ll be fine now,” he yells, as if the goggles and kerchief impede my hearing.
Pa moves to the counter, which is covered in ingredients: allspice and ginger and browning sauce and thyme and pimento sauce and garlic and some already-homemade jerk sauce (a secret that I suppose is getting taken to the grave). Chicken sits in a metal bowl, clean and pink, and a pile of orange peppers—scotch bonnets, Pa says—float in boiling water on the stove, igniting the air with fire-kissed steam.
Grandma’s secret jerk chicken recipe.
He works next to me, performing a demo of a task once before handing it over to me. I try my best to replicate his skillful knife work, but after a while, I resign myself to a simpler technique and separate the chicken legs from the thighs in rough chops that send cold bits of pink flesh all over the place. He mixes the spices and my goggles don’t hide his displeasure when he pulls a jagged drumstick out of the bowl, but he presses on, leading me through the remaining instructions.
Sift the spices into the bowl until the meat is lightly covered and the majority of the seasoning is at the bottom of the bowl.
Pick up each individual piece and smash it into the pile of spices on both sides.
Massage chicken to spread seasoning into every slimy crease and pocket of skin, tenderizing until it slips out of your fingers and back into the bowl again and again and again.
Pa dons protective gloves as he moves to the concoction on the stove and carefully separates the heavily reduced liquid, a homemade hot sauce, from the pulp, which he throws into the chicken bowl in handfuls of orange slop.
“That’s the secret even your mom and aunt don’t know,” he whispers into my ear before peeling off the gloves and covering the meat to marinate.
Pa makes ham and cheese sandwiches while we wait for the hot sauce to cool so we can pour it into small glass jars, which he stores for gifts and the apocalypse. We eat out on the stoop, he on a small round folding chair on the landing, and me on the steps because we couldn’t find another portable seat. Tourists walk down our street to see the National Jazz Museum or the row of landmarked brownstones between 130th and 132nd on Lenox and stop to sniff the air in front of our house, unable to resist the signature blend of history and spice. Neighbors triggered by the familiar smell come out of their homes to remind my grandfather they’re due for a hot-pepper refill.
My mom eventually comes up the block with rolls of fabric flopping in her arms. She found Grandma’s sewing patterns and is determined to learn how to make a dress.
“Mmm! Daddy, it smells good.” Mom kisses her father on the cheek. Her bright red lips leave a stain that spreads across his cheek when she tries to wipe
it off.
Once the air makes me shiver, I get up to collect our plates, but he holds on to his tightly, not ready for me to leave.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Pa asks me.
“What’s that, Pa?”
He stares out at the brownstones on the street where he has built his life for the last fifty years.
“To move on.”
* * *
—
It is Friday, judgment day at Pritchard. We stand seventy-five feet from my future on the corner, waiting for my father.
My father emailed last night, and my mother, for some reason unknown to me, acquiesced to his request that we enter the building together.
My father and a young woman pull up in an Audi, each in a perfectly tailored suit. The woman carries a small stack of manila envelopes in her arms and marches ahead of him, narrowly brushing his shoulder as she goes.
She is his type: trim and attractive. He’s probably already sunk his teeth in. Poor Ashleigh.
“Let me do the talking,” my father says with authority as he walks past us, shoulders back, head held high.
This is who he is. This is what makes him irresistible. This is how he carries on.
Pritchard feels bigger than usual as we enter its doors. The principal’s office has been spruced up with flowers and a fresh coat of paint that makes the air taste acerbic.
Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, along with Abby, sit on the far side of the office with a few men in suits. Mrs. Lackey stands with a woman I don’t recognize, probably the school’s lawyer.
“Thank you so much for coming in.” Mrs. Lackey welcomes us after the door is closed. “Normally, our policy on physical violence is clear—expulsion is within our right and to be expected. However, it has come to our attention that Nevaeh was reacting to a cyberbully attack initiated by Abby just moments before, which is also grounds for expulsion.”
Mr. Jackson shifts in his seat and huffs at the idea that his child might face any real consequence for her actions.
