One eye on the screen, the other on my phone, I scrolled through the Twitter feeds of the kids Viv said might be out protesting. I circled back to Demetrius’ feed because he was a leader in more ways than one. He was only eighteen, but such a force, such a voice already.
In and out of foster care since he was six, Demetrius had presented to the child welfare system with a staggering array of injuries, old and new. The woman he was taken from was not his biological mother and could not say where his mother was. She didn’t remember how old he was when Demetrius was first left with her. She rarely sent him to school and only once took him to the doctor with an arm that had been broken, she claimed to have no idea how. That was when he was taken into care.
When I met him, he came into Open Doors because he was about to age out of care and wanted help getting into one of the units from the limited city housing that had been set aside for former foster youth. Everything about him was like a bright, blinding light. Even after everything he had been through, his resting expression was a smile, like the ugly in life had barely touched him. He didn’t have that cloudy, weary and impenetrable cast to his gaze that kids who have been hurt often have.
I got him housing, but then he needed a job so he could keep the small, squalid apartment. I hired him as a youth organizer. It was a position I created, but he made it real, and did work I could not even have imagined. I was constantly ashamed that I couldn’t pay him anything near what he was worth to Open Doors.
He had a housewarming get-together at his new place, which he invited me to as thanks for my help. He had decorated and brightened it so it was unrecognizable from when I had first taken him there; and the other guests were street or foster youth, all of whom came with some small gift—a piece of furniture reclaimed from a curb where it had been abandoned, or a vase, or a lamp or tapestry they created themselves. Demetrius’ party, and Demetrius himself gave me hope that despite a dim start, these kids could live lives that were rich, colorful and full of people who valued them.
But now, Demetrius’ Twitter feed was uncharacteristically quiet, so I DM’ed him, then switched over to SnapChat. Young activists had learned to use social media in ways that most of us old heads couldn’t even fathom. It was a tactical tool to track police activity, gather crowds at a moment’s notice, sound the alarm about dangerous people and places, and for countless other purposes. As a thirtyish-year-old, I was definitely at a disadvantage trying to figure that stuff out.
SnapChat was air-silent as well, so I checked a few other feeds and finally found a video posted by one of our girls, Sasha. She had recorded cops using batons on a group of protestors that were trying to form a human shield, protecting something or someone who was just off-camera. She warned people to stay off that block and to take another route instead if they were protesting.
From Sasha, I went to another kid named Nathan, then another and another, finally looping back to Demetrius and to Twitter. There, I saw that he had read my last message asking him where he was and whether he was okay. But he hadn’t responded.
Exhaling a long, frustrated breath, I called Viv again, but this time she didn’t pick up.
On television, the cameraman was running, the reporter a few paces ahead of him, the picture jumping around, the huff of labored breathing their soundtrack. In a parking lot, the reporter, a young Black man, stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He was unfamiliar to me even though this was my usual station; but that wasn’t surprising because of course, who else would they send to cover something like this? Surely not the pretty young brunette they usually used.
“… shots fired,” the young reporter said between gulping breaths. “Several in quick succession. Perhaps even a dozen or more, from over there on the eastern side of this strip mall, out here on …”
I sat up, more alert. Shots fired?
Looking down at my phone again, I fumbled with it for a moment and tried calling Viv again. No answer.
I texted Gideon. U ok? No answer there either, though I honestly hadn’t expected one.
“… monitoring the situation and we’ll get back to you as soon as we hear something definitive, but absolutely, Jim, that was gunfire we heard.”
The in-studio anchor appeared on camera, looking concerned.
“Well, Paul, we’ll give you a moment to get somewhere more secure in what appears to be a rapidly escalating situation over there in the 24th District.”
The program abruptly cut to commercial and I almost screamed in frustration.
I tried Viv yet again and there was no answer. There was gunfire. Gunfire. And I had sent her out there to scoop a bunch of kids off the street who were more streetwise than she or I would ever be.
I thought about Malik and how he could not afford to grow up without a mother.
Scrolling through my contacts, I found Ray’s number and without hesitating, dialed it.
“Yo,” he answered right away. “What’s up, Ken?”
I took a deep breath. “Hi Ray,” I said, trying not to sound as panicked as I felt. “I just wondered if you could do me a favor. I’ve been trying to reach Viv and …”
“Wait. She told me she was doing something with you tonight. Isn’t that … Lemme find out she needed to drop off Malik because of some nigga.”
“No,” I said hastily. “She is doing something with me. Or, at least for me. She went out to find some of our kids, but I’m here at the Center.”
“Oh,” Ray said, mollified. “So, what’s up? Why you need me to reach her?”
“It’s …” I shut my eyes tight, not relishing having to tell him what I was about to tell him. “Have you been watching television at all tonight?”
“Nah. Why?”
“Well, Viv went over to …” I didn’t want to tell him precisely where. It was only the most dangerous neighborhood within about thirty miles. “And there’s … there’s …”
“Protests. I know. She told me.”
“No, Ray. It’s turned into more than that. It’s like, more like a … a riot right now, and …”
“Vivienne is out there?” he said. “She told me it was just …”
“Well, I think she probably didn’t want to worry you. But now she’s not answering my calls and I’m sure everything’s fine, but I think she’s more likely to answer if you call since you have Malik and she wouldn’t want to ignore you in case …” I was stumbling over my words and could tell from the silence on the other end of the line that Ray was picking up on all of it.
“Kendra,” he said finally, speaking slowly. “What exactly are you tryin’ to tell me?”
“There were shots fired where she is and …”
“What?!”
I grimaced.
“The fuck, Kendra! Why would she go over there if …”
“It wasn’t like that when she first left, but now …”
“I’ma call her. I’ll let you know if I get her.”
He ended the call, leaving me with a silent, empty line.
“Gideon,” I said aloud. “Where are you?”
* * *
“If I was in uniform when we first met, would you still have come on this date?”
“Is this a date? All I agreed to do was have a cup of coffee.”
The next time I saw Gideon after the funders’ lunch we met in a Starbucks a few blocks from City Hall and the courts where he was expecting to be called to testify in one of his cases. He had texted me about an hour earlier, asking if I was nearby and wanted to meet.
Coincidentally, I was and had some time to kill before going to meet one of my kids at a workforce development program nearby. It was such a huge coincidence me being in that part of the city—which happened rarely—that I told myself fate meant for me to meet with the tall cop who was so good-looking he made me twitchy. I decided I’d have coffee with him just to see if he still made me twitch.
He was no less handsome sitting across from me in that Starbucks, challenging me. He might even have been more so.
And I was no less twitchy.
“Nah, this is definitely a date,” he said with all the self-assurance of a man unaccustomed to having women tell him ‘no’. He leaned in closer. “I only wish I had more time.”
“I don’t have a whole lot of time today either,” I said shrugging.
“Well then let’s not waste it,” Gideon said, the smile fading. Suddenly his gaze was more intent, more determined. Serious. “I want to get to know you. Let me make you dinner. This Friday.”
His accent was stronger on the word ‘dinner’. He lengthened the ‘i’ just the tiniest bit. It was cute. Puerto Rican, I decided. Maybe Dominican?
“Where are you from?” I asked impulsively.
He smiled again. He didn’t miss a beat. “Me? I’m from your wildest dreams.”
“Wow,” I said dryly, taking a sip of my coffee. “That has got to be the worst line ever.”
And it was. Except it also made tiny goosebumps rise, unnoticeable to him but painfully obvious to me, all across the surface of my skin.
Chapter Four
I had just ended a six-month relationship when I met Gideon. It was one of those relationships that had been ending for half its entire duration. My three-month-long breakup was with a guy named Adam. Adam was a bearded, ponytailed hipster of the kind that is uniquely bred in this city—walked, talked, and pulled up on you like a brother, only he wasn’t a brother. I didn’t care about that so much, but I did care that he didn’t seem authentic. It was like he was living his life in blackface so clever he didn’t even realize anymore that it was just a costume.
“But if he doesn’t realize it,” Maya said to me in a ‘gotcha’ tone of voice when I shared that observation, “isn’t that the same as it being actually, truly who he is?”
“No, Maya,” I said. “It’s not.”
She was always saying I nitpicked and made excuses to sabotage guys, so she felt as though she had to advocate for them whenever I expressed my misgivings about a relationship.
And honestly, Adam was a good guy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might never know who he really was. That if we stayed together, he would be performing Blackness forever. When I broke up with him, I told him I couldn’t be myself with him when what I meant was that I didn’t think he could be himself with me.
I had no plans to date after Adam. I didn’t have plans not to date either, it just wasn’t foremost on my mind. Things were taking off at Open Doors and I felt as though for the first time in my life, my passion and my career were intersecting.
I used to work as a graphic designer when I lived in Baltimore, doing simple freelance jobs like corporate brochures, public policy briefs for non-profits and public service posters for city government. In my spare time, I connected with social justice organizations and volunteered. That always felt like it was where my ‘real’ work was, but there was never any money to be made in that stuff and I needed to pay the bills on my townhouse. It was a four-level eighteenth century red brick building in a bombed-out section of the city where most right-minded people—certainly most single women—wouldn’t choose to live.
I bought it for next to nothing, counting on the Black gay couple who were also moving in down the block as a symbol of positive gentrification. You know, the kind of gentrification where upper-middle-class Black people move in and help improve things by making a stink at city council meetings but were cool with (and even preferred) living in a mixed-income neighborhood.
I had been rehabbing my townhouse, one floor at a time for what felt like a million years when I got involved with a political campaign for a young guy running for city council who looked like he was about sixteen-years-old. People loved that about him. His youthfulness became his calling card, and a symbol of the ‘new ideas and new blood’ he was supposedly going to infuse into a stale and corrupt local government apparatus. I did his posters and infographics and he won his council seat.
Just being in close proximity to his campaign gave me exposure to the right people. One of those right people was a young sister named Nora Porter. Nora was a dynamic and well-connected lobbyist who traveled around the country helping up-and-coming politicos develop their policy platforms and communicate it to voters.
During the campaign we hung out a lot, went drinking, sat in coffee shops talking strategy, stuff like that. She called me ‘Kenny’ in a way that made me feel like we were lifelong friends even though we had only known each other for a matter of months. She thought that because I worked on the campaign I had to be about the same things, and steeped in the same issues as the candidate. And I was, but I was the graphics person, not writing policy or position papers. My knowledge of policy was rudimentary at best. That didn’t seem to matter to Nora.
“There’s this gig in Philly,” she told me. “I think you could be perfect for it.”
“I know Philly. I love Philly,” I told her.
I did know Philly, but I didn’t love it. I’d gone to college there and frankly hadn’t seriously considered sticking around once I was done.
Anyway, the gig was Open Doors.
My only recommendation for the position was from the campaign manager, and Nora. And my only relevant credentials were my ongoing volunteer work. But after three interviews, I was offered the job. I accepted before they or I could rethink the offer, and moved to Philadelphia even before I had a renter for my Baltimore townhouse. My sister lived in the Philly ‘burbs, so it felt like a no-brainer, moving to be closer to her.
I found a rental house and in almost no time, was ensconced in my new job, my new life. I had a dental plan. Medical insurance. Retirement. And staff! But most importantly, I was working and earning halfway decent money doing a gig that meant something to me.
I had only just started to feel like a genuine local when I met Adam. And just three weeks after Adam and I were done I was in a Starbucks sitting across from Gideon, listening to him say that he was the man of my wildest dreams.
* * *
“Hey, Miss Kendra, what’s up?”
Demetrius finally called me back, sounding infuriatingly casual, like he hadn’t ignored my DMs for almost an hour. Like he wasn’t in the middle of what looked like a dystopian movie set.
“Demetrius,” I said, exhaling a breath it felt like I’d been holding for far too long. “Where are you? Where is everybody?”
“We all good,” he said, not answering my question. “We’re all together now.”
“Who’s we?”
He named a few of the kids, including Sasha, including Nathan, the only two I knew for sure were out there because of their social media posts.
“Did you hear from Miss Viv?” I asked.
“Yes ma’am. About to hit her back. Thought I’d call you first.”
“Good. Call her right now,” I told him. “She’s down there. Looking for you guys. I saw on tv what was going on and asked her to get all of you and bring you back here.”
“Aw, man. She ain’ have to do that, Miss Kendra,” Demetrius said. He sounded as casual as someone who had moments before been on a summer stroll. “We know how to handle ourselves out here. This is our ‘hood, some of us.”
“Yes, but I don’t want you guys getting into any trouble. I saw that they started setting things on fire and …”
“It’s a protest though. Sometimes things get hectic.” There was a new note of petulance in his voice, resentment even.
It occurred to me for the first time that the ‘they’ I referred to as setting fires, might include him.
“Can you call Miss Viv?” I pressed. “Now, please? I want you all to come back here.”
Demetrius was silent for a few beats. In the background I heard the cacophony of voices, chanting and yelling, a few distant sirens.
“Demetrius,” I said. “For me. Please.”
“A’ight, Miss Kendra.”
“Thank you. I’m at the Center. You can meet Miss Viv somewhere, and she’ll bring you all back here. We’ll … get pizza,” I added la
mely.
“Okay, I’ma call her right now.” Demetrius sounded resigned.
When we ended the call, I turned to the tv again. The young reporter, Paul, was back onscreen. He looked calmer, and had pulled himself together, mopping his brow of the perspiration that had been there and apparently having found shelter in a much quieter place.
“… night that started out relatively peacefully has devolved into chaos and destruction and now potential tragedy as well. We’re getting word this hour that the shots fired not too long ago were what they call an OIS—an officer-involved shooting—and our sources tell us that two officers were hit. Details are sketchy at this stage, but …”
I stood so abruptly my phone flew off my lap where I had forgotten I set it down and clattered, then skidded across the floor and under a sectional on the other side of the rec room.
“Fuck!”
Scrambling across the room, I fell to my hands and knees and tried to reach beneath it. It was a mammoth thing, heavy and broad. There was no way I was going to be able to move it on my own. Getting up, I went to turn on all the lamps and lights in the room, kneeling once again to see whether I could at least see the phone. I did.
Reaching as far as I could, the tips of my fingers made contact with it, just enough to push it even further away. Shrieking in frustration I stood and looked around frantically, searching for something I could use to slide the phone from under the couch.
After the Fire: The ‘Shorts’ Page 3
