A Phoenix First Must Burn

by A Phoenix First Must Burn (retail) (epub)

  Something brushes against Akilah’s side and she screams.

  “Auntie!” The body that touches her is Jayleen’s. Akilah’s never seen them as pissed off as they are now. For a second, Akilah can only see Jayleen, their strident, protective anger, the way they position themselves between the two women.

  Jayleen’s voice breaks the spell still over Akilah, and she can feel her legs again. She looks past them, back at Auntie. The spiders are gone. The glowing web is relegated again to normalcy in the window. Akilah shudders, and Jayleen puts an arm around her side, pulling her in. Jayleen’s hands banish the crawling feeling that lingers.

  “Jayleen.” Auntie doesn’t match Jayleen’s volume, but echoes the angry beats, reminding them they’re talking to their elder.

  Jayleen lowers their voice, but the emotion is still there. Does Jayleen know what Akilah saw? “That wasn’t fair.”

  “Fair?” Auntie repeats. “She came into my house with that attitude and wanted to see what I do.”

  “That’s not what you do anymore.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Jayleen lets out an exasperated noise, shaking their head as they turn back to Akilah. “I’m sorry, Lala.”

  Akilah’s voice shakes. “You didn’t . . .” She pauses and clears her throat. “You didn’t do this to me. You don’t owe me an apology.” She glances over at Auntie. “What you did”—Akilah gestures—“was messed up, I don’t care what kind of witch or whatever you are—” She catches herself and takes a breath. “You’re not the only one who should apologize to me.” She deserves better than Jamal and Tiana, who cared more about her wallet than her peace of mind.

  She thinks about Sonia’s braids and the rush jobs. Of pushing Derek out of her chair so someone else could take his place. How many times she’d done that just to keep her brother and friends smiling back at her.

  Jayleen reaches up and touches Akilah’s unfinished cornrows. Akilah braces for a tug, a jerk backward into memory, but instead there’s just the warmth of Jayleen’s fingers. It’s the gentle relief of Jayleen scratching between her parts without messing up what’s already been done. And with that comes a slow blossoming of past senses: the warmth spreads first, and then touch, sound, and then Akilah gently settles into her past.

  Akilah is on the couch and a bad rom-com plays on the screen. On the floor, Jayleen leans their head back into Akilah’s lap as they look up at her. It’s a week ago, Akilah knows, a rare moment between hustles. She’s not shocked by this moment, not confused by being suddenly thrust into it. Instead, the room slowly warms, pleasantly snug, as Jayleen reaches up and plays with Akilah’s hands. Massages her hands because Akilah did four heads of hair today, and she’s so ready for a nap.

  But . . . “I could just sit here and massage your head, you know?”

  “Oh yeah?” Jayleen teases. “And how much for that?” Akilah swats the side of Jayleen’s head. “Ow! Come on, I’m playing with you—but you don’t gotta do that. You need to rest.”

  Akilah shakes her head. “I’m not gonna charge you. And you sure you’re good? Because I can get us some food.” Jayleen shakes their head, and that’s the first moment of confusion Akilah feels. It’s an alien reaction, and she runs through the list of other options. “Or you said you wanted to go to the movies. We could—”

  “We can just chill,” Jayleen says, and no one says the word chill like Jayleen. No one who talks to Akilah, anyway. “You don’t gotta pay for food, or the movies, or nothing. You can get to snoring, for all I care.” Akilah swats them again, and Jayleen laughs. “I mean it. I’m good. You’re good.”

  “You good now?” Jayleen asks. Akilah doesn’t know how to answer that, but nods nonetheless. Jayleen’s hands feel cool, the way Akilah knows it’ll feel when the sun finishes going down.

  “I look like a fool,” Akilah says, reaching up and feeling her unfinished hair. Jayleen’s hand touches hers, and she thinks about how many times Jayleen has checked in with her. Told her she didn’t have to do anything. Spend anything. Is surprised when the thought doesn’t trigger another flash, that instead it just feels good. Feels like something Akilah should have noticed a long time ago. Should get to feel with more people than just her partner.

  She glances over at Auntie. “No offense, but—”

  Auntie waves her off. “Like I said, girl, it isn’t about money for me. I didn’t finish your head, so you don’t owe me money.” She pulls the money from earlier out of her pocket and puts it on the end table, patting it. “Here’s your refund. I made my point.” She glances between the two teenagers. “And I can think of somebody that’ll finish that ol’ head of yours for free.”

  Jayleen looks away from Akilah. That soft, kind memory hadn’t been one of Auntie’s tricks, had it? Akilah almost speaks, but her phone buzzes. Two texts from Tiana. She swallows the lump in her throat that threatens to smother how nice Jayleen’s hands felt.

  “Could you, please . . . ?”

  Jayleen kisses her on the forehead while pulling the phone gently out of her hands—the thing that Akilah hadn’t quite gotten the strength up to asking. “Of course.”

  KISS THE SUN

  By Ibi Zoboi

  The sun is our unrequited love. Every day he lets us know that we are not meant to be together, staring down at us like that from afar. Untouchable. But still, lust burns bright in his eyes. We are the same, you know. He doesn’t see that. He sees our costume of deep brown and black skin, of fiery girl, of reluctant human. He thinks that is all we are—soucouyant, fireball witches—so he doesn’t want us. At dusk, when we are shielded by the waxing moon and we can finally undress out of our human skin to reveal our true selves, he has already retreated to his palace beneath the sea.

  Then we are left to contend with our fireball bodies, the night sky, the jealous moon, and our victims. Still we fly, we feast, we play, and we wait for his return at dawn. Then, and only then, can we steal a sweet kiss—this brief merging of firesouls, if only for one small moment in the dawn sky.

  Tonight, other flames compete for the island people’s attention. Burning tires are lighting the dark sky so bright, the island people won’t be able to see us. They are protesting again, so they won’t care about us soul-sucking flying fireball witches; we, the soucouyant of Kiskeya Island who fly through the warm, damp air inhaling unsuspecting souls with our fire breaths. This time, the uprising is against the opening of a new resort along the shores of Bassin-Bleu, where the white-sand beaches are, where La Siren brings her maids to rest and dry their fins and meet their lovers, the seal-skinned fisherboys.

  Foreign businessmen and developers have torn down the tin-roofed cottages, the cinder-block bungalows, and the pastel-colored gingerbread houses along the eastern coastline to build a sea of twenty-story luxury hotels.

  Four of us are climbing the hill overlooking Toussaint Valley. The hill is not the tallest peak on our island by far, but it’s just high enough for us to stay out of sight, and low enough for us to launch toward the night sky.

  “They’ll have to find a new beachfront brothel, those whores,” Martine says as she holds one of the handles on the large cooler she and Veronique are hauling up the hill. It’s filled with cubes of ice—our healing balm after flying as balls of flame all night.

  “Why do the mermaids have to be whores? Why not the fisherboys, eh?” I ask them. I’m carrying another cooler on top of my head. It sits on a piece of bundled cloth, balancing perfectly. None of these soucouyant girls can do this while climbing up a steep hill. Many of them are thinner than I am, but they still have the girth and curves of a soucouyant. Although they are not as graceful. I am bigger, taller, and more commanding. That is why I lead them. Well, one of the reasons why.

  “True-true, Solange! The fisherboys are the most whorish of them all,” Veronique says. “Once their mermaid girlfriends leave for the ocean, they rub their Black bodies with
coconut oil for the white tourists at the resort to gawk at and pay good money for. Whores.”

  “They are both whorish creatures,” Martine adds. “Blame them both. That’s why the developers want that piece of our island: so they can have their fantasies. ‘Take your pick, ladies and gentlemen. Girl fishes of the sea, or muscle boys carved out of onyx?’”

  “Not all boys,” someone says, quiet-quiet.

  I turn to see Giselle lagging behind. She’s the fourth to join us. Five more should be coming soon. “No, not all, Giselle,” I say, knowing how sensitive she is. “Gerard is one of the good ones.”

  “He loves only me,” she adds, raising her voice and rushing past Martine and Veronique to catch up to me. Her arms are swinging, hands empty.

  Martine and Veronique chuckle. “Only you? Stupid child,” Martine says.

  “You did not think to bring ice, Giselle?” I ask before Martine berates her even more by bringing up her boyfriend’s cheating.

  “You must not know of the blackout,” Giselle says. Her short afro glistens with oil; so does her deep blue-black face.

  I stop and look down the hill. Dusk is settling over the island, and it’s only now that we notice the lights haven’t come on in the island people’s homes. Still, a protest of burning tires and a blackout have not stopped our game in the past. Streaks of orange and dark blue paint the sky, and as soon as it’s dotted with stars and a pale yellow full moon, we will take flight.

  “Maybe you should run back home to your love, Giselle,” Martine starts. “You wouldn’t want him to be lonely with only the darkness keeping him company.”

  “How long has the electricity been out?” I quickly ask, interrupting Martine’s impending bullying.

  “Not long. Just as I was going into the kitchen at the resort, the workers were there taking out the meat. But the generator kicked in just in time. Too many people around, so I couldn’t steal the ice,” she says, glancing back at Martine.

  “Were you able to steal a kiss from your one and only?” Veronique mocks.

  Martine laughs.

  Giselle quickly turns around, and they almost bump into her. She places her hands on her hips, furrows her brows, and says, “You are jealous. You would rather inhale the souls of innocent boys than fall in love! You are the real whores!”

  “Ey!” I shout, setting the cooler down on the ground. “I will have none of this! Martine and Veronique, let her be.”

  “Let her be? She couldn’t even bring her own ice, and we’re supposed to let her be goo-goo gaga over this boy?” Martine says. “Giselle, your boyfriend is fucking everybody! There. I said it. Get over it.”

  “Martine!” I yell, wanting to slap her face.

  “I know about the mermaid,” Giselle says quietly. “I let him have her. She only comes every so often, so it’s okay. He needs the balance, you know. I’m fire, she’s water. Sometimes, my heat . . . It’s too much.”

  “Oh my goddess! This child can’t get any dumber!” Martine says, pressing her palm against her head.

  “I am not dumb!” Giselle shouts, stepping closer to Martine. A dull red-orange light begins to pulse beneath her dark skin. Her anger will make her shed prematurely tonight. That’s the last thing we need.

  So I gently grab Giselle’s elbow, pulling her back. Her skin is warming up, too. “She’s not dumb. She’s in love,” I say.

  “In love? Gerard is not the sun, by far,” says Veronique.

  “We’re not all trying to kiss the sun,” Giselle says, deepening her voice. “Some of us need bodies to fall in love with. Human bodies. Not for their souls, but for their . . .”

  “For their what, Giselle?” Martine asks. “You know, if he hurts you, he will become disposable. The moment that you start to cry over this fisherboy, he is gone!”

  I don’t say anything to that, because Martine is right. Vengeance is now the sole purpose of our fiery lives because of what’s been done to soucouyant girls on this island over the years—the taking of our bodies without permission, the stealing of our skin to sell on black markets to foreigners. Vengeance is the game we’re playing tonight. Our lives have become all about this game. It wasn’t always that way. Soucouyant would fly on the night of a full moon and aim for any victim—any soul that would quench our thirst for life, more life. Shed skin, fly, and feast. That was it. Then we would go back to our regular half-human lives. Now this is unacceptable. We have to choose our victims wisely, and we make it a game so we don’t live bored and redundant lives like the humans on this island. Make it fun. Make it useful. So I tell Giselle the truth, but I mix it in with some sweetness to cool her down a little.

  “Yes, there are others,” I say softly, looking directly into her large, round eyes. Giselle’s smooth skin looks almost navy blue in the late evening sky. She’s one of the darkest of us all, the prettiest. But some of those boys would have her think otherwise. “Gerard needs more than just a water girl to keep him balanced. He needs earth and wind, too—all four of the elements. That doesn’t make him a bad person, Giselle. You two just need to talk it out.”

  “What are you saying, Solange?” she asks, her shoulders dropping, her lips turned downward.

  “Gerard goes to see La Diablesse at the top of the mountain.” Martine cuts me off.

  “Shut up, Martine!” I shout. Then I add, “He asks for one of those goat-footed girls, yes.”

  Giselle raises her chin as if trying to hold on to the ounce of dignity left in her. But, thank Goddess, her red-orange glow has cooled to a dull yellow. “Oh, is that all? A goat-footed diablesse? You think I will be jealous of a girl who has a hoof for a foot?”

  “I hear they are ruthless in bed,” Veronique says. “Make those fisherboys writhe their greasy bodies out of shape from pure ecstasy.”

  I narrow my eyes and purse my lips at Veronique, but she doesn’t see me. “I’m sorry, Giselle. Just talk to him.”

  Giselle holds her head even higher and clears her throat. “And the wind? You said he goes to the wind for a girl.”

  “He fucks the loup-garou, Giselle! Those nasty shape-shifting girls,” Martine says. “Well, girls one minute, beasts the next. Fickle like the wind. I tell you . . . That’s why I don’t keep no man or boy. The sun is my tried and true!”

  We’re all quiet for a bit as Giselle drops her head and starts to fidget with her hands. The dull yellow glow is gone now. Her anger has settled in her human body. I’ll give her a moment before I ask her why on Goddess’s green island did she not find another way to bring ice.

  “You did not say anything about the tourists. At least he stays away from them,” she says, still holding to a tiny piece of hope.

  “Giselle, those pale-skinned tourists are his favorite!” Martine says. “The ones with skin like the moon, with hair flowing over their shoulders in waves. Steups! Typical. I guess he considers them magical creatures, too. That slimy eel of a boy!”

  I reach over to pinch Martine’s arm and pop my eyes out at her. But she only rolls hers at me and crosses her arms over her large bosom.

  Giselle is broken now. Her whole body melts even as she stays standing. But it’s not anger, so her skin doesn’t glow. It’s disappointment, maybe. Sadness. So we let her have this moment without uttering another word.

  But the sound of approaching footsteps and voices slices through our short-lived silence. The other soucouyant girls are coming.

  “We need to settle this now,” I say. “Giselle, how do you feel?”

  “Yes! How do you feel?” Martine repeats, stepping closer to Giselle. It’s clear she doesn’t have a victim’s name for tonight. None of us do. That’s why we’re prying one out of Giselle.

  “I feel fine,” she whispers.

  “Liar!” Martine shouts.

  “Who is a liar?” someone from down the hill shouts even louder.

  I step closer to
Giselle until all three of us surround her. “Come on, Giselle. Let it out,” I say. “How do you feel?”

  She inhales deep, scrunches her face, and through clenched teeth says, “I feel angry. Angry, Solange! How could he do this to me?” Her voice shakes. Tears well up in her eyes, and the fiery red-orange resurfaces on her skin in just seconds. But she can’t shed just yet. She has to hold on to it, for her sake. For our sake. We have to shed together. This is our strength.

  Martine and Veronique sigh.

  “Good,” I say. “But I don’t want you to be angry, Giselle. Push it back for a little bit. Hold on to it. You might win tonight. You might be the only one of us who gets to kiss the sun. If and only if you feel like hurting him. Do you?”

  She closes her eyes and nods slowly.

  “You want to stop him from hurting other girls?” I ask.

  “No,” Giselle says. “I want to stop him from loving other girls.”

  “Yes!” Martine exclaims. “We have our first soul for the night!”

  “Yes we do!” someone shouts.

  The other girls are closer now, and I can see their heads bobbing up the hill. Lourdes comes into view. She’s all smiles even as she still wears her uniform from the resort—a red pinstriped shirtdress dotted with yellow hibiscus flowers. We’ve all changed out of our uniforms for fear that any of the island people might see us coming up the hill and report us. That wouldn’t matter, though. My mother, a soucouyant herself, owns the Golden Sun Resort. She would simply feign ignorance and accuse the tattle-teller of making up backwoods stories. My mother would claim that she is a woman of Christ and she doesn’t believe in the island’s stories of magical creatures. That little fib has worked for years.