The word Congratulations.
I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do. Steph is wearing the face of someone awaiting a birth in the next room. Mom is keeping her composure, but her hands are clasped tight and her eyes are wide.
“Well, Kiera, what’s it say?”
I look at Dad, whose mouth is pursed together. He nods.
“What’s it say, punkin?”
“I’m in,” I say, forcing a smile. Why am I not happy? Why am I not relieved? Both my parents and Steph launch into a dance of whoops and hollers around the dining table like they’re all going to Spelman with me. I sink lower in my chair with my hand against my forehead, but Mom yanks me up and pulls me into a tight embrace. Dad comes up behind me and adds his big bear hug to the mix. He smells like discount cologne and the room smells like my mom’s special chicken, and Steph runs up and throws her arms around all of us while jumping up and down.
“I knew you could do it, Kiera, I knew it! Told you! It’s all about the size of the envelope!”
Mom pulls away and cups both her hands around my cheeks and gives me a big peck on each one. She smells like coconut oil, and I love it. That smell reminds me of getting my hair pressed on Easter Sunday mornings when I was little, and it was cold outside, and everyone was ready for spring and it was almost my birthday.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says. There are tears in her eyes as she says it. My dad hugs me again from behind and kisses my head, which I can still feel through my day five twist-out. His kisses are that strong.
“Love you, sweetie,” he says, squeezing my shoulders. I smile and enjoy the moment right up until I see Steph bursting forward and throwing her arms around my neck.
“I’m so excited!” she squeals. “Spelman! My sister is going to an HBCU just like me!”
“Didn’t know you were dead set on going to an HBCU,” I say, since I actually wasn’t aware until just now. Steph is super smart. She’s ambitious, even for a junior. Not only is she president of her chapter, but she’s a Scripps National Spelling Bee winner, and she already won a partial scholarship from a robotics project she built as a sophomore last year. Pretty sure she could get into Harvard if she wanted to.
“Duh,” she laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’m down for the cause. I want us to succeed.”
I’m going to Spelman for two reasons only: First, Malcolm. My love. My life. The only boy I know I can be myself around. The only one who gets me. Second, I’m sick of white people. Actually, that’s not true—I love all people. I’m sick and tired of being the only Black girl among all white people. I want to be around people who understand me and don’t expect me to answer asinine questions every day. Steph and I, as the only two Black girls at Jefferson, are the be-all and end-all authority on all things related to Black culture. Steph’s popularity attracts inquiring minds, and since she “only answers ridiculous questions with ridiculous answers,” as she puts it, they flock to me as a second resort.
Lucy Ingwall, a freshman, the oldest student I tutor after Harper, once asked me, If I wear this headdress to this festival, is it going to offend people? I told her I didn’t know because I’m not Native and am therefore unqualified to answer that question. She became increasingly insistent that I was the only one who could provide credible input into her outfit, because she needed the opinion of a person of color and she didn’t want to talk to the only Native American kid at Jefferson because she didn’t know him that well. And then she asked me why the phrase “person of color” is okay, but “colored person” is not. I’m just trying to figure out what the difference is, she’d said, as if she expects me to just know how to define terms that generalize my cultural history generations back.
In SLAY, all I have to explain to people is how the game works. I don’t have to explain the cards. If you play the game, you understand. All this time, I’ve imagined a similar world at Spelman. So where’s the warm, fuzzy sense of accomplishment I thought I’d feel reading this letter? Where’s the relief? My hands are shaking. There’s a knot in my stomach. Whatever I thought I’d feel after tearing open that envelope and reading that blessed word “Congratulations,” it wasn’t this.
• • •
Later that night, as I’m tying up my twist-out into a pineapple and Steph is trying to gab at me with her mouth full of toothpaste foam, I stare at the bathroom counter, wondering if I should add more cards. Zama was wielding Twist-Out like she’d used it hundreds of times, and pairing it with the Gabby Douglas was a stroke of genius. Nobody wants to fight an Olympic gymnast wielding sentient hair. PrestoBox used a Defense and a Hex in round one. Only a professional chooses not to come out guns slinging with at least one Battle card in the first round. They both knew their cards too well. It’s time to write more.
The last time Cicada and I launched new cards, we tried to give everyone a voice via a poll. We put fifty card options on the board and asked chat to vote for the top twenty results. The comments section blew up immediately. Everyone had an opinion. Every card on the board was antiprogress or tropey, or cheesy, or insulting, or boring, or inapplicable to everyone. I’ve always tried to choose concepts that edify all of us, but it’s getting harder and harder to think of things every single one of us can relate to. People in Kenya may not identify with a good ol’-fashioned Tennessee barbecue, and people in the US may not understand the nuances of an Ulwaluko ceremony, and when you have to memorize six cards in ten seconds, the less you have to google, the better. Characters were fighting, and nobody was voting, and I got so fed up that I pulled the whole thing, picked my own favorite cards, and posted a message in the next update that read: We are a diaspora. We span hundreds of shades, religions, traditions, and cultural nuances. If you don’t understand what some of these cards mean, blame the slave trade.
“Are you even listening?” came Steph’s voice, and suddenly I’m back in our little pink bathroom, staring at the mirror. Steph has finished her teeth and started pinning up her hair for bed.
“What?” I ask. Her eyebrows sink, but she can’t lift her eyes far enough to glare at me properly, since her head is down while she adds another pin to her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I resolve to really listen to what she’s saying this time. She probably thinks I try to ignore her on most days, but the reality is that I’ve created an entire universe in my room, and the responsibility of maintaining it gets distracting.
“Never mind,” she says airily, reaching for another pin.
At first I think she’s being petty, like I don’t deserve to hear the rest of her monologue, but then she continues with a grin, “I forgot what I was talking about.”
I can’t help but laugh, which gets her giggling. Her eyes fly open.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “That was it. I was talking about AAVE. When did you stop listening?”
The “African American Vernacular English” thing. Right. She’s been dying to tell me this all day, and the honest truth is that I haven’t heard a word. For the sake of my sister’s feelings, I take a deep breath and offer up my sanity with a generous, “Why don’t you just start from the beginning?”
“Okay.” She shrugs. “So, I was talking to Holly and Harper about this new rap song Holly was listening to. I don’t even remember who it’s by—some no-name guy with a mixtape—and Holly actually asked if I could translate for her. Get this. From ‘Ebonics,’ she said. Ebonics! She asked if I could translate it into something ‘plain English.’ I just left. I walked right out of the room.”
Steph rolls her eyes like she’s trying to get them stuck facing the back of her head and lets out the most exasperated sigh I’ve heard in a while.
“I mean, come on!” she continues. “And then I got to thinking how racist the word ‘Ebonics’ is. Well, maybe not racist, but marginalizing! Otherizing! I mean, if I claimed everybody on The Office was speaking ‘White-a-nese,’ they’d feel pretty called out. But somehow, we need our own language. Asking that it be called something d
ignified like ‘African American Vernacular English’ is the least that can be done.”
Steph has been getting louder and louder this whole time, and I debate whether to point this out, likely prompting an even louder Did you even hear a word I said?! or let her keep jumping decibels on her own until one or both of my parents creak open the bathroom door and scold us. I find an alternative to both.
“Sounds like you have your Spelman essay topic for your application next year,” I say. I have a finite amount of energy, none of which I intend to spend on debating what to call the framework of Black American colloquialisms. I care more about erasing the stigmas around how some of us speak. I realize all over again just how bad an idea it would be to show Steph the game. I can see her now, psychoanalyzing every word in chat, overthinking everything about the environment, every card, applying science where there’s currently raw passion and joy. What about SLAYers who haven’t caught the AAVE train yet? I can see her now, correcting people’s word choices, with the best of intentions, of course. But if everyone found out it was my sister, Emerald’s sister, policing everyone’s language left and right, my reputation could dissolve instantly. I shake my head just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart skips at the possibility of a text from Malcolm inviting me to share a FaceTime call tonight. I suddenly regret washing off my makeup so soon. I reach for my phone, unlock it, and realize the only notification is in WhatsApp.
Cicada: Zama wins with the Hustle card!
Not the damn Hustle card again! It’s one I wish I’d never let Cicada add to the game, but she’d insisted. The Hustle is the name of a dance popular in the seventies, which was apparently my mom’s signature dance the few times she went on Soul Train. Hustle & Flow is the name of a movie on BuzzFeed’s list of “100 movies you must see to keep your Black card,” and although I’ve never seen the movie, Cicada has. She confirmed that yes, it should be on that list. She convinced me the word “Hustle” warrants a card, but it’s arguably the dirtiest one in the whole deck. It steals 50 percent of the opponent’s points, and Zama used it in the last round! I suck my teeth and type out a furious reply:
Me: That’s BS! Using a Hustle card in the last round with a game this close? I thought these two were professionals! Sometimes I think we should delete that card.
Cicada: I mean, hey, she was dealt a Hustle card. She had to use it. Wouldn’t you save a Hustle card for the last round too? It’s really the smartest strategy.
“You look mad. Is it Malcolm again?” asks Steph as she massages night cream into her face.
“Why would I be mad at Malcolm?” I ask, trying to keep my composure. Why is she always trying to be in my business?
“I’m always mad at Malcolm.” She grins, carefully pulling her bonnet over her freshly pinned hair and snatching her phone from the counter.
“You know,” I begin, testing the waters, “you and Malcolm have similar opinions on HBCUs. You both want to attend one. You might like him if you gave him a chance, Steph.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she says, smoothing the last visible smears of cream into her eyebrows. “Let me guess. He thinks HBCUs are the only way to go because”—she dons her mockingly deep Malcolm-imitation voice—“that’s how we Black folk woulda been learning before the ‘white man’ got ahold of us and colonized our minds.”
Something about her tone—the exaggerated drawl—sets off alarms in my head, and I suddenly feel myself getting angry. Malcolm talks like he grew up in SoDo. He doesn’t shuck and jive like a damn minstrel performer. I suddenly regret even trying to smooth things over between the two of them. Maybe it’s hopeless. I force myself to stay quiet. But Steph’s face softens, and she turns to look at me, seemingly surprised at herself.
“Sorry,” she says. “Here I am talking about tone policing and ‘otherizing’ language and then I go and make fun of Malcolm’s accent. I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry.”
I smile, and relief washes over me at the faint glimmer of hope, but it’s short-lived.
“But,” she says, twisting the lid back onto her night cream and tossing it in the top drawer, “I stand by what I said. He thinks HBCUs are the way to go because he wants to live in this fantasy world where white people don’t exist. I, the realist, think HBCUs are the way to go because they give funding and opportunities to Black prodigies worldwide, and because we need to take care of our own. I said I’m always mad at Malcolm, and I meant it. Mostly because I don’t entertain illogical conspiracy theories or believe straight men are the center of the universe. And I don’t trust a man with ashy ankles.”
I roll my eyes.
Once I brush my teeth, floss, and apply my nighttime moisturizer, I climb into bed. As I lie under the covers, scrolling through Instagram, I think back to what Steph said earlier, about HBCUs: I’m down for the cause. I want us to succeed.
I keep scrolling without really looking. Steph is convinced that she’s proving something by pursuing an HBCU—proving that she’s down for the cause, that she’s rooting for everybody Black. Does she think that in order to be “down for the cause,” I have to go to an HBCU? To want us to succeed, I have to go to an HBCU? Is that right? What if I hadn’t applied to Spelman at all? As Malcolm—and apparently Steph—doesn’t know, there are probably woke Black girls at Emory, too, who are “down for the cause” and support Black businesses and maybe even program Afrocentric video games. What if Emory says yes to my application and I go there instead? What would Steph think of me?
What would Malcolm think of me?
I navigate to my texts and pull up our convo from earlier.
Malcolm: See you tomorrow. Until then, listen to this and miss me.
And then that song he attached. We should be FaceTiming right now. He should be singing this song to me right now in that corny faux R & B voice of his. I’m kind of miffed at him for teasing me like this, knowing he couldn’t come over tonight, but I also miss his voice, and I’m sure he’s lying up in bed at his house, probably reading. I could always ask him to FaceTime, but it wouldn’t even do me much good. I wouldn’t be able to focus. My heart would be in it, but my head would be on that letter from Spelman. Instead I open our texts again.
I type out the words I got into Spelman and then delete them, and then type them again.
If I tell him, he’ll want to talk tonight, about how excited I am to be going to one of the most prestigious historically Black colleges in the country, about how grateful I am to be going to a college that’s a sweet relief from the burden of being Jefferson’s resident Black culture consultant. But I don’t feel any of that. Not right now. Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet, the weight of it. Maybe it’s like finding out you’ve been crowned homecoming queen. Maybe the bliss of it won’t sink in until I’m up there onstage at my high school graduation in a cap and gown, and the principal is announcing to all those kids and parents that the first Black girl to graduate from Jefferson is going to study among her own people now, because she’s done her time and deserves some reprieve. I’ll tell Malcolm about it later. Besides, it’s already nine thirty. I have to be up and well rested tomorrow for a keyboarding test in the morning, which I completely forgot about until now because when you run an MMORPG with over five hundred thousand members, a typing test becomes something to laugh at. But I do at least have to be awake to take the test, so no time to chat.
And worse than Malcolm wanting to talk, I’m afraid he’ll fall asleep reading again and he won’t even see the text until tomorrow morning. He’s done that before, and there’s no worse feeling than waking up and scrambling to check your phone in anticipation of a reply and finding nothing.
I delete the message and lock my phone. I roll to my side and pull my blanket up to my shoulder, and I shut my eyes for maybe thirty minutes, but then it crosses my mind that I don’t know how close the Tundra Semifinals was, or how the preparations for the Desert Semifinals are going. Whoever wins the Desert—either Anubis or Spade—will fight Zama in the finals tomorrow night, at two a.m. m
y time. We scheduled it so most players who live in the West, Central, and East Africa time zones can watch between ten a.m. and twelve p.m. their time, and so Cicada can officiate at eleven a.m. her time.
I pull my phone back out and navigate to WhatsApp. In Cicada’s time zone, it’s already six thirty tomorrow morning—Friday—and she’s lit up green. It shouldn’t take her more than ten minutes to recount the duel highlights, right? I can spare that for Cicada, even the night before an exam. It might even help me finally get to sleep. I start typing.
3. SOLO GAME
* * *
PARIS, FRANCE
My name is Claire, and today I’m especially happy I live alone.
“Yes!” I whisper-scream at my desk in the corner of my little flat. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Zama, my favorite SLAYer, has won, and will go on to fight the victor of the Anubis vs. Spade showdown happening in the southernmost corner of the Desert region in fourteen hours.
I’ve seen Anubis duel before. He’s athletic, making strategic use of his environment—the guardrails, the stands, and even his opponents. In the duel I saw, using the Michael Johnson card, he sprinted toward his adversary—Orlea, a scorpion from the western part of the Desert region—did a handspring off her shoulders, grabbed her venomous tail, jammed it firmly into one of the sandy blocks that make up the arena wall, and landed squarely on his feet. It was sick! He might be into parkour in the real world. Give the boy a Battle card that has anything to do with agility, and it’s over for Spade. But I’ve seen Spade battle too, and his greatest weapon—often underestimated—is his impeccable timing. He’s used cards most people throw away in game-changing moves, like the Anansi card, which gives you eight limbs and two enormous fangs that will paralyze the opponent for five seconds with each strike. Most players who are new to the Anansi card don’t know how to operate eight limbs with just two real live arms, but you don’t command them with your arms—you command them with your fingers, and the thumbs control the fangs. Maybe the player behind Spade is a world-famous pianist. But I’m not worried. Zama has the agility of a jungle cat, and she knows every card I’ve ever seen her dealt. She won’t give the finals away to either of these boys, especially with the howls of the Wolf Pack behind her.
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