RAHEEM FUSSES WITH BREAD FROM A plastic bag, cutting the presliced slices in half. He has a few slivers of chicken or turkey laid on out a plate already. I don’t know where it all came from, but it’s clearly scraps from somewhere.
“Dinner,” he says, thumping the plate down in front of me. It’s the smallest, flattest sandwich I’ve ever seen in my life. And that’s saying something.
“That’s it?” I snap.
“Watch it,” Raheem barks back.
“Sorry.” Being hungry makes me cranky. It’s a perfectly decent sandwich.
Raheem grunts. “You don’t know what I went through to get this much. You better appreciate it.”
I grab up the sandwich. “I do appreciate it.” I take small bites, hoping to make the feeling of eating last longer.
I don’t know how long we can go on like this. It’s been a lean few months, but I haven’t been afraid of starving to death until now. With The Breakfast each morning to take the edge off, it hasn’t been so terrible this time around. Mama’s still out of work, but Raheem just started working shifts at a second job bussing tables at an Italian restaurant down near the Loop.
Halfway through, I set the sandwich down. Eating slow enough sometimes fools my stomach. “I can still get a job,” I remind him.
“Your job is to learn,” Raheem says. “Go to school. Get your degrees. That’s the most important thing.”
I don’t know about that. Looking at the sandwich, knowing it’s not going to fill me. It’s hard to think about the future when you’re running on empty. But impossible not to, when I also know we’re running out of time. Almost two weeks since the yellow notice. Soon the landlord will come knocking, and there’s only so much magic we can work to stave him off.
I take another bite, swallow, and say, “The rent is past due.” It’s time to let him know I know.
Raheem studies me over his half of the sandwich. “No, it’s not,” he says. “We’re okay.”
My nostrils flare. It steams me, when he out-and-out lies. I drop my food onto the plate. “I saw the notice,” I tell him. “You think you have secrets, but I always know.”
Raheem looks at me for a long while. “Nothing gets by you, I should know by now.”
“You should just tell me. It would save time.”
“I get paid tomorrow,” Raheem says finally. “We’ll be okay after that.”
“Is that the truth?”
He shifts. “You’ll see. With my second job, and when Mama gets back to work, we might be able to save a little too,” he adds. “So hopefully it won’t be like this again.”
That impresses me. We’ve never had any savings beyond whatever’s in the coffee can at the moment. The idea is even harder to swallow than these bites of dry sandwich.
“I don’t want to seem like I’m complaining,” I say. “Food is food.” That’s a stretch, and we both know it. Tuna out of the can is nothing like a good thick hamburger. But I know better than to think about better food while I’m eating what I’m eating. I polish off the sandwich.
Raheem’s expression softens. “You’re not a complainer, Maxie. I know that.”
“I would never complain about not finishing school, either.” I try to sneak that in on the sly. I like what he said about savings. If I got a job too, we could save the money.
Nothing doing. “Damn it, Maxie, if you say that one more time—” Raheem threatens.
“You’ll what?” I snap. “You don’t have any say. I could do it tomorrow, and there’d be nothing you could do.”
“You are not dropping out,” he yells, leaning across the table toward me. “I’ve given up too much. Don’t you dare even think about it.”
“The Panthers need me,” I lie. “I can work half-time and be in the office half-time, like you.”
“Where is this coming from? Haven’t I made myself clear?”
“I don’t care anymore,” I shout at him. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Maybe the corners of my empty stomach. Maybe from seeing the yellow notices. Or maybe it’s the truth in my heart. We need the money.
“You better do what I tell you,” he roars. “I know what’s right.”
“I want to matter,” I blurt. “I want to help.” Out of nowhere, I’m thinking about Steve. How he was out there, fighting for something. How he died for no reason at all. After the shooting, I know that I could die too. Any minute. I don’t want it to happen before I do anything interesting.
Raheem goes quiet. A siren curls through the silence, first distant, then closer, then fading again. I wonder whose turn it is policing.
“You think you don’t matter?” Raheem says.
I don’t say anything, because it seems so obvious. Everyone’s been telling me, one way or another: “You’re not ready, Maxie. What you have to give is not enough.” And I’ve been believing them. All this time I’ve been waiting for someone to say okay. Maybe it’s time I took matters into my own hands. That’s what Panthers do.
“Maxie—”
“I’m doing it,” I say.
“You are not,” he replies.
“Am so.”
“So help me, Maxie—” Raheem sputters, so mad it’s coming out his ears. His face turns stormy like he wants to scold me, but really, what have I done except talk about what’s true? It’s an expression exactly like one our real dad used to make. A scary-perfect replica. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen that on anyone’s face.
“Okay, so I won’t get a job,” I tell him. “Instead, I’m going to be a Panther. Full-time. I’m going to live in that office. I’m going to die in that office, until they let me into the lineup.”
Raheem pushes back from the table. “No.”
“We got shot at,” I shout after him. “Everyone else gets to use that to change things, why can’t I?”