This street stretches to the other side of town. Bends and curves with the whims of the city. Feel the ripple effect? We are all connected, pebble by pebble, block by block. One smooth double yellow line.
When the torches light up across town, people feel the ripple effect in Underhill. The street shivers in the light of the flames, and the city stands up to take notice.
You try to explain to your daughters what it means to be hated. They do not understand.
There are bows in their hair. As they look up at you, their eyes bear everything fragile in the world.
They do not understand. You pray they won’t ever.
It is hard to say the word “hate” in their presence. It is impossible to convince them they are any less than loved. They feel safe and happy. You want to be proud of yourself for gifting them peace, but you are fearful of their naïveté. Their small hands hold yours. They can see that you are sad.
They do not understand. Today, you are the scary one, telling tales of a nation out to get them. You squeeze their little knees and promise to protect them. Try to forget that it is out of your hands.
There are bows in their hair. Placed by their mother’s swift and gentle hands. The strongest hands you’ve ever known.
Every news outlet carries the footage of the White Out protest. Neo-Nazis and their families stand in Griffith Park. I can almost see it from here, but not quite. Out my window, down at the street level, the city looks peaceful. The corner of the park I can see is not the part with the bandstand. It’s not that I want to see it firsthand. Not exactly. It’s more about how unsettling it is to have it happening out there, out of sight.
John strolls into my office. I’m leaning back in my chair, online footage running on-screen. It relates to my job, so I don’t bother to mute the screen or punch it off.
“You’re watching this?” I ask. He’s here to discuss the Henderson account, no doubt. It’s what I should be thinking about. How this white power demonstration relates, how we should react. Instead, my mind is scattered.
“The full storm hasn’t hit the media yet,” John says.
“How so?”
He plops two typed pages onto my desk. A press release. I recognize the logo of the news outlet, a fringe conservative site with questionable judgment regarding content and sources and, well, questionable everything.
“What have they done now?” I muse as I skim. The press release is poorly written, but the salient details are clear enough:
White-nationalist organization White Out, in conjunction with the White Might, White Rights demonstration today, has announced that they’ve raised $$$ for Officer Henderson’s family, to offset the loss of income during his time on administrative leave …
“Well, that’s some crazy,” I say. “What kind of respectable journalistic outlet uses the money symbol instead of spelling out the word?”
John chuckles. “Tell me about it.”
All joking aside, this development will open up a whole new mess for us. “What’s Henderson saying about this?”
“This is where it gets interesting.”
My brows go up. “Uh-oh. Is he connected to the group? Did he ask them for money?”
“No, nothing like that. It was out of the blue.”
“Good. So, clear deniability.” I set the press release aside.
“But still an optics problem.”
“Everything about this is an optics problem.” I toss my pen onto the desk. “We have to be simple about it. We announce that he’s not connected to these groups and isn’t accepting their money.”
“There’s the rub,” John says.
“What?” The pieces come together in my mind, drop like a stone to my gut. “No.”
“Yeah. Henderson wants to accept the money.”
“He can’t.” Out of the question.
“He is.”
My feet press against the glide mat, roll my chair back. I need space. Need air.
John tosses himself into my corner chair. “So…”
Loosen my tie. “He can’t. Come on. He’s being investigated for the death of a black child, and he’s going to take money from white supremacist groups now? The press will have a field day.”
“I know, but it turns out a fair amount of it was delivered in cash. There’s no easy way to return it. Frankly, I think he’s already using it.”
“Great.”
“He didn’t report receiving it. Didn’t know it was going to become public. Thought it would be his little secret, I guess.”
“Not the brightest bulb in the box, is he?”
John props his foot on his knee. Bounces it. I would swear he’s enjoying this. “To be fair, he’s facing some hefty legal fees, even with the police union involved.”
“He doesn’t know better than to get in bed with these people?”
“He claims he doesn’t know for sure where it came from. It was an envelope, with a note.”
“Does he have the note?”
“Says he threw it away. Didn’t think it mattered.”
Brighter bulb than I thought, maybe. I don’t know if I prefer him to be a bumbling idiot or someone capable of calculation. Bleak pictures, both. “Maybe that was something separate, and he can still refuse the White Out contribution. It might still be coming.”
Silence falls between us. The moment is long, both of us working the problem.
John finally speaks. “Does it offend you, as a black man?”
My face wrinkles of its own accord. “What kind of question is that?”
He shrugs. “Optics.”
“It offends me, along with every black and brown human being on the planet, and hopefully a good portion of the white ones.”
John sighs.
“Look, it’s cash in exchange for a lynching. They’re essentially saying that Shae Tatum deserved to die because of the color of her skin. No due process. They want to reward Henderson’s extra-legal judgment solely on the grounds of race.”
“It makes him look guilty.”
“He is guilty!” Whoa. Breathe. Objectivity has left the building. “You wanted my opinion, as a black man.”
John nods. Lets it slide. He has his reasons for everything. You won’t see him fly off the handle. And I can’t afford to, as a black man in the corporate landscape. Can’t afford to be labeled “angry.”
“What would you like to see come of it?” he says. “What would take the edge off?”
Honestly? To see every person with white supremacist leanings scorched off the planet. But John is asking from a PR perspective. “I don’t know. He could donate it. Preferably to a black charity.”
“From a damage-control standpoint, that would be best.”
I nod. “Something camera-friendly. An after-school program. Probably not SCORE.”
John laughs. “Something more neutral.”
“He can’t keep this money. It is the height of stupidity to think otherwise.”
“From a PR perspective?”
I shrug. “That, and more.” John looks expectant. “Legally, it opens up the door for him to be sued successfully in civil court. He’s accepted money from a group that thinks black people deserve death for existing. It’s perfectly legal to hold that ideology, in theory, but it’s not legal to actually kill someone for the color of their skin.”
John frowns. “If he acted in the line of duty, feeling his life was under threat, and those actions were made free of bias…”
Now he’s getting it. “Right. It could be argued that accepting this money is an admission that that might not have been the case.”
“The legal side is not our problem. But if Henderson’s legal trouble gets worse, it becomes our problem.”
I raise one shoulder. “Tell him to pick a charity and give generously, without being splashy about it. No one has to know how much he was really given, if it’s coming in cash.” My solution is rife with guilt, complicity, compromise.
John leaves, and I lean back in my desk chair. Pivot to the window. Insulated glass.
I prop my feet on the corner of the desk, a well-worn spot. Peer at the tiny vehicles, crawling far below like ants. The people, even smaller.
Thinking about where the money ever comes from. Thinking about complicity.
Eddie Johnson draws eyes and ears and a snout on my folders with a permanent marker. Everyone laughs.
“Pig!” they whisper when the teacher is on the other side of the room.
There is no one I can tell, so I don’t. The teachers are not better anyway. They whisper, too.
That’s the daughter.
Apple, tree.
I’m supposed to know what to say. I do know what to say. Nothing.
Eddie Johnson says, “I bet he beats your mom. All cops are beaters.”
There is only so much a girl can take. My brain snaps, taking my mouth along with it. “He’s a good person. A good cop.” My fists clench. No, no, no. I broke the rule. Say nothing.
Eddie Johnson shakes his head. “Good at beating people up, all right.” He pounds his knuckles into the other palm.
The smack of skin on skin. Beer bottle against the wall. The boxing bag hanging from the garage ceiling.
This time it’s not so hard to keep my silence. I don’t have to say anything at all.
I know how to throw a good punch.
I smooth my blazer, second-guessing my shirt choices. Ha. And I thought I was nervous about dressing for my first date with Kimberly. This is some other level.
I hover near the front door of the community center. Can’t stop myself from eagerly peering out the window every few moments.
The Reverend Alabaster Sloan is a living legend. He’s been organizing since the seventies, when he was a teenager. He marched for civil rights as a child before that.
“He should be here any minute,” I tell Kimberly.
“I know,” she says. She’s bustling around doing our actual work, while I stand here like a fool, vaguely practicing the moment when he walks in and I extend my hand in greeting. Wow, I’m such a dork.
I turn back to our task, which is inventorying the materials we’ve packed to take to the protest. “Is that everything?”
“Think so,” Kimberly says, examining her clipboard. She waves over two teen volunteers. “Let’s load it up, guys.”
The boys start loading the boxes into the rental van parked in our lot. They’re full of flyers about police shootings, SCORE pamphlets, “Know Your Rights” and “What to do if you get arrested” cards. Packs of black Sharpies for people to write our lawyers’ phone number on their skin in case those cards are confiscated. Two cases of three-inch, baby-pink buttons that say in bold black letters, UNARMED. Poster boards painstakingly hand-lettered with messages like #TODAYFORSHAE #TOMORROWFORALL, RUNNING WHILE BLACK IS NOT A CRIME, LOVE NOT HATE, EQUALITY IS JUSTICE, and BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL.
The boys walk back in after a trip to the van. “Yo, I think your dude is here,” one of them says.
“My dude?” I echo, cuffing him on the shoulder. “Have some respect.”
He grins. “Your boy?”
I can’t help but grin, too. “Okay, okay.”
I pull open the heavy front door. Sure enough, there is Alabaster Sloan.
“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Underhill Community Center.”
We shake hands. He has a firm, comfortable grip. He’s perfect. I hope my return handshake comes across as half that cool and confident.
“Ezekiel?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. But you can call me Zeke.”
He nods.
The boys appear for another load, and I motion them over. “Senator, these are two of our best volunteers, Lemanuel and Ricky.”
They perk up, standing straight. “Hi, Senator,” they mumble. They look both flattered and unsettled to be called out.
The senator smiles and shakes their hands in turn. “Thanks for what you’re doing. It’s important work.”
“Uh, thanks,” Ricky says.
“Happy to help,” Lemanuel adds.
They look at me, clearly unsure what to do next. “Finish the van, okay?”
“Yup, yup.” They grab more boxes and flee.
“Come on in.” I spread my hand out, inviting Senator Sloan deeper into the room. He moves past me comfortably, and weaves around the chairs to greet Kimberly. I flounder in his famous wake.
“Hello, Kimberly.” He knows her on sight. That’s impressive. They’ve met before, she told me. I assumed it was in passing.
“Hello … Senator.” She pauses in the middle of speaking. Maybe she, like me, isn’t sure what to call him. Senator? Reverend? Sir?
Senator Sloan grasps Kimberly by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. “Nice to see you again.”
I’m confused, but there’s no time to focus on that.
Yvonne flutters toward us. “Oh, hello, Senator.” She enfolds him in the wings of her long, flowing dress thing. “Welcome, welcome.”
Senator Sloan embraces her in kind. “Good to be back. Wish the circumstances were different.” Somehow, he makes the perfunctory comment sound warm and original. He’s a master communicator. I prepare myself to pay close attention to his every word, every gesture.
Yvonne says, “If you have a minute, I’d love to show you some of what’s been done with your most recent generous donation.”
“Of course, Yvonne.”
His mere presence in the room makes the space zing to life. People drift toward us, as if drawn by an invisible tide. As long as he’s here, it’s a master class in organizing. Inspiring people.
I hover in his wake. Behind his back, I mouth to Kimberly, Oh, my God.
She smiles only slightly.
It’s almost time to go. The van keys are still sitting on my desk, I remember. I go pick them up, double-checking that we got everything.
I return to find Kimberly standing in the community room with Senator Sloan. Something about it trips me up. My feet pause halfway there, my eyes fixed on their exchange. The pose between them. Yvonne is nearby, butterflying around the senator, and yet his gaze is on Kimberly.
She’s shy around him. She lowers her head, in a way I haven’t seen. Except once. When we were talking about our history. About how she’s never had sex before me, and only been interested in one man. It’s weird that my mind goes to that place, but it does.
He’s familiar with her, too. He puts his hand on her shoulder like they’ve known each other forever. Or else he’s just that kind of guy, smooth enough to get away with it. Does she want him to be touching her? When his hand goes out, her eyes go down.
My gut tugs and flutters. Some kind of warning. Or … I’m jealous. Is she into him? He’s godlike, I know, but he’s so old.
Kimberly shrugs away from Sloan’s touch, turns her body at an angle and focuses on her clipboard.
I stroll toward them, like I belong in the conversation. Which, technically, I do.
“I’m here to support you,” the senator’s saying. “I don’t have to speak. I can just be a face in the crowd.”
“You’ve come all this way,” I interject. “We’ll make sure the cameras find you.” It’s great for our cause, that he’s here.
Kimberly shoots me some side-eye. Damn. I totally just did a jerky guy thing that girls hate. And with reason. I shouldn’t be butting in like that. She had this.
Senator Sloan laughs. “The cameras will find me. Don’t worry about that.”
“It’s about time to go,” I tell them. “Everybody ready?”
“I have my car out front,” Senator Sloan says.
We walk him back toward the door. “I’ll be driving the van. Would you like to have your driver follow me?”
“Kimberly can ride with me. She’ll make sure I get to the right place.” He smiles fondly at her and my spidey-sense tingles.
My eyes grog their way open. I am cozy and cotton mouthed, deep-settled and unsettled all at once. The comforter is gray and blue and thick. It goes on forever. This is not my bed.
Where am I?
I struggle upward, blink into the near dark.
“Hey,” Brick says. “You okay? You’re okay.”
Oh, no. Oh, God. It all comes back to me. The shots, the kissing, him pushing me away.
“What happened?” I whisper. “What am I doing here?”
He sits up. He’s rubbing my back. “You don’t remember?”
All I can do is stare at my hands. I remember. And I’m humiliated.
I shake my head. “I drank too much.” Maybe this is the best course of action.
“Oh.” Brick scoots closer. I can’t tell if his voice is disappointed or relieved.
“I probably did something embarrassing,” I admit. “And I’m in your bed, so…”
“Nothing happened,” he assures me. His arm is around my waist and it shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t. He’s warm and close and his hand cradles my hip. I’m still in my clothes, so it feels safe enough to let him hold me. I turn my face into his shoulder.
“I can’t have you walking around drunk, trying to get home after curfew is all. You always have a place here.”
“Why are you this nice to me?” It’s like I want him to say it. Even though I’d have to shoot him down.
Or would I?
“I’m worried about you. You’re not acting like yourself.”
“I’m fine. Really.” I let my face rest on his muscled chest. He’s so broad, unlike Noodle. He feels like a wall around me, like nothing can touch me here. Safe.
“My boys … We’re all going to this demonstration in a little while.”
“Zeke and Kimberly were here,” I recall. “You made plans with them?”
“Yeah.” Brick strokes my hair. “You wanna talk?”
I lean into him, without answering at first. Maybe I’ve misjudged the whole situation. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so black and white.
“I messed up,” I whisper. “Noodle—”
“That’s nothing,” Brick says. “He done you wrong.”
It’s not so easy to see it that way. I came here. I wanted … something. Just not Noodle. Not like that.
“Listen,” Brick says. “You’re perfect. You’re beautiful. I—you just say the word, and I’ll mess him up so bad—”
“No, no.” My hand cups Brick’s bicep. Oh, wow. An uninvited laser of YES shoots through me. Those muscles. I’m kinda turned on and I hate it because it reminds me of last night. Of Noodle’s hand going between my legs.
“No,” I whimper. With my face in Brick’s chest, I can’t stop the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so messed up.”
Brick hugs me gently, whispering nice words.
When I’m quiet, when I’m trying to figure out what to say next—in other words, right when it starts to get awkward—Brick shifts slightly, reaching for something. Then comes the blinking, sucking sound of the TV powering on.
I straighten up, wipe my cheeks.
“Members of the white-supremacist organization White Out have begun to gather in Griffith Park this afternoon…”
“You wanna see messed up?” Brick says. “Check out these motherfuckers.”
On paper
white out means
all you see is white
black type covered up
erased.
It is usually exciting
a clean slate—
the whole point of white out is
to make room for more black.
On TV, White Out means
erasing all the black in the world.
Their sign is a big paintbrush
dipped in white
because this is a white country
for white people.
They seem excited but
they do not make much sense—
white people are not
the only ones here.
The first thought in my head is to laugh. There they stand, hundreds of white men, carrying flaming Tiki torches. It is mid-afternoon on a cloudy winter day, but it is still daylight.
The second thought in my head is that their torches are small. They don’t have the first clue what it means to be on fire. No understanding of the scope and depth of rage.
The third thought—they are pitiful, like children at play. They should be comical, except they aren’t.
“It’s okay,” Jennica says. Her hand is on my elbow. “They can’t hurt us.”
I don’t understand how she reads distress in me. I am stoic. These thoughts do not play out on my face or in my words. She strokes my arm anyway.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I murmur. “These assholes.” The crowd is bigger than I expected. This white supremacy thing is supposed to be fringe, a fad. But there are hundreds of them. I can’t see the far edges of their gathering. It is torches from here to infinity.
A thin blue line between us and them. Think oil and water, fire and ice. Things that react, things that destroy each other in the process of failing to mix.
Back in her room, Sheila must be watching this coverage. It has been hard to tear her away from the TV ever since Shae. My mini news junkie.
If she sees me, will she be happy, or will she be scared?
“Big protest.” Sheila points to the TV the moment I appear in the doorway.
“Sure is.” I walk into her room and jangle her beaded braids. She’s been hooked on the news since Shae died. Baptism by fire burns hot. Sheila has never been one for news before. She likes to watch things that make her laugh, but I s’pose it’s hard to think of laughing when your best friend is dead.
The mattress dips as I take a seat next to her on the end of her bed. She has a blanket over her knees and I pull it to share the warmth. Wrap my arm around her. Sheila leans against my shoulder.
“White people think they’re better than us,” she says.
“Not all white people,” I answer, stroking her hair. It’s what you’re supposed to say, right? Sometimes I’m not so sure.
“I’m going,” I tell her. “I’ll see your brother there.” My heart flutters at the thought of Brick. My memory rings with the sensation of his muscles against me. His breath on my cheek. The quick, hard rhythm as we rise together. The way his arms wrap me tight as we lay together. His sweet whispers. He is so much more than meets the eye. We both are.
I imagine him waking, wonder if his first thoughts were of me. Like mine were of him. Wonder if he will take my hand when we meet. Or kiss me in front of his friends. Wonder if instead, he will want to keep me a secret of his own. For now.
I shake my head to clear away the doubt. He likes me. More than likes me. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. He could have any woman he wants, and he chose me. I was chosen.
My body flushes at the very thought. Not appropriate thoughts for work, with his baby sister under my arm. I am tempted to tell her, we might be sisters soon. But it was one night. It is too soon, and she is too fragile.
“Everything is always breaking,” Sheila says.
It jars me, the way she can somehow read my mind. “What? No, nothing is breaking.” We are fine. Even when it doesn’t seem it. We are fine.
“The news,” she says. “It is always breaking.”
Oh. “I suppose so,” I answer. “Sad and difficult things are happening all around us.”
“And to us,” she says. “We are breaking.”
I hold her close. “We are strong,” I tell her. “All the bad things in the world cannot break us.”
“We need to get a response chant going.” Zeke tries to hand me the megaphone.
“Me?” No, no, no. Not me.
“Sure,” he says. “You’re good with words.”
“Uh…”
Zeke kisses my cheek, whispers, “And I know you’ve got rhythm.”
A totally inappropriate giggle sneaks out of me. I smack his chest. “You’re so bad. We’re at a protest, for crying out loud.”
He’s grinning and he’s just so, so cute. The megaphone is still in his hands, pushing toward me. “Take it,” he says. “There’s no one better.”
No, no, no. Not me. I’ve never wanted to be the one standing at the front of the crowd. The one with the megaphone, leading the people in chants. I’m a crowd-dweller, a stagehand. Never the leader, never the star. I wouldn’t know what to do with all these eyes on me. Step up, K, those looks say. Start talking.
“Maybe later,” I suggest.
“Okay.” Zeke raises the bullhorn to his own lips, turns to the crowd. “We will not stand for bias. We will not stand for white supremacy. We will not stand for police brutality…”
Zeke is the best spokesman. It’s good, it’s right for him to have the loudest voice. I pull back, standing shoulder to shoulder with others, a handful of UNARMED buttons at the ready.
“He’s not wrong.” Al’s voice comes soft in my ear. It cuts right through the noise of all the people around us. Like a laser. Like a knife.
I glance over my shoulder.
“There’s no one better.” He smiles at me. Warmly, and yet I find myself pulling my ear wrap more firmly over my ears.
It could be Al—Senator Sloan—taking the bullhorn. But he’s made remarks already. He’ll make more later, I’m sure. For now he’s one face, tucked deep in the crowd where the cameras can’t focus on him.
“It’s not what I want,” I tell him.
“How do you know, unless you’ve done it?”
What is this about? Does he want me at the microphone? Why does he even care?
He raises his eyebrows.
“I don’t have to hit myself on the thumb with a hammer to know it would hurt.”
He laughs. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
Senator Sloan’s hand finds the small of my back. It feels good and comfortable, and familiar and terrible all at the same time. Why is it like this with him? Why is he doing this to me?
I turn to face him such that his hand slips away. My body hums with something between indignation and fury. I’ve never felt this urge before. It’s strange and otherworldly. There are things I want to say, want to scream.
I grab the megaphone from Zeke. He’s startled.
“Sorry.” Too impulsive. Unlike me. My heart rattles inside my rib cage. I don’t even know what I’m doing.
“No, it’s cool. You want to try now?”
“Today for Shae!” I shout.
“Tomorrow for all!” respond the people before me.
“Today for Shae!”
“Tomorrow for all!”
“This is not what we need right now,” Mommy says. She drives with her fists clenched around the steering wheel. Her shirtsleeves taper smoothly to her wrists such that everything is covered. There are bruises on my arms, from all the pinching. Maybe I need to get sleeves like hers.
She studies me in the rearview mirror. I can sense it, even though I do not meet her eyes in the sliver of glass.
“Everything we do right now reflects on Daddy,” she continues. “We have to be responsible.”
She doesn’t understand. She gets to sit home all day and hide. If I could hide, then nothing would be a problem. I don’t know how to tell her. Long sleeves are not the answer to everything.
“Do you hear me?”
I nod, staring out my window.
“Eva Denise Henderson, do you hear me? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” I mumble. I already know. I am supposed to say nothing.
Host: And we’re back, with our guests: Jamal Howard, author of Black Power in the Twenty-First Century, and Brad Carter, author of The Economics of Freedom.
Howard: You’re quick to defend the rights of white supremacists—
Carter: People have the right to demonstrate for their beliefs. It’s a foundational principle of American democracy—
Howard: That’s also what’s happening in Underhill, and yet—
Carter: That’s a riot. There’s a difference between a peaceful demonstration and rioting.
Howard: Calling for the blood of black Americans is a riot.
Carter: It’s peaceful. I don’t like the ideals of white supremacy any more than you do, but—
Howard: You probably like them a little more than I do. (laughs)
Carter: You’re twisting my words—
Howard: How can you draw a parallel between the rights of black Americans to protest for equal treatment and the rights of white supremacists to march demanding their own privilege be heightened?
Carter: It’s a fundamental right to demonstrate for your beliefs.
Howard: Yet when black people demonstrate, you call it a riot.
Carter: It was a riot.
Howard: If a thousand black men marched down the street with torches, it would be called a riot.
Carter: It would be a riot!
Howard: So, you agree that the white supremacist rally was a riot?
Carter: They were demonstrating their beliefs.
Howard: And, we’re back where we started.
Carter: In Underhill, there was looting. Vandalism. Assaults on police officers.
Howard: We’ve all seen worse in the wake of a major sports upset. “Happy” white citizens tearing up public spaces.
Carter: That would be a riot. But tonight’s White Out march was peaceful. Don’t muddy the water—
Howard: The media coverage skews in favor of white people expressing extreme emotion in public.
Carter: Emotion does not equate to violence!
Howard: It does when it’s hate speech.
Carter: It’s not inherently—
Howard: The more you defend a white supremacist’s right to protest, the more complicit in those beliefs you sound.
Carter: Ensuring White Out’s right to protest ensures all our constitutional rights.
Howard: White Americans should stop paying lip service to values of equality and diversity if they’re going to also defend the values of white supremacy.
Carter: White supremacy is a fringe ideology—
Howard: You wanted to talk about the Constitution? I’m three-fifths of a person. That’s not fringe ideology. It’s foundational.
Carter: The legal reality of equality can’t be erased by a small group of citizens expressing their beliefs.
Howard: “The legal reality of equality?” Are you kidding?
Carter: Plenty of people believe in things that aren’t supported by the law.
Howard: The image of white people marching with torches by night evokes more than a belief. It evokes intent. Historically such images are associated with lynchings. The Klan and its members passing extra-legal judgment on any black people they had it in for. The image evokes hatred and represents an absence of due process. Forces that this country has been working for a century to overturn.
Carter: Freedom of speech still—
Howard: A citizen’s right to freedom of speech ends at the place where that speech begins to harm others. Hate speech is not protected under the First Amendment.
Carter: In their view, they are seeking white power. They’re not against anyone—
Howard: White power comes at the expense of everyone else.
Carter: And black power doesn’t?
Howard: It doesn’t. Black power is about achieving equality. White power is about continued dominance. This isn’t hard to understand. Study your history.
Host: The takeaway? Keep history in mind. Free speech and protest have been part of America since the days of the Constitution. We’re live with authors Jamal Howard and Brad Carter. We’ll be back after this.
There’s a picture on TV. White men with torches, walking down the street. Real calm. No frothing at the mouth or anything, unless you count every racist breath.
“This is a mess,” Robb says. “I can’t even believe this is happening in America.”
“The America you come from,” I mutter.
Robb looks at me. Dang. I don’t want to get into a whole thing. This is why I never engage. “They look like the frigging Klan,” he says.
“They are.”
“Out in the open like that? Can you even believe it?”
Is it better when they’re not out in the open? “Well, yeah. This is the America I come from.”
“I thought you grew up in the city. Are there white supremacists in your neighborhood?”
I shrug. You mean like the cops who put us into walls, the teachers who tell us we won’t amount to anything, the cabbies who won’t stop for us, the bankers inside their bulletproof glass cages? You mean like the guy who shot my best friend?
“You see that?” I point at the screen. “No one’s getting arrested.”
“It’s a peaceful demonstration. They’re allowed to speak their minds.” Robb sounds … almost … excited? On the edge of his seat, like he can’t wait to see what horrors happen next.
I want to talk to him about police dogs. Fire hoses. A Snickers bar and a spilled gallon of milk. But I don’t know where to begin. I don’t want to know what I know, let alone repeat it. Let alone believe it.
There’s only one America. And these assholes don’t belong in it. This is not my country. It can’t be.
Look at them, with their torches, talking about white power. Everybody’s supposed to be equal, that’s real American values. This racist shitshow is a performance by some fringe element from a cornfield in the middle of nowhere. It’s not real. It’s not mainstream.
These skinhead jerks get to have their say. I mean, I know that. Free country and all. But it’s so messed up. Nobody has to listen to this mess. Why is anyone even paying attention?
Come on, they’re literally flying the US flag and the Confederate flag at the same time. Do they not get the irony? The whole point of the Confederate flag is that some states didn’t want to be part of this union. Duh.
I don’t even get why the press is covering it like it’s normal. Just another day in America? Hell no. This isn’t America. Not even close.
“Get back under your bedsheets!” Robb shouts at the television. “This is such bullshit.”
I tap my highlighter against the edge of my Classic Shakespeare Reader. Methinks Robb’s enjoying this circus a little too much. Forsooth.
“Not sure we want to encourage the bedsheet model, either,” I suggest.
“This is supposedly progress, right?” Robb says. “They can’t just run around lynching people like they used to.”
“They don’t have to,” I argue. “Now they’ve got cops to do the dirty work.”
Robb rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
It’s not worth arguing further. “Sure.”
“We should’ve gone down for this,” he says, when the footage flips to the counterprotest. “It’s not a far drive.”
“To go look at a bunch of white supremacists.” No need to travel—I can do that from here. I laugh to myself.
“What’s the most racist place you ever went?” Robb asks.
Is he for real? I shake my head. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Robb waves his hands like he’s trying to work on a rephrase. “You know, like have you ever gone someplace where people were, like, ‘Oh, you have to be careful around there’ and stuff?”
My brow goes up. Like the other end of a seesaw. Can’t stop it. “I have to be careful everywhere.”
“No, but, like … I don’t know. A neighborhood where people fly Confederate flags and stuff. Where there’s actual racists.”
“There are actual racists everywhere.”
“Not en masse like that.” He points at the TV.
Says you. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I do, man.”
I could shake my head. But it feels like a waste of energy?
The volume of the White Out crowd is surprising, as is their persistence. The torches cast an eerie glow across their faces as the sun goes down.
It’s hard to stand here and not think about what makes people hate. What they do with the hatred. There is no one I hate enough to bring a torch to a park and chant in the dead middle of winter. I think hard about it. There’s no one. Well, terrorists, I guess. The kind of man who straps a bomb to his chest and walks into a school to set it off. I hate guys like that enough to set them on fire. That’s not the same as hating people for their skin color. Thinking white is always best. It should be about what you do, not who you are. I get that.
These White Out fools, they’re angry. As angry as the crowds we’ve been patrolling in Underhill. We wear our same helmets and shields. We stand in our rows and our clumps, watching each other’s backs. The vibe among us is alert, as it should be. We’re on point. We pay attention, but the difference is palpable.
This crowd, they’re angry. The difference is the certainty that they’re not angry at us.
Kimberly rises a head above the fray, shouting into the bullhorn. She is fierce, she is huge, she is amazing. The whole crowd responds to her words. She holds them in sway, within her raised fist. I can’t tear my eyes away. The blood in my heart tugs forward and back in a raging tide. I am so proud of my friend, and yet I can already see it. The same strong tide will carry her away from me.
Brick removes his arm from my shoulder. “I have to try to take this call,” he says. “I’ll be back.” I shiver. He slips away without waiting for my answer. What would I even say that didn’t sound stupid?
I’m safe enough, amid a sea of Kings, with Noodle nowhere in sight. But I still feel the chill in the air as Brick moves away. One thin blanket of comfort removed, I’m that much closer to the cold. That much closer to standing alone.
“Hey, Jennica.”
“Hi, Melody.”
“Are you okay? I was worried about you last night.”
Her face forms within my slivers of memory. Right. “I’m fine.”
“Brick was here a minute ago, wasn’t he?” She strains her neck around, trying to catch sight of him.
“He’ll be back. He had to take a call.”
“Oh. Okay.” She seems relieved, like she’s been hunting for him for ages. She also seems kinda worked up about something.
“How are you?” I ask. “Is everything cool?”
From across the barricade comes the sound of smashing glass. We flinch. A man’s voice shouts, “Oooh oooh ooh! Go back to Africa, you motherfucking apes!”
A great jostling of the crowd tumbles us like an ocean wave. Melody and I press closer to each other. “Uh, I mean, is everything cool … apart from the white supremacy…?”
We laugh. It’s not funny, but you gotta get through it somehow, I guess?
“Yeah,” she says. “I think things are cool.” Pause. “You’re good friends with Brick, right?”
We’re good … somethings, yeah. “Sure,” I say out loud. “We go back a while.”
“So, I mean. He’s a good guy, right?”
The million dollar question. “He’s complicated.” That seems like a safe answer.
She nods. “Underneath all the Kings stuff? That’s just one layer. There’s more to him.”
“Untold depths,” I can say honestly.
Melody smiles. “Yeah. I mean … yeah. He’s really sweet with Sheila.”
“Sheila?” A switch in my heart flips. Anxious.
“His sister.”
Right. I forgot he has a sister. She’s just a kid, I know that much. He keeps her far from the world of the Kings, with good reason.
“That version of him feels real to me. The Kings stuff, it’s weird, right? Like putting on a suit to go to work?”
Where is she going with this? “The Kings are as real as it gets.” Can’t be getting confused about that.
“He dates a lot of women, though?”
“He sleeps with a lot of women,” I say. Dating, I don’t know where you draw the line on that.
“He’s not just interested in sex,” Melody says. “We talk about things. He cares about real stuff.” She cranes her neck. “I mean, he’s here, right?”
“I’m sure he’s still here, yeah.” He wouldn’t leave without me … would he? And just like that, I’m craning my neck, too.
“I mean, we’ve hung out a bit lately, and he never acted like it was all about going to bed. Last night was the first time.”
Last night? My head spins. So does my stomach. I’m already hangover dizzy, and now the whole world feels off balance.
It’s not hard to put the pieces together. Brick says no to me, after all this time, because there’s someone else. Of course there is. Why would I think he was ever into me?
I shake my head to clear it of all the wrong thoughts. “Um.”
“You okay?”
“I have to get out of here,” I murmur.
“What?” Melody leans closer to me. She can’t hear me over the chanting, which has intensified.
Today for Shae! shouts Kimberly’s voice, amplified.
Tomorrow for all! answers the crowd.
Today for Shae! I can no longer see her, but Kimberly is around me, above me, within me. She is a bright, shining, glorious star and the whole world answers her call.
Tomorrow for all!
I push my voice hard, right toward Melody’s ear. “I have to go.”
Today for Shae!
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
“Are you okay?” Melody asks. Her arm goes around my shoulder. I shrug free.
Today for Shae! Kimberly’s voice is everywhere. I can’t follow it to the source, and even if I did, she’d be too busy to talk.
Tomorrow for all!
“When you find Brick, just tell him … Tell him I had to get to work.” I stumble away, pushing people aside to get toward a bus stop. I rode over here with Brick. He was supposed to bring me home, but I can’t face him.
Today for Shae!
Tomorrow for all!
I can’t face Kimberly, either. The world spins as I rush to get more distance. When I reach the sidewalk, the first thing I see is a sewer grate along the gutter. It’s like my body was waiting, holding itself in check.
Vomit rushes up my throat and out in a coughing rush. It’s gross and achy, and somewhere behind me a kid goes, “Ewww, Mom, look!”
My knees hit the curb. My whole body is shaking.
“You okay, baby?” says a woman, probably the kid’s mother.
I hold up my hands, as if to make a wall. A good wall. It will be a fortress, with possibly a moat. Your concern will not get through, stranger-lady. Force field: engage.
“I’m fine.” I cough, wiping my mouth. Never better.
The torches burn brighter as the sun goes down, and there is nothing subtle about it. Their chanting continues. For a fleeting moment, I imagine crossing the barricade. Gun in hand. Strolling straight into the white-hot center and popping them one by one. As many as I can get to before I’m taken out.
Maybe the thought is not so fleeting.
My boys are packing. I’m not. The cops are gunning for me already. I’m not about to get picked up on a weapons charge. They’d find a way to spin it hard. I know they would.
So I’m not carrying. A rational decision I don’t completely understand. Because … this rage. I’m on fire.
Maybe I’m a coward at heart.
It does nothing but stoke my rage, knowing that.
I’m not about to set myself up for prison. That’s rational. But the core of me defies logic. Wants to. A blaze burns around me, consuming me. I can barely see myself within it.
“We have to pack it up,” Zeke says. “Our permit ends soon.”
“Fuck that,” I answer. “We’re not leaving till they do.”
“There are more of them than there are of us,” he says. “Who do you think is gonna get arrested first?”
“So we get arrested.” I smack my fist into my palm.
Wait, what? No. No. NO. But I can’t stop myself from fronting.
I’m right in Zeke’s face. “These motherfuckers need to know who we are.”
I can’t, with the hypocrisy. I take it to the wall:
White people: We matter most! We deserve preferential treatment!
Cops: You have the right to express your opinion. Here’s a permit.
Black people: We want equality! We deserve justice!
Cops: You’re out of control. Here’s a bullet.
“We do not back down!” Brick is shouting. “We’re just supposed to walk away? While they’re still out there? Hell no!”
Zeke pulls himself up big. He’s tall, like Brick, but thinner. “Peaceful protest. We abide by the law.”
“Fuck that! We need some civil disobedience up in here.”
“Not now, not here.” Zeke’s one calm-ass brother. Between their shoulders, uniform fabric, coming closer. I crane to look.
“It ain’t right!” Brick’s raised voice draws the attention of the cops at the perimeter. Clusterfuck. They staring us up.
“Pigs at ten o’clock,” I say. “Simmer.”
“Listen,” Zeke says. “If we get rowdy, they’ll start arresting us. That’ll be the news tonight.”
“That’s the news every night, goddammit,” Brick thunders.
“Exactly,” Zeke explains. “Tonight, we want it to be different. We walk away, in keeping with our permit.” He points toward White Out. “They won’t. We need to see what happens. We have footage of tanks rolling up to peaceful protests in Underhill. If the same thing doesn’t happen here tonight, it’s evidence of discriminatory police tactics.”
“I feel you,” Brick murmurs. But it’s still fire.
I can’t lay claim to Brick, not even. It’s not like I’m his girlfriend. I mean, I don’t rightly know if I am. I do know he doesn’t want this fight. Not on the inside.
My hand on his sleeve, and he flinches. His body’s all tight and poised. Tense, like a finger on a trigger.
“I need a ride home,” I tell him. “You ain’t gonna ditch me here, are you?”
Brick lets me pull him away. Can’t keep my eye on the uniforms while we move, but they’re out there. Clinging to our trail like a shadow.
It’s only a twenty-minute ride, from the park back to the community center. It won’t be the end of the world. Only staff can drive the van, or I’d send Zeke with Al instead of me. He can’t get enough of the senator.
It’s growing dark, and the demonstration permits end at sundown. Today we follow the letter of the law, to make a point. The police say when we are gone, they will move in and clear the White Out protesters, too. Time will tell.
There’s not much to pack. We’ve given out all of the UNARMED buttons and most of the flyers. A few Underhill volunteers collect what remains of the poster board signs, while others walk around urging the crowd to disperse. They hand out “What to do if you get arrested” cards. It’s unlikely that everyone will actually choose to leave.
It’s hard to leave, to shut off our railing against the ongoing chant. White might! White rights! The torches seem to hiss against the gathering dusk.
I securely tuck the flyer box flaps under each other. It feels like giving up.
“Ready?” Al says. Senator Sloan. I keep slipping. “Our ride is here.” What he means is, Let’s step into the car, where we’ll be alone.
I already feel a way I don’t want to feel. There’s something masochistic about making yourself gaze directly at open hatred for hours on end. It’s like staring into the sun. You take damage. Even if the white spots fade and you can eventually see again, your eyes will never be the same.
The police hover and nudge people along. They can see that we’re leaving. It’s amicable. Remarkably so, considering how this moment tends to go back in Underhill. I snap a picture of a cop standing with his arms wide, smiling as he directs people across the street. I will tweet about it, when I can find the right words. #ObediencePays, maybe. Except plenty of people would fail to see the intended irony.
Al’s—the senator’s town car pulls up to the edge of the thinning crowd. He ducks inside immediately. The gathered photographers snap images of him until he disappears behind the tinted glass.
The police move barricades, to clear a lane for him. But the town car waits. For me.
Zeke squeezes my arm. “See you back there.” I wish he would lean in and kiss me goodbye, right in view of the senator, but he probably won’t. And I won’t. We’re working.
I cross to the door behind the driver’s seat. Breathing deeply. Twenty minutes, and I’m home. And maybe I’ll never have to see the senator again.
Wow. It feels good to sit down. I lean my head against the seat. Close my eyes. Breathe. For a moment I dare to hope we’ll pass the ride in silence.
“How did you think it went?” Al—Senator Sloan—asks. What he means is, Tell me nice things about what I’ve done for you today.
“We had a nice turnout.” I open my eyes. “We were peaceful. We were loud.”
There’s a silence. I’ve failed to answer the implied question.
“Your speech was good,” I add. “Two clips have already gone viral. I’m sure it will continue to get great coverage across platforms.”
“Anything for the cause,” he says. What he means is, I will do whatever it takes to get re-elected. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, presumably to confirm that my information is correct. He should just believe me. I’ve been tracking it all day.
We glide by rows of upscale housing. Uniformed doormen. Lycra-clad, down-vested joggers. SUV strollers, and everyone with a name-brand coffee cup in their hand. Sparkling sidewalks—literally, do they put glitter in them, or something? Stately brick, modern metal, walls and walls of windows. Who are the people behind all that shiny glass? Did they watch us on TV today, or will they tonight? Are they walking on treadmills and reading iPads and watching sitcoms while our world burns? Were they out in Griffith Park with torches? Did they want to be?
“It’s been nice to see you, Kimberly. You look well,” Al says. What he means is, You look pretty, or sexy, or something in that vein.
“I’m good.”
“I’m glad to see you’re still involved in the work.” What he means is, I was right to pluck you from obscurity so you could carry my briefcase.
“It’s become important to me.”
“You’re a natural.” What he means is, I made you from scratch.
“I don’t know about that.” Out the window, the buildings grow shorter, closer together and more worn down. We’re almost home.
“Nonsense, Kimberly. You’re a leader.”
The town car is generously sized, but so are we. It doesn’t take much for his hand to move closer to mine. Too close. His fingers walk and talk at the same time. Maybe I imagine them stroking slow circles over the back of my hand, where it rests on the seat between us. I’m still watching the city go by.
“I still think about that week,” he says. What he means is, I wouldn’t mind getting in your pants this time, if you’ll let me.
“I don’t,” I lie. “So much has happened since then.” I cross my arms over my stomach, even though it presses my boobs together, and I’m sure that is where his eye goes.
“You’re an amazing woman,” he says. What he means is, Who do you think you are? No one says no to Alabaster Sloan.
“I’m doing my best,” I answer.
“I’m proud of you.” There’s something about his voice that I never noticed before. Every word is full of so many things all at once. Layers and layers of meaning. Maybe it’s why people find him so pleasant to listen to. Why he moves them. It sounds like he is speaking with the voice of millions, and what I hear them all saying is, You are small.
I’m kinda wishing I’d taken time to clean up the SCORE office. It looks like a cyclone hit it. An anti-white-supremacist cyclone. This is what organizing looks like, I remind myself. We worked hard today.
Senator Sloan loosens his tie and settles back in the armchair in the corner. He takes a long swig from his can of Diet Coke. I slouch in the chair behind my desk. We’re silent for a while. It’s comfortable. Just two guys, hanging out. My brain can’t quite wrap itself around the fact of who he is anymore. Every once in a while my mind kicks me, like, Dude, you’re chilling with Alabaster Sloan!!! And then it goes back to feeling normal.
Senator Sloan glances around the room. I fight the urge to bustle around and straighten things up. It’s only a tiny mental fight. I’m too exhausted.
“Your work with SCORE is volunteer?” Sloan says.
“Yes, sir. We have a couple of grants but nothing that would cover an actual staff position.”
“Who writes your grants?”
“I do.” I grin. “Most of the behind-the-scenes work is me.”
“Impressive,” the senator says. “I know how much work goes into something like this.”
That’s not fair. Don’t be that guy, I chide myself. There’s a temptation, for sure, to puff myself up in front of Senator Sloan. I add, “At least, it was all me in the beginning. Kimberly has really stepped up in the last few months. I wouldn’t be able to do nearly as much without her.”
“And when you graduate? Nonprofit sector, politics? What do you envision?”
When anyone else asks me this, it feels like a can of worms. Like there is something squirming inside me yearning to get out, and I can never put words to it. The question itself feels like a game I can’t win. But when Sloan asks, it’s not hard to answer honestly.
“I don’t know. I want to do a bunch of things. To make a difference. Is that corny?”
“What’s the point of anything, if not to make a difference?” he answers.
“Yeah.” I muse on that. “I’m not sure everyone sees it that way.”
“Then they’re wrong,” he says, in that definitive, resonant preacher voice. His certainty fills the small space.
I riffle the corners of a stack of paper on my desk. “I’m supposed to want something concrete. Something simple. To be a lawyer. An accountant. A teacher.”
“Do you want to teach?”
“Not per se.” I pause. “But leadership is teaching, isn’t it? From a slant, maybe.”
Senator Sloan swigs the Diet Coke. Studies me. “You have a vision,” he says. “You just don’t know how to realize it yet.”
“I do realize,” I say quietly. It’s strange, that it feels like a secret, something to place in a vault, or to be ashamed of.
“Mmm.” He shakes his head. “I mean realize, in the sense that you don’t know how to bring it into fruition yet. How to make it real.”
“Oh. Yeah. For sure.” I shrug, smile as brightly as I can in the face of the uncertainty that is my future. “All things in time, or something like that?”
“Mmm. They do say that, don’t they.”
He is wise, beyond what I even knew. Even in his quiet moments, he exudes something loud. His very presence speaks. He knows how to realize his vision. I wonder what it feels like, to know who you are, and to stand in it.
“I have an opening in my congressional office staff,” he says. “Legislative Aide.”
“Legislative Aide?” I echo. My ears ring with it. Legislative Aide Aide Aide Aide.… Is this really happening?
“That’s the title,” Senator Sloan says. “In terms of role, you’d function as a community liaison, between my office and my constituents, particularly around organizing.”
I don’t entirely know what that means, but it sounds amazing.
“Wow. Senator. Thank you, I—” I have no words. Thunderstruck doesn’t begin to cover it. But— “I don’t graduate until end of May.”
“You’d start in August. Plenty of time to transition leadership for SCORE and get settled in Washington.”
Right. SCORE. This thing I’ve given my time and life to for the past two and a half years. Right. Washington, DC. The congressional offices.
“Um…”
Sloan chuckles. “You don’t have to decide now. Let me know next week.”
Right. I don’t have to decide now. “Sure, of course. Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll let you know by then.”
My ears are still ringing. Is there a decision to be made?
Senator Sloan sips his Diet Coke. As we settle into silence again, the SCORE office grows more cluttered and cramped by the second. I imagine myself in a classy suit. Strolling through the US Capitol. Casual, like I belong.
It’s hard to sleep. My knuckles ache. It hurts a whole lot to punch someone.
But maybe it hurts more not to punch them.
Daddy cries through the night. I put my hand on the wall and listen.
There is nothing I can do.
In the morning, when I say, “I’m sorry you’re sad,” he pretends he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“It’s complicated,” Mommy says.
@KelvinX_: Have you seen these mofos with the torches? #HelloLynchburg
@WhitePowerCord: You can hate on us all you want. But you can’t touch us. We have a right to be here.
@KelvinX_: *scratches head* Huh. That sentiment sounds awfully familiar …
@WhitePowerCord: We are taking this country BACK.
@KelvinX_: We are taking this country BLACK.
@BrownMamaBear: #TodayForShae barely scratches the surface. When are black people gonna get serious about taking care of our communities?
@TroubleInRiverCty: Keep on coming, Underhill PD. You can’t arrest and kill all of us. The whole world is watching.
@WesSteeleStudio: The press refuses to mention Henderson’s impeccable service record. Why? Could it be BIAS AGAINST WHITE AMERICANS? Racism is alive and well in Underhill. #SteeleStudioExclusive
@Viana_Brown: Told a white friend about Shae Tatum. She said “That doesn’t happen.” #DifferentWorlds
There is something worse than spilled blood. The poison in their voices ricochets for days. People travel the sidewalks wary, wondering what is in each other’s minds.
Two black men pass a white man in front of the hardware store. Their eyes ask, Was it you, with the torches?
His eyes say, You’ll never really know.
It is not enough to watch the coverage. Pacing the living room carpet, you are stuck in the middle. Too close and yet too far.
What you’ve seen surges to the forefront, again and again.
The past is not past. The future is cast in shadow. The present—this moment, now—bears its own kind of peril.
You wade through the helplessness of all you know and all you cannot say.
“Will’s out again,” my wife says. She stands at the kitchen window of our condo, looking down at the street. From my spot at the kitchen table, my view is the twists in her hair, the curves of her back, the hasty bow on her apron. Chicken sizzles on the stovetop. The rice lid pops and clatters as it simmers in the background. Greens in a bowl wait to get tossed in the chicken grease.
“He’s supposed to be home for dinner,” I remind her. “We’ve talked about this.”
“He won’t be,” she says. “He’s out there. I can feel it.”
Sigh. Far be it from me to question mother’s intuition. “He’s angry. You—I mean, I can’t blame him for that.”
“I don’t—I can’t rest—” She clutches at her chest and fumbles over the words. I get up, to go to her.
My cell vibrates, gliding across the kitchen tabletop. The screen glows, JOHN LANSBURY. Impeccable timing, as ever.
“Hi, John?”
My wife turns back to the window. I go over and put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs away from me, returning to tend the chicken.
“You watching the news?” John asks.
“Not yet. We’re making dinner.” My wife shoots me a glance. Okay, “we” is a stretch. I chopped the greens. And since then I’ve been sitting here. I shrug an apology at her. She sticks her tongue out.
“They’re pushing toward a verdict,” John says. “Tomorrow or the next day.”
“The grand jury?”
My wife stops stirring and turns. I look away, because I have to.
“Yes,” he says. “We’ll need to be ready when they come back. Whichever way it goes.”
“We will be.” And now it’s me at the window, staring down into the dusk. The chicken smell, rich and amazing, wafts up stronger behind me. She’s taking it off the pan, putting in the greens. Dinner soon, and Will’s not home.
John is on a roll. “We need talking points, press releases, and a revised media plan for the commissioner and the union reps. Henderson should continue in silence, don’t you think?”
“Of course. It helps nothing to hear from him.” This conversation is pointless. All of this could wait until tomorrow. I’ve already worked up the talking points. I don’t know why he even called.
“Right, right. Anyway…” John rambles loosely about our agenda. My wife absently stirs the greens. She glances over her shoulder at me. Our eyes meet and it’s everything at once. Why we hate my job right now, what we fear for our son. She stretches her free hand toward me and I take it. A lifeline.
The front door lock clicks and the door opens. Relief floods me. I squeeze my wife’s hand gently. He’s home. We’re okay. Another day behind us, clean and safe, with all three of us home together for dinner. Nothing we take for granted anymore.
“Will, baby?” my wife calls to him. “Wash up for dinner.”
There’s no answer but the shuffle of sneakers in the hallway, the slamming of a bedroom door. My wife’s face crumples. Her relief drains away, replaced by annoyance.
Will’s such a good kid. Loving and cheerful, artistic and brave. But lately there’s no reaching him. He’s pulled so far away from us.
John’s still talking. “Steve? What do you think?”
“Um—many thoughts. Let me reflect on things and give you a report in the late morning tomorrow.”
“Which way do you think it will break?” John’s voice goes energetic. I have nothing left for him. Nothing left for any of it tonight.
I press my palm more firmly against my wife’s. She looks at me. Everything at once.
“The way it always breaks,” I answer.
Our job only gets harder from here.
Tomorrow or the next day, we find out if Daddy has to go to court.
Today, we have new clothes, new toys, and the promise of a family vacation. “You’re still on leave,” Mommy says. “We could get away for a while.”
“I can’t leave the state,” Daddy says. “It will look like I’m running.”
“There’s plenty to do nearby.”
“You’re pushing it,” Daddy says. “Give it a rest.”
“Can we move? I’m never, ever going back to school.” I sit with my arms crossed. I’m suspended for a week for fighting. It won’t be long enough.
“Well, aren’t you two in a mood.” Mommy huffs over to the computer. For a while there is no sound except a lot of clicking.
“Look,” Mommy says. We look. She shows us some websites. Museums. Restaurants. “And this is where we could stay.”
A tall, shiny hotel with room service, movies on the TV, and a nice swimming pool.
“Jesus Christ,” Daddy says. “It’s how much per night?”
Mommy turns away from the computer. “I will not let you punish yourself for the rest of your life. Not for one tragic accident.” The words drop like anvils. Tragic. Accident. I picture them falling off a cliff, like in a Road Runner cartoon. Mommy is like the coyote, trying to kill the bad feelings that are running all over the house.
Mommy spins back to the computer. “I’m booking it.”
“No.” Daddy drops onto the couch, head in his hands. “How am I supposed to just…” His voice zips off, leaving a cloud of dust. The Road Runner is alive and well.
More clicking.
Mommy doesn’t stop me when I slide into her lap. She types in our address and credit card numbers. All the while, the images of the hotel blink by, all shiny and clean. I learn a new word.
“What is ‘amenities’?”
“What are amenities,” Mommy corrects. “It means good things.”
We will have amenities. The worst thing that ever happened to us has turned into something not so bad. Every cloud has a silver lining, Mommy always says.
Even the old, boring day-to-day work feels different with Kimberly around now. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I just want to make out with her all day, I feel like, even though making out is kind of exhausting after a while. We wouldn’t even have to make out the whole time. Just spend the day lounging in the same space, so that we could be touching. But who has time to lounge?
“You okay?” Kimberly smiles at me. It’s been quiet between us for a while, which is unusual.
“Sure, yeah.” Nothing to do but smile back. What will she think when I tell her about Senator Sloan’s offer? Washington, DC, feels distant and exciting. My whole self comes alive in a different way, thinking about it. But it also means the end of this thing that I’ve built. Saying goodbye to SCORE.
SCORE would be fine in Kimberly’s capable hands, of course. It’s not totally about the work, it’s … something different. If Kimberly’s here, and I’m there …
I don’t want to think about it. My hands cap and uncap the colorful markers before me.
The grand jury has been hearing the Darren Henderson/Shae Tatum case. Their pronouncement is due any day now. Maybe tomorrow, but probably the day after. That’s what they’ve told us, anyway. When it comes, we’ll be there. Kimberly and me, and a whole lot of others.
Look at her now, punching out UNARMED buttons on the button maker. She makes mundane things seem incredibly sexy. How does she do that? I peek at her out the corner of my eye, occasionally bumping her knee with mine.
I’m hand-lettering yet another poster with her catchphrase on it. “‘Today for Shae, Tomorrow for All’ was a stroke of genius,” I tell her.
She grins. “So you’ve said.”
For the thousandth time, probably. “What can I say? I’m a fanboy for your brain.”
Kimberly tosses a finished button in the box, flexes her wrist, then reaches for a poster board. “What other signs do you want?”
“No Justice, No Peace.”
“I don’t know if we should use that,” she says.
“No justice, no peace?” But it’s so simple, so powerful. Easy to chant.
“Yeah. We’re supposed to be advocating nonviolence.”
“That’s not what it means.”
Kimberly frowns. “No justice, no peace. As in, if we don’t get justice, we won’t be peaceful?”
I shake my head, lean into it. This is exactly the kind of discussion I love. “No, no. It’s a much more complicated idea of peace. It’s drawn from a quote from the Reverend Dr. King.”
“Really?” I swear to God, she leans in and bats her eyes at me. I totally thought that was some made-up thing from fiction. But it’s super hot.
“Yeah. He has this quote about the relationship between justice and peace, that you can’t have one without the other. It’s—” I pause. “Well, you know?” I don’t want to be the guy who always explains things. I know I get overly detailed about stuff like this. Other people get bored with it.
“I don’t know that quote,” she says. “I guess Dr. King said a lot of important things, huh?”
I smile. “The thing is, they do go hand in hand. Justice and peace. In reality, if we don’t have justice, we already don’t have peace.”
Kimberly frowns, mulling over it. “How so?”
“Well, think about what the justice system is supposed to do. It’s supposed to uphold the moral ideals of our society, right?”
“Thou shalt not kill, and such.”
“Right, so when you break the social code, there are consequences.”
She nods. “I mean, I get that. We send people to jail for murder.”
“So, to look deeper, what happens when the system is built to uphold a moral code that is skewed from actual fairness? Or, when people have different ideas about what is fair?”
“Isn’t that why we have courts in the first place, to keep everyone honest?”
“Sure, but it requires integrity of the system.” I tap my fingers against my lips. Is this making sense to her? Does she think I’m a giant nerd?
“And the system is broken.”
“But also, in a sense, if there is no justice for us, what is our obligation to create peace?” I’m super excited now. No one ever wants to get this far into this. I love her.
Um.
Swallow that thought.
Try again. “What I mean is, black people basically live outside the law already, because the law doesn’t serve us fairly.”
“And so…?” She’s clicking through the pieces of the puzzle in her mind. I can tell.
“So, it’s possible that the only way to achieve actual justice, the only way to change the system that is acting against us, is to act outside the law.”
“But that would be illegal.” She blushes. “I know that sounds super obvious. I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard stuff. Think back to the 1960s. Organizers used civil disobedience to great effect.”
“All the sit-ins and marches.”
“Yeah, technically they were breaking the law. Black people would go sit in at Whites-Only lunch counters, knowing that they’d be arrested.”
“And the laws eventually changed.”
I nod. “In part because black people proved to lawmakers that the laws were unjust.”
Kimberly shakes her head. “Well, but more so because we disrupted the economic structures of those businesses. They couldn’t sell lunches to white people while black people—who they refused to serve—were occupying the counters. They couldn’t make money.”
I’m totally impressed. Hardly anybody knows that. Is it weird that it makes me want to jump her bones? Yup, totally weird. I’m hopeless.
Kimberly goes on. “Not only was it bad PR, it was damaging the actual business. So, really, we never had a moral awakening on race. There was no great change of heart in America after the 1960s.”
Ding-ding! Jackpot! “And that’s why we’re still stuck making signs and marching. In the twenty-first century.” I hold up the NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE poster board. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
Kimberly’s quiet for a minute. She traces her finger along the bottom of the words. “Does everybody know that’s not what it means?” she asks softly. “Was it just me?”
Crud. I’ve accidentally made her feel stupid. I rush to correct it. “Oh, gosh, no. Most people don’t fully get it. It’s a really good question. And you really know your history. I’m so impressed. You’re really smart.” And now I’m a babbling idiot. Perfect.
“It’s just…” She hesitates. “I still don’t understand why we should use it. Isn’t the point of slogans to be really clear?”
“It’s clear enough.”
“But it’s not,” she argues. “We just had a whole conversation about how it isn’t.”
And you know what, she’s right.
Robb’s left their door open. I know from history that Tyrell hates when he does that. I knock at the jamb. Tyrell pulls out his earbuds and turns around.
“Hey, man,” he says.
“Hey.”
Tyrell is not enamored by throw pillows. He’s the only guy in our suite, one of the only guys on the whole floor, who’s never been by to see Doc DeVante and lie on my “couch.” Maybe he’s shy. Maybe he doesn’t have any problems. He doesn’t seem to have any friends, either.
A shot of guilt pierces me. Maybe I should be making more of an effort.
“So I’m going with Robb down to the Black House. You wanna come?”
Tyrell shakes his head. “I need to focus on my studies.”
“We’re talking about protest responses after the White Out march.”
“Not interested, thanks.”
He barely has the time of day for me. I don’t get it.
“Doesn’t it upset you?”
He looks at me, full on, for one long second. “What?”
Is he kidding? My fingers spring out wide. “White supremacists marching in the streets of an American city.”
“Oh.” Back to his math books. “Yeah.”
Forget it.
This punk comes from some entitled place. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live the streets. Bro lives his life according to some spreadsheet. I want to shake him. Get out in the world. Know what we’re up against.
How do I make him understand?
“SCORE is planning a demonstration at the courthouse, during the grand jury deliberations.” I scroll through my phone as DeVante and I walk along the campus path toward the black student union. “We should go to that.”
“All the way in Underhill?”
“It’s only about six hours.” I grin. “Sometimes five, the way I drive.”
A fleet of bikers zooms toward us. “Not sure,” DeVante says.
“Come on. We have to be there.” At least, I do. I have all this privilege, everyone is always saying. Because I’m white and male and my parents have money. So I want to use my power for good.
It’s just, I’d rather not go alone. Plus, what’s the point of protesting to support your black friends if your black friends don’t even show up?
“I don’t know.” DeVante sounds less excited than I expected.
“Come on. What’s the point of campus organizing? We live in a bubble.”
DeVante cuts me side-eye. There’s something he’s not saying, like usual. Apparently there are things I don’t get because I’m not black. Whatever. I’ve studied the issues. I do get it. Black people are oppressed and racism is alive and well in the twenty-first century, which sucks. But personally I think everybody’s equal and I don’t judge people on race. What else am I supposed to do?
“It’s a weekday,” he says. “That means missing class.”
“One day of class, maybe. Who wants to be cooped up in a classroom talking theory when we could make a difference in the actual world? No-brainer.”
DeVante moves behind me to let the bikers pass. We are subsumed by their wind. “Let’s wait until we get to the Black House,” he says. “We’ll have to talk together about what is the best plan.”
Blah. All they ever do is talk. Someone has to step up and take some action. It might as well be me. I know what’s right.
DeVante comes side by side with me again. He grips his backpack straps in his fists and stares at the pavement ahead of us. In this moment, he looks like Tyrell to me—calculating the logistics. But it’s not that complicated. I can do my part to help.
“I don’t care,” I tell him. “I’m going. I have a car. You can come if you want.”
I’ve gotta get smarter about things. Sun streaks in through a gap in the blackout curtains. Melody cozies up against me, still half asleep.
I’m slipping.
This bed has a “no overnights” policy. Or, it used to. Can’t get comfortable with this kind of arrangement. I like sleeping alone.
But I liked waking up next to Jennica more. That night, the morning after, those memories are planted in my mind like a flag. Every thought is a breeze, stirring it. I can’t be awake, can’t move, can’t think without stirring it up.
I don’t mind waking up next to Melody, either. Any warm body is better than none, it turns out. But I can’t go making promises to women I can’t keep. I’m not into leading people on. My usual dates know how I roll. We screw, we snuggle, then we go our separate ways. No hang-ups. I sleep careful. I sleep smart. No drama.
“Morning,” Melody mumbles. “You good?”
Till now.
“I’m good. You?”
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Two missed texts from Jennica.
He’s stopped coming around. At all.
You didn’t do anything, right?
She might as well have walked in and poured some gas on the embers of my fire. I just got myself down to a simmer, and now this. Damn it.
I toss off the covers, startling Melody. Storm into the bathroom to deal with my situation alone.
What do I have to do? Jennica says she wants away from him, but it’s like some weird obsession. He fucks with her, and she’s pissed one minute and the next it’s like Come fuck with me some more. It’s messed up.
Melody’s sitting up in the bed when I return. Her shirt is off and the covers are pulled up right underneath her excellent rack.
Damn it. I have no resolve. She’s right there, and willing, and it feels good. I got nothing to apologize for.
Afterward, she says, “I have to get to work. Can we meet for lunch, maybe?” She strokes my cheek. “I want to see you.”
“I’ve got some things to do today,” I tell her. “You wanna come by tonight instead?”
“Dinner again?” she asks.
Right. Last night I took her out for dinner. Two nights in a row? I’m really slipping.
“Come over to my place. I can make you my paella.”
“Why don’t we do it here?” I suggest. “Leave me a list and I’ll send someone out for the groceries. I got pots and pans I never use. Gotta break them in sometime.”
And I’ve got a party to throw after that. Gotta get back to business as usual.
“Sure,” she says. When she kisses me, it is good and easy. Comforting. Not even confusing, in the moment. Not confusing until after.
The diner’s not crowded. I’m not sure I’m glad. Jennica’s face perks up when she sees me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I lean across the counter and she pushes her cheek forward. I kiss it. She smells good, and I don’t know how, after swimming in this grease pit all day.
“It’s been a few days,” she says. “You okay?”
I settle into my usual stool. “I been busy, that’s all.” Has it been a few days? Really? I didn’t mean for that to happen. Time is slipping away.
“How about you? You doing okay?”
She smiles. “Same old, same old. You wanna eat?” She hands me the menu, as if I don’t know everything already.
“Patty melt. Gimme some of that broccoli on the side.”
“It’s good today.” She scrawls my order onto the pad.
Her smile is a world unto itself. Jennica is gorgeous through and through. That night we kissed, everything came alive. But she was in a bad place. She didn’t really mean it. In the light of day, in the warmth of the diner, it’s a kiss on the cheek, a touch of the hand. The rest is in my head. A fantasy, that we could ever be more than that.
I don’t even know how much she remembers. I don’t know how to talk about it with her. I don’t know how to ask what any of it meant: Were you lashing out in pain, or were you loose enough to reveal what you really wanted?
We’re friends. We may never be more.
If I keep coming here, I’ll keep hoping. If I stop, I’m leaving her in the lurch.
“So … pizza night is not a thing anymore?” Jennica says. She’s sitting on the couch.
Crud. I forgot again. I’m being a terrible friend and there’s no excuse for it. I plop my purse onto the counter.
“We got really busy at the office this evening.” That’s a stretch, but what am I supposed to say? It’ll hurt her feelings if I say I forgot. Again.
“You weren’t at the salon?”
“I was, but my last appointment canceled. I went by the office after my shift.” I slip out of my shoes and poke around the kitchen. Maybe I can whip up something that will feel kinda special. But nope. We’ve got nothing great in the fridge. Pantry, either.
“We can order in,” I suggest. “We haven’t done that in a while.” The take-out menu drawer is nice and full. “My treat,” I promise.
“Okay,” she says. There’s a pause while I riffle through the menus. “If you really want to,” Jennica adds. “I mean, if you don’t have anything better to do.”
Oh, double crap. “I love hanging out with you. You know that.”
Jennica’s looking out the window, which is as close to turning her back on me as possible while sitting. “You never have time lately. But it’s not a big deal.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” I bring four choices over to her. All her favorites, including the pizza. “Really. It’s just you and me tonight, okay?” Zeke was going to come over later, but I’ll text him and tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.
Jennica smiles. But there’s something behind it that shatters my heart.
“Hey.” I pile myself onto the couch beside her. She leans into me instantly. No hesitation. The shards of my heart pulse. “I know I haven’t really been around much.”
“You have a boyfriend now,” she says. “I get it. I know what they’re like. They want all your time and attention.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not like that.” Zeke’s not asking me for everything. Not in the destructive, controlling way Jennica’s used to. The thing is, I love him. I want to give everything. It’s different. But I don’t know how to explain. “This thing we’re doing, with SCORE … it’s bigger than us. It’s only for a little longer. The grand jury will come back within a couple of days. Everything will settle back to normal.”
It feels true, until I say it out loud.
Jennica lies very still in my arms. She doesn’t say it, but I can feel her thinking it. I’m thinking it, too.
We won’t settle. Nothing is normal. This thing with Zeke isn’t fly-by-night. Neither is my involvement with SCORE.
We won’t settle. The whole world is changing. No going back. There is no normal anymore.
It’s easier than it should be to sneak out of the apartment. My parents watch TV kinda loud, and if I just leave my door shut, they don’t bother me. A closed door means I want to be left alone.
I tiptoe through the foyer and then wait with my hand on the knob. It’s never long before a loud commercial comes on, and it covers the sound of the snapping lock.
I slip out, let the knob click back into place under cover of the same commercial. Scoot toward the elevator. Like clockwork.
Almost.
This time, the door clicks open behind me. “Hey.”
Uh-oh.
Steve’s in the hall with me. Busted. “Where are you going?” he says.
“What? No biggie. I’ll be right back,” I lie.
Steve pats his pockets, checking for his keys. He lets the apartment door close behind him. “Let me see your bag.” He holds out his hand.
“It’s only my books,” I tell him. “I’m just used to carrying it.”
Steve crosses his arms. “Would you rather talk to your mother about this?”
Hell freaking no. I swing my backpack off my shoulder and toss it at his feet. He unzips it.
My life is over. Being caught was always a possibility. I’ve known that. Caught by my parents, by a teacher, by the cops. I always thought I’d be mad when it happened. Defiant. It’s different. It’s worse.
Steve pulls out two of my paint cans, the gray and the white. When I see them in his hands, I feel like I’m crumpling, fading. Like I’m being dropped into a deep, deep hole from which I may never escape. Dirt walls and hopelessness, my very self stripped away.
“Put them back,” I whisper. “Please. Please.” There’s something raw in my voice. Steve reacts to my words as if I did lash out, as if I sounded all defiant and enraged. I’ve burned him.
He places the cans back, carefully. He re-zips the bag. Does he know that I’m dying in front of him?
Steve pulls out his phone. Clicks around a minute. I’m not sure what to do with the silence. This moment is nothing like I ever imagined. It’s all I can do to breathe. My bag is on the floor between us. I want to take it, but I can’t move.
Steve holds out his phone. “This is you?”
He has eMZee art in his photos. It’s kind of surreal. He thumbs through four images. The photos are taken through his car window, like he drove around looking for them. Not my best work, but … he’s seen me.
“Yes,” I admit. The fullness of the truth is refreshing.
Mrs. Nadinsky, our neighbor, opens her door. “Oh, hello, dears.” She has her gray hair in rollers under a cap. She’s carrying a small plastic trash bag.
“Hello, Mrs. Nadinsky,” I answer, from the surreal space. Some things come automatically. “May I take that to the chute for you?”
“Well, aren’t you the gentleman,” she says, stretching the trash bag out to me. “Such a dear. Such a dear.” She pats my shoulder, then retreats into her condo.
And suddenly I’m standing there holding Mrs. Nadinsky’s trash. Silent in front of Steve, who is seeing the real me for the first time, my heart in a bag on the hallway carpet. I feel exposed and dirty and cold.
Words fail me. Steve stands silent, too. I grab my backpack by the top handle. Where I go, it goes.
The trash chute is down the hall, behind a little door. Near the elevator. When the chore is done, Steve is right behind me.
“It’s beautiful art.” Not what I expected him to say.
“Thanks.”
“It worries me that you’re breaking the law.” Yup. Now he’s back on the parent track.
“To make a point,” I say. “It’s resistance.”
“It’s vandalism.”
“Call it what you want.” I slide my arms into my backpack straps.
“Your mother wouldn’t—”
“So don’t tell her!” This isn’t about her. It’s us. Right here. Right now.
“I haven’t. But I think you should tell her.”
“Pssshhh.” I move past him, toward the elevator.
“I can’t let you keep doing this.”
I spin around. “Let me? You’re not my dad!”
Silence. There’s no going back. It’s been, I don’t know, years now since I threw that at him. He is my dad, and we both know it. There’s nothing I can say that will hurt him more. I didn’t even mean it, but I’m too mad to take it back.
“I know that.”
“I—” I want to say I’m sorry, but I can’t. “I have to go.”
“Come here,” Steve speaks in this tight, controlled voice, like a spring pressed down hard. I know that feeling.
“Screw you. I’m outta here.” I stride toward the elevator. Pound the button with my knuckles. With my fist.
“I said, come here,” he demands. “Come here now.” His voice fills the hallway like thunder. I turn toward the storm, because I can’t help it.
Steve strides toward me. My whole body tenses. I didn’t even know I had other levels of tightness left, but I do.
It’s rare, one of those moments when I feel like he could hurt me. Like he becomes the black man the world fears, a vicious metamorphosis right before my eyes.
When he reaches for me, I’m actually scared. He’s never truly scared me before, not once. My arms go up, protecting my face. He grabs my shoulders, and I punch my forearms outward, against his arms, breaking the grip.
“Stop,” he says. “Come here.”
His hug is strong and soft. If I was anything but stone, I could melt into it. But I am stone.
“We love you,” he says. Bringing my mom into it is some ninja shit. But the warmth blows around me like wind. “You’re not alone.”
But I am alone. I am.
The elevator dings and the door slides open.
“You grounding me?” I ask.
“Is that what I should do?” he says. “Probably, yes. You’re grounded.”
The elevator door starts to close behind me. I wave my hand against the laser.
“It’s not safe out there, at night. I want you safe. Not dead.” His voice catches. “Not in jail.”
“You want me to jail myself instead.”
Steve’s face falls. He moves in a small circle, turning himself away and back. He runs his hand over his neck.
“I hear that,” he says.
The elevator door starts to close again. This time, Steve reaches over my shoulder and places his hand on the door, holding it open. I step back, into the opening.
“One way or another, a black man is ‘safer’ in an enclosed space. That’s what you’re telling me.”
A jail cell. A casket. My room. If that has to be my whole world, what’s the difference?
The elevator starts up its I-will-beep-until-you-make-a-choice alarm.
“Be safe,” Steve says.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Steve lets go of the door.
I get in, alone.
The TV is tuned to all the bad news.
My headphones do not help tonight.
Mommy says, I’m sorry, baby.
I need to see what happens with the grand jury.
I don’t know what the grand jury is
or why everyone is waiting
to hear what it is going to say.
Everyone is angry and shouting—
that part, I understand.
When there was something scary on TV,
Nana used to let me crawl into her lap.
Now I only have pillows
and it’s not enough.
Robb is persistent. I’ll give him that. He is y =-x2 + 2x. A firm equation, easy to solve but annoying. Insistent and committed to its trajectory, however misguided. When you graph it, it plunges toward negative infinity.
“You gotta come with us, dog. That’s your hometown.”
“Listen.” I’m losing whatever patience I even have with him. “Just let it go, would you.”
“Not till you say you’ll go. Two nights, max,” Robb insists. “You miss only one class. I’ll get you back in time for the rest. It’s for a good cause. When the grand jury comes in, there’s gotta be a lot of voices calling for justice. We gotta stand up!”
It’s a relief when my phone vibrates, glowing TINA over my homework.
Her voice is small. “Hi, Tyrell.”
“Hey, baby. How’s my girl?” I try to sound sexy. Won’t make no difference to Tina.
Robb sighs and packs up his notebooks to scoot out of the way so we can have privacy. Good. I want him to think I’m talking to my girlfriend. That she’s who keeps calling me.
Tina laughs in my ear. “You sound so funny on the phone sometimes.”
The door closes behind Robb. My normal voice returns. “I know. It’s because I’m happy when you call.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. And the funny voice—it helps me with something.”
“You sound normal now.”
“Hey. Who you calling normal?”
Tina giggles. “You sound unique. You sound like Tyrell.”
I smile. “Well, okay, then.”
Quiet. I wait. Usually at this point she tells me about some thing or other that went on at school.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask her.
“I don’t know what that means,” she says.
Sometimes I don’t know whether she misunderstood me or whether she’s being insanely deep.
“Are you feeling sad right now? How are you feeling?”
“I have feelings cards,” she says. “The sad card is always frowning.”
“Are you frowning?”
“No. I am sad but I am not frowning.”
“Frown is a funny word. Frowwwwwwwn.” I draw out the ow sound until my breath runs out.
Tina giggles. “Frowwwwwwwn.”
This kid. I wish I could do more for her. I wish there was some way to drop back in time and save her brother. I want that for myself all the time. I want it for her even more, somehow.
“There is another card for how I feel,” she says.
“Which card is that?”
“The scared card,” she says. “It has very big eyes and frowning eyebrows.”
“Frowwwwwwwwwning eyebrows, huh?”
Tina giggles. “When are you coming home?” she says. “I watch out the window for you.”
Oh, my heart. “You don’t have to do that, Tina. I will tell you when I’m coming.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” It slips out, like a swear word. Like a tear gliding down my cheek.
“Tomorrow?” she repeats. “One sleep?”
My fingers press into my temple. “One sleep,” I assure her. Goddammit.
The door creaks and Robb pokes his head back in. I toss him a thumbs-up. He returns to his desk and spreads out again. I’d have liked him to give me a little longer, but a shared space is a shared space.
“So, tomorrow I can watch out the window?”
“If you want to,” I told her. “But you don’t have to.”
“I want to.” She’s bouncing in place. Her voice bobs with the rhythm.
“I love you, too.”
I hang up. Squeeze the corner of the desk to keep from punching the wall. Keep my back to Robb until I can’t anymore.
“I don’t get you,” Robb says. “If I had a girl waiting, I’d be trying to get home every weekend.”
“You don’t understand the situation.” That might be the truest thing I’ve ever said to him.
“She gonna be at the protest?”
“Maybe.”
“Gimme her number. We can meet up with her.” He slides a glance my way. “Still saving you a spot in the car tomorrow.”
I hate that he’s gonna win this one. Or think he did.
It can’t be helped. I’ve made promises.
I sigh. “Okay, dog. I call shotgun.”
This is what I miss. Thursday night snuggles on the couch with the fuzzy green blanket and Kimberly’s shoulder to lean on. She sits propped up by pillows with her feet on the coffee table and I curl against her with the blanket over both of us, tucked snug beneath my chin. Her laptop is stacked on a pile of books so we can stream.
The buzzer dings in the middle of our third episode. Kimberly flinches. She fumbles upright, flustered. “Oh, no. Oh, crud. I forgot to text him.”
Our calm is shattered.
“Who?” I say, even though I already know.
“I’m so sorry,” she gushes. “We made this plan hours ago, but then you and I were going to hang out. I forgot to cancel.”
“It’s okay,” I say out loud, although my whole body feels like it is being crumpled inside a giant fist.
“No, no. Crud.” She scrambles toward the door. “I’m so not ready for him.”
I gather up the leftover food cartons as Kimberly buzzes Zeke in. The fuzzy green blanket clings to my shoulders and I will it not to fall.
“Yuck.” Kimberly makes a face at her disheveled self in the wall mirror. She smooths down flyaway hairs. “Well. This is me. He knows what I look like, right?”
“You look fine,” I tell her. She always looks good. Even when she’s in the middle of betraying me.
Kimberly notices me bundling my way toward my bedroom. “No, wait,” she says. “I’m just going to send him away. I promised you.”
That’s not what I expected her to say. I pause.
“I meant to text him, and I’m so sorry,” she continues. “Come on, we’re right in the middle of an episode!” She seems so earnest.
There’s a part of me that wants to say okay, and make her do it. To find out for sure whether, when push comes to shove, she would really choose me.
But I don’t want to know. There is only so much disappointment a girl can take. I tuck the blanket tighter around me. “That’s silly. Don’t send him away.”
Kimberly chews her lip. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t want to make problems for you with Zeke. He’s a good guy.”
She frowns. “No. It wouldn’t make problems.”
They haven’t been together that long. She doesn’t get it yet. “I told you, I know what guys are like. You should see him. I’ll be fine.” I offer my best smile.
See? I can be a good friend, even if Kimberly can’t.
Kimberly turns off the lights in the kitchen and living room, except for the one they always leave on to discourage burglars. Then she leads me into her bedroom. Her roommate is going to sleep, she says. So we will tuck ourselves away quietly, too.
Kimberly is already dressed in soft clothes, these baggy pajama pants and a nicely fitting tank top under a thin sweater thing. No bra. I slip off my shoes and pants and climb onto her bed beside her. She’s sitting cross-legged. I squeeze her knee.
“I don’t want to have sex tonight,” she blurts out.
I pull my hand back. “Okay…”
“Sorry.” She picks at her fingernail polish. Glances at me through her lashes.
My hand finds her knee again. “It’s totally okay. Of course it’s okay.” It’s not like we have sex every time we hang out. But there’s not usually a pronouncement about it. “I mean, are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just … I don’t want to bother my roommate tonight.”
“Oh.” It’s a little weird, I guess. Thin walls and all. I try not to think about it. It’s easier at my place, because my sister is so often out.
Kimberly leans toward me. I pull her close and we lean against the pillows. She lets her arm drape across me and leans her cheek against my chest. I become big in this moment, holding her under my wing and protecting her. The more gently I hold her, the more manly I feel, which seems odd. There are all these ways I’m supposed to be tough in the world, and yet this is the only place I feel strong.
“You said there was something you wanted to talk about,” she says.
The settled feeling dissipates as all the questions ahead float back to me. “Yeah, I’ve got good news. Huge news.”
“What?”
Deep breath. “Reverend Sloan offered me a job.”
“A job?” Kimberly sits up, looking at me.
“In his congressional offices. In DC. When I graduate.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.” She sounds somewhat less than amazed. “You must have really impressed him.”
“I guess. I mean, I told him I couldn’t have done it without you, of course.” I kiss her shoulder.
Kimberly folds her arms beneath her breasts and hunches forward. “What, um, what kind of job is it?”
“I’d still be organizing, but on the national level.” My fingers trail her spine. She’s pulling away from me and I don’t know what to do.
“Wow, Zeke, that’s … I mean, you’ve been worried about what will happen when you graduate.” She scoots her body a bit, turning toward me. I can’t reach her now, but at least she’s looking at me. “It’s kind of perfect.”
“I know. I was shocked when he first told me.”
“When he first told you?”
“He mentioned it when he was here.”
Kimberly folds her arms around her knees. “So … all this happened last week? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Um…” I’ve hurt her. Shouldn’t have let that detail slip.
“I didn’t tell you right away because I barely believed it myself.” The email is already on-screen when I open my tablet. “Not until I got this.”
Kimberly barely glances at the senator’s formal employment offer. “So, you’re leaving?”
“Thinking about it, yeah.”
She goes quiet.
“It’s an incredible opportunity. I mean, I can’t turn it down.” There’s more to say, but I don’t know how to say it.
Kimberly shakes her head. “Of course. Of course. It’s amazing.” Her voice is soft but strong.
“He’s everything I want to be,” I admit. “Since I was a kid, I’ve known about him. To learn from him, at the right hand…”
There’s something in her gaze I don’t recognize.
“… I mean, he’s everything.”
“You’re everything,” she blurts out.
My skin flushes. Too many words flood the tip of my tongue. I’m sorry. I love you. You’re everything, too. But also not everything … I’m confused. I want you. I want this.
Kimberly rolls off the bed, away from me. “You’re amazing. You’ll be so much more and better than Al ever could be. Of course you should go national.” She crosses to the dresser, where she keeps her jewelry and perfume and makeup.
“I know there’s a lot to talk about.”
“It’s Alabaster Sloan,” she says. “What else is there to talk about?” She pulls a pre-moistened cloth—it looks like a baby wipe—from a small plastic pouch.
“I mean…” talk about us. Or … do we not need to? Can she just watch me go like that? I thought we were … Doesn’t she care?
Kimberly runs the cloth over her face, cleaning it of her makeup. When it’s all off, her eyes look smaller, less defined. The rest of her face looks exactly the same to me.
“So … you think I should take it?”
My iPad is still open on my knees. I touch the screen to brighten it back up. Kimberly switches off the overhead light and Sloan’s offer screams up at me in the dark.
A few moments pass, while she fusses with tissues by the dresser. She blows her nose.
The mattress dips under Kimberly’s weight. “You want the whole world,” she whispers. Her voice is thick, and I realize maybe she’s crying. “And you can have it. You’re so good.”
“We should talk.”
“Sure.” She sniffs. “But I know you’re going to take it.”
When she snuggles against me, I’m confused again. “We should talk,” I repeat.
“We should rest,” she says.
“Maybe it’s better to talk in the morning,” I suggest. “If you’ll let me stay.”
“Of course you can stay,” she says. “I want you to stay.”
There’s so much weight to her words that I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.
We slip under the covers. My mind is humming. It takes a while to calm it down. When I’m finally close to sleep, a stray thought drifts through my mind. Did she call him Al?
“Let’s giddyup and go,” Robb says. “T, you ready?”
“Tyrell,” Tyrell says, rather sternly. He shoulders his backpack. “I’m ready.”
Sheesh. We’ve got six hours in the car ahead of us, and I’ve got a playlist fully programmed. All kinds of music. Hopefully some of which will help Tyrell become less of a wet blanket.
I bump his shoulder. “It’s cool. This is gonna be fun.”
“Road trip! Road trip! Road trip!” Robb chants, pumping his fist. Tyrell and I roll our eyes. At least we’re together on that.
First thing I do when we get to the car is pop open the glove box.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Robb asks. “Tyrell gets shotgun. Roomie privilege.”
“Just checking,” I say.
“Checking what?”
“Never mind.” I snapped the box shut. No errant weed, no tools. Just some papers, all white, and a black binder labeled with the make and model. The car manual.
I wouldn’t have put it past Robb to have something that would land me or Tyrell in court if we get pulled over. Some of us don’t have fancy lawyer dads or white skin to fall back on.
I wake up crying. I refuse to let it show, with Zeke in the bed with me. I blink back the tears, turn my face into the pillow to dry my cheeks. My sobs shake the bed. I don’t want to wake him. I can’t.
When I’m sure I can be quiet enough, I roll over. He’s still sound asleep. Lying there looking all perfect. Except for how he’s kind of drooling, which is perfect in a different way.
I ease the sheets aside and slip out to the bathroom.
Run the water hard. Sit on the tile and weep.
I put on the shower, because I’m getting wet anyway and I might as well. I tuck my hair into the shower cap. The room fills with steam and I sit in the tub with my head on my knees, letting the water pound over me.
The truth is like a drumbeat in the back of my mind. Zeke is leaving.
Zeke is leaving.
Zeke is leaving.
“Yo, man, slow down.” It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak.
The speedometer ticks toward seventy-five. Eighty.
Robb grins blondly, a poster boy for no consequences. “You chicken?” He guns it. Eighty-five.
“Please. For real.”
Robb grins. “Chicken.”
“I don’t want to get pulled over.”
“We won’t. And we’ll get there so much faster.” He guns it harder. I should have kept my mouth shut.
I dry my palms along my jeans, then practice holding very still with my hands upon my knees.
Robb says chicken, I think head cut off. I think about what force it takes to separate a head from a body, the mass times acceleration of a knife across a throat. The cold, swift act that some would deign to call merciful.
Robb thinks faster, I think about a baton tapping a window. I calculate exactly how much faster we’ll get there, and it’s only a matter of minutes.
Seventeen minutes.
Those minutes and his fun. They’re more important than me.
I keep my mouth shut. When in doubt, I run the numbers. Things in this car that could be mistaken for a gun:
My cell phone
Robb’s cell phone
my wallet
Robb’s wallet
my belt buckle
Robb’s iPod, casually docked beside the gearshift
the gearshift itself
his camera tripod, tucked under the backseat
a roll of duct tape
my winter gloves
my headphones
the silver carabiner clipped to the shoulder strap of my backpack
the spine of my intro to physics textbook
a sports water bottle, gray
a plastic water bottle, clear
the turn signal lever
the windshield wiper lever
an audiobook CD case
the black registration binder in the glove compartment, which I would be the one to have to open.
“Fucking stop it!” Tyrell screams out from the front seat. My head jerks up, every part of me suddenly alert and uncomfortable. We’re flying down the expressway, into the rising sun.
“I’m sleeping here,” I blurt out.
“Stop!”
The terror in Tyrell’s voice sets my heart racing. I blink. Robb laughs. My brain struggles to un-muddle the contrasting sounds. I scratch at some eye crust and try to catch up with the joke.
In the front seat, Tyrell is crying. Actual tears. What the—? Shit just got real and I slept through it.
“Guys?” I sit up straighter. The landscape blurs. We are seriously flying. I shift to peer over Robb’s shoulder. Holy fuck.
“Slow down,” I say. “That’s not funny.”
Robb grins. “Chickens.”
“You think this is a fucking joke?” I reach up from behind and take his shoulder. Pinch my fingers as hard as I can into his soft tissue. Then I start naming names. Sandra Bland. Philando Castile.
“Ow. Jesus. Okay, asshole.” He lets up off the gas.
Shae Tatum.
Many swirling thoughts in my still-sleepy brain collide. I release Robb’s shoulder. “You’re the asshole. You get where we’re going today, right?”
“Oh, please,” Robb says. “You’re with me. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Tyrell wipes his eyes. He glances at me in the rearview mirror, grateful. I stare back at him, promising. I won’t fall asleep again.
We’re not friends. We’ve barely ever had a conversation. But we’re together on this.
We are black men in America. We are trapped. We’re stuck in this car, in this flying metal box, a restricted space where we have no control.
We are at the mercy of yet another white guy who thinks he gets it, but he doesn’t.
We are stopped at the side of the road. Tyrell kneels at the edge of the grass, trying to get his stomach back.
“Come on, let’s take it to the next exit. There’s gotta be a gas station or something.”
I’ve used up all the paper towels in my trunk trying to clean Tyrell’s mess. I really want to wash my hands.
“Give him a minute,” DeVante says. “For crying out loud.”
“I can’t believe you peed my car seat,” I tell Tyrell. It’s mostly on his jeans, but still. My car smells like piss now and it’s disgusting. We have to ride in there for another hour, and it’s going to dry before I can get it properly cleaned.
“Whose fault is that?” DeVante says. “You’re the one playing chicken with the highway patrol.”
“I was just messing with him,” I say. “I would have slowed down if I saw a cop for real.” Of course I would have. I’m not stupid. “It’s not like I actually want to get a ticket.”
“You’re worried about a ticket and we’re worried about getting shot,” DeVante says.
“No one is going to get shot.”
DeVante grabs his forehead. “You think this is some fucking video game? After all that news you watch? It’s just entertainment?”
“Of course not.” I fucked up and I know it. I was trying to get a rise out of Tyrell, cold fish that he is. I took it too far, but everyone makes mistakes. “Can we move on now?” I say.
“You’re taking us to a place where there are tanks in the street. Do you get that?” DeVante shakes his head. “White privilege at work,” he mutters.
My skin stings. “It was my idea to go to the demonstration in the first place,” I remind him. “I’m totally on board with the protests.”
DeVante crouches beside Tyrell. “Come on,” he says. “We have to go eventually, you know.”
“Can’t…” Tyrell whispers something else.
Oh, for the love of—
DeVante reaches toward me. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”
Underhill. It is home, and it is another world. All at once. That thing they say about college being a bubble away from the rest of the world is true, I guess. Perhaps this is how it feels to be an astronaut reentering the earth’s atmosphere, free-falling, hoping your heat shield holds, hoping your parachutes deploy. You’ve been in a place so beautiful, a place few people where you come from can appreciate or understand, and now you must return … assuming the very sky will let you. The movie they showed in the dorm lounge last Friday was Apollo 13 and all I can picture right now is that moment at the end of the movie when everyone is holding their breath. After everything they’ve been through, will they survive reentry?
Will I survive?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
We roll through the familiar streets, and my stomach clenches tighter with each block. “Right on Peach,” I instruct DeVante, who’s still driving. We’re almost home.
“Are we almost there?” Robb wants me and my urine stench out of his car ASAP. I get it.
“You can let me out anywhere,” I say. It’s easy walking distance from here.
“Naw, man. I got you,” DeVante says. “Door to door.”
We make the turn onto Peach Street and …
“Oh, shit.” Robb grabs both front seats by the shoulder and pulls himself forward. “What the fuck?”
Underhill is not home. It is another world. It is a police state, a war zone, a corridor of barricades and patrol officers. We can’t even drive all the way down Peach. They’ve re-routed the traffic around the section of blocks where the protesting has occurred. Across the concrete barricades, it is clear that storefronts have been burned out and looted. The sidewalks are littered with broken glass and debris.
“Just drop me on the corner right here.”
“Are you sure, man?” DeVante’s voice echoes my feeling. “You could come with us.”
No, I’m not sure that I want to walk these streets tonight … but I’m equally sure that I live here. And accordingly, I have no choice.
“We’re not staying in Underhill,” Robb says. “DeVante has an uncle who lives across town.”
“A better part of town, you mean.”
Robb throws himself back in the seat. Says nothing. Whatever. I can’t help it. Everything Robb says is like needles to me at this point.
He pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures. I can hear the metallic little scissor-click over and over, punctuating our silence like one long ellipse.
DeVante takes the turn and pulls the car over in front of a fire hydrant. Throws the hazards on for good measure.
“Do you know how to get where you’re going next?” I feel bad for leaving him alone with Robb, but what else am I supposed to do?
DeVante taps his phone, where it’s resting in the cup holder. “Gonna program it now.”
“Tomorrow you should leave the car and take the bus back here,” I tell him. I glance in the rearview. Robb’s not the public transit type, but at least I’ve given fair warning.
“Text to meet up,” DeVante says. I close the door.
Robb and I exchange a glance through the rear window. I try not to think about the fact that this is nowhere near the end for us. I still have to live with him for another eighty-six days.
Eighty-five, if you don’t count tonight.
Tonight, when I’m gambling on Vernesha’s kindness. I can’t go home. If my parents knew I was here, they’d light me up.
When I start walking, my jeans shift. The breeze hits and their wetness becomes uncomfortable again. Not like it ever felt great. At least my coat is long enough to somewhat cover my crotch.
All I know is I can’t show up at the Johnsons’ place with wet jeans. I go into Rocky’s convenience store.
“Tyrell,” Rocky says. “What’s good?”
“Listen,” I tell him. “I spilled a drink on myself in the car. I can’t go walking around like this. You mind if I change up in your bathroom?” I point to my backpack, which luckily has a clean pair of jeans in it.
The bathroom is not for customers, but Rocky’s known me since I was a kid. Maybe he’ll do me a solid. I only hope he can’t smell the pee scent wafting up from me.
Rocky starts to shake his head.
“Please?” I beg. “It’s kind of an emergency. I’ll buy whatever you want.”
Rocky’s known me since I was a kid. A good kid. Always. He hesitates. “One time only,” he says. “In back on the left.”
I scramble through the stockroom door before he can change his mind. I’m fast. Not taking advantage of anyone’s favors. The washroom is tiny. I can elbow both walls at the same time. Not ideal, but I’m just grateful. I scrub my thighs with soap and paper towel, rinse my pants and wring them out as best I can.
Out front, I buy a soda, a sandwich, and three packs of the cookies I like. I need a treat. Rocky gives me an extra plastic bag for my wet jeans. I’ve always suspected he was a good person, underneath all the ways he acts like he doesn’t care.
“Thanks, man. You have no idea.” When I stick out my hand, it surprises him. He shakes. Then I head for the door.
“You stay out of trouble, you hear?” Rocky says.
I turn back. This, from Rocky, who prides himself on staying out of everybody’s business. Underhill. It is at once home and another world.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I assure him. “I’m just coming home.”
The second Tyrell is out of the car, Robb says, “Get me to some kind of car-cleaning place. Stat.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“It’s disgusting. What are we, seven?”
It’s all I can do not to pull the car over and scream at him, like my mom used to do when my sisters and I would be fighting in the backseat. Don’t make me come back there.
“You just don’t get it,” I tell him, for the thousandth time. “People die that way. You could have gotten us killed.”
“We were just driving. Nothing else.”
Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. I’m driving in an unfamiliar city. I have to keep my attention on the road, but I can’t let it go just yet. “All that news you watch and you still don’t know that gets people like him and me killed?”
“It was never just that.”
How are we even having this conversation? Robb, who always wants to hang out at the Black House, who arm-wrestled us into coming here with him to protest. I grip the wheel tight. “Just because they were black? Sure it was. Eric Garner. Philando Castile.”
Robb says, “He had a gun in the car, though.”
“A legal weapon, that he never pulled out,” I remind him. “Sandra Bland only had a broken taillight.”
“And she talked back to the cop.”
Here it comes. I can feel it. I push harder, coming back at him. “She asserted her rights when they were being violated. Is that a capital crime nowadays?”
“No, but if she hadn’t said anything…”
Fumes of rage come up my esophagus. Worse than acid reflux. I choke them down hard. We’re not supposed to ever speak now? That’s what they all want, isn’t it? Our obedience, our deference, our silence.
“Remember those guys that got arrested while they were waiting for their friend in Starbucks?”
“That was messed up.”
“Messed-up things happen. That’s the point.”
“Technically, they were loitering, right?”
“When’s the last time a coffee place like that arrested upper-class white people for loitering? Why only the black people?”
Robb bursts out with, “They must’ve been doing something!”
There it is. The thing white people think that they won’t say out loud. They don’t believe in bias. They don’t believe it happens for no reason other than racism and misplaced fear. When push comes to shove, for them, it is tragic because it was a “misunderstanding.” They think that kind of “misunderstanding” could happen to a white person, that it has something to do with our actions, even though we see time and time again that it doesn’t.
“But they weren’t doing anything,” I insist. “Remember the guy who was on his cell phone in his own backyard.”
“Mistaken identity.”
“Because he was black.”
“It’s—that doesn’t make sense.”
“When cops see a black guy, their brains kick into heightened alert. A tiny flinch is a threat. A cell phone is a threat. Standing still with your hands up is a threat. That’s bias.”
Robb is quiet in the backseat. He’s got his head down. The rearview mirror is full of his cowlick.
“Look, if you’re gonna march with us, you gotta get your head around it. I’m serious.”
“Two lefts and a right,” Robb says.
He’s looking straight back at me in the mirror now. “What?”
“Take two lefts and then a right. There’s a body shop that does upholstery.”
I brake for a yellow light, and slam on the left turn signal. Goddammit. I’m speaking into a void and how can I call myself friends with someone I have to explain these things to?
And at the same time, this is Robb, the guy who was nicest to me from day one. The guy who always remembers what I like on my pizza and always invites me to do cool things around campus. My first and best friend at school, the guy I clicked hardest with when everything was new and strange. We’ve talked about girls and kept each other from getting too drunk, or walked each other home when we’ve occasionally missed the mark. He’s the only one who comes close to my gaming skills.
“Whoa, this is my jam, turn it up,” he says. My phone is plugged into the car. A good song is on. Upbeat. I spin the volume high, because, fuck it. I’m not getting through anyway.
We bob our heads to the beat. I rub the plush leather steering wheel, remind myself that Robb is still my ride home.
The thing is, I know that I will stay friends with him. We’ll march tomorrow and wear out our lungs. And afterward, he still won’t get it and I’ll be more enraged than ever. The knowledge spins out in front of me. And so does the knowledge that I won’t let him go because I don’t know how to. And I hate myself for liking him anyway. It makes me a bad black person, doesn’t it? If I’m not woke enough to walk away?
I can’t say no to my nephew. But as soon as DeVante and his friend arrive, I know this was a terrible idea. They’re college boys, roaming free. The last kind of influence we need on Will.
Over dinner, the conversation is politics, protest. DeVante is well versed in the issues. His mother, my sister, made sure of that.
Will hangs on his every word.
DeVante’s friend is something else. He’s that guy. The one we all know, and like, and trust, until we don’t. Call me assimilationist, an oreo, whatever you want—I know who I am. There’s a difference between doing what you have to do to succeed and being some kind of Uncle Tom, shucking and jiving at the knee of some master. This Robb guy is destined to be a master, whether he can see it right now or not. All the marching in the world doesn’t take away the damage he’ll do when he finally steps up to daddy’s corporate table. And of course he will.
“Fight the power,” Robb says. I wonder if he understands the irony. That’s a Bulova on his wrist. He’s wearing custom-tailored Diesel jeans. I know my high-end apparel.
“Right on,” say Will and DeVante in unison. I wonder if someone is trying to bring back the sixties. Because that went so well for everyone.
Robb and DeVante banter back and forth, and their energy is high. My wife is laughing, delighted, and I force myself to smile when she meets my eye. She doesn’t know what I know. She cut her political teeth on the streets of Underhill. It’s different. Me, I remember those days. College days, the late-night talks, the vibrant debates. Safe in those ivy-covered halls, where everything is theory, you can spout off anything.
I don’t know how to tell them. This is the real world. Tough talk is dangerous. Just being right, being smart, doesn’t get the job done. Tomorrow, it’s real.
Steve puts Robb in the guest room, and DeVante takes my second bed. We putter around getting ready for bed.
I like the quiet of just the two of us. There are things I want to say. But instead I hand him my toothpaste and sit on my bed to wait while he uses my bathroom.
He comes back out, puts the toothpaste back on my bookcase. I like to walk around my room while I brush, which I guess is weird or something. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, of course.”
We’re not real cousins, we’re slant cousins. DeVante’s mom is Steve’s sister. We were close until his grandmother died. There were Christmases, summer visits back and forth, a lot of time spent at her house. Since then, not so much. It’s been a few years.
We sit around in our boxers, looking at our phones and stuff. I wonder, not for the first time, if this is what it’s like to have a brother.
“How have you been?” DeVante asks. He plugs in his phone and gets under the covers.
“I’m good,” I answer. “Busy. Senior year and all.”
“Good times.”
“For sure.” I’m okay with letting him think I spend my free time partying or something, not skulking around in a hoodie with spray paint. I try not to skulk, really.
“You still painting?” he asks.
“Tagging mostly. Sometimes I mural. Wanna see my stuff?” I offer. Until Steve cracked the case, DeVante was the only one who knew about my art.
“This is killer,” he says. “Really woke.”
“Thanks.”
“You could come for a visit, if you want a taste of college life.”
“That would be fun.”
“I shoulda been more in touch, with all that’s going on,” DeVante says.
I shrug. “No worries.”
We hover in silence. After a while, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then he sighs.
“You worried about tomorrow?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “If shit gets weird, we bug out, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” I agree. “That’s what I always do.”
I watch out the window
until Tyrell is on the stoop
Then Tyrell is at the door
Mommy is the one who answers but
Tyrell is here to see me.
Hey there, Tina. How’s my girl?
I pull him to the couch
I crawl into his lap
His arms are warm and safe
and strong.
Mommy says things to us
I pretend to forget how to listen
I don’t want a lot of grown-up words.
It’s been bad. I know, Tyrell says.
I know. It’s been bad.
It’s odd, being in Tariq’s room again. The furniture is laid out the same, but most of his personal stuff is gone. The dresser, the desk, the bed are all as they were. The closet door looks funny to me closed. Tariq always had a mound of clothes spilling out onto the floor. He didn’t really believe in folding or hanging anything. The bookcase is still full of his books, although it looks like some of Tina’s have taken over.
Vernesha rubs my shoulder in this way that feels nostalgic.
“Is this too hard for you?” I ask. “I can leave.”
“No, baby,” she says. “I like having you here.” She glances around the room, with a soft smile. “It’s no harder, no matter what happens. No easier, either.”
Yeah, that. “Okay.”
“Take those with you when you go?” she says, pointing to a stack of papers on the dresser. It’s the only thing cluttering the room. “I don’t know why, but I never could…” Her voice trails off. She shakes her head of whatever thoughts of Tariq have just crept in.
“Sure.”
Vernesha wraps her arms around me. “I’m glad you’re doing well. He’d be so proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“Haven’t done much yet,” I answer, settling into the warmth of her affection.
“You’re on your way. That’s more than nothing.” She kisses my cheek. “Sleep well. If Tina comes in—”
“It’s okay. I miss her, too.”
Vernesha nods. “I find her sleeping in here sometimes.”
“Sure, I get that.”
She backs out and closes the door.
I’m alone.
First thing, check the dresser pile. Don’t want to forget later.
It’s mail. All of it. As I sort through the stack of fancy envelopes, my heart crumples up like a wad of paper in a fist.
Stanford. Howard. Lincoln. Northwestern. Morehouse. Penn. Hampton. Xavier. Dozens of state universities, too, from all around. I got all these same envelopes, some time ago. I loved them. Reading every one was like taking a different vacation in my brain. And all because I dragged T to some career fair and we put our names and addresses on a list. It would have been, I don’t know, a week before he died? Or a month? Maybe two? When we thought we both had a hundred years ahead of us.
It never occurred to me to wonder if T was getting them, too. I never knew that his mom had to open the mailbox, every day for weeks, and … God.
I shovel the pile into my backpack. Maybe I’ll throw them away tomorrow, but maybe I won’t.
You sentimental idiot. T’s voice comes crisp and clear like he’s in the room with me.
“Shut up,” I answer, but we both know I don’t mean it.
I tug off my jeans and lie on the bed.
You miss me so much you’re gonna hang on to my junk mail?
“You know I do.”
You’re a mess, Ty. One big hot mess, my brother.
“Fair enough.”
Don’t be stupid. Take care of you. Leave the rest alone.
“And Tina.”
I appreciate you looking out for her. She’s gonna be okay. We grow ’em tough in the Johnson family.
“Like you?”
T scoffs. Tina’s way tougher than me. That should be obvious.
“Shae was her friend.”
Yeah.
I snuggle down beneath the covers. When I close my eyes, it’s easy to pretend he’s mere inches away, down in his sleeping bag on the floor. We used to take turns.
Don’t get too comfortable in my bed, there, you hear?
I smile. “Shut up.”
Maybe, on some level, this is what I wanted all along. To sleep in his room, which I’ve done dozens of times. It was always the safe, happy place in my world. I don’t know what it is now. Still that, sort of. But also the heart of all of this pain. The feeling of being alone in the world is both less and more all at once.
It’s weird. Good weird.
To return to a part of the world we once shared, even if it’s only for a little while. Even if it’s only pretend.
Will and his parents leave for school and work. We’re alone in the condo, DeVante and me.
DeVante puts the breakfast plates into the dishwasher. We sip coffee and wait. There’s nothing much on Twitter. No point in heading to the demonstration quite yet, either. There’s nothing to do in the house, though. Will doesn’t even have a video game console. How is that possible? This building is high-class. Obviously they could afford it.
Bo-ring.
“We could have driven down this morning,” I say, flopping onto the living room couch.
“And gone straight to the demonstration? No bacon and grits?” DeVante grins, hauling his backpack onto the rug. He riffles through it, pulling out a notebook. “I don’t know about you but I like a home-cooked meal when I can get one.”
“Why’d we come so early?” I poke the remote control until the TV buzzes on.
DeVante gives me a look. “Some of us don’t like driving in the dark, remember?”
Geez. They’re never going to let me live it down, are they? I’m the insensitive white dude, forever.
“Anyway, getting up before dawn to start driving is no one’s idea of fun.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I’m bored.” DeVante is studying, which is freaky. Who brings homework on a road trip?
We’re watching crap daytime TV when the front door lock snaps and someone enters the foyer. DeVante and I exchange a glance.
Will appears. “What’s up?” He’s wearing a hoodie over his private school vest, like he’s trying to make a point.
“Coming with us?” DeVante asks.
“Of course,” Will says. “Let’s go.”
The size of this crowd is incredible. We’ve filled the block and then some. From the steps of the police precinct, I can’t even see the full scope of the thing past the other buildings.
The police precinct is about a third of the way down the block, which is long. The building is set back from the street far enough to allow a series of about a dozen shallow steps rising to the revolving door. The street, which is usually lined with parked police vehicles, has been cleared. The crowd presses forward, up to the barricade at the base of the steps. The series of three-foot concrete pillars has always been there, to protect the precinct from rogue vehicles, but now there are temporary construction barricades filling the gaps between the pillars.
They’ve set up a microphone on the fourth step. Those of us with SCORE leadership passes are allowed to be behind the barricade. Police officers in riot gear line the street. They are above us, around us, beside us, among us. A row of them hovers at the revolving door, a row stands at the bottom of the steps.
Standing on the steps, looking over it all, it is clear—there cannot be violence tonight.
This is where they want us, penned into a narrow street. Spread thin.
We’ve been here for several hours, awaiting the announcement. It is well past the close of business, and we are left to wonder why they’re delaying their announcement. There is going to be one, we’re told. The grand jury decision has come in.
If they think they can wait us out, they’re wrong. It is cold, and getting dark, but we are still here, all the hundreds of us.
We’re down to the last few UNARMED buttons. I’ve been punching them out for days and days. We had hundreds, and still there never seems to be enough. It’s great, in terms of turnout. It’s hard, in terms of impact. The buttons aren’t only a political statement. They might actually save people’s lives.
That really was the last of them, though. None of the boxes at the base of the podium have more. There are a few more boxes on the other side of the steps. I trace the edge of the barricade, headed in search of them.
Behind me, Zeke’s voice breaks out through the microphone. We’ve had speeches and chanting on and off through the afternoon, to keep the momentum going.
“If they’re gonna make us wait, they’re gonna have to listen,” he shouts. “No justice, no peace!”
The crowd is primed and ready. A chorus. No justice, no peace!
I whirl around. NO. We agreed, no.
No justice, no peace!
Zeke stands on the steps like a rock star—arms out, palms up, pumping them like wings. Louder. Louder!
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
It goes on. And on. And on, and on, and on. Long enough for the people to have a hold of the rhythm on their own. Long enough for Zeke to notice me hovering on the steps, steeped in disappointment. He steps away from the mike and comes toward me.
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
“What are you doing?” I demand. “We talked about this.”
He pulls back an inch, surprised by my fire. “I know,” he says, reaching toward me. “But—”
His hands touch air. I’m not within reach anymore. I didn’t plan to back away. But here we are.
Zeke comes closer again. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I’m so full of other things, I don’t have room to hold it. “Whatever. Do what you want,” I say. “You always do.”
Zeke pauses. Looks at me, really looks. “This isn’t the time, or the place.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I hate myself for bringing it up. I’m good at keeping a lot inside, but I’ve lost that skill with Zeke. And that was supposed to be a good thing. Now, I don’t know. I don’t know.
The stone steps feel long and high as I try to descend, away from him.
Zeke takes my arm, turns me back. “The chant was Sloan’s idea. He asked for it. How am I supposed to say no?”
No one says no to the Reverend Alabaster Sloan.
“Zeke!” One of our teen volunteers, Lemanuel, bounds across the steps toward us. “The senator’s asking for you.”
“Okay.” Zeke tosses me an apologetic glance, then follows Lemanuel back toward the microphone.
Just like that. The senator calls and he goes running. No regard for the fact that we are in the middle of something.
I knew it already, but now it settles hard in my heart: Senator Sloan is a person who takes. He takes up all the accolades, the affection, the spotlight, the light in general. Over and over.
My knees meet the concrete steps, followed by my gloved hands. The cold seeps up through me. Just breathe. I stare at the upside-down heart formed between my thumbs and fingers.
Upside-down broken heart, that is.
A policeman looms over me, out of nowhere. “No sitting on the steps,” he orders.
My heart was already pounding and now it is bursting.
“Sorry. I know.” I scramble to my feet, at once rushing to obey and trying not to make any sudden moves. I’m hot and cold, flushed with a sudden icy sweat, trapped inside my winter coat, trapped by the crowd, trapped beneath the cop’s stern gaze. “I know. I know.”
It feels good to be in it. To open my lungs. I thought I liked being on the sidelines, with a can of paint, but this is a whole other level.
The four of us hang together: me, DeVante, Robb, and Tyrell. It’s a little odd seeing Tyrell. It’s been a long time since we were in school together, but he remembered me. Said my name when we bumped fists. Robb is mostly a white guy trying to act down, but whatever. It’s kinda nice to have a posse for a minute, even if it’s only temporary.
No justice, no peace! I’ve painted it. Shouting it is powerful in a different way.
When the chant switches, DeVante gets nervous. “If this goes bad, we can’t be here,” he shouts in my ear.
I nod, but in my heart, I’m thinking Screw it. We’re here.
Tyrell, too, looks itchy. Glancing around for a way out. Itchy because he knows, like I do, we’re deep in it. Way too deep.
Host: We’re awaiting the grand jury decision on Officer Darren Henderson. Joining me is attorney Christine Emory and NNN’s own Bobbi Rockwell.
Emory: It’s clear from their choice of location to announce.
Rockwell: What do you mean?
Emory: It’s customary to make this sort of announcement from the courthouse, where the grand jury is actually impaneled.
Rockwell: Instead they’re announcing from the police precinct in Underhill.
Emory: They know people are going to be unhappy, and they don’t want it spilling over into other neighborhoods.
Host: We’ll know soon enough. The verdict will be announced any minute. Let’s review the facts of the case. The onus is on the prosecution to convince the grand jury that there is enough evidence to take Henderson to trial.
Emory: The district attorney’s office works closely with the police. How invested are they in making that case?
Rockwell: No way to know.
Host: They have a responsibility to the citizens, as much as to the police.
Emory: More so. But if you look at the law, it’s less clear than it seems to a layperson. A trial jury would be tasked to determine whether the police officer’s actions were reasonable, in the moment.
Rockwell: Not in hindsight.
Emory: Exactly. Based on the information he had at the time, did he perceive a credible threat?
Rockwell: Obviously not. She was a small girl.
Emory: We know that now. Is it reasonable to expect that Henderson knew that in the moment?
Rockwell: Is it reasonable for anyone to mistake an unarmed child for a serious threat?
Emory: The issue is bias. A jury—in this country, in this time—may be operating with a similar bias to the one that led Henderson to shoot at Shae Tatum. Consider the mindset that led him to take lethal action against a child: the assumption that anything black that moves is a threat.
Rockwell: You think they will find it objectively reasonable that he thought she was a threat?
Emory: It won’t be objective. Anti-black bias is part of the fabric of our culture.
Rockwell: How do you achieve objectivity in such a case? Isn’t that a core part of the jury’s charge?
Emory: There’s the rub. What do you do when the “random” group of citizens meant to judge the case is incapable of objectivity? They’re asked to imagine whether any other police officer in the same situation, given the same information, would have made the same split-second decision. And given the nature of anti-black bias, the answer is likely yes.
Rockwell: That’s—
Emory: It’s an indictment of something … but not Henderson.
Host: The verdict is coming in. We’re going live to the Underhill police precinct for the announcement.
When the verdict comes down, the diner closes early. Shades drawn, I write the sign for the window myself: Black-Owned Business.
Tape the corners in place. Kiss the paper with a tiny prayer: Let this building survive the night. Let my job be here in the morning.
Walk home. All is quiet, for now.
Too quiet, for me.
No Noodle. No Brick. No Kimberly.
I’ve never felt more alone.
We are glued to the flat screen in the break room. We’re on call, as second-wave support. If they need us.
The captain comes in. “Gear up. Verdict’s coming down in our favor.”
Boots.
Mask.
Baton.
Tear gas.
Helmet.
Shield.
Let’s do this thing.
I never felt this kinda power. Not since I can remember. We got energy. We got rhythm. We got truth.
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
The protest is lit. It ain’t even cold now. We jumping. We pumping.
No justice, no peace!
No way to get tired. No way to quit it. We screaming. We furious.
No justice, no peace!
Brick stands beside me, his fist in the air. When it was calm, for a while, he had his arm around me, his hand in my coat pocket, keeping me close.
It ain’t calm now. I can still feel his arm, though. The little things that show me we got something going. It’s fuel. Life-giving fuel.
Zeke, at the podium, says the announcement’s coming soon.
It don’t matter. They gonna let us down. Again. We know it already. Been knowing it.
We scream it, insist it: No justice, no peace!
High up on the steps, the line of officers parts. The revolving door turns. White men in suits come down, followed by white men in uniform.
It’s on. It’s on. Brick’s arm goes around me, pulling me close. The screaming slowly settles around us as one of the suits places himself behind the mike. He introduces himself as the district attorney.
He clears his throat. “The grand jury has determined, in its best judgment, that there is not sufficient evidence to indict Officer Darren Henderson…”
The scream, it’s primal. It’s spontaneous. It’s everyone. No leader at the mike. We’re past that.
If he has more words, we don’t hear them.
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
Brick speaks softly. Am I meant to hear it? Not sure how I even do, under the shouting. “They’re coming for us. We ain’t going down without a fight.”
That’s right.
No justice, no peace!
We’re energy, rhythm, truth. We’re pumping, jumping. Screaming, furious.
I never felt this kinda power before. Brick by my side: all fueled up. The shield of the crowd: untouchable. The sting of injustice: no consequences.
We got nothing to lose. We gonna die anyway. Let it not be in a dark alley. Let it not go unseen. They coming for us. Let us meet them. Under the lights, in front of the cameras.
We gonna light this motherfucker up.
@KelvinX_: A grand jury will indict “a ham sandwich,” but not a live squealing pig. #JusticeForShaeTatum
@TroubleInRiverCty: You indict or we ignite! #BurnItDown #Underhill
@WhitePowerCord: That’s right. You niggers can’t keep a good cop down. #selfdefense
@UnderhillSCORE: #UnderhillPD, you owe us answers. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll
@Viana_Brown: We are grief. We are rage. The flood of it is never-ending.
@KelvinX_: No justice. No peace. #burnitdown #underhillriot
The air is thick and still. Tense, like a coiled spring under pressure.
Curtains flutter, then rest. Shades are drawn. Locks clicked and double-checked. Hand-lettered signs taped to windows: Black-Owned Business. A thin measure of protection. Behind the glass, a feeling of held breath, of hunkering down to ride out the storm.
They march in formation. Boots, batons, rifles, shields. Riot gear. Flanked by tanks and lit by spinning cherries.
They march as a crowd. Signs waving, mouths screaming.
Water and oil, baking soda and vinegar, waves lapping up against stone. Erosion. Eruption. Natural phenomena the city is meant to hold at bay, with its brick and steel and concrete.
These walls are meant to be unmoved.
You’ve seen enough. You don’t want to see more. It’s inexplicable, the decision to leave home. To make your way through the heart of Underhill. Toward the action. Not away.
When tanks roll through the streets of an American city, it makes the most sense to draw the curtains. Their treads will tear up the roads. Their guns are drawn by nature. All ambiguity is lost.
Through the bullhorns, they shout for order. You don’t want to be there when they start shooting for it instead.
The rage of a helpless people tastes like blood in the throat. Enough suffering to make us choke, cough, gargle our way toward breath.
One foot in front of the other. Motherfucking curfews be damned.
You have seen enough, and yet not enough. Enough to live in fear. Not enough to see Shae’s killer indicted and brought to trial. You have failed.
No, the system has failed. You’ve studied the statistics, out of curiosity. You weren’t surprised to learn how few police officers in the United States of America have ever been convicted of a wrongful shooting. Hardly any have even been indicted. Case after case: dismissed.
You walk the streets, uncomfortable. You walk the streets, with your eyes open. Someone has to be watching. Someone has to see how it all goes down.
You’ve seen enough, and yet not enough. Too much happens in back alleys. Too much happens in the heat of a moment. Too much goes wrong, and yet no one has seen enough to ensure justice.
The whole city’s on fire. That’s how it feels anyway. Underhill is a war zone. Tanks in the streets are only the beginning.
You walk, because you have the right to. You watch what they do in the name of order and law. You wonder what is the definition of freedom; you wonder what is the cost.
Shots fired. Shots fired. A symphony of sirens.
This is your neighborhood. They can’t have it. This is not a peaceful protest. This is a throwdown. You will not go quietly.
It makes no sense. The urge to race toward the tanks. To run up on them, denting them with your cleats. Stabbing the metal with the spiked heels you imagine yourself to have. You would be a superhero. The picture paints itself across the back of your eyes and you emerge heroic.
There are no handcuffs. You eat no cement. The knee in your back is a badge of honor, a ghost of the hardest punch you ever threw.
I do not like the sound of tanks.
It is worse than chewing.
It is worse than the garbage disposal.
No one calls out noise, noise
like Mommy does before she runs the vacuum.
It is worse than sirens.
It is worse than snow shovels scraping.
Light it up! comes the shouting. Light it up!
I cannot plug my ears hard enough.
Mommy says put on your headphones.
My headphones block the outside noise.
My headphones make their own noise
inside me. I am not sure
which noise is worse.
It’s on now. Fuck all the signs, all the marching. The crowd explodes with ungodly fury, and I won’t step away from the center of it.
Light it up!
They can come for me tonight, if they want to. I am one cog in the machine of the 8-5 Kings. These pigs got nothing on me. They’ve been trying for a decade to tear down what we’ve built. They haven’t yet. I take pride in that. We’re untouchable.
Light it up!
There is no such thing as peace tonight.
From the precinct steps, we have full view of the moment when the protest turns. Light it up! chants the crowd. Light it up! I did not tell them to say it. The suits moved me away from the microphone to make the official announcement. I’m no longer in control.
The district attorney drops his bomb and then retreats up the steps, flanked by his little team of men. They move like they think they’re so important. It makes me want to claw at things. They move with a carelessness, too, like what happens next has nothing to do with them or what they have done.
It’s impossible to see what force—save unbridled rage, save desperation—turns the tide. It seems to happen all at once, from the fringes, moving in. Down the block, a storefront goes up in flames. Across the street, the police in their helmets and shields charge forward, as one, like a wave. The shouting and chanting loosens. All rhythm is lost and chaos takes over.
The microphone is still right there, but I don’t know what else to say into it. The tide has turned. What can I say to get them back? What can I say to make it all right that we are dying? There is nothing I can promise—clearly not justice. Clearly not peace.
Kimberly appears at my side. “What do we do?” she says.
I put out my hand, and she takes it. In any other light, she would run from me. Even now, probably, she is dying to run from me, but we have a job to do, and the world is falling apart around us.
The row of police officers at the barricade below us raises its shields. Their stances change in one fell swoop, as if they’ve been called to attention from parade rest. The people at the front of the demonstration—fists up, still chanting—sense the shift. They stare up at me, asking for guidance. I don’t have any to give.
Across the street, there is fighting. The perfect picture of our crowd blurs and pixelates at the edges. We are watching something dissolve. Batons fly. A different kind of scream rises up. People down below look around, uncertain which direction to run. Among them, others move firmly, spoiling for the fight.
I’m scared. There’s no other word for it. “I don’t think we can hold them.”
Kimberly’s eyes are fire. “Can you blame them?”
My skin tingles. My limbs tremble. I don’t know where to place this feeling. Somewhere between rage and despair. “We’re supposed to be in charge. In control.”
“We’ve never had control.” Kimberly shakes her head. “That’s the whole point.”
My gloves are green, Brick’s are black.
Light it up! Light it up! Light it up! chants the crowd. We jumping. We pumping. Fists punching high.
Light it up! Light it up! Light it up!
And then someone does.
Flames burst up along the street somewhere to our left. I can’t see it, past all the arms and shoulders penning me in. I only hear it. A sizzling whoosh. The crowd rocks and shimmies. Gasping, cheering.
The rhythm is broken. People move every which way. Toward the flames, away. It’s hard to stay standing.
My gloves are green, his are black.
All my focus is on the place where they meet.
Brick is there, and then he’s gone.
It’s me. Alone, and drifting.
Shoulders, coat sleeves, elbows, fists. Tossed about in a human ocean. No shore in sight.
I never seen the ocean. Don’t know what it feels like to drown. Maybe like this?
“Brick!” I shout. “Brick?”
I’m turning and turning and turning. The rock of my fist crumbles. I’m grasping for anything.
Bump. Check. Stumble.
Then, out of the ocean of sleeves, there’s a face. At my level. Huge eyes. Trembling lips. Cheeks slack and shiny. We’re gasping at each other. Her face, like mine, has succumbed to the water.
My gloves are green, hers are brown. We take hands. No words. Safety in numbers or something like that. We become bigger together.
“Please disperse. Please disperse.” The officer’s droning voice is projected from a metallic-sounding speaker. “Please disperse.”
I want to find the voice. To yell STOP in his face. No one is dispersing.
Zeke hovers near the microphone. I pull his arm. “We have to get out of here.”
“This is SCORE’s protest,” he answers.
Things are on fire. There is nothing we can do. “It stopped being ours a few minutes ago.”
“I have to—” Zeke’s free hand bats at the microphone stand, as if petting it will calm anything. “I have to try.” There’s silence for a beat, and then he leans forward. Shouts, “We are. Unarmed! We are. Unarmed!” The rhythm is decent. The crowd picks it up. We are unarmed! We are unarmed!
We are flanked, suddenly and dramatically, by riot-dressed cops. The line of cops at the barricade pushes forward against the crowd, while more rush forth from the precinct building, filling the steps and then some.
I let go of Zeke’s arm because I have to. We put our hands in the air, because we have to. A baton passes in front of us. Terror sizzles through me. A searing streak, like lightning. My body tenses to take the blow.
What is hit instead is the microphone. It gets knocked away down the steps.
This is it. We’ll be arrested.
The most terrible thought—maybe this means Zeke will get to stay. Can you work at the US Capitol if you have a record? Shame floods me. My own selfish horror breaks me harder than anything I’ve seen tonight. Any second now, the tears will start to fall. Any second.
I don’t understand what happens next. At all. The cops flood past us. Every damn one of them. They pile on top of one another to get into the fray below. Swinging batons and knocking people to the ground.
“Please disperse. Please disperse.” The drone continues unabated.
The strongest, loudest voice is still the crowd. We are unarmed! We are unarmed!
All but alone on the steps, Zeke and I look at each other. Are we relieved … or insulted? They ran past us? We are not a threat. We are two kids with our hands up, and no way left to speak.
“We have to get out of here,” I say.
Zeke lowers his hands. “We can’t just leave.”
“We can.” I shake my head, and even then the tears don’t come loose. “I think we have to.”
I’ve always made fun of that thing they do in movies, that battle-scene shaky-cam effect, where everything is jostling and confused. I’ve always said it looks stupid. It does.
But I get it now. I mean, I get where the idea comes from.
They get it wrong, though. It’s supposed to show urgency, on-screen, but that’s not what it is in real life. It’s terror. It’s my whole body thumping because my heart is beating so hard. Every blink is like a snapshot from a slightly new angle. The whole world changes in the split second it takes my eyelids to go up and down. It’s jarring as hell. My head starts to pound.
Beside me, Will jumps to the beat and pumps his fist in the air.
Light it up! Light it up!
On my other side, Tyrell doesn’t even want to be here. He glances around like a scared rabbit, which is nothing new. He’s been like that since we got here. Only, now it’s justified.
“We gotta go,” I say. “It’s gonna turn.”
Tyrell nods. He leans toward Robb, who’s on the other side of him, bouncing and pumping as loud as anyone. I can’t hear what he says, but I can see Robb shrug him off. Damn it.
“Hey, Will. Will!” I shout. “We gotta go.”
“Hell no,” he says. “This is my town. This is my fight. I ain’t leaving.”
Light it up! Light it up!
Well, crap. Tyrell is ready to go. He edges away, even as a swelling shift in the crowd strikes all of us and we’re knocked slightly apart. But I can’t go, not without Will. We’re not so little anymore, but I’m still older. He’s my responsibility. He’s not even supposed to be here.
“We agreed,” I shout. “Any hint of violence, we bug out. It’s not safe.”
Will stops bouncing. “Nowhere’s safe,” he answers. “Isn’t that the thing?”
I don’t have an answer for that, but when the storefront glass shatters behind us, when the heat of the flames rushes our backs, it no longer matters.
“Let’s get out of here,” DeVante chokes out. I don’t need to do the math on this one. The crowd dissolves around us. Screaming. Coughing. Running, except we can’t. We’re all penned in. Smoke pours out of the building that was behind us, and is now in front of us. It turns out, you can’t help but turn to look when something is burning.
Bodies slam into me, from every side at once. Smoke billows around. My feet freeze against my will. Which way to run? Which way to run?
A voice from somewhere orders us to disperse. Can’t they see we are trying?
“This way!” DeVante steps behind me. His hand is on my arm. When I turn my head toward him, I can see the opening he’s spotted in the crowd. People are running, shouting, railing against the night. The cluster of bodies is thinning enough to make our escape.
Time to go.
A clump of police officers with their batons up charge across the street in front of me. They begin shoving protestors aside from the edges of the crowd. They fan out, circling the scrum, as if hunting the person who threw the bottle.
DeVante moves away, toward the gap. I glance back. “Robb, come on!”
One of the officers charges toward us. Two petite young black women stumble out of the throng right in front of us—and right in front of the officer. The first woman falls to her knees. Her arm is bleeding.
“I’ve got you.” Robb reaches down and helps her to her feet. The second woman is scared, she’s trying to get out of the way of the jostling crowd. You can tell by her tears. You can tell by the way she holds her green-gloved hands up to protect her face and chest. Someone behind her knocks her forward. She staggers into the cop.
His baton, already raised and ready, comes down hard on her. Crack! She screams as the cruel metal tube strikes her shoulder. She falls to the ground. The cop spins, putting his back to us, and brings the baton down on her again.
“Oh, hell, no!” Robb exclaims. “Police brutality!”
The moment hangs above me like a cloud, even as it’s happening. Robb slips around me, light on his feet, like a breeze. His hand goes out, grabs the officer by the collar with one hand. His other hand knocks the baton aside and away from the woman on the ground.
I feel under attack. I feel like a monster. All at the same time. It’s not so easy to breathe through a mask. We do our duty. We do the uniform proud. We stand our ground against the mob that threatens to tear everything down.
I’m not alone. But I’m at the end of the line. Exposed.
We withstand the shouting. We step strong, in formation, to drive them back.
We withstand the surge of bodies. I hold my baton down at my leg, ready, but still. Poke with it, when anyone gets too close.
The hands that shove my shoulder, jarring my helmet, knocking me off balance, are the last straw.
Whirl around, find the nearest dark, guilt-ridden face. Slam it to the ground.
The police officer pivots away from the girl on the ground. He charges past me, slams his forearm into Tyrell.
Tyrell goes down, the cop’s knee in his back. “You’re under arrest,” the cop shouts. “Don’t move, asshole!”
Shit. Oh, fuck.
More cops.
Will kneels beside the beaten girl. I turn and there is no way out. The cops surround us with shields engaged. We put our hands up, except for the girl, who can’t move her right shoulder.
Some cop grabs my hands, wrenches them behind me. It’s fast and it’s fierce, and we know enough to go peacefully. The plastic band tightens around my wrists.
They don’t even put us in the same van.
We’re split up, me and Will, DeVante and Tyrell. I don’t know where DeVante even went, or if they got him. Tyrell was taken to the ground and cuffed and chained. Me, shuffled into a paddy wagon with a bunch of hissing activists, plastic zip ties around our wrists. We sit where we are told to sit.
There is energy, excitement. The worst has happened, we have done what we came here to do. Our faces will be on the news. We are willing to go down for the cause, but I can see now that we won’t. That we have it easy.
The call you fear. When it comes, there are no words. There is no breath. There is only your wife’s hand, if you can find it, and at the moment you can’t.
There is the chorus in the back of your mind: He is alive. He is alive. He is alive.
There is, too, the extra voice. The lone gunman with his rifle cocked: For now.
“Steve?” Will’s voice is small. “We got arrested.”
We are smoky. We are shell-shocked. We are grateful we parked my car ten blocks away, just in case. It’s barely far enough. The community has heard the news. People pour out into the streets, curious, angry.
I grip the steering wheel tight, tight. Try not to look at anything but the road in front of us. We take the long way, because we don’t want to be stopped. If we see a cop … I no longer know if I have it in me not to strike.
I have studied these phenomena, in school. The history of so-called riots. Watts. LA. Chicago. Ferguson. Baltimore. I have wondered, time and again, what stupid, reckless forces drive people out of their homes, into the night, to wreak havoc on their own neighborhood. The buildings they pass every day on the way to work, to school. The businesses they trust. Their very homes.
I know now. Nothing is simple.
The presence of tanks is confusing. Enraging. The powers that be are ready to wage war to keep us in our place. The imbalance, the injustice, is enough to make me want to light a bottle on fire. Sure enough.
I don’t have a bottle. I don’t have one. I don’t have one, or I might.
“Let’s go inside,” Kimberly says.
We’re parked in front of my building. We’ve been sitting in the car for a while, I guess. I don’t know how long. She lays her hand over mine and gently peels my fingers from the wheel.
We climb to my apartment, wash up. When we sit on the couch, it is ostensibly to snuggle, but we are too wound up to find comfort. I put my arm around her. My knuckles stroke her upper arm. She leans against my chest.
“Your heart is racing,” she observes.
Don’t I know it.
“Did we wimp out?” I whisper. “Did we walk away from a fight?”
“No,” she says.
But we did. We did. We did, and I don’t know why we did. Or how.
I unwrap my arm from her and lean forward, resting my head on my knuckles, still clenched. “I didn’t think it would really happen. That we’d lose control.”
“It’s been happening,” she says.
“I thought we could keep it peaceful.” My fists sit like rocks on my knees. “I should have been able to stop it.”
“Okay, Superman,” Kimberly says. “Tell me another one.”
The burst of my laughter is unexpected and strange. I clamp a fist to my lips. Hmm. I still can’t unclench my fingers.
“It’s Sloan’s fault,” Kimberly insists. “No justice, no peace?”
Great. She’s gonna throw that back in my face right now? I glare at her. “They’re just words.”
“How can anything be just words?” She closes her eyes. “Most of the time words are all we have.”
I don’t know if I agree with that, but I also know we shouldn’t be talking about this. Not tonight.
“I think he wanted a riot,” Kimberly says. “I think he was hoping for one.”
“That’s nuts.”
She shrugs. “It’s better press, isn’t it? You notice he didn’t stay for the actual announcement. He knew what would happen.”
My brain swirls and glitches over the coldness in her voice. “That’s unfair.”
“Whatever.”
I pull out my phone. There is much still to do tonight, apart from tending our own wounds. Let us not make new ones.
“We have to work,” I say. “I’ll check in with legal aid, you do social media?”
Kimberly nods. We open all the tech. Between our phones, my tablet, my laptop, and the TV, we can keep tabs on the conversation across platforms.
The coverage on TV is more chilling than usual. Maybe because we were there. One shot they keep returning to is the steps where we stood, which now is lined with people seated in rows with their hands bound.
On the split screen, Senator Sloan, already back in DC somehow, sits in the studio offering commentary. I run the timeline in my mind. He spoke at our event in the late afternoon, hopped a flight home, and got himself on TV from a safe distance. All in a matter of hours.
He knew what would happen. Kimberly’s words float back to me. I push them away. Our cause is being covered on national TV because of Senator Sloan. We have an advocate who people respect. Why doesn’t she see that?
“He sounds good, don’t you think?”
“He always sounds good,” Kimberly says softly. “He seems like a good person, but he’s not.”
“Why are you so down on him?” My voice snaps in my throat. It hurts a little.
She glances at me. “You don’t really want to hear about it,” she says. “You’ve already accepted the job, haven’t you?”
“I can’t talk about this now.” Zeke tips his phone toward me. “We have to work.”
“You only care about the work!” I cry. “How did I not see that?”
Zeke sighs. “There’s—I mean, everything is on fire right now. Can we not do this?”
Easy for him to say.
“This is my life, too.”
Zeke’s phone rings. “I can’t hold myself back, just because…”
“Just because of me? I hold you back?” The knives just keep on coming.
I move to gather up my purse, except I don’t have one. No bags allowed at the protest. So I grab for my coat instead.
“You can’t leave,” Zeke says. “It’s not safe.”
“I can leave,” I thunder. “You’re not from around here. I keep forgetting. But this is my neighborhood. I belong here.”
I fling the door open so hard it smacks the wall. My body is shaking and the plan is not well thought out. I rush down the stairs and out into the cold, cold night. I zip my coat, pull on my hat, and walk to the bus stop on the corner. I want to walk it off—standing still is enough to drive me crazy—but it’s far, and it’s dark, and out here by myself it no longer feels like a good idea to have left.
I huddle in the corner of the bus hut with my back against the glass. The street is deserted. Zeke lives far from the action, but not far enough. Sirens wail in the distance. Smoke rises over the buildings. The acrid smell of it comes wafting through now and again.
I’m on alert—a woman alone in the dark. I sense him coming almost as soon as he steps out of the building. His shoulders are hunched, his hands tucked into his jeans. In the split second that passes before I’m sure it’s him, my heart rate doubles. I pull deep breaths to calm down, but knowing it is him isn’t calming at the moment.
He steps into the street lamplight. “If you won’t stay, at least let me drive you home.”
If I stay, won’t I be holding you back? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I’m out of energy. I can only gaze at him there in the barest glow of light. His cheeks are shiny. He sounds congested. Maybe it is all too much for him, too.
“Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” I answer. The wounds to my heart are flowing, throbbing. I wish Zeke would put his hands to them, try to stem the damage.
“Me either,” he says. “Just let me drive you. Please.”
Kimberly comes in crying so loud, I can hear it all the way in my bedroom. I throw back the covers, rush to the door. There is no sleeping on a night like this anyway.
She is on her knees on the tile, still in her coat and hat and gloves. Her pink button screams UNARMED!
“Oh, my god.” I kneel in front of her. “Are you hurt? I mean, are you injured?” Obviously she is hurt. We don’t know what it means to not be.
Anchor: Kristen Blum is live in Underhill tonight. Let’s return to the live feed. Kristen, how are you doing out there?
Blum: We’ve gotten clear of the tear gas cloud. It’s—well, it’s chaos out here. I’m with—tell me your name?
Black Youth: I gotta?
Blum: I’m here with a young man who’s attending the protest. What’s it about for you tonight?
Black Youth: We here, standing up for all the oppressed people of the world, starting right here in Underhill. We standing up for the people who can’t get justice under this legal system. We standing for all of us who afraid to walk the streets. Today for Shae, Tomorrow for All.
Blum: What’s that liquid you’re pouring on your face?
Black Youth: It’s milk. To help the stinging. We was told to bring it.
Blum: Protestors have been advised to carry milk?
Black Youth: Yeah, man. We knew we was gonna get gassed.
Blum: What does it feel like? How are you feeling?
Black Youth: It burns. My eyes are gonna be okay, right? (pounds his chest) Here, not so much. They gunning for us, man. They coming to kill us all.
Blum: Why are you protesting tonight?
Black Youth: There’s only so much a guy can take, yo. Sh-*beep* like this goes down, you gotta scream out.
Blum: Were you surprised by the verdict?
Black Youth: Hell no. We knew. They always do us like this. When you live in the hood you ain’t expect justice. You expect to have to fight. That’s all we out here trying to—
Black Woman: (appears behind Blum) All you people watching! All you white suburban news junkies. You all complicit! All of you!
Blum: Ma’am, hello. Do you have a comment—
Black Woman: Every last mother-*beep*-ing one of you. Sitting at home, shaking your head. We down here getting gassed, mother-*beep*-ers! When you gonna get off your fat *beep* *beeeeeeeep*—
Anchor: Uh, we’re gonna mute the live feed for a moment. Clearly people are extremely angry surrounding tonight’s grand jury verdict. For those just tuning in, we’re live with Kristen Blum in Underhill, where earlier tonight the grand jury returned no indictment for Officer Darren Henderson in the shooting death of thirteen-year-old Shae Tatum. Let’s just wait until … okay, here we are live on scene again. Kristen?
Blum: Uh, sorry for the interruption, folks. We’re live in Underhill, and the situation is going downhill rapidly.
Black Youth: She ain’t wrong, yo. Tonight we speaking truth and we speaking it loud. No time for bullsh-*beep*.
Blum: (looks at the sky) Police continue to fire tear gas into the crowd, trying to get people to disperse.
Black Youth: (pulls up bandanna over his mouth) Gotta go.
Blum: Thank you. Good luck out there.
We can try to get a little closer to the action … well, here come some more folks. Excuse me, sir. You live in this neighborhood?
Black Man: Born and raised. We seen a lot. We can’t stand for it no more.
Blum: What brings you out here tonight? Why was it important to be here?
Black Man: This is my neighborhood. I’m here for my neighbors, the Tatums. That’s a good family.
Blum: You live near the Tatums?
Black Man: Same building. They ain’t deserve this. Ain’t nobody deserves this.
Blum: Sir, what can you tell me—
Black Man: I’m out. You be safe, white lady.
Blum: I will. You too.
Black Man: Naw. I can’t. The point is, you already BE safe. You white.
Blum: I don’t think anyone in Underhill feels particularly safe at the moment.
Black Man: (smiles) You the one with the camera. You keep it rolling, you hear?
Blum: We will.
Black Man: If they take us all down, you be the one left standing. You make sure the world knows what they done to us here tonight. You stay safe, white lady.
Blum: Stay safe, black man.
Black Man: (grinning) You wanna lay odds?
*whistling sound overhead*
Daddy is free! The jury has decided.
“You’re free,” Mommy says. She throws her arms around him, squishing me in between. We are all sitting on the couch, watching the news announcement together.
Daddy holds his head in his hands. “I’ll never be free of it.”
@Momof6: Law and order FTW! Henderson cleared. #SupporttheBoysinBlue
@WhitePowerCord: Life and death, reward and punishment, is the purview of God Almighty. Righteousness has been on our side from day one. #HeroCop
@Viana_Brown: We need a revolution, y’all. Can’t stand for this. Can’t stand for it. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll
@WesSteeleStudio: JUSTICE PREVAILS IN UNDERHILL! But the conspiracy against Officer Darren Henderson continues. What they won’t tell you about the grand jury proceedings here. #MakeItKnown #SteeleStudioExclusive
@BrownMamaBear: Have the conversation with your children: How to be safe in the world with #KillerCops on the loose.
@KelvinX_: FIGHT THE POWER #BurnItDown #ToTheGround WE WILL RISE OUT OF YOUR ASHES