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My heart stutters.
Elkwood looms over me, all in its full glory, bricks standing firmly against the ground, a century old creation that resists to budge. At least, until someone makes it.
It’s me alone down here, feet shifting on the sidewalk, hands gripping my poster. I’m trembling. The school stares back at me, unshaking.
My kilt is on, a few buttons of my shirt undone. Somewhere down the street, my parents are waiting in the car in order to provide extra backup. That is, until they have to leave. Until they have to drive over to work and catch the train downtown.
Nat is probably somewhere far behind, carefully watching everything unfold, eyes curious, stance wary.
Wind bristles my kilt. It seems like the air is sucked away from my lungs as I glance up at the building, cold biting at my exposed skin, everyone seeming worlds away.
Everything seems to melt away, like french vanilla ice cream on a hot summer's day. At least, as hot as it gets up here.
I need to take the first step. So, I do. I walk. My sign stays clenched between my fingers, soaking up the chilly air, just like I do. I’m making the first step, stepping into Elkwood territory. Everything can change.
I take another step, breathe a little, let the sun illuminate my skin as I enter the gates, up to the center area. Some kids are being dropped off— or dropping themselves off. Someone honks. And I should step back, you know? Let the day progress just like any other day at Elkwood. Let my resistance, my hurt and my pain fall away like discarded shards of glass.
I need to move. I need to speak. Because docility has never led to change. There’s no choice other than raising my chin to the sun.
My hands clench around either side of my sign, and I raise that to the sun, too.
Some people stop. Hesitate. Squint out of their car windows to see what on earth is going on.
I raise my sign higher.
Chatter fills the front gates, the parking lot, the students loitering around the front of the school.
And then I cry out.
“What is Elkwood’s deal?” It’s a yell of a question, and eyes dart to me, lips parting.
“What?” An elderly lady calls out, glancing at me from the front of the school.
“Where is my voice in Elkwood?” I ask again, crying out, my sign reading what my voice is carrying. Murmurs. A shorter man turns towards me, pushing glasses up his nose. A teacher.
I’m in the front space of the school, isolated as I push my sign into the air. My hair’s free, forming curls that I’d never worn to school before today. I’d undid my braids over the weekend. And so, my tightly-wound curls fly to the sky and down to my shoulders, gleaming under the rays of sunlight.
“Excuse me, you’re causing a disruption.” It’s the supervisor— Mrs. Mitchell. She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Head to class.”
Regardless, class starts in fifteen minutes, I’ve made sure of that. My sign, however, will stay up for the whole day. It has to.
I don’t respond, don’t lower my sign. My heart stumbles along with my breathing. All I’m hoping is that my stance doesn’t reveal that. I can’t shake, I can’t falter.
Mrs. Mitchell glances around. There’s nervousness for sure. Because the students are watching me, scattered about. A few parents peer out of the windows of their car. And, God, it’s the scariest thing. It feels like my legs will give way and I’ll just fall to the ground.
But, they don’t.
Mrs. Mitchell reaches for me, and I swerve out of her grasp, my sign still held high.
“Hand the sign over. This isn’t the time nor the place.” She says, grasping for me again, grasping for the sign that illustrates the truth that she doesn’t want anyone to see.
I stumble backwards, just barely catching my step, and Mrs. Mitchell shakes a head of dyed blonde hair. “You’re going to hand that sign over or head over to Ms. Anderson. Stop stirring up trouble.”
I suck in a breath, almost cornered as Mrs. Mitchell adjusts the bright orange vest, eyes narrowing.
Breaths come in and out, again and again and again.
We’re almost at an impasse.
If she takes the sign, she’ll rip it up, send me to the office. Then, everything will be over.
Brett will go about his life with his troop. They’ll continue breaking rules, attacking students, letting smugly racist comments slip from their lips.
I’ll go back to sitting at the corner of the class, feet pointed inwards, head down as my history goes ignored, unless slavery is the topic of the day, of course.
And our makeshift group? Likely to go in all different directions. Emory might move away. Just a week ago, he said that his parents might consider it. And after sending emails to the school about the whole incident—emails that went unanswered—why wouldn’t they? Their son might not be safe here. It’s one of the best schools in the district, but if nothing is going to change, if Brett walks away without repercussions, then what’s left for them here?
Laura might stay at my table. Most likely she will. We’ll exchange sardonic grins, talk about everything wrong with that day’s history class. With the alliance done, Yasmine might return to her old table. We might trade nods or maybe even wave as we pass each other in the hallway.
Then that’ll be it. I’ll graduate with the highest grades, but Olivia will be valedictorian, just because. And if they do ask me to speak, I’ll grin, tell them about how this school pushed me to my limits, helped me form strong bonds, yada yada yada.
My heart shatters at the thought.
And something in me is ignited. Something in Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes sees it too.
I open my mouth, ready to cry out my pain, cry out the truth.
But then, there’s a roar.
It’s not like any roar I’ve ever heard, either. Not just the call of a beast—the call of a cry. A call of pain.
“Elkwood, you’re breaking our hearts.” And it’s Laura. She’s taking firm steps, chin pointed towards the skies, skin reflecting the brightest sun. The sign hangs up in the air. “Hear us speak! Fix the curriculum!” She cries out, glancing about the space, twin braids swinging with her.
Mrs. Mitchell steps back.
“I belong here.” It’s Yasmine, pants flowing, eyes strong, blazer hanging from her torso. “No place for hate in Elkwood!”
“My burns are on Elkwood’s hands.” And, God, it’s Emory. And he’s resisting. For the first time since I’ve ever met him, he’s letting his hurt show.
Then they’re beside me, signs in the air, the four of us aligned, the rest of Elkwood facing us.
Mrs. Mitchell gathers herself together, raising a finger as she opens her mouth to say something.
Then I hear footsteps, and it isn’t just tiny pitter patters. No, it’s a slight thunder. It’s when I turn around—glancing behind me— that I see them.
Elkwood.
Not the Elkwood that’s seated in their cars, eyes suspiciously analyzing the scene. Not the Elkwood that’s nudging each other, jeering at the four of us. Not the Elkwood that’s shaking their heads, averting their eyes from everything. Because they won’t see what they don’t want to see.
Even though pretending won’t make it disappear.
But the Elkwood that I see is surging behind us, a steady current of students. I see Millie, braces on, eyes intense as she pushes her sign into the air. Then there’s Walt— the absurdly unapologetic Walt— and he’s chanting next to them, glasses reflecting the sunlight.
I hear a deep, booming, “People didn’t die so that we could erase them!” A tall senior, hair tousled in all directions.
“Stop censoring history class!” It’s Jennifer, black strands of hair falling to her hips, her sign pushed into the faces of the administration. Mia wheels down the courtyard of the school. “Don’t just hear, listen!”
Then an Ambiguous White makes her way next to her. She calls something out, sunglasses on as she pushes her sign into the air. “Every student should matter to Elkwood!” Then another yell. “Hold Elkwood accountable!”
The world is spinning.
My world is spinning.
Because, for the first time in a millennia, I see people around me, behind me, with me. Their chants call for a decolonization of the school’s curriculum, to properly address the evils performed by some of our nation’s founders, to call for attention to the burns on Emory William’s body.
To pressure the administration.
I can feel my hands shaking slightly, posture still firm, stance still wide. My eyes flit about the space, and it’s all I can do to remind myself to breathe.
As our chants and calls rise to the blue sky, I feel limitless. Laura sends a smile my way, one of her tilted little lip quirks, the one that is hard not to return, the we got this grin.
Our calls are our war song. A song that’s been playing on repeat for the past five hundred years, hidden deep in our hearts but unwilling to slip out.
I think of my ancestors who wove maps into cornrows, maps to freedom. I think of the songs with hidden stories, hidden maps; the way to liberation. I think of black cowboys, the ranches they settled, the cultures they created. I think of the black kingdoms I never learned about during history class. I think of my namesake.
I think of everything.
And from the ground, I can hear the sorrowful melody of my ancestors, rising through the cracks of the concrete. That painful melody infuses me with so much that my body quivers with everything.
I’m powerful.
We are.
A sharp voice cuts through the air, startling me out of my thoughts. The students around and behind me slow their cries, glancing at each other.
The school doors open, a low creaking sound piercing through the air. It’s followed by sharp clacks down the front steps. My eyes drift up to a black suit, a skirt that firmly stops at the knees, and a suit jacket paired with a pearl necklace.
Glasses frame her eyes, and there’s almost a collective sucking of air as Ms. Anderson clicks down the main entrance, glancing about the space, meeting each student’s face with a stern glance.
“What’s going on?” She asks, and the mood seems to shift. People glance around, murmuring slightly. Eyes find Ms. Anderson’s shiny heels.
“Well?” She asks, letting out a little scoff, eyes tracing the space. “Anyone care to tell me who’s in charge, then?”
Wind answers her.
Her stoic bun stays composed, lipstick redder than anything within a five-mile parameter. “Alrighty,” she scans the space, eyes finally landing on me.
“Amina Davis, please meet me in the office.” She says, eyes zeroing in on me.
I suck in a breath. Murmurs of disquiet fill the air. At this, Ms. Anderson smoothes down her dark skirt and walks back into the school, but not before saying, “the rest of you should be heading to your classes. The bell rings in less than five minutes.”
A self-satisfied grin curls onto Mrs. Mitchell’s lips as she urges the students back inside the building, many of them glancing back at me. I feel a few gentle nudges, some shoulder pats. Yasmine and Emory hover about before being swept into the crowd of students, sending concerned glances my way.
Laura stays.
“Want me to come with you?” She asks, lips pursed as she slides her sign underneath her arm.
“You’d get into trouble,” I say, letting my shoulders fall. “She asked for me.”
“Guess so,” Laura says, lips pursed. “But kind of rough for me to send you into the lion’s den alone, isn’t it? You were doing this for my campaign. We’re equally responsible.”
“I came up with the idea, remember?” I say, one of those sorrowful, lopsided grins curling onto my lips as I make my way up the front steps, Laura in step with me.
“So, what?” She asks, blinking underneath the bright lighting.
“So, I’m not about to let you get in trouble. Besides, Ms. Anderson already has her eye on you, don’t want to stoke the flame.”
We’re inside the school building by now. I hold my books to my chest, glancing around the space, eyes falling to the clear office where Ms. Anderson resides.
“Not too sure how I feel about this.” Laura says, holding onto the straps of her backpack as it swings from side to side.
“Me neither,” I reply honestly, tilting my head to the side, curls tickling at my neck. “But you’re really gonna be late if you stay back here.”
Laura lets out a breath.
I shoo her away, smile a little, give her a lazy salute once her shoulders fall in acquiescence. Then she’s down the hall, a teacher beckoning her into the classroom. She sends a glance my way. Then she’s gone.
With that, I turn on my heel, taking a painful gulp as I edge closer to the office, breaths speeding once my eyes catch onto a grey door that reads: Rebecca Anderson.
The secretary stares at me from behind her clear desk, eyeing me from where she’s seated, fingers halted and hovering over her black computer.
She then gives the subtlest of nods, a jut of the head towards Anderson’s Notorious Grey Door™. It’s one that I’ve been lucky enough to avoid for most of my time here.
At least, up until recently. Because now, I’m stepping into that notorious room, and I have a million future possibilities for what can occur. None of them are good.
I knock. Silence greets me as I push the door further open. Ms. Anderson is seated at her desk, glasses slipping down the slope of her nose, everything about the room being just as tedious as it’s known for.
The clock ticks. Ms. Anderson glances up at me, gesturing towards the chair. The fact that she hasn’t said anything since I’ve stepped into the room is frighteningly eerie, and I’m not the least bit fond of the fact.
Painful minutes drag by.
I inhale, exhale. Somehow, my breaths feel unsteady. I have to wonder whether or not Ms. Anderson enjoys this, watching bits of my sanity drip away as she slowly drives me insane.
She’s always striked me as a sadist.
“Miss Davis,” Her tone comes out in clips.
I meet her eyes.
“What on earth was this, today?” She asks. Her voice is saccharine, but with an edge. Almost like a kindergarten teacher talking to a silly little kid that made a mess on the carpet floor.
I swallow, look up. “A statement?”
Ms. Anderson laughs. “I think the word you’re looking for is disruption.”
The clock keeps ticking.
I say nothing. Nothing because if I correct her, Anderson’s cloying facade will fall to dust.
“It’s so unlike you.” She shakes her head. “You’re normally such a staid girl.” A chuckle, cold eyes freezing mine. “It’s one reason you’ve been able to stay in this school.”
She leans forward, slowly shaking her head. “You are very lucky to be here.”
I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it twice. I’ve heard it all my life.
You’re lucky to be here. As though I haven’t put my everything into being here. As though I’m an outsider that just managed to slide her way into this place. As if my existence is barely condoned, barely tolerated.
“And causing disruptions like this?” She asks, “I have to say, I’m disappointed. It’ll force me to take action.” She purses her lips tightly. “Your actions do not represent the values of a strong student, especially not here at Elkwood.”
I swallow, cool the rising flames of my mind. “With all due respect, Ms. Anderson,” I say, “I think my statement does represent values of a strong student.”
There’s something resembling a scoff that slips from her lips. “In what way, exactly?”
“Uh,” I breathe. “I’m trying to communicate with the administration of Elkwood in the best way I know how, especially given the fact that I initially tried to convey my thoughts to you the other day, but—”
“But you showed me grainy footage of an alleged incident with no context.” Ms. Anderson cuts in, eyes staring me down.
“I showed you a clip of a student confessing to several offenses against our code of conduct. I don’t think there’s much else I can supply to clarify the situation.”
“As I stated before, I’ll need to have a word with said student before I can take any action.” She says, chin resting on her hands.
“But what does that mean for Emory?” I ask, leaning forward in my chair. “Someone attacked him.”
“You don’t take things into your own hands, Amina. That’s what authority does. It’s not your prerogative.” Ms. Anderson says, my words falling to deaf ears.
My mind feels like an ocean of: I just can’t think. Because despite the evidence, Ms. Anderson refuses to directly address what happened. If she does end up having the conversation with Brett, he’ll sweet talk his way out of it. She’ll let him go.
She always does.
My heart clenches. The footage isn’t enough. None of it would ever be enough. We’re losing.
“And I’m afraid that your discrepancies warrant consequences.”
My head is throbbing.
“There is no doubt that something happened to Emory Richards, but I will be sure to address that on a later date. Your involvement is only going to be detrimental for your future here at Elkwood.”
The world is crashing.
My breaths come in and out, chest heaves up and down, and I can’t stop them. I’m physically incapable.
But the door of the office opens, startling me out of my lucid nightmare.
Both Ms. Anderson and I whip around to the doorway. And standing at the center of it is Tyler Thompson.
At this point, I don’t think all is lost anymore.
I know it.
Not to mention that his parents are flanking either side of him. The last thing I need right now is any of Brett’s posse getting involved in this. It can’t mean anything good for me.
His parents look expectant, his dad’s eyes furrowed, his mom’s hair in light waves. They’re looking down at their son who offers me a brief glance before trilling his lips awkwardly.
It’s clear that the Thompsons have something to say.
“Oh, Mr and Mrs. Thompson,” Ms. Anderson grins, rising to her feet, voice honey and sweet, everything about her tone utterly different than it was just seconds ago. “Tyler.” She gives him a nod. “What a pleasant surprise.” A pause. “Hopefully, the short-lived craziness out here hasn’t been too much of a concern to you.” She weaves around her desk. “I can assure you that discipline will be inflicted on all those involved.”
Thompson’s dad grunts, his mom offers a polite smile.
“Is there anything I can do to help you all today?”
“Tyler has something to share, if that’s alright with you.” Mr. Thompson grunts again, and I briefly wonder if that’s his primary form of communication.
Mrs. Thompson nudges him forward, lips pulled into a too-tight grin. Tyler lets out a light groan, shuffles forward. He glances at me again, glances at his parents, glances at Ms. Anderson.
Redness dusts his face, and it’s somewhat concerning to see Tyler Thompson looking anxious. I can’t tell whether or not that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“I, uh,” he runs a hand through his hair, “have a video.”
He slips his phone out of his back pocket, glancing warily at his parents.
Ms. Anderson knits her eyebrows together, making her way closer to the screen, eyes squinted.
The video starts. There are some yells, rowdy laughter. Immediately, I can trace the signature barks of laughter back to the White Bros™.
In the video, the ground is dirt, trunks of evergreens everywhere in sight. The video’s vertical, camera positioned towards the ground, changing angles every few seconds, shaking constantly.
The mood shifts when a ‘what the hell are you doing?’ breaks from one voice. Emory’s voice.
There’s a crunch of underbrush underfoot.
“Wait, I just want to see something.”
A laugh. Speeding footsteps.
The click of a lighter.
“Wait, hold still.”
“Get the hell away from me.”
“We’re just messing around, calm down.”
The video shifts to Emory’s face. He’s backed against a tree trunk, arms outstretched like he’s ready to throw a few punches but knows he shouldn’t.
“Whoops.”
Fire on skin.
A yell.
And again, and again, and again.
The laughter is in the background, teasing and malicious and everything wrong.
From behind the camera, “guys, I think we should stop.”
There’s a grunt and a dry laugh, no one paying any heed to the voice of caution. Then there’s another yell. Sizzling. Fire on skin. More fire on skin. Brett’s leading most of the attacks, but others join in. Swears light up the background.
I feel nauseous.
A push. Another swear.
Emory limps away.
“You think we went too far?”
“Shut up, Tyler.”
The video goes black.
The room is silent.
Mrs. Thompson holds a hand over her mouth, eyes welling up. Tyler’s gaze falls to the ground. His dad glances away, lips pursed.
Ms. Anderson’s lips are parted.
Finally, Mrs. Thompson seems to find words. “We found this video on Tyler’s phone, and were shocked to see something so awful on it.”
“We believe it’d be very wrong,” Mr. Thompson adds, “for us to keep it in the dark. So, we brought it to your attention as soon as we found out.”
“You don’t know how disappointed we are.” Mrs. Thompson says. Tyler keeps his gaze on the floor. “But this should be addressed as soon as possible. And Tyler will also be apologizing to Emory. But we also realize that this violates the Elkwood Code of Conduct, so Tyler is ready to accept the consequences as you see fit.”
Ms. Anderson doesn’t glance back in my direction. She rubs her temples, lets out a breath. But with this blatant evidence, I can’t see any way for her to work around it.
An incident like this could mean juvenile detention. It’s crossed the line of bullying and dangerously ventured into the realm of assault. And everyone in this room is fully aware of the fact.
The video seems infinitely worse than anything Emory described. The sizzling of fire against skin reverberates in my mind nothing short of a million times.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Ms. Anderson says, composure barely held together. She squints as though still attempting to process the video.
She walks back to her desk slowly and vacantly. Almost as though she’s half-awake, half-aware.
She swallows, eyes glazed over. Then, she holds down the button of the mic. “Brett McGill, please report to the front office.”
So, that’s what it is. McGill.
“Mr and Mrs. Thompson,” Ms. Anderson starts as though it physically pains her to say it, “please remain here.”
I suck in a breath, my mind still trying to process what just happened.
“You may leave, Miss Davis,” Ms. Anderson says vacantly, eyes still blank and lost.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
