Light It Up

by Kekla Magoon

  “I see you,” he says.

  “Maybe.” I lower my gaze. It’s baiting and coy and I don’t like myself much for doing it.

  “You are beautiful,” Zeke says. “And not just because you’re so freaking hot.”

  I laugh out loud.

  His hands cup my face. “If you even give me the time of day, I’m the luckiest guy.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks. “And if no one has ever recognized all the amazing things about you, they didn’t deserve you anyway.”

  “There was one man, once,” I whisper. “Nothing happened, but I thought for a minute that maybe…” Even now, I can lose myself in remembering. The shivers that used to come over me when Al—Senator Sloan—would look my way. I can’t believe he’s coming back here. I’ll have to see him. It’s a weight on my shoulders already.

  He’ll whirl in, shake things up, and whirl away.

  It’s different with Zeke. He’s present in a way I can touch. He’s real.

  I cover his hands with my hands. My body is warm and eager and my mind is screaming at me to stop being so stupid. “Which way to the bedroom?” I ask.

  He kisses me lightly on the lips. “We could wait, if you want.”

  “No, I’m ready.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Zeke is beautiful and sweet. He will never let me down.

  * * *

  Beyond Zeke’s bedroom, a door bangs open and closed again, shaking us out of our slumberous bubble.

  “Roommate?” I ask.

  “Not exactly.” His voice is suddenly wary and distant.

  I raise my head to look at him. “I have a roommate. Jennica. You met her at the diner.”

  Zeke’s squinting at the door, as if willing it not to swing open. Or, probably, checking to see if it is actually locked. “I live with my sister. It’s not weird,” he rushes to add. “Better than staying at home, is all.”

  “Did you grow up around here?”

  “My parents live about an hour away. I don’t like making the drive every day.”

  “How do you like college?”

  “It’s better than high school, that’s for sure. I’m about out of patience with school, though. This is my last semester. I’ll be looking for a real community organizing job when I graduate.”

  “What will happen to SCORE?”

  “If I can find a job here in Underhill, then I’ll stay on as an advisor.”

  A jolt, like a current, courses through me. “You would leave Underhill?”

  Zeke strokes my shoulder. “God, are you kidding? As soon as possible.”

  “Oh.”

  He rolls away, and the side of me that was touching him grows cool in the sudden open breeze of the sheets. All of me shivers. I pull up the blankets.

  “Look,” he says, coming back to me. He has a book. It’s full of beautiful images from places around the country. “Don’t you want to see the whole world?”

  “My world is big enough,” I lie. I remember dreaming that. I remember how quickly the dream died. The sharpness of reality, a thousand shards piercing my skin my muscles my bones. I am Underhill. Underhill is me. It’s all there is and all that ever will be. To imagine a different life … I can’t. That glass is too fragile to look through, let alone handle.

  I pull the book from his hands and set it aside. I tuck my arm over his chest and he wraps his arm around my back. We shift and snuggle until we are comfortable and close.

  “Can I stay?” I ask. “Can I stay here with you?”

  “Of course,” he answers, holding me tight. “Right now, you are the whole world.”

  JENNICA

  I wake in the morning and the apartment is quiet. I can feel that Kimberly’s not here. Even under the warmth of the blankets, a shiver runs over me. I slide toward the bathroom, start the shower. Tremble and wait, with my arms tucked close, for the steam to rise around me. Brush my teeth quick to get it out of the way. Get the bad taste out of my mouth.

  When the world was not ending, we ate breakfast together. Cereal out of quick bowls, or pancakes if we had time to shake out the powder and stir water into it. Kimberly knows how to cook and I like watching. You’d think I’d know some things after working at the diner, but it’s different here. Curled in my pajamas on the kitchen stool, studying how her hands go. Caring how it turns out. Waiting for her to look over her shoulder and smile.

  It’s hard to forget that she saved me. It’s hard to forget all those good mornings, the sound of our dishes clattering into the sink beside each other’s. She leaves for work a few minutes earlier than I do.

  I would sit there, cupping the cooling dregs of my coffee and worrying about the day to come. She’d slide her feet into her shoes, slinging her purse strap across her chest. Then she’d walk toward me. Predictable as clockwork and soothing as a salve. She’d kiss my bare shoulder. “Be strong.”

  STEVE CONNERS

  “Babe—” I stretch my legs out under the desk, switch the phone to the other ear. Rock back and study the ceiling.

  My wife’s voice is pulled taut. “You think he’s still going down there? Don’t you?”

  “Can’t blame him. Like it or not, he feels attached to Underhill.”

  “It’s been eight years since we lived there,” she says. “Why can’t he accept the way things are now?”

  “Look, he’s just having a hard time. It’s, I mean, everything that’s gone on over there is enough to get anyone upset.”

  “We’ve bent over backward to give him chances he didn’t have in Underhill. Now he’s gonna go throw it all away?”

  “Maybe he feels guilty. He’s got a better situation now. A lot of his friends don’t. That’s, well, it’s something to carry. You know what I mean?”

  I swivel my chair toward the window. At first glance, it’s all white sky and insulated glass. From my 23rd floor office, it’s easy to stare at the grid of streets below and forget what it’s like down there for a lot of people. And it’s not as if I don’t care. I handle several pro-bono portfolios for nonprofits. I write generous checks.

  Will is more compassionate than I am. Or he’s closer to it. I don’t know. “Your son—our son—has a very big heart,” I remind her.

  She sighs. “The whole point of me moving us out of there was to get him in a better school.”

  “Right. Not because you love me and wanted to live with me or anything.”

  “Stop,” she snaps.

  I should know better than to needle her when she’s already upset. “It was a joke,” I say gently. “I mean, I think…”

  Silence on the other end of the phone. Damn. I done stepped in it good, as my wife would say.

  “You wanna make this about us right now? Really?”

  “Babe, I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Look, I’m worried about him, too. You want me to talk to him again?”

  “Whatever you said last time has him all but dropping out of school, so…”

  That’s not fair and she knows it. But it’s easier to let that one slide for the moment. Deep breath. “How can I help, then?”

  EVA

  Mom watches the news when Daddy’s not home. “We need to know what they are saying about us.”

  They are saying Daddy is a bad cop.

  “Shoot first, ask questions later. That can’t be how we police our cities.”

  “People need to show respect for officers of the law. Period. You’re out there doing your job, with people out to get you. In that kind of neighborhood…”

  “This was a child.”

  “In that kind of neighborhood, age doesn’t necessarily equate with level of threat.”

  “This was an unarmed child.”

  “Officer was under threat…”

  “From an unarmed child?”

  “The officer perceived a threat…”

  “Perceived being the operative word.”

  “�
�� and took the appropriate action.”

  “People make mistakes,” I say. “Why is everyone being so hard on Daddy?”

  Mom takes me by the shoulders. “It was not a mistake.” Her voice is hard. “Never say that again.”

  On TV they show her face again. Shae Tatum. Thirteen years old.

  TINA

  I am old enough

  to walk

  to the store on my own

  my new favorite candy is Reese’s.

  I am old enough

  to understand

  Hands Up Don’t Shoot

  and all the people marching and shouting.

  I am old enough

  to listen

  and to stop when they say stop

  but everybody makes mistakes sometimes.

  I am old enough

  to know that

  things are not always very simple

  even when they should be.

  I am old enough

  to remember

  people who are gone now

  Tariq and Nana and Shae.

  I am old enough

  to die.

  BRICK

  So many arrests. I’ve spent enough of my time, my capital getting my guys out of lockup. We need a better plan. I pace behind my chair, near the windows, glancing out at the dusk. Shooting time, says the voice in the back of my head. Cops and niggas in a game of chicken—who’s more afraid of the dark?

  If that’s not the lyrics to something, it should be. I’ll write it in my notebook. Later, when no one’s looking. Too busy now. Got some of my lieutenants gathered up on the couches, working it through.

  “They ain’t messing around with the curfew,” Sammy says. “People gonna die.”

  “Aw, hell no. They’re not doing this on my block again.” I mutter it, but not enough to myself.

  Sammy agrees. “This Kings’ territory. How you gonna let it go down like that?”

  “We can’t walk out there with guns blazing.” Noodle. Ever the voice of reason. “It’s not like going up against the Stingers, right?”

  My ass.

  “They rollin’ up in motherfucking tanks, yo,” Sammy declares. He holds up his phone to the live footage. It’s nowhere near curfew, but they’re ready.

  “You really wanna walk against that?” Noodle says.

  I nod. “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

  “They straight up infringing our rights, yo. They down there doin’ it right now. What we gonna say back to that? What? We just gonna roll over like dogs?”

  “Sammy, shut up, man,” Noodle says, real easy. “Let’s not get all riled up.”

  I laugh, straight up. Noodle is the king of flying off the handle. Some days he would pop you one for looking at him funny. Now he wants a reasoned and measured response?

  Sammy’s on a roll. “They wanna shoot us like dogs, yo. I seen this mural about it.”

  “I saw it.” Rules for dogcatchers, rules for cops. That’s good art. My man eMZee tells it like it is.

  MELODY

  “You should come by some night,” Brick said. I dunno why I did. Not really my scene. Just curious, I guess.

  The place is alive. I can feel it already, even walking down the hall. He must own the building, to get by with this kind of racket. Or at least all the neighbors know better than to speak up.

  I seen kids in the elevator. Can’t help picturing all their moms trying to get them down at bedtime. With bass thumping through the floorboards, rattling the bones of the place. I’m not down for that.

  Brick’s apartment is jamming. I didn’t know any buildings in Underhill had a penthouse. Maybe he took out some walls, to get a place this size. It’s like a nightclub.

  Is a nightclub, I guess. Must be something like fifty people up in here. Dancing and drinking and being all loud. He’s got a DJ turning the music live. He’s got a girl tending bar who looks like a low-rent Beyoncé. Which is still pretty hot.

  They drug test at my job. I’m not looking for a contact high to mess up my whole situation. But the music is pumping and it makes me wanna move. Throw my hands up and shimmy.

  I admit, it’s crossed my mind to wonder what Brick’s world is like. To see it up close. To peel back a few of those layers that close him in. That’s why I came, I guess. I didn’t expect it to feel this easy. Throb with the beat and forget the world. Forget myself.

  After a while, I realize I’m no longer dancing alone. Brick has moved through the mass of people to stand in front of me. Not dancing, exactly, but he still fits here. Presence, they call it. He’s the kind of person who takes over whatever space he enters.

  Brick glances me up and down. Appreciating my outfit, I guess. I didn’t plan it out like that or nothing. But it feels good, him checking me out.

  “Mel,” he says. “You came.”

  “Melody,” I answer.

  He nods, lip curling like he wants to laugh.

  “What?” I can guess what he’s thinking: most girls let him call them whatever he wants.

  “Come kick it with us a minute.” He gestures toward the top of the room. No better thing to call it. Top of the room. His chair is a throne, almost. The couches arced around it are reserved for his handpicked few. The inner sanctum.

  “Me? Why?” Just go. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever. Although that saying never made much sense to me.

  “Lemme bend your ear a minute,” he says. His arm goes around me. “What are you drinking?”

  The Trojans brought a great big horse to their enemies as a gift. If they’d looked in the mouth, they’d have realized it was full of soldiers. They’d have left it outside the gate. So looking a gift horse in the mouth seems like a perfectly good idea, really.

  We’re already walking. “Okay, I guess.”

  I don’t mind his arm being around me. There’s no denying he’s fine. He’s different here, somewhere between the hard way I’ve always thought of him, the way he goes around the neighborhood, somewhere between that and how he is with Sheila. He has a soft side. I’ve seen it. That makes him … interesting.

  “House special.” He hands me a glass. Whatever is in it has the perfect flavor. Sweet but not too sweet. Nuanced. I could slurp it like nectar, but I sip slowly instead. Cautious.

  The couch is burgundy, almost purple. I can see the spot where I’ll sit. At the right hand of the … whatever Brick imagines himself to be.

  “I need your opinion about something,” he says.

  “You barely know me,” I remind him. “What do you care what I think?”

  “You’ve stepped to me twice already this week.”

  My heart beats faster. “I tell it like I see it.” My big old mouth can’t help itself.

  “That’s valuable,” he says.

  “Valuable?”

  “You’ll call me on my bullshit.”

  Side-eye, all over his ass. Wave my hand around the room. “This is all bullshit. Where do you want me to start?”

  Brick laughs. His hand, on the small of my back. Like they do. “See?”

  It’s intoxicating, his orbit. Calling me out to lean in, but I’m still wary. “What do you want from me?”

  “Sit down,” Brick says. “We can use a woman’s opinion on this.”

  “I think we got it handled, yo,” says one of the guys.

  “Shut up, Sammy,” says the other. I recognize him. He looks me up and down. Not flattering, like Brick’s way. More lecherous. I give him cold eyes back. He says, “What do you think about policing the police?”

  I shrug. “I know it worked for the Panthers.”

  “But that was fifty years ago.” Brick’s hand is still on my back. “We’re talking about making a response. To the curfew, to the cops.”

  “Oh.” This, I know something about. “I have a friend who works with SCORE. They’re planning a protest. You wanna know about all that?”

  “Naw, we wanna fry some bacon.” Sammy laughs.


  I glance at Brick. “Really? You wanna be some kinda Huey P. Newton now?”

  Brick stays serious. “Give me my spear and my rifle.”

  “I don’t think you’ve got the chops for it,” I tell him honestly. That’s what I’m here for, after all. “They’ll kill you all. It’s a different time.”

  The couch is comfortable. Brick introduces me around.

  WILL/EMZEE

  My parents don’t want me going to any more protests. As if they can stop me. They think they know everything, but they don’t.

  “I’m going tomorrow,” I tell Steve over breakfast. I say nothing about my plans for tonight.

  Tomorrow is a big deal. White Out, the white supremacist group, is coming to town. Not to Underhill but to the white side. Griffith Park. That’s where we live.

  “You only said I can’t go to Underhill,” I remind Steve. “They’re bringing this mess to us. I’m supposed to look the other way?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “It sounds like there’s the potential for violence.”

  Bring it. “So?”

  He studies me over the rim of his coffee. “It’s different than before.”

  “So you’re back to being skittish?” I slam a slice of bacon into my face.

  Steve lowers his cup. “The march for Tariq Johnson was a peaceful protest. It was designed that way and it stayed that way.”

  Bacon. It’s one of the miracle foods. It gets even more delicious when you’re pissed about something. Around a mouthful, I say, “It’s not the protestors getting violent. It’s the cops.”

  “This is civil rights 2.0,” I argue. “Those guys never backed down from a protest. They faced down dogs and fire hoses. They got hit and went to jail and everything.”

  “They were trained in passive resistance.” Steve frowns. “They still don’t teach you that in school?”

  “I know about the dogs and the fire hoses,” I tell him. “You think that’s what we’re up against?”

  “To be honest, I think they’ve moved beyond that,” Steve says. “I think they’ll straight up shoot.” He pauses. “What I meant was, you think those protests in the sixties were a bunch of angry people getting together one day? And singing ‘We Shall Overcome’?”