Light It Up

by Kekla Magoon

  “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.”

  JENNICA

  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.

  ZEKE

  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 happ
ened 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?

  DEVANTE

  “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.

  KIMBERLY

  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.

  TYRELL

  “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.

  DEVANTE

  “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.

  ROBB

  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.”