The Civic was even hotter, the stale, sizzling air liquefying the grease he’d smothered into his crescent waves. Theo groaned and grabbed a towel from the glove box, wiping away the oil. Always prepared for the worst. Casually, he started the car and pressed the garage door opener at the same time, exhilarated by the fact that for the first time in two weeks, he was driving somewhere that wasn’t the gas station or Food Depot.
Theo sped toward Mr. Brown’s mailbox, opening it and tossing in an envelope with cash and a messy apology note. He sped away just as quickly, swearing he’d seen the blinds move.
South Cobb Drive was as busy as he’d expected, cars swerving in and out of an unending patchwork of sprawling plazas, gas stations, fast-food joints, and crusty apartment complexes. Theo was relieved when Cumberland Parkway finally appeared; it wasn’t much different, but at least its plazas had stores he liked.
Cumberland Mall appeared soon after. Theo parked near the food court, grabbed his resume, and hopped out. He headed toward the entrance. Entering the foyer, he shuddered as a blast of air conditioning enveloped his body. He could feel his summer being redeemed.
He walked the mall, considering his options. Food court? Too real. GameStop? Too loud. American Eagle? Too white. Aeropostale? Too black. Sears? Too old. Express? Too EDM. H&M? That could work.
He strolled inside, greeted by some Taylor Swift remix that he recognized but felt a desperate need to pretend he’d never heard. Herds of fifteen-year-old girls swarmed about, yanking clothes off the racks and shelves as their trailing mothers publicly frowned and privately shopped on the H&M website from their phones. “This is cute!” repeatedly erupted from unseen mouths, thickening the overly perfumed air.
Intimidated by the line at the cash register, Theo decided to flag down an employee. Strategically, he darted to the men’s section, a lonely wall lining the back of the store. The men’s merchandise was neatly organized, nearly untouched. A plump Latina with bunned hair asked if he needed help. “Yeah, I’m thinking about applying to work here. What are hours like?”
The woman peered back at him through purple contact lenses, studying him. “You’re not one of those secret shopper auditors, right? You have to tell me if you are.”
“I’m not an auditor, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have to tell you. That would defeat the purpose of conducting a secret audit. Should I speak with someone else?”
She turned her head, scanning for potential eavesdroppers. Theo studied her bun as her neck swiveled, wondering how it could remain so perfectly still, frozen in place like frosting on a birthday cake. “No, we’re good,” she finally answered, guiding him over to a rack of acid-green T-shirts and pretending to offer him fashion advice.
“So, here’s the deal. We get mad hours, but the manager is, like, insane. Like, literally insane. Without sanity. She doesn’t have it.” Her outstretched arm was suddenly frozen, pointing toward the hideous green shirts as if she’d found the perfect visual representation of the manager’s mental health. Theo raised his eyebrows, encouraging her to continue.
Her arm regained consciousness, limply dropping to her side. “She only hires people who either look Puerto Rican, run really fast and can prove it, or who, like, went or are going to business school. And if you betray her, she will literally ruin your life. I knew this one girl—”
“Where is she?” Theo interrupted. The woman gasped, grabbing Theo’s shoulder and squeezing tightly. Theo stared back at her blankly.
“Sorry,” she said, her stubby hand still on his shoulder. His dick fluttered in his pants, unsure whether he was excited or afraid. “I thought I heard her footsteps. I feel like she’s everywhere sometimes,” the woman whispered, scanning the store again and pointing toward a short, dark-skinned woman standing near the store entrance. Theo had missed her on the way in.
He walked toward the manager, the woman’s hand sliding down his back like an iron on cloth. “You’ve got nice shoulders,” she said as he walked away.
Her paranoia clung to him as he approached the manager, summoning memories of his impromptu meetings with the Loss Prevention department at Six Flags. They’d only approach him when he was in a group, singling him out, marking him. The conversations never varied. “Anything you want to tell me?” one of them would inquire as if Theo were a regular informant. There were always two of them: one asking questions, one just there.
“No,” he’d answer.
“You sure? We’ve got cameras, but you’re our eyes and ears,” they’d say, pointing skyward, their outstretched arms revealing vermillion armpit stains.
“Yeah,” Theo would say, walking away alone, his coworkers gone.
The only conversation that hadn’t followed that script was the one informing him he was being fired. “Theo Santos?” an Asian man in shades had asked, stopping Theo in the middle of a trip to the restroom. Theo knew the guy was affiliated with Loss Prevention; his voice was so polite that it was accusatory. All of his questions were propositions.
“Yeah?” Theo had replied.
“What would you say if I told you I’ve got footage of you seeing but not reporting internal theft? You do know that internal theft is our largest source of loss, right? You do know that if you see something but you don’t say something, you’re enabling loss, right?” Theo stared at the man, unsure of what he was getting at. The man had stared back at him, calm. “This is your last chance,” he had told Theo.
“For what?” Theo asked.
“To be responsible.” Theo laughed. He’d been to work on time every day, humoring customers, never taking long breaks, standing in that hot-ass sun.
“Okay,” Theo said, walking away. Five steps later, he was surrounded by a gaggle of Loss Prevention goons who quickly escorted him to his locker on the outskirts of the park. They didn’t even let him piss before he was walked to his car.
The manager was obviously from New York City, her tone nasal and fierce, words flowing out of her like water from a faucet. Theo could easily imagine her leaving a voicemail on a Dipset mixtape or speaking trilled Spanish on some Vince Staples song. He introduced himself and handed her his resume. She shook his hand firmly, her eyes flitting between his resume and his torso like she was comparing a high-resolution photograph to its thumbnail.
“No retail experience,” she said with finality, as if they had been debating. “Why should I hire you to be the steward of my customers’ experiences?”
Theo mulled over her words. Steward of customers’ experiences. What the fuck did that mean? Remembering the employee’s tips, he improvised an answer. “I would be a great steward of customer experience because I am light on my feet, as evidenced by my tenure at Six Flags, and I am a business major, so I am very interested in business holistically, not just the management stage,” he stammered, proud of himself for using words like “tenure” and “holistically” outside of the terrible, weed-fueled poetry he wrote when he was bored.
“Hmm,” the manager said, staring toward the store entrance and greeting an incoming stream of moms and tweens. “You’re hired,” she declared. “Report in on Monday at 8 a.m. with your birth certificate, ID, Social Security card, and a full H&M outfit. Including socks,” she said robotically. “I will check your socks,” she assured him. “Be on time or be jobless,” she added, stepping away to help a mob of white girls who were overflowing with shopping bags, the weight of their purchases making their taut, tanned skin visibly sag.
Theo pulsed with satisfaction. His dad would be proud. Now all he had to do was find some work clothes. The manager approached him as he browsed the solitary wall of men’s clothes. “I forgot to ask about your availability,” she said, swaying toward him like a leopard stalking a hare. “I only hire people who can commit at least six months. Part-time work results in part-time customer experiences,” she hissed. Theo could see the crazy, but he told himself it was just eccentricity.
&n
bsp; “Yeah, I’m taking classes at, um, Oglethorpe, so I’ll be around.”
She exhaled loudly. “Thank you, Theo,” she said, walking away. Theo smiled. This job would be fun.
Gliding through the mall, beaming confident smiles at girls he hoped were old enough, he found himself in an electronic goods store, browsing. A lifeless employee followed him out of duty more than suspicion, his eyes pendulating like some robotic Cheshire cat.
Theo eventually stopped browsing to fiddle with the knobs on a sleek radio that looked like it should have been a projector or an atomic clock or a router—maybe even all three at once—but was nonetheless just a radio. He had little knowledge of Atlanta’s radio stations. He exclusively played music from his iPhone, his dad exclusively listened to wholesome jazz CDs, Apollo exclusively listened to news podcasts, Kai exclusively listened to awful Spotify playlists, and Sol exclusively never drove. Except for that one time she’d crashed his car into the gate of a former military base. Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening again.
Theo settled on 90.1, the only radio station he knew, courtesy of Zed. It was the afternoon, so the NPR member station played its local content. A clear voice droned into his ears, bland yet mesmerizing. He could see why Zed was addicted. Noticing that the employee was still slavishly focused on him, almost against his will, Theo began pacing the radio aisle, helping the employee stir.
The member station reported on the aftermath of #FireandBrimstoneMountain, the lives affected by the fires from that night, the singed bird carcasses that littered people’s yards. Theo felt slighted that they didn’t say “hashtag Fire and BrimStone Mountain.” Radio’s just too old-school to get that, he assured himself. The soothing voice of the reporter eventually gave way to the sound of crackling fire, recorded from the night of the tag. Theo always referred to it as the tag, but he secretly felt it had been something more than another night of running through Cabbagetown or Piedmont Park or East Point. The sputtering roar of the flames penetrated his psyche, demanding that he call the tag something else, something more destructive, more sinister.
“Terrorism is unacceptable, and I pray the culprits behind this heinous act are brought to justice,” a Stone Mountain homeowner, an elderly black man, barked with conviction, the flames still audible behind his voice. Theo thought of Gone with the Wind, recalling the scene where Sherman conquered Atlanta. A stark subtitle—“Sherman!”—flashed across the screen as flames enveloped the city. Apollo had always insisted that this was the only good scene in the movie; he even had a GIF of that scene that he sent to Theo every time the Falcons won, as if Atlanta could only be victorious when it burned. Theo was caffeinated with guilt, his heart hammering, his mind singularly focused on the tag. Jerry used to call tagging bombing, like an orthodox graffiti writer. Theo had always felt the term was a little over-the-top, but now it felt cuttingly precise.
He paced the aisle as the report continued, more homeowners describing scorched grass, felled trees. Their voices were indignant, pestered. Theo stood in place once the sound of the flames finally subsided, transitioning back to the hypnotic voice of the reporter. Theo exhaled, relieved as if he’d been huffing the smoke from the fires and was now breathing fresh air. The report concluded: “The FBI encourages all tips to go to senior agent Tilly Erickson. Please visit the WABE website for more details.” Theo flicked off the radio, darting out of the store. He didn’t even flinch as he exited the mall and plunged into the smoldering afternoon heat. The only heat he felt was from his phone, seething in his pocket, beckoning him to contact Tilly, to not taint this good day.
He had to come clean. They had fucked up. They had hurt people. Graffiti was inhuman, hurt inflicted on walls, shutters, doors, property, aesthetics. They had gone beyond graffiti.
But he couldn’t snitch. There’d be no coming back from that kind of betrayal. Zed and Apollo might forgive him, visit him, but Kai would erase him, banish him with that unique Black Girl Magic, that ability to hate severely, completely, eternally, a product of generations of disloyalty. And Sol, she’d already taken the heat for him once, ramming her fists into their thieving private tennis instructor just because he’d asked her to. “I wish I could fight her,” he’d told her, complaining about practices the instructor kept skipping, taking his dad’s money. Sol had maintained that she was defending herself after the instructor had gotten upset during an intense one-on-one lesson, but Theo knew that she set up that Sunday afternoon session specifically to kick the instructor’s fit black ass. Sol had lost her independence at Independence Park. How ironic, Theo always thought, unsure of whether it was irony or a coincidence. Sol had done that for him, out of pure friendship.
The interior of the Civic plunged him back into those crackling flames. He’d take the heat, all of it. He owed everyone for fucking up the night with his shitty planning, for not replanning once things started to—literally—go downhill, for not standing strong after they decided to go through with it, for not being honest with himself. He had started this, and he would finish it. Fuck Six Flags. Fuck H&M. Fuck Mr. Brown. He had real work to do.
He quickly found the contact number for Tilly Erickson and dialed it, sweat exploding out of his face. No one answered, but he left a long, detailed message, speaking slowly and clearly, energized by his newfound conviction. Finished, he cranked on the car, cracked the windows, and reversed out of the parking lot. Hot air swept his face as he blitzed through anxious Thursday traffic, but he didn’t flinch. Apollo was right.
Zed loaded a box of paint cans into her car, wondering how the night would unfold. After closing the rear door, she turned around to catch the sunset, fuchsia streams lingering in the sky, resisting the inevitable darkness. Crows cawed in the distance, their primal screeches strangely calming. The garage door opened, but Zed didn’t turn around. She knew it was her mom. When she approached people, her footsteps were always cautious, reluctant to interrupt, yet interrupting nonetheless.
“What are you doing tonight?” her mom asked, stepping into the driveway and peeking into the trunk of Zed’s MINI. “Paintballing again?”
“No,” Zed answered, turning away from the sunset to face her mother. “Tonight, I’m going on a street art tour.”
“In Atlanta? That explains the sketchbook in the back.”
“Yeah.”
“Take some nice pictures! I hear that BeltLine is really beautiful, much prettier than the rest of the city.”
Zed smiled, reaching to squeeze her mom’s tan shoulder, which was exposed under a loose tank top. Her skin was smooth, recently lotioned. “Cities aren’t supposed to be pretty, mom. They’re just supposed to be livable.” Zed’s other hand snaked into her pocket, grasping the list of Safe Zone murals that she’d be visiting that night. The Graffiti Task Force would be busy tomorrow.
“Well, I’m out, Mom. Catch you later,” Zed said, stepping in and out of an obligatory hug like a mannequin that swiveled on a single axis. Her mother kissed her forehead and returned to the garage, her slippered feet dragging across the garage floor, the true volume of her footsteps.
Zed texted Apollo when she reached his house, hoping his parents didn’t come outside. She watched as lights flickered on and off throughout the house like it was some sort of oversized pinball machine. Apollo was looking for something. Zed tried to visualize him moving from room to room, but her memory of the house was too vague. She didn’t mind if it stayed that way.
Eventually, the light for the foyer came on, followed by the porch light, and then Apollo, who dashed to the car, his backpack in tow.
“Hey,” he said, swooping down to fit into the low car. “Sorry about that, lost my gloves.” Zed nodded, pecking his cheek then pressing the gas.
Kai and Sol were ready outside of Kai’s house, their exposed legs and arms shiny from obviously recent applications of Vaseline. Zed looked down at her paint-splattered skinny jeans and ratty black T-shirt and sighed internally.
She was the only one who ever seemed to remember that they could get arrested for this. Maybe she shouldn’t have always insisted that the Graffiti Task Force was a joke. It was, but their power was real.
“Don’t worry, bitch. We’ve got real clothes,” Sol said, climbing in through the passenger’s seat and grinning widely. “We’d look pretty sus cruising around in sleeves and all black in mid-August, no offense.” Zed smiled back through the rearview mirror. Kai climbed in behind her, visibly excited. After Apollo let the seat back and plopped back in, his head grazing the roof of the car as always, she drove off and exited the neighborhood.
Kai blurted her obvious secret before they’d even hit Highway 85. “Theo’s coming!” she announced. Everyone shifted in their seats, eyes glued to the windows, suddenly interested in the town they constantly tried to escape. Kai continued, “He texted me today, apologizing for being all guilt-trippy and sappy, so I invited him along. He’s going to meet us on Ponce.”
“Cool beans,” Sol muttered sardonically. Apollo was face-deep in his phone, so Zed focused on the road.
Kai had been the only person who was no longer cool with Theo. Their breakup—or whatever it was—had been understandable from both ends, but it was Kai who’d thought they’d all left him behind, as if their collective friendships had hinged upon a single relationship that they’d all always discouraged, including Kai herself. She used to openly mock Theo for blushing whenever she was around. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?” she’d taunt, slapping his thigh, her hand puckishly close to his crotch.
But maybe it was everyone’s fault. When they began planning their second bombing—Zed had decided they should start calling it “bombing” again, like Jerry always had—they didn’t invite Theo along. He just seemed so devastated after the first time, it would be abusive to bring him along again, especially since they were scaling up. He wasn’t about that life.
Kai had trashed Theo throughout July, especially as they planned for the second bombing, and no one had stopped her. She seemed to need it, it fueled her, but they all could have at least responded with something other than silence. Even with their reconciliation, which everybody saw coming, silence seemed to be their only answer. Sure, Sol’s sarcasm was kind of a response, but even that was a form of silence—vocalized inaction, but inaction nonetheless.
In the Heat of the Light Page 14