“Could you go now? I told you I don’t have any pictures or videos, so you have your answer. I’m not Aces. Laura and I are busy. I haven’t got time to be speaking to nobodies.”
Scotty’s words hit again. He knows just how to use them. Repeating back to me the fears I fed him while lying on his bed, in his arms, vulnerable but safe.
He uses his words instead of his fists—something I’m not as familiar with. Where I come from, words are nothing and actions are everything.
I know hurting me is something Scotty wants to do. Because, even though we haven’t spoken properly in a while, I knew it hurt him that I stopped letting him get away with crap, like cheating on me and then lying about it. I know that because he also whispered dark monologues to me, about his fears and weaknesses. About how his family sees him as this huge fuckup who’ll never amount to anything. About how lost he constantly feels—something we had in common, despite the different worlds we come from.
The difference between him and me, however, is that I would never use his words to hurt him.
I watch him with a quiet disbelief. I know Scotty is a terrible person, so why am I so shocked? Why am I always shocked by people and their shitty behavior? I blink back the tears that want to escape.
I feel stuck. I wanted Scotty to be Aces. His motive is so clear. He’s the only connection I have to Chiamaka, and we’re the only people Aces has talked about so far. If it was him, it would be so much easier to stop anything else coming out.
I can’t imagine why anyone else would do this. I barely speak to people at school. But maybe there is someone else out there with a reason to want to hurt me …
A good reason.
I get this feeling sometimes that I’m forgetting stuff. Important stuff. It’s like there’s something in my memory that I can’t quite focus on—my brain just goes fuzzy. Maybe whoever I hurt is lost in my messy sea of thoughts and memories.
“Scotty,” I start, wanting so bad to tell him how glad I am now that I don’t have to see his face all the time, or trust someone who is a compulsive liar, or feel that anxiety I used to feel that he was going to tell me something like I’m sorry I did it, it won’t happen again. I love you, Von.
Direct quote, FYI.
But I don’t. Because I’m not that person. He is.
I squeeze my eyes shut now, pushing away the fears that won’t stop intruding. Of what people might think of me—what Ma might think of me—hating myself for being with him for that long. I was so stupid, not realizing Scotty was a dick way sooner. I think I’ll spend the rest of my life judging myself for ever thinking Scotty was even remotely attractive.
“Fuck you,” I say instead, before turning around, ignoring his loud response.
“You already did!”
I leave Crombie, leave the building, leave the gates, and go back to safety, where there is no Aces, no Scotty, no Jack, no annoying girls with crooked noses.
No memories that hurt to think about.
* * *
“How was school?” Ma asks as I take the potatoes and chicken out of the oven. I can barely hear her over the noise from my little brothers.
Elijah is singing some song he learned at school, and James is yelling at Eli to stop.
Ma’s question replays in my mind.
I think about her finding out, remembering the time this girl in my neighborhood came out. I remember Ma telling me how her family kicked her out. Ma had looked disgusted, muttering, “I just don’t understand.” And I remember thinking that she would never understand me either. I think about it and how this week has been so shit and how I hate school and never want to go back.
But then I look at my ma, how tired she looks, how she’ll be going out later for her night job, just so that we can live in this dump and I can go to a fancy school.
“Everything’s good, Ma. Perfect,” I say as I turn back, dishing the potatoes and chicken onto mismatched plates.
Everything’s good.
Perfect.
10
CHIAMAKA
Wednesday
Our superhero film tradition started by accident. We were fourteen, bored and uncultured. Jamie’s mom had given him a superhero-themed gift basket one Christmas and we binge-watched everything. Soon enough, it became our thing.
It’s almost sacred now, so Belle’s presence in my home cinema is basically blasphemy.
I sit here with the movie resting on my lap, since I don’t want to disrupt the flow of Jamie telling his cow story from a few summers ago. I smile and nod even though I think the story is as pointless as it was when he told me the first time.
“… And so I’m trying to convince the maid that the udders are the cow’s genitals…”
I don’t know how Belle can genuinely be interested in this story. I watch her watch him, her annoying face keeping me occupied. She’s curled up in the plush black-and-white cinema seat, her neck elongated, rosy cheeks, long lashes, really pink lips—I get why so many guys like her. She’s pretty—if you like girls like her, I mean. There’s a weird rush in my stomach, like it’s about to growl but doesn’t.
I look away and it disappears, my body probably reminding me how much I can’t stand their relationship.
“… I get in trouble because apparently, we can eat cows but not chase them—”
I clear my throat, interrupting the strange direction his story is heading.
“Movie time.” I get up and walk over to the projector at the back of the room, then place the movie in the player. I can hear Belle’s light, irritating laughter behind me as the disk sinks into the machine. I don’t want to turn back and see them acting all lovey-dovey, so I turn but shift my focus to the wall at the front, which is acting as a screen. The disk buffers, then stops as the movie credits flash up.
“Why did Microsoft PowerPoint cross the road…? To get to the other slide—”
My first instinct is to grab the heaviest object I can find and lob it at Jamie, but instead I interrupt with a dry laugh. My eyes briefly catch Belle’s and my stomach turns again, before I smile at Jamie.
“Good to see you’re still recycling your dad’s favorite jokes,” I say. I press pause on the film, wanting their full attention before starting it, and move back into my place next to Jamie.
“You have a nice home cinema,” Belle says. I can’t read her face like I can read Ruby’s and Ava’s.
“Thanks,” I reply without looking at her, my mind more focused on trying to see if the room is secretly ugly. This room is my safe space away from the loudness of the world. I sit here for hours sometimes, watching movies alone in the dark, clearing my head. Mom and Dad had this built for me years ago, and I decorated it myself. The ceiling is black and filled with dozens of lights. It kind of looks like stars in the universe, which is what I was going for. There’s a soft gray carpet and there are three rows of armchair-sized cinema seats.
I like this room, and if Belle doesn’t, she can leave. The door is that way—
“You know, Chi used to have a massive Winnie-the-Pooh teddy but threw it out because it clashed with the persona she was going for in sophomore year,” Jamie says.
“Oh yeah? What persona was that?” Belle asks.
I smile tightly at the two of them. Thank you, Jamie.
“There was no persona, I just outgrew Winnie—”
“She told me herself; she needed to seem more like Blair Waldorf and less like Meg Griffin,” he continues.
“I had a Winnie phase too … Outgrew it when I was seven, though,” Belle says.
Jamie laughs, and I’m tempted to kick them both out.
“I think we all outgrew it before high school. Chi’s just special—”
“Movie’s starting, time to shut up now,” I say, pressing play abruptly. The hum of the characters’ voices quickly fills the space between me and the lovebirds. I try to concentrate on the start of the film, but in the corner of my vision, I see their hands join, and her head drops to his shoulder, throwing m
e off.
“Should I get some blankets?” I ask.
Jamie nods, staring at the screen intently. “Only two, Belle and I can share one.”
My heart plummets to the bottom of my stomach as I stand to grab the two blankets from the back closet. All plans for a future with Jamie are disintegrating before me. This evening was meant to remind Jamie of how suited we are for each other, not make him fall further for Belle. Why can’t he see that? I want to throw the blanket in his face.
“Here,” I say, handing Jamie the blanket. He mutters a “thanks,” already engrossed in the movie, so Belle reaches up for it. Our fingers brush together and I release the blanket quickly.
My heartbeat switches from faint to strong and present.
* * *
“Same time next month, and forever?” Jamie asks at the door, like he always does. A younger, smilier Jamie had asked me that after our first day discovering Marvel and its wonders.
“Your place?” I ask. He bobs his head, his curls echoing the movement.
“Need a ride home?” my mom asks from behind us. I almost swear. I hate it when she creeps up on me like that.
He shakes his head. “I brought my car, but thanks, Mrs. Adebayo.”
My mom always smirks when he says our family name. I’m not even facing her, but I can feel her expression. It’s because he says it wrong, like everyone always does, saying “Ayda-bay-O” when really it’s “Adeh-by-oh.” But, oh well.
Jamie pulls me in for a hug, his arms wrapping around me, his nose brushing my forehead lightly. Usually this would excite me, but there is something so dull about it right now.
“See you,” I say to him.
“See you, Chi, Mrs. Adebayo.” He says the last part with a nod.
“See you, Chiamaka and Chiamaka’s mom,” Belle echoes as her hand joins Jamie’s. They both walk off; I look away.
The door closes and I turn to my mom, surprised to see her braided hair done up in a bun and her face made up.
“Going somewhere fancy?” I ask.
She nods with a wink. “Date night with your dad before he leaves for Italy.”
Dad goes to Italy once a month to visit Grandma—who loves to remind me of the weight I’ve gained each time I see her. He used to go a lot less, taking Mom and me with him whenever he did. My parents used to live there before they came here. It’s where they met, in med school somewhere in Rome. I used to think it was the greatest love story of all time until Mom told me why we had to stop going. Dad’s family aren’t huge fans of Mom … or her dark skin. And by extension, me and my dark skin.
And that’s fine. I hated going anyway.
“Was that Jamie’s new girlfriend?” she asks.
My chest squeezes.
“Mm-hmm,” I respond, focusing on the wall.
“She’s pretty.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say.
The words She’s pretty echo through the house and my mind. “I’m going upstairs now, Mom. Have a nice night.”
Mom’s smooth hand touches my arm before I leave, reminding me of so many years of being tucked in, and the tight, constricting hugs only Mom can give. I look back at her, her dark skin bright and her brows furrowed.
“Are you okay, Chiamaka?”
Of course I am, I want to say, but instead I say nothing.
“You seem a little down,” she continues.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t look all that convinced, and I’m not sure if I am either, but her shoulders relax, and she grabs her bag from where it’s hanging on the coatrack by the stairs.
“If you want pizza, I left you some cash,” she says as she kisses both my cheeks, then moves toward the door, a rush of her strong, tangy perfume filling my nostrils. “Love you, Chi. See you later.”
The door slams shut behind her, ringing in my ears moments after. I see her figure through the blurry rose-colored glass panes and hear her heels click across the concrete path, until both disappear into the evening.
I sigh, then drag myself up the stairs and back into the cinema. I know it doesn’t seem too bad—being falsely accused of stealing, twice, and having everyone think I got rejected by Jamie—especially since the revelations about Devon feel so much more personal. But being talked about is one thing, and being mocked is another. I hate being mocked, it reminds me of middle school: being the girl everyone liked to look down on, poke at—never the girl people wanted to be friends with.
Not that people want to be friends with me now—or before Aces—but they knew that they could never look down on me.
I start picking up some of the mess we made, kicking the blankets to the side to see if any trash is left underneath. I notice a crumpled-up piece of paper with something written in thick black Sharpie. I bend down and pick it up, recognizing the writing as Jamie’s—1717. He’s always writing down his PINs and passwords on random pieces of paper.
I like to joke that one day he’ll have to write down my name, for when he finally forgets me. I remember him once saying, How could anyone at Niveus forget the great Chiamaka Adebayo? in his usual Jamie over-the-top way.
I smile at the memory. Sometimes these moments creep into my mind and remind me that our friendship is real. And I need the reminder sometimes. Especially when he does things to get under my skin. Like getting a girlfriend.
I sit on one of the chairs, pulling out my phone and opening up the Notes app.
I title the page People who hate me.
Whoever is finding this information about me and sending these texts is doing it out of spite. It’s someone who really hates me, Devon, and Scotty. And I’m going to find out who, and why.
I stare at the blank screen, the cursor blinking, and before I can second-guess it, I tap out Jeremy’s, Ava’s, and Ruby’s names in bold as my first suspects. Jeremy because I know for sure he’d love to take me down if he could; Ava because of how easily she spread the things about Jamie and me; and Ruby … Well it’s obvious, she’s Ruby. I don’t know if I actually believe that Ava or Jeremy is even capable of pulling off something like this, but I do know that whoever’s doing this, they’re not going to be doing it much longer. I’ll find them and make them wish they’d never started this mess in the first place.
11
DEVON
Thursday
It was raining heavily when I woke up this morning at six. I could hear the raindrops hitting the window, then spilling through the crack in the bottom. I would’ve closed it, but the window’s permanently stuck that way.
Some mornings I sit in this half-dreamlike state, letting the cold wrap around my body and hug me like the memory of my father sometimes does, despite the fact that he never hugged me when he was around. I haven’t asked to visit him in years—Ma used to cry when I brought it up. So, I stopped asking.
My younger brother Elijah had cuddled up to me during the night, shivering more than I was, so I wrapped my school blazer around his skinny frame. Which is why my blazer currently smells of bananas, Elijah’s ever-present scent.
As I rush past the blocks between my place and school, the rain hits my hood, dripping down my face and blurring my vision. I wipe it away, but it just keeps falling, over and over again. Both the cold and the thought of who around here has seen the video make my body shudder. I keep my head down until I reach Jack’s place. I knock on the door, hoping that he’s gonna answer today.
Instead, Jack’s uncle answers. He’s a tall, tired-looking guy, and he always wears the same stained tank top and sweats. In the background, I can hear Jack arguing with his brothers.
“Jack, your friend’s here,” his uncle yells. He never bothers with small talk—no hi, nothing. I think my longest conversation with him was the first time we met, after Jack’s ma died. He asked, “Who are you?” I told him my name, and that was that.
Jack materializes, uniform wrinkled and tie slightly undone. I’ve been replaying what he said to me in the alley yesterday, picking apart his words. I do
n’t know what brought me back here this morning. I guess I’m trying to hold on to my longest friendship, maybe, despite the obvious cracks in it. Or the sense of safety I get from the only face that means something to me at Niveus? I don’t know.
Jack doesn’t say anything, just walks next to me in an awkward silence. I know these silences well with Jack; but I keep holding on, knowing that on the other side of the silence there is still a friend, my friend. That’s how it’s always been. I know he still cares about me.
Niveus isn’t so far from our neighborhood. Our school lies between two worlds: the side of town where the rich people live, and then our side, where people can’t afford food or health care. Usually, I just keep my head down, regardless of where I am, but since the picture and the video got out, I feel even more uneasy in our neighborhood. As we walk, I side-eye street corners, imagining boys in dark hoods with sharp shiny objects and fists ready to beat the crap out of me. The picture took less than forty-eight hours to reach Dre, so I can only imagine how many of them have seen the video, deduced it was me, and are waiting by the 7-Eleven. Ready to remind me that there is no space for me in this neighborhood. Even though Dre said he’d deal with it, if it could get to him, it could get to anyone.
Having Jack here makes me feel a little safer, though.
I shudder and wipe my face again. I like the sound of rain, but actually being in it is the worst, so I’m happy—for the first time this week—to see the white bricks and giant black gates of Niveus.
Jack and I walk up the stairs and straight through the doors into the hallway, where the conversation was obviously very much alive before we entered. I suddenly feel hyperaware of my oversized uniform, dripping water onto the marble floor.
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