by Angie Thomas
“I’ve got it under control,” Trey says.
“Boy, you ain’t got nothing under control,” says Granddaddy. “You ain’t got lights.”
Grandma puts her hands up. “That’s it. I done had enough. Brianna and Trey coming home with us.”
Trey raises his eyebrows. “Um, hi, I’m twenty-two, how are you?”
“I don’t care how old you are. You and Bri don’t need to be suffering like this.”
“Suffering?” Jay says. “They have shelter, clothes, I made sure they have food—”
“But they ain’t got lights!” Grandma says. “What kinda mother are—”
“The worst thing I’ve done is become poor, Mrs. Jackson!”
Jay’s loud, rough. Seems like her voice is using every inch of her body.
“The worst thing!” she says. “That’s it! Excuse me because I have the audacity to be poor!”
Trey touches her shoulder. “Ma—”
“You think I want my babies sitting in the dark? I’m trying, Mrs. Jackson! I go on interviews. I withdrew from school so these kids could have food! I begged the church not to let me go. I’m sorry if it’s not enough for you, but good Lord, I’m trying!”
Grandma straightens up. “I just think they deserve better.”
“Well, that’s one thing we actually agree on,” says Jay.
“Then they oughta come live with us,” Grandma says.
Trey puts his hands up. “No, Grandma. I’m staying here. I’m not gonna be the rope in this tug-of-war of yours anymore.”
“I ain’t ever gon’ apologize for fighting for my son’s babies!” Grandma says. “If you wanna stay here, that’s on you. I ain’t gon’ force you, Lawrence. But Brianna coming with us.”
“Hold on now, Louise,” Granddaddy says. “This girl old enough to decide for herself, too. Li’l Bit, what you want?”
I want food. I want lights. I want guarantees.
There’s this look in my mom’s eyes that I’ve seen before. It’s the one she had the day she came back from rehab. But that day there were tears in her eyes, too. She brushed my hair from my face and asked me one question: “Brianna, do you know who I am?”
That look was fear. Back then, I didn’t understand it. Now I do. She had been gone so long that she was afraid I forgot her.
Fast-forward to now, and she’s terrified that I’m gonna leave her.
I may not know if we’ll have lights again or if we’ll have enough food, but I do know that I don’t wanna be away from my mom again.
I look at her as I say it. “I wanna stay here.”
“Well, there you go,” Trey says. “You got your answer.”
“You sure, Li’l Bit?” Granddaddy asks.
I don’t look away from my mom. I want her to know that I mean it. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“All right then.” Granddaddy takes out his wallet. “’Bout how much is this light bill, Jayda?”
“I can’t pay you back anytime soon, Mr. Jackson.”
“Hush. I ain’t said nothing ’bout paying nobody back. You know good and well Junior would have a fit if I didn’t—”
Grandma’s lips tremble. She turns on her heel and hurries out. The front door slams shut behind her.
Granddaddy sighs. “Grief one hell of a thing. I think Louise holds on to these kids ’cause it’s like holding on to him.”
Granddaddy looks through his wallet and places some money in my mom’s hand. “Call me if you need me.”
He kisses her cheek and kisses mine. Then he pats Trey on the back and leaves.
Jay stares at the money for the longest. “Wow,” she says thickly.
Trey rubs her shoulder. “Hey, Li’l Bit. Why don’t you get my keys and take our phones out to my car? Charge them up.”
That’s code for “Jay needs some space.” I think she’ll cry in front of Trey before she’ll cry in front of me. That comes with him being the oldest.
I make myself nod. “All right.”
I go out and crank his Honda up. Trey’s got one of those chargers that’ll handle multiple phones at once. I hook his and Jay’s up. Just as I pick up mine, it rings.
Damn. It’s not Aunt Pooh. Instead, Supreme’s name appears on the screen.
I try not to sound too disappointed as I answer on the speaker. “Hey, Supreme.”
“Whaddup, baby girl?” he says. “I got big news.”
“Oh yeah?” I may not sound disappointed, but I can’t make myself sound upbeat either. Unless Supreme is about to tell me he’s got a deal for me, nothing can amp me up. And even that can’t save Aunt Pooh.
“Hell yeah. Hype wants you to come on his show next Saturday,” Supreme says. “He saw the petition and the news story and wants to give you a chance to speak.”
“Oh, wow.” See, DJ Hype is more than just the DJ at the Ring. He’s a radio legend. I don’t think there’s a hip-hop head in the world who hasn’t heard of Hype’s Hot Hour on Hot 105. The show plays live around the country, and all the interviews end up on his YouTube channel. Some of them even go viral, but that’s usually only if a rapper acts a fool. But Hype’s known to push the right buttons to make folks act a fool.
“Yeah. Of course, he’ll wanna talk about the Ring incident, the Instagram video. Even that li’l music video you put up yesterday.” Supreme chuckles. “It’s creative, I’ll give you that.”
Damn, I forgot about that, too.
Wait, why’d he call it a li’l music video though? As if there’s not much to it. “That video is supposed to explain the song.”
“Let the song speak for itself,” he says.
“But people were saying—”
“Look, we’ll get into all that later,” he says. “This is a big opportunity, all right? I’m talking life-changing shit. It’s gon’ put you in front of an even bigger audience. Only thing I need is for you to be ready. All right?”
I stare at the last text I sent Aunt Pooh. How can I be ready for anything when I know nothing about her?
But I force the words out. “I’ll be ready.”
Twenty-Four
It’s been almost exactly five days to the hour, and Aunt Pooh hasn’t gotten back to me yet.
I don’t know what to do. Do I tell my mom or my brother? I could, but it may not be worth the drama if it turns out she didn’t do anything. Do I call the cops? Both of those options are a hell no. I’d have to tell them Aunt Pooh may have committed murder, which is basically snitching. Not only that, but she committed murder on my order.
I’m out of options and full of fears.
Good thing is we aren’t in the dark anymore. Granddaddy gave my mom enough to pay the light bill and to get us some groceries. Since the lights are back on, the stove is back on. I didn’t know how much I missed hot dinners. Things are looking up.
School is another story though. For one, it still feels like a prison. Two, there’s Malik. He got on the bus Tuesday morning and sat with Shana. His eye was only slightly bruised and the swelling had gone down. I guess he still hasn’t told anyone what happened. It’s our secret.
It’s so secret that he not only won’t speak to me about it, but he won’t speak to me, period.
I get why. Honestly, I hate putting him in this position. Hell, I hate being in it myself. But he has to know that if anyone hears a word about this, it’s just as bad as ratting on Aunt Pooh. And on me.
I’m gonna try to talk to him tonight, after this PTA meeting with the superintendent. The Midtown auditorium is packed. Dr. Rhodes talks to some man in a suit and tie. Not far away, Mrs. Murray chats with some of the other teachers.
Sonny and I follow our moms and Aunt ’Chelle down the middle aisle. Jay’s still in the skirt and blouse that she wore for an interview today. She even brought the little briefcase that she carries her résumés in. Aunt ’Chelle came straight from the courthouse in her security uniform, and Aunt Gina left the beauty shop early. She says Wednesdays are slow anyway.
Malik’s with Shana and some of the other ki
ds from the coalition. They’re standing on the side aisles, holding posters for the superintendent to see with stuff like, “Black or brown shouldn’t mean suspicious,” and, “Are grants more important than students?”
Sonny leans in to me. “You think we should be over there?”
Across the room, Malik laughs at something Shana says. He’s in full Malik X mode, with a wooden black power fist hanging from a necklace. His sign says, “School or prison?” with a picture of an armed cop.
Last thing he probably wants is me over there. “No,” I say. “Let him do his thing.”
“I’ll be glad when you two fix whatever’s going on,” Sonny says.
I lied and told him that Malik and I had an argument after he went to babysit his sisters. Technically, it’s not a lie. There is an argument between us. It just hasn’t been spoken. Yet.
Aunt Gina finds us some seats near the front. We’ve barely sat down when this balding Latino man goes up to the podium.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m David Rodriguez, president of the Midtown School of the Arts Parent-Teacher Association,” he says. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. I think I can speak for everyone when I say there are concerns regarding recent events here at the school. I invite Superintendent Cook to the podium to discuss the next steps and answer any questions we may have. Please welcome him.”
The older white man who was talking to Dr. Rhodes makes his way to the podium to polite applause.
He starts by saying how much of a “beacon of light” Midtown is for the school district—it’s one of the highest performing schools, one of the most diverse schools, and boasts one of the highest graduation rates. He’s a crowd pleaser, considering how much he tells us to applaud ourselves for our accomplishments.
“I think we’re all saddened by what took place last week,” he says, “and I personally want you to know that the school district is committed to ensuring that Midtown is a place of safety and of excellence. With that said, I invite you all to ask questions or make comments as you see fit.”
Conversations break out all around us. Parents and students line up at the mics on each side of the room. My mom’s one of them.
The first question comes from a parent—how did something like this happen?
“Due to an ongoing investigation, I am unable to go into a lot of details at the moment,” Superintendent Cook says. “However, when that information can be shared, it will be.”
Another parent asks about the metal detectors, random pat-downs, and the armed cops. “This is not a prison,” he says. He’s got an accent, like Spanish is his first language. “I do not understand why our children must be subjected to these sort of security measures.”
“Due to recent crime spikes in the area, we felt it was best for the safety of the students if security was heightened,” says Superintendent Cook.
He doesn’t explain the cops. We all know why they’re here now though.
Sonny backhands my arm and nods toward the other mic. Shana’s up next.
She clears her throat. At first, she doesn’t say anything. Someone yells out, “Speak, Shana!” and a couple of people clap, including Malik.
She looks straight at the superintendent. “My name is Shana Kincaid. I’m a junior here at Midtown. Unfortunately, it’s different for me and students who look like me at this school, Dr. Cook. Both Officer Long and Officer Tate were known to target black and Latinx students far more than anyone. We were more likely to be subjected to pat-downs, to random locker checks, and to secondary screenings. Several of us have been in physical altercations with them. Now that armed police officers have been brought on, honestly, many of us fear for our lives. We shouldn’t have that fear when we come to school.”
There’s an uproar of applause and cheers, especially from the kids from the coalition. I clap along with them.
“It’s no secret that Midtown needs students like me in order to get grants,” Shana says. “Yet students like me do not feel welcomed here, Dr. Cook. Are we just dollar signs to you all, or are we actual human beings?”
I clap at that, too. Most of the students do.
“The uprising last week was the result of frustration,” Shana says. “Many of us have filed complaints against Officers Long and Tate. There is video showing them physically assaulting a black student. Yet they were allowed back on the job. Why, Dr. Cook?”
“Ms. Kincaid, I thank you for your insight,” Dr. Cook says. “I agree that racism and racial profiling are unacceptable. However, due to the ongoing investigation, there is a lot I can’t speak on regarding that specific incident.”
“What?” I say as my classmates boo and shout.
“We should at least know why they were allowed back on the job!” Shana says.
“Settle down,” Dr. Cook says over everyone. “Ms. Kincaid, I thank you for your time. Next question.”
Shana starts to say something, but Mrs. Murray comes up behind her and whispers in her ear. Shana’s clearly frustrated, but she lets Mrs. Murray lead her to a seat.
A middle-aged white woman steps to the other mic. “Hi, my name is Karen Pittman,” she says. “This is not so much a question but a comment. I currently have a tenth grader here at Midtown. This is my third child to attend this wonderful school. My oldest son graduated seven years ago, before the various initiatives were put into place. During his four years here, there were no security guards. This will probably be an unpopular comment, but I think it must be pointed out that security measures were only heightened once students were brought in from certain communities, and rightfully so.”
Aunt ’Chelle turns all the way around in her seat to look at this woman. “I wish she would. Ooh, I wish she would.”
She basically did. Everybody knows what she means.
“There have been weapons brought on campus,” Karen claims. “Gang activity. If I’m not mistaken, Officers Long and Tate recently apprehended a drug dealer on campus.”
She is so mistaken it’s funny. And gang activity? The closest thing we’ve had to a gang war was when the musical theater kids and the dance kids tried to out-flash-mob each other. Shit got real when they both did numbers from Hamilton.
“Her name just had to be Karen,” Sonny says. “Bet she puts raisins in her potato salad.” I smirk, and we cross our arms over our chests. Wakanda forever.
“Like everyone,” Karen says, but there’s so much noise from the audience. “Like everyone, I saw the videos from the incident, and I was appalled. There was no respect for authority from many of our students. They used a vulgar, violent song to taunt two gentlemen who were simply doing their jobs. A song that my son says was done by a student and specifically targets them. We cannot and should not allow our children to be exposed to such things. I personally signed a petition this morning to have that song taken offline. I encourage other parents to do the same.”
Screw Karen and her son.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pittman,” Superintendent Cook says. Karen gets a mix of applause and boos as she returns to her seat. “Next question, please.”
Jay has made her way to the front of the line. From over here, I can practically see the steam coming off of her.
“Go, Aunty Jay!” Sonny shouts. His momma and Aunt ’Chelle clap for her.
“Superintendent Cook,” she says into the mic. “Jayda Jackson. It’s a pleasure to finally speak to you.”
“Thank you,” he says with a small smile.
“It’s a shame it has taken this long. For weeks, I have left you voice mails and have yet to receive a call back.”
“My apologies. I’m extremely behind on—”
“My daughter was the one physically assaulted by Officers Long and Tate last month,” Jay says, cutting him off. “Wanna know why? She sold candy, Dr. Cook. Not drugs. Candy.”
Jay turns with the mic, looking at Karen. “While some of us are afraid of the impact songs will have on our children, there are parents who are absolutely terrified for the safety of our childr
en at the hands of people who are supposed to protect them.”
There’s so much applause. Aunt ’Chelle shouts, “Preach!”
“A lot of these kids are afraid to roam this neighborhood because well-meaning people may get the wrong idea,” she says. “At home, they’re afraid because not-so-well-meaning people may put them in danger. You’re telling me they have to come to school and deal with the same mess?”
We can barely hear her for the applause.
“The fact is, Superintendent,” Jay says, “the uprising on Friday was in response to what happened to my daughter. Those two were back on the job after assaulting her, as if what they did was okay. Is this the kind of message you want to send to your students? That the safety of some of them is more important than the safety of others? If that’s the case, there is no concern for the safety of all of them.”
She gets a standing ovation from half the people in here. I clap harder than anyone.
Superintendent Cook has the most uncomfortable smile as he waits for the applause to die down. “Mrs. Jackson, I’m sorry that you feel that the school district has not been proactive regarding the incident with your daughter; however, an investigation is ongoing.”
“You’re sorry I feel—” She catches herself, like she’s one second from going off. “That’s not an apology, Superintendent. As far as this investigation goes, nobody’s spoken to me or my child. That’s not much of an investigation.”
“It is ongoing. Again, I am sorry you feel we have not been proactive. However, at the moment, I am unable to . . .”
That’s basically all he said the entire meeting. When it’s over, so many parents and students swarm Dr. Cook that a police officer has to guide him through.
Malik’s over to the side. Maybe now I can try to—
Jay grabs my hand. “C’mon.”
She pushes through the crowd and gets us right on Dr. Cook’s heels just as he reaches the hall.
“Dr. Cook!” she calls.
He looks back. The officer beckons him to come on, but Dr. Cook puts a hand up and comes over to us. “Mrs. Jackson, right?”
“Yes,” Jay says. “This is my daughter, Brianna, the student who was assaulted. May we have a moment of your time now since you won’t return my phone calls?”