by Cole, Olivia
“Music,” she commands.
Z turns on the iPod from the Ferrari and CeeLo’s voice comes through the speakers once more as the car screeches left onto Washington. Tasha doesn’t brake. Whatever is behind her, she will beat.
The voice in the speaker sings about splitting seams. The world tumbling down.
“Louder!”
She’s going west, and west, and west. She’s running stop signs and disobeying traffic orders and doesn’t use her turn signal; she doesn’t yield. The blocks blur past in gales of brick and steel. Wells. Franklin. Red lights are just decoration.
They go west. Behind them is the rumble of the Apiary ballooning, shaking the street; but she doesn’t look back, even as the steering wheel trembles under her palms. The sky turns white, then orange, the mammatus clouds on fire. Somewhere Dr. Rio is sinking into the explosion, already ash. Tasha doesn’t wonder what it’s like to be ash—she is infinitely hotter. The Chevy hums. Ahead is road, and sky, a far-off coast with a vegetable garden, a sister with answers to questions. In the garden is a little girl kneeling, the half-moons of her fingernails beautifully black with soil from the ground. Tasha reaches for her roots.
“Wind,” she orders, and she’s rolling down her window again, letting in the titan, its colorless hand finding its way into her curls and turning them into waving grass. She is among the grass, leaping across the prairie toward California in lithe animal bounds. This feels like a cure.
In Kentucky the trees will be in full blossom. Are there dogwoods in California? Rosebuds? Goldenrod? The world is pouring through the window, bringing in the smell of moving air. Tasha puts her arm out into what’s rushing past, what she’s rushing toward. She drives over the rust-colored Chicago River, an army of eyes watching her: empty eyes above gaping, barking mouths; hesitant, shambling steps trailing, too slow, after the progress of the Chevrolet, before sparking and freezing in place, their programming interrupted by the immense ball of fire that their hive has become. Listless, they glare after the blue machine, oblivious to what it carries. To them, Tasha is just a copper something, a streak of noise: her arm out the window is an extension of a rocket—wildfire, untouchable.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Love, light, and gratitude to my father—the editor and sounding board—and my mother, the reader. Kwame Alexander, for giving me a chance and opening doors. Tracy Chiles McGhee and Danielle Koon for their endless enthusiasm. Cia White, for her belief. Stuart Cipinko, for his love. Victoria Spencer, Sam Gauss and Aaron Mitchell Reese for their eyes and their skills. Dana Lynch and Caralanay Cameron for their devotion. Jane Intrieri, for her glee. Jovan Leslie Monique and Jessica Estelle Huggins for their genius. Sean Carter, for his support. Beverly Bond (and BLACK GIRLS ROCK!) for her work and her spirit. Alexis Garrett Stodghill, and her mother LaBrenda Garrett-Nelson, for being wonderwomen. Band of Horses and CeeLo for drilling “No One’s Gonna Love You” into my soul. Nicki Minaj, for “Super Bass.” Madonna, for “Material Girl.” Octavia Butler, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, and Margaret Atwood for giving me dreams. My Indiegogo donors and Twitter followers, whose belief has made this book possible.
And finally, for Ms. Hart in eighth grade, who said, “You can’t.” And for Ms. Thomas, who said, “You can.”
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6: The Change
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS