I still have half a drink left but I get up and throw my cup away.
When Momma finds me a little while later, I tell her we need to leave.
I’m so ready to dump this awful feeling. As soon as I get home, I’m going to call Isabella.
39
Silent Protest
When we get outside, there’s a large group of people chanting and holding up signs, blocking our way. A woman with a megaphone is yelling about justice. I’ve never seen so many angry faces. And even though I know none of them are mad at me, it still feels scary to be surrounded by all that anger and yelling.
Momma grips my hand.
“No justice, no peace!” a bunch of people shout.
A loud crash makes me jump. Someone threw a rock through a store window, and I squeeze tight to Momma. I’m not used to feeling so small. Like I’m getting swallowed. Everyone is jostling and trying to get closer to the entrance of the mall, and Momma and I can barely get through.
This is the first time I’ve seen a protest up close. On the news it seemed like it would be exciting, but this is scary. Someone shoves me, and it makes me lose my grip on Momma’s hand. “Momma?” I shout. I look around and don’t see her. Just a sea of frowning faces. “Momma!” I call again.
And then she’s there, grabbing my hand. “Come on,” she says, just about yanking me through the people to get to the parking lot.
We crunch over the glass covering the sidewalk.
Momma and I rush to the car, but after she shoves her bags in the trunk and we climb into the car, she just sits there without turning on the engine.
For a few seconds all I hear is both of us breathing hard.
Then she turns on the car and we pull out of the lot. Police officers are arguing with the protesters and a tall man with dreads has his hands handcuffed behind him.
“He’s getting arrested?” I’ve never seen someone in handcuffs except on television.
“I guess they think he’s the one who broke that window.”
I chew on my lip, not knowing what to say.
Momma tunes the radio to a news station. I hear a bunch of confusing trial talk.
“What are closing arguments?” I ask.
“It means they’re close to the end,” Momma says. “With the protesters outside, I thought maybe the verdict had already come out.” She wipes sweat off her forehead.
“You thought she was found innocent?” I can’t keep the shock out of my voice.
Momma doesn’t answer, which is the same as saying yes.
“But that won’t happen, will it?” I ask.
“No one knows, baby. But I know folks are starting to worry. And that makes them scared . . . and angry.”
When we get back home, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t feel like calling Isabella anymore. I don’t want to do anything, really, except sit in my room and feel miserable. That protest was awful, and the trial isn’t even over. I can’t imagine how bad it will be if the police officer is found not guilty.
Hana busts into my room without knocking. “Stop moping around,” she says. “It’s driving everybody crazy. There’s too much going on in the world for you to be acting like some big baby.”
“I’m not!” I shout.
“Excuse you?” Hana says, taking a step forward like she’s going to punch me.
“Fine,” I say. “Sorry.”
She comes all the way into my room and sits next to me on my bed. “Junior high is the worst. Trust me, I remember. But that doesn’t mean you can ignore everything else.”
“I’m not, Hana. It’s just . . . Momma and I saw a protest.” I gulp thinking about it. “I don’t want that officer to get off, but everyone was so angry, and someone broke a window.”
Hana nods. “Yeah, me and Regina were talking about how bad things are getting. There was almost a riot at the last Black Lives Matter rally when a bunch of people started shouting against us. But stuff like that can make it seem like our movement is just about spreading violence.”
“Are we about violence?” I don’t want the answer to be yes. Even though I know we have plenty to be mad about.
Hana doesn’t answer right away. She looks angry, but Hana usually looks like that, so it’s hard to know what it means. “No,” she finally says. “But it can be hard to stay calm when sometimes it feels like . . . like people don’t care about us. Or act like they have to be afraid of us. Or maybe want to control us.” She adjusts her ponytail and looks like she’s thinking hard.
“When a Black person gets shot and nothing happens, it’s like we don’t matter. And that makes me angry, and yeah, it makes me want to do something violent. Make some noise. Get attention. I want a scholarship to play ball next year. It’s not fair that I have to take some schools off my list because I would be afraid to live there. I don’t know if a lot of white students have to worry about that.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Hana look more scared than angry. It makes the whole thing with Julia and Isabella seem not all that important, which I guess was Hana’s point. “I guess I have been a little whiny,” I say softly. I bite my bottom lip. I wish I had a big eraser that could just wipe away all the bad feelings.
“It’s okay,” Hana says, bumping me with her shoulder. “I probably whined a little at your age.”
Hana stares at me for a second, tapping her fingers together, and then she says, “Hey, you want to come with me? To a rally at UCLA?”
“Do you think it’ll get violent?”
“I don’t think so. Not this one. This one is special. And I think it’s time you started seeing what all this is about.”
“If Momma will let me,” I say.
“Let’s go ask,” Hana says, and we both go to find her.
“I don’t know,” Momma says at first.
Daddy puts his arm around her shoulders. “I think it’s a good idea. In fact, I think we all need to go.”
In the car, Hana tells us it is going to be a silent protest. I’m not sure what that means. Seems like if we want anyone to pay attention, we have to yell and scream. But that’s because I didn’t know there are all different sorts of noise.
Daddy parks in a big parking garage, and when we get out of the car, I see him and Momma exchange looks back and forth. Momma comes over and grips my hand. It reminds me of when I was little and we’d walk to the library or be in the market, and she’d hold my hand so tight, making sure she didn’t lose me.
Hana gets a sign out of the trunk. It says Stand with Us or Stand out of the Way. She hands me the sign I made that says We Matter! over and over again in a bunch of different colors and with glitter sprinkled all over. I’m really proud of it.
We start walking to Westwood, and all I hear is cars swooshing by.
Even though we haven’t met up with the other marchers, it’s like we’re already doing the silent protest, because no one says anything, but we’re walking pretty fast.
We turn the corner, and there’s a whole bunch of people. Holding candles and signs.
Hana is like a pro. She knows right where to go for us to get candles, and then she has us stand with the big group, and she does it without saying anything. I don’t get a candle because I have my poster in one hand and I’m gripping Momma with my other one.
My cheeks are cold, but I brought gloves, so my hands are warm.
And then we start marching. We fill up one whole side of the street. Cars that want to go by pass us really slowly.
And no one says a word.
That’s when I find out how loud silence can be.
Hundreds of people walking together, carrying candles and signs but not saying one single word? Let me tell you, that’s louder than anything.
There are posters of Trayvon Martin and Philando Castile and Alton Sterling and Michael Brown and Tamir Rice and Stephon Clark, and a bunch more people who lost their lives. Too many. I get an awful lump in my throat, seeing those faces. Most of them look really young.
M
omma keeps wiping away tears and squeezing my hand tight.
A few people honk their horns at us, but I’m not sure if they’re on our side or against us. Some people shout, “All lives matter!” and I know they’re against us. For real.
I keep looking at those posters of the people who got killed and looking at my daddy, and my mouth goes so dry, it’s like trying to suck dirt.
Not all the people walking are Black—not by a mile—but it’s still the biggest group of Black people I’ve ever been with, even counting our big family reunion in Atlanta last summer.
Although it’s for a sad reason, and there are a lot of angry faces, it feels good to be part of something. To belong.
Lots of police officers watch us, and I wonder if they feel sad about the posters too or if they are angry at us for marching.
Some news reporters are there, but every time they try to stick a microphone in someone’s face, the person just waves them away.
When I was in first grade, our teacher would have us play the Silent Game. We had to see how long we could go without saying a word. Now that I’m older, I know she was just trying to have a few moments of peace. We never stayed quiet for too long. Something about not being able to talk always gave someone the giggles, but tonight it’s not hard to stay quiet, and for sure I don’t feel like giggling.
We march from Westwood all the way up the hill to UCLA’s campus. And then all of us, this huge group of people, stand there, quiet, holding candles, holding hands and swaying like we all hear the same song. Even though it’s for a sad reason, it’s sort of beautiful.
Then one voice starts singing. Low and quiet. “We shall overcome,” she sings, and everyone who knows the words starts singing too. When the song is over, we blow out our candles. And I can tell the protest is over.
My family is pretty solemn on the way home, and it’s like no one wants to be first to break the silence, but then Daddy clears his throat.
“How about some ice cream?” he asks.
The only answer to that question is a big fat yes.
I get a double scoop of pistachio, and Hana gets her boring chocolate chip, and Daddy gets cake batter with cookie pieces crumbled in it.
“Lord, you all make my mouth hurt just thinking about all that sugar,” Momma says, and then she orders a small mango sherbet.
We sit inside, and it’s like we’re sitting inside a scoop of ice cream, it smells so sweet.
“You can’t let the problems of the world stop you from enjoying life,” Daddy says with his mouth full of ice cream.
Momma gives him one of her sweet looks that usually make me and Hana roll our eyeballs right out of our heads, but tonight we let her get away with it.
Then Daddy reaches over and grips Hana’s hand. “You and your friends need to be careful out on these streets, you hear me? You can’t be giving anybody a reason to hassle you.”
“Like they need a reason,” Hana says, licking a drip of ice cream off her cone.
“Did you hear what I said?” Daddy’s voice has that serious edge that means you best pay attention.
“Okay,” Hana says in a quiet voice.
When we get back home, I write about all the things I observed at the march. When the phone rings, I don’t even think about it before picking up. I’m completely ready to stop being angry at my friends.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hey, um, Shayla, this is uh, this is—”
“Hi, Tyler.” I cut him off; life is short.
“Oh, yeah, hey. Heh, heh, um, yeah, you recognize my voice, huh?”
“Something like that,” I say, starting to bite a hangnail. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, uh, well, I’ve been hangin’ out with my boys, you know. Just um, doing . . . stuff. And, well, I, uh, I’ve kinda been thinking about you. You know, wondering what you were doing.”
“Not much,” I say.
Then there’s a big pot of nothing, and I wait for Tyler to think of something else to say. I can hear him breathing. One of us has to say something.
“Oh, I went to a march for Black Lives Matter.”
“That sounds cool.” Tyler sounds relieved that he has something to say, but I don’t want to start talking to Tyler in any type of way.
“Yeah, it was,” I say. “Hey, I gotta go.”
“Okay, but um, what I wanted to ask you . . . I mean, real quick, I just wanted to know, uh . . .” He pauses for a minute.
I sputter out, “I’ll talk to you at school,” and hang up. For the rest of vacation I don’t answer the phone, and my parents are under strict instructions to say I’m busy if Tyler calls again. (Momma says a boy doesn’t have any business calling me anyway.) I don’t want to tell my friends about Tyler calling, because that will just lead us back to the dance and that will make me mad all over again.
Daddy asks me very sarcastically, “Is there anyone you are talking to?”
I don’t even bother answering him.
Silence can be super loud.
40
What’s Up?
Being away from school and not having my cell phone, I feel like I’ve fallen right out of the world. I have no clue what’s going on with anybody. I miss all the pictures and videos and updates. Momma won’t let me use the computer for any social media. She says the computer is strictly for homework and she doesn’t want me distracted, even though I explain I don’t have any homework over the holidays. And I try telling her it will be much better for me to watch silly Snapchat videos than to watch the news and see protests getting uglier and uglier. I don’t see much peaceful singing anymore. I’ve seen more and more store windows getting broken, and crowds are getting bigger at the protests. A crowd of people blocked the entrance of a police station and wouldn’t move until cops started arresting everyone.
I keep waiting to hear that the trial is over, but I guess it takes a while for arguments to close. And I don’t want to believe that officer is going to be found innocent, but I can tell Momma and Daddy are both thinking that’s the way it’s going to go. Based on the protests happening around the city, that’s what a whole bunch of people think too—mostly Black people. “Is someone else going to get killed, Momma?”
Momma turns off the TV. “You don’t need to watch any more of that mess,” she says.
For the first time, I’m almost glad to go back to school.
Isabella and Julia are by the snack machines at break, waiting for me. I guess they didn’t want to risk me not showing up at our spot.
“Hey,” I say, as if we just talked yesterday.
Isabella grabs my arm. “Shay! People have been talking about you and Tyler online! Like you two are—”
Before Isabella can finish telling me what people have said about me and Tyler, he appears out of nowhere. Like she called him or something.
“Hey, Shayla, uh, how you doin’?” he asks, looking at the ground.
“I’m good, Tyler.” I want to go to our usual spot behind the portables, but I don’t know how to get us there. “What’s up?” I ask, hoping he’ll go away fast.
“Nothing” is all he says, and he doesn’t leave.
“Oookay,” I say, and angle away from him. “What did you do over vacation?” I ask Isabella and Julia, making it clear that’s who I’m talking to. “How was art camp, Is?”
“Fine,” Isabella answers, looking at Tyler. “Fun, I mean. And I spent time with my dad.” She coughs a few times. “He was sick, though.”
Isabella must’ve caught whatever her dad had, because she looks awful. Instead of her usual bronzy color, she’s almost the color of mustard.
“Obachan asked about you. She made the kushiyaki you like,” Julia says accusingly.
Going to Julia’s grandmother’s is one of my favorite things—especially if she’s cooking. She usually tells me how she’s going to fatten me up. “I’m . . . sorry I missed it,” I say in a low voice. I bet I missed a lot of things. I give a side glance at Tyler and then look away fast.
&nbs
p; “Shayla went to a rally for Black Lives Matter,” he says.
Julia and Isabella both look wide-eyed at me.
“Yeah,” I say. My palms itch as if fire ants are biting them all over. I need Tyler to leave so I can find out what people are saying about us.
“How do you know what Shayla did?” Julia asks him.
“She told me,” Tyler says, like duh. “Over break. We were, uh, talking.”
My cheeks are so hot, my skin might start melting off my face.
“You were?” Isabella asks, looking back and forth between me and Tyler.
“He called me,” I say, as if he’s not standing right there.
“And you talked to him,” Julia says, and raises an eyebrow.
I don’t know what to say. Luckily, the bell rings, saving me from having to say anything.
Isabella runs off to class, but Julia waits like she wants to see what me and Tyler are going to do.
“Bye,” I say, and start to walk away, but Tyler walks next to me.
Julia turns on her heel and walks off fast. She doesn’t even say goodbye.
“You have PE next, right?” Tyler asks, trying to keep up with me.
I walk faster. “How do you know?”
“Me too. I just have a different teacher. But I’ve seen you.” His face breaks out into an embarrassed grin.
There’s four other PE classes going at the same time as mine, and I’ve never noticed Tyler. Of course, I’ve never been looking for him.
We get to the locker room at the same time as Yolanda. We’re both a little out of breath.
“Hey,” Yolanda says.
I wish I could tell her it’s no big deal. I wish I could tell her something so she’d stop looking at me like I have a mushroom growing out of my forehead.
“See you later, Tyler,” I say firmly, to stop him from following me into the girls’ locker room.
When Yolanda and I get outside for roll call, she seems like she’s in a bad mood. Coach West has us all partner up and start doing sit-ups.
Yolanda holds my feet while I struggle to do fifty sit-ups. “What’s going on with you and Tyler?” she blurts out at sit-up twenty-two.
A Good Kind of Trouble Page 12