I know it’s not true that all Black girls want to fight, but Angie thinking I was ready to, and me imagining myself taking on three girls at once, makes my hands relax and gets me laughing too, and the next thing I know, Natalie is almost smiling. Stephanie is not.
“Come on y’all, let’s get to class. We’re already late,” Angie says.
As we leave the bathroom, we run right into Coach West.
“Don’t you girls need to be in class?” she asks, looking at all of us suspiciously. I think she looks at me especially hard.
“Yes, Coach!” we yell, and rush off.
In shop, I try and joke around with Yolanda, but she is in a bad mood or something and stays bent over her project. I ignore the looks Tyler keeps sending my way. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what I’d be apologizing for. Should I be sorry for not liking him?
And if that’s true, shouldn’t there be a bunch of guys—starting with Jace—apologizing to me? Besides, Tyler was the one who was wrong for kissing me in the first place.
When the bell rings, I don’t rush outside. Coach West called an extra practice, saying we’ve gotten soft over winter break, and I’m dreading it. I might’ve been ready to fight a little bit ago, but I’m sure not anymore. I hope none of the other girls wants to.
49
No Justice, No Peace
Nobody is trying to fight me, but track is still sort of awful. Even though we ended up laughing over the ridiculousness of me trying to fight them, I guess Natalie and Angie aren’t exactly cool with me yet.
All four relay team girls ignore me, and I wonder if Carmetta and Maya think I dogged Tyler too.
Angie comes into the lane two over from me to practice hurdling, and I catch her eyes and try and send her a whole lot of words in that one look. How I want to be friends, and it’s a joke to say I think I’m too good when I don’t think I’m very good at all, and that we are both sisters so we’re connected, and that it was silly for me to act like Tyler and I were talking, but I didn’t mean anything mean by it.
Maybe a fraction of what I was trying to say, Angie caught, because she does give me a half smile. But then she just goes past me in a blur.
Practice starts to wind down, and we’re all stretching out our sore muscles and guzzling water.
Coach West’s phone has been rattling on a bench for the last few minutes, but she’s been ignoring it. But when it starts vibrating again, she picks it up and reads something. I’m guessing it’s bad news, because her face gets worried and sort of sad. She sighs and then blows her whistle a few times. “Let’s wrap it up! Clean up and clear out.”
I want to ask her if everything is okay, but she crosses her arms tight and stares up at the clouds and I can hear the words don’t bother me, even though she doesn’t say a word.
We all help to put away the practice equipment and move the hurdles off the track, and then we head out to the front of the school to wait for our rides.
When I climb into the car, I notice Momma’s expression right away. She looks a whole lot like the way Coach West was looking when she got that message on her phone.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Momma. My stomach squeezes, like I drank way too much water.
Momma doesn’t answer right away. She has her bottom lip clenched by her teeth, but then finally she lets go of the sigh she’s been holding. “Verdict came back. They found that police officer not guilty.”
“What?” I say, not because I didn’t hear her, but because there’s no way what she said could be true. “But there was a video!”
“I know, Shayla.” Momma almost sounds like she’s mad at me.
“How could that happen?” I ask. “She shot that man.”
“The jury must’ve believed she thought her life was in jeopardy.”
“But he was walking away.” As much as I hated seeing that video, I’ve watched a bunch of times. All I saw was a man walking slowly to his truck. And then a police officer start shooting. Shooting until the man fell down in the street.
“I know, Shayla.”
That’s when I notice a tear slowly working its way down Momma’s cheek. One lonely, sad tear that slides down to her chin, and then Momma swipes it away with the back of her hand.
Seeing Momma cry makes me want to cry too. My chest gets heavy and my throat gets so small, it’s hard to swallow. My eyes start to burn, and even though the tears don’t come, it feels like I’ve been crying for days.
On the drive home, we pass a big group of people standing at an intersection, waving signs and shouting. They’re shouting so loud, I can hear them even though my window is rolled up. They’re shouting about how we matter. How we need justice. How the verdict was racist.
I see a sign that says Honk for Justice! and so I tell Momma to honk her horn, but she doesn’t.
When we get home, Hana and Daddy are talking in the family room. It looks like Hana’s been crying.
Hana never cries. Even when she gets checked real hard in a game.
Daddy looks up at Momma. “You heard?”
“People already out protesting.” Momma goes and sits next to Daddy. I stand there, wanting to curl up in Momma’s lap but knowing I’m too old for that.
I don’t know what to do.
A car horn beeps outside, and Hana wipes her face with a quick brush of her hand and jumps off the couch. “That’s Regina,” she says, and heads to the front door.
“Hana,” Daddy says, and I’m sure he’s going to tell her she can’t go, that it might be unsafe out there, that she needs to stay right here at home, but all he says is “Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Momma?” I say, hoping Momma will stop my sister. Outside seems scary and unsafe.
She holds her hand out to me, and I join her on the couch. “You heard your father?” she asks Hana.
“I’ll be okay,” Hana says, and then she’s gone.
50
The 405
“Where did Hana go?” I ask Momma.
Momma has a rule about us all eating as a family. Nothing is supposed to get in the way of the four of us all sitting down at the same time. When it’s basketball season and Hana has practice, we have to eat either super early or super late. But Hana’s not back yet, and Momma is spooning out the red beans and rice.
“Momma?”
She looks over at Daddy, and he looks back at her.
And then Daddy says, “Your sister is marching on the 405.”
“The 405? She’s marching on the freeway?”
Momma sets the pot down and settles in her chair. She holds out both her hands.
“Why is Hana on the freeway? Did Regina’s car break down? Shouldn’t we go and get them?” I ask, taking hold of Momma’s hand. Daddy takes my other hand. He has to reach far over because normally he holds Hana’s and then she holds mine.
Momma gives my hand a squeeze, and I bow my head.
Usually our prayer before dinner is really fast. Just a quick thank-you to God for the food, and sometimes Daddy will add something silly like thanking God for Momma’s brown eyes, or for not getting caught in a traffic jam on the way home from work. But tonight Momma’s voice is slow and serious, and after she gives thanks for the food, she says something that makes my eyes pop open.
“And protect our daughter, Hana, as she struggles to understand the horrible shootings and this troubling verdict. Keep her on the path of peace and nonviolence. And give solace to the poor families, Lord, who have lost young men way too soon.” Momma gives my hand another squeeze, reminding me I’m supposed to have my eyes closed. I shut them quick. “May we find strength in your love, Lord.”
“Amen,” we all say together.
“Is . . . is Hana okay?” I ask.
“Yes, sugar,” Momma says. “Black Lives Matter organized a march on the 405 to protest the ruling. To make people see that we need to get justice too. You know in this city anything that affects traffic is going to get noticed.”
Before
I have time to be scared, I ask, “Can I go?”
Momma shakes her head, but Daddy says, “Maybe she should.”
“No,” Momma says. “I’m not having my baby caught up in that. Not yet.”
Sometimes I like it when Momma calls me her baby, and sometimes, like right now, it makes me feel like I’m about two. “But Momma, this is about reminding people that Black lives matter. I’m Black too. I should be supporting us.”
“You don’t have to march across a freeway to support African Americans. Besides, it’s a school night.”
I know my mouth has some food in it, but it hangs open anyway.
“Close your mouth before flies get in,” Momma says.
After dinner, Daddy turns on the news, and we see a row of protesters blocking the freeway. It’s like a movie instead of real life. It’s all smoky, but Daddy tells me it’s just exhaust from the cars. And headlights make the protesters look like they’re onstage.
Helicopters are high above them. A reporter says the protesters are being warned to get off the freeway.
“Is that illegal?” I ask. “Blocking the freeway like that?”
“Yes,” Daddy says. “Technically. But sometimes you have to do something that’s wrong in some people’s eyes but is morally right.”
A whole bunch of police cars come onto the freeway, blue and red lights flashing, and they use that lane that’s just for emergencies to zoom by all the stopped cars. My hands start to itch.
“Are they going to arrest them?” I ask, but no one answers me.
I get closer to the television to try and see if I can find Hana, but Momma tells me to scoot back so I don’t ruin my eyes. My eyes don’t seem like the important thing, but I scoot back anyway.
Police officers get into a long line, facing off against the protesters, but the officers have shields in front of them like they’re worried that the protesters might hurt them.
I rub my hands on my pants hard, back and forth, back and forth, until Momma kneels next to me and holds my hands, making them quiet.
“They should leave,” I say. “They’re going to get in trouble.”
The smoke thickens, like a blanket of fog is creeping over the freeway, and Daddy says it looks like the police are using tear gas to get the protesters to move.
“What’s going to happen?” My voice is wobbly, and my eyes start filling up with tears even though no one shot me with any gas. I wish there was something I could do to help.
I think the police are going to start arresting people, but then the protesters file off the freeway, waving their Black Lives Matter signs, and my heart drops out of my throat and back to where it’s supposed to be.
Momma lets go of my hands and tells me to go take my bath.
I want to keep watching the news to make sure nothing else happens, but I know better than to argue.
When I go to bed, Hana still isn’t home.
51
Woke
In the morning I knock on Hana’s door. I have this awful feeling she won’t be there. Like maybe she got arrested or worse. But her sleepy voice croaks, “What?”
I open the door slowly. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
Hana sits up in bed and yawns really big before answering. “I’m fine. Just tired. A bunch of people got arrested, though. They set a car on fire and broke some windows. The police went off.”
I take a little gulpy breath. “But they didn’t shoot anyone?”
“No, not this time.” Hana yawns again. “What do you want?”
I take a step inside. This is risky because Hana doesn’t like me to be in her room.
Hana’s room is decorated with a big poster from Love & Basketball (her favorite movie) and a campaign poster from back when Barack Obama was president. Right next to that is a picture of Colin Kaepernick with his afro shaped into the Black-power fist.
I stare at Hana’s poster of two track runners from the Olympics, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, with their fists raised on the winners’ platform. They got their medals taken away for protesting. It must’ve taken a lot of courage to stand in front of all those people and show them fairness is more important than winning a race. I don’t think I could ever be that brave.
“What?” Hana says, and now her voice doesn’t sound sleepy; it sounds exasperated.
“Weren’t you scared?” I ask.
“Kind of,” Hana says, and I’m surprised because I didn’t think Hana ever was afraid. She picks up her armband, which was twisted up like a snake on her bed, and starts pulling it through her fingers. “I mean, I don’t want to actually get arrested, you know? But I guess I was more angry than scared. Everybody said that police officer was going to get off just like they always do. I didn’t want to believe it, but that’s just what happened, and . . . it’s like our lives don’t matter at all. We have to make noise. Wake folks up.”
I don’t know how to make noise. And I sure don’t know how to not be afraid of getting into trouble. But I want to do something.
I watch Hana twisting her armband round and round, and then I look at Kaepernick and at her Olympics poster, and I get an idea. It’s an itchy-hands idea. I take a deep breath like I’m about to jump into a pool. “Do you . . . do you have another armband?”
Hana gives me a side-eye, but then she gets out of bed, rustles through her T-shirt drawer, and pulls out a black T-shirt. Then she takes some scissors and cuts the bottom off the shirt. “Here you go,” she says.
When I tie it on, I feel . . . proud, even though I know it’s not a big deal. It’s just an armband. It’s not like I’m marching on a freeway. No one will probably even notice that I’m wearing it.
So I don’t understand why my hands are seriously itching.
52
All Black
In science, Bernard notices my armband right off, and he asks me about it super loud.
“For BLM,” I say. “You know, Black Lives Matter?”
“That jury must’ve been crazy,” Bernard says, still talking too loud.
“You mean crazy smart,” Howard Michon says. He sits next to me, and I sort of want to sock him.
Even though Mr. Powell warned us that people would have different feelings no matter what the verdict was, I’m still surprised anyone would think that jury made the right decision.
No matter how I slice it, I still get the same lumpy, squashed-up, unfair slice of pie.
Bernard glares at Howard real hard, and you bet Howard doesn’t say another word.
“Sit down, Bernard,” Mr. Levy says.
Then in history, Alex asks about it, and he gives me a high five when I tell him what it’s for.
Mr. Powell says that all throughout history people have protested unfair things. He doesn’t say the verdict is unfair, but I bet that’s what he is talking about. He also says that sometimes things feel like they’re getting a whole lot worse before they start to get better.
“Change is hard,” he says, rubbing the edge of his scarf.
It sure is. Except maybe for Julia, who is changing all over the place.
Mr. Powell lets us out early, and I’m the first to get to our break spot. It’s not until I’m sitting there that I realize Isabella might still be sick, and Julia might not be coming at all.
But then they both turn the corner of one of the portables and join me under the magnolia tree like regular.
I haven’t talked to Julia since she stormed off, but neither of us mentions it.
“Why are you wearing that?” Isabella asks, pointing at my armband. She still sounds hoarse.
“Didn’t you hear about the verdict?” I ask.
Isabella shakes her head.
It’s such a big deal at my house, it never occurred to me that not everybody was on the edge of their seats waiting to see what that jury was going to do. “It’s to remind people that Black lives matter because sometimes it seems like that’s not what everyone thinks.”
“Like you’re all Black now?” Julia says, making a sno
rting sound.
Oh, no she didn’t. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t even act Black,” Julia says, like she knows all about it.
Maybe it’s all my stored-up hurt feelings, but no way am I going to let Julia get away with saying stuff like that. “What, you think being African American means being ghetto or something? You’ve known me for how long? No matter how I act, I’m still Black, Julia. How would you feel if someone said you had to act a certain way or you wouldn’t really be Asian?”
“People do,” Julia snaps back. “All the time. Like I have to be so sweet and quiet.”
Julia says sweet like it’s the worst thing anybody could be.
I know people have all sorts of stereotypes about Asians, but I don’t. “I’ve never said that,” I say. “You’ve never been quiet.” She’s also never been all that sweet, but I don’t say that.
Isabella holds up her hand for me to give her a high five. “You know that’s the truth,” she says, and laughs. I think she’s probably just trying to make Julia and me stop arguing, but I have to slap her hand anyway.
“I know!” Julia shouts at us, not amused. “Obviously, you guys get me. But people act like they already know all about me just because I’m Asian. And my aunts act like I’m a big disappointment if I’m not perfect all the time!”
“Ha!” Isabella says. “Try being Latinx.” Isabella’s eyes go wide, like she startled herself. Then she shakes her head. “Seriously, guys. People think we’re all Mexican. And that we’re probably here illegally. I’ve never even been to Mexico.” Isabella frowns, fists her hair together, and wraps it up into a big sloppy bun. She pulls her legs to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. “People are dumb.”
Momma tells me I need to look outside myself more. Maybe she’s talking about stuff like this. Noticing my friends have problems too. But it seems like I’m the only one who has to worry about someone in my family getting shot. Still, I nod and agree. “Okay. We all have our stuff.” Then I lean toward Julia. “So you shouldn’t say something like that about me being Black, Jules,” I say. “My best friend should know.” I have never had trouble saying best friend to Julia before.
A Good Kind of Trouble Page 15