Julia shrugs. “He’s still a bully to me, bruh.”
I stare hard at Julia, but I swear it’s like I can’t see her at all.
Isabella gives a worried frown to her armband. “Trask really made him take off his armband?”
“It was a sock,” I complain. It’s like no one’s listening to me.
56
Lonely Island
When I see Tyler in shop, I shove the armband I made for Julia into his sweaty hand. “Here,” I say.
“Thanks, Shayla!” he says, giving me a big cheesy grin.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” I say, but then I see Yolanda looking at me and I add, “I mean, you’re welcome.”
By the time I get to track practice, I’m in one of those moods where everything just feels wrong. Angie has on an armband, which should make me happy, but she gives armbands to the other girls she runs the relay race with, and none of them even look my way.
It’s like they are all united and I’m on Lonely Island.
I’m completely unzipped.
And it sure doesn’t help when Coach West makes me and some of the other girls practice passing the stick with the relay team.
“It’s good for you all to know how to do this,” she says. “It can be tricky getting the coordination right.”
Coach West wasn’t lying, because I drop the stupid stick almost every time someone tries to pass it to me, and Natalie sighs each and every time.
When Momma picks me up, she asks me how the day went.
“Fine.” I’m not sure if I should tell her about Bernard. If there’s one thing Momma hates, it’s me and Hana getting in trouble at school. Even though I wasn’t the one in trouble, I don’t think she’d like that I was even close to it.
“How are you feeling about wearing your armband?”
I don’t answer right away, because I don’t have a good answer. Yesterday it felt great. But Julia’s comment about not being really Black still bugs me. And Principal Trask making it seem like Bernard’s armband had something to do with the situation with Alex was pretty awful. Then Angie giving armbands to the relay team like it didn’t have anything to do with me—that hurt. “I don’t know,” I finally say.
“Are you going to keep wearing it?”
Her question surprises me because I hadn’t considered not wearing it. I curl the tail between my fingers. Maybe it’s not changing anything, but I like wearing it. And I like saying something, even if I’m saying it quietly. “I guess so.” I wish that decision would make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
When I get home, the first thing I write in my eyeball journal is:
Life STINKS.
And then I write lots more.
Ms. Jacobs said when we turn in our journals, we can paper-clip together any pages we don’t want her to read. I will probably have to clip these. I’m not talking to Ms. Jacobs about Julia and how I’m not even sure if we’re still friends, or about how I felt connected yesterday but not today, or how wearing an armband was supposed to be a special thing and now I’m not sure. I’m really talking to myself. I can’t talk to Isabella, because friends don’t talk about other friends behind their backs, and I can’t talk to Hana because she will tell me I should’ve been hanging out with my own in the first place, and Momma would remind me how there is dirty water in Flint, and starving babies in Sudan, and missing girls in Nigeria, and boys getting shot, and those are real problems.
My journal doesn’t argue or tell me to be more understanding. It just listens.
I wish I hadn’t been so scared of Bernard. But it’s not like you get to choose what’s going to freak you out, right? And if you are never afraid, then how do you know when you’re brave?
57
Everyone Hates Us
There’s a knock on my door, and I call out, “Come in.”
I’m surprised to see Daddy standing there. He hardly ever comes into my room.
“Momma’s been calling you to come to the table. Haven’t you heard her?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was just really into my homework.” I close my observation journal.
“I hear you added a little bit to your wardrobe yesterday.” He eyes my armband, and I can’t tell if he’s happy about it.
“Yeah. I wanted to do something. Show the trial wasn’t fair.”
“Following in Hana’s footsteps, huh?” He smiles at me.
I know Daddy is teasing me, because he knows how me and Hana both don’t like being compared to each other, but I think I hear some pride in his voice too, and that makes me feel all warm inside. “I guess so. Kinda.”
Daddy takes a few steps into my room and runs his hand over his hair. He’s starting to get one or two gray hairs, and sometimes he tells Momma she should pluck them out for him. “Shayla, I’m proud of what you’re doing. It takes courage to stand up for something. Especially at your age.”
“Daddy, why do you think that jury said the police officer wasn’t guilty? Everybody knows she shot him. Everybody saw the video.”
“Why do I get pulled over just because I drive a nice car? Why does Mr. McDonnell keep a closer eye on Black folks when they come into his store? Why is it, every time we—”
I’m not sure what Daddy was about to say because he cuts himself off.
“Look, Shayla, life isn’t fair. You’re old enough to understand that. And I don’t mean just for Black folks. Lots of people aren’t treated the way they should be.” Daddy pauses and looks around my room like he’s trying to find what he wants to say hidden somewhere. “It’s just sometimes, it sure seems like Black folks get way too big of a helping of that unfair pie.”
I can feel my eyes filling up with tears. “Everyone hates us,” I whisper.
“No, Shay. That’s not what I’m saying. I know it’s hard. All of this is hard. But don’t start thinking that.”
He spreads his arms as wide as an ocean and I rush right in.
But as he holds me, I can’t stop wondering, just what am I supposed to think?
58
Divided Nations
On Monday, in science, I give Bernard an armband. He deserves to have a real one.
“That was cool how you stood up for me and all,” he says.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. “But you did. You didn’t let those guys hassle Alex.”
He shakes his head. “Makes me mad when folks start messing with Alex. I had to pop that dude. Alex is my friend.”
“He is?” I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Of course Bernard has friends.
“Yeah, we get together and practice our rhymes,” Bernard says.
“That’s cool,” I say, feeling like a complete jerk.
Bernard frowns, and it is the same frown I remember from elementary school, but it doesn’t scare me anymore. It sort of makes him look strong and tough, but good tough. “If it hadn’t been for you and Coach West, I think Principal Trask would’ve had me suspended.” He ties on the armband. “Thanks.”
“Black Lives,” I say.
Bernard gives me a hug that feels like he’s crushing every rib I have. But I laugh anyway.
“You better sit down,” I say.
In second period, this is one of those days when Mr. Powell lets the class out early before break. Well, he lets everyone leave but me.
“Just a minute, Shayla,” he says. “I want to talk to you.”
My hands start itching immediately. A teacher wanting to talk to you after class is never a good thing. I wonder if it’s about our last history test. I thought I had gotten most of the questions right, but you never know. And some of the questions were tricky.
I slowly make my way to his desk.
“Shayla, I’ve noticed students wearing these armbands,” he says, pointing at my armband. “They’re for Black Lives Matter, right?”
Mr. Powell doesn’t say Black students, but that’s probably what he means. This morning before school, and going from first to second period, I saw them. Armbands.
Even though it’s probably because Angie started wearing one, I still think it’s pretty cool that it’s not just me wearing one.
“Yeah,” I say. I think there’s probably more I should say, but I’m hoping the armband will do the talking for me.
Mr. Powell nods and plays with the edge of his scarf. It’s the one Coach West got for him. Bright purple. “I thought so. I’ve heard some grumbling that it’s not . . . appropriate for students to make political statements at school. What do you think about that?”
My hands start itching. “Are people saying we can’t wear them?”
“No, I haven’t heard anyone say that. People can get scared with anything that challenges the status quo. But standing up for what you believe in is important. I just wanted you to be prepared, in case someone says something to you.”
I feel like Mr. Powell is trying to warn me, but I’m not sure about what, and before I can work my courage up to ask him, the bell rings.
“Thank you, Shayla,” he says. “Go ahead and get to break.”
I grab my books and head out into the hallway. It’s already packed with people, and instead of pushing my way through the crowd like I normally do, I sort of just let it carry me along. Like I’m a piece of driftwood caught in a current.
Last night, there was another huge protest about the verdict. Hana told me about it. She said protesters stood outside the house of the police officer who got off. They wouldn’t leave, and a bunch of people were arrested. Even one of Hana’s friends got arrested, but he got let go a few hours later.
What that jury decided was wrong. You can’t be afraid of someone just because they’re Black. You can’t just shoot someone because they’re Black. But the protests scare me.
When I get to our break spot, I’m glad to see Isabella is wearing her armband again today. We fist-bump each other.
“Guess what!” Isabella squeals, clasping her hands together. “My mom said I could get a kitten!”
“You’re so lucky,” I say, feeling a flash of jealousy. But it’s just a camera flash. A second that goes away as fast as it came. “I can’t wait to play with him. Maybe I can come over this weekend?” It feels weird to say I, and not we.
Isabella snatches one of my carrots and leans back on her elbows. She smiles up at the sun. “Totally.”
Neither of us says anything about Julia not showing up.
After English, I slowly make my way to my locker to get my lunch. I want to give Julia plenty of time to get to our table first. I spin the little dial, in full jewel-thief mode, and get a little thrill when I pop the locker open. I am so ready for a life of crime. I get out my lunch, push my locker closed, and then lean against it for a minute, watching everyone hustle by. After a few minutes the hallway is empty, and I push off my locker and head outside.
Isabella is at our table, but Julia isn’t.
Isabella glances over at another table, and I follow her gaze, knowing what I’ll see.
Julia’s sitting three tables over with her other friends. Isabella’s eyes go wide, and she opens her mouth to say something, but instead she shoves a big handful of grapes into her mouth. I sit across from Isabella and slowly take out my lunch.
This feels different. Different bad. Because she’s right there. Making a choice.
The Pacific Ocean is between us. The Sahara Desert. We are not the United Nations. We’re the Divided Nations. And there’s nothing cute about that nickname.
I wonder if she’s sitting over there because of the armbands. I sure hope not.
Isabella swallows. “We should say something, right?”
“What would we say?” I ask.
Julia looks over and smiles. Maybe to say, See, everything’s cool.
Everything is not cool, but I try my best to smile back. I glance at Isabella, and she doesn’t smile. She bites off a hangnail and spits it on the ground.
I try my best to think this is no big deal. I guess Isabella and I could go over there, but we are in our lunch spot. It doesn’t seem like we should have to chase Julia down so we can all stick together.
When lunch is almost over, Julia comes to the table. “All my friends want an armband!”
She doesn’t say she’s sorry for not sitting with us. She doesn’t look sorry. And I sure don’t like the way she said all my friends.
“Whatever, Julia.”
Julia doesn’t get the hint. “Stacy said us all wearing them is gonna be lit!”
“I don’t have enough material to make armbands for all of them,” I say.
Julia stares at me for a second. “You wanted me to wear one. Now you don’t?”
Isabella rubs the fabric of her armband. “You guys could probably make them.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal if they do or don’t, but she kicks me under the table.
I kick Isabella back and glare at her. I don’t want her helping them; I want her to be mad at Julia with me.
“Okay, coolio,” Julia says.
She sounds like a big phony. “It’s not supposed to be a fun thing,” I say pointedly. “It means something.”
“I know,” Julia says, and raises an eyebrow at me. “Don’t get it twisted, Shay.”
“I’m not twisting anything.” I crumple up my lunch bag even though it still has an orange in there. I get up and shove the bag into the trash.
“Forget it,” she says to my back. “We’ll make our own.”
“Great,” I say.
A whole bunch of people suddenly run by, shouting “Fight! Fight!”
“Let’s go see!” Julia says, right as the bell rings.
A fight means trouble, so when Julia follows the group going left, I head right.
59
Something Smells
I put my math book into my locker, and this time I shut it with a very satisfying slam before I see Principal Trask. She gives me a disapproving look, and her nose wrinkles up. We had to run the mile in PE today, so at first I worry I might stink, but then I realize Principal Trask is staring hard at my armband.
In fifth period I found out the fight was all about Noah Randolph getting commanded to take off his armband and he wouldn’t, so a bunch of other boys started whaling on him.
The way I heard it, by the time Principal Trask waded in, one boy had a bloody nose and Noah had a puffy eye. And even though Noah wouldn’t take off his armband, it ended up being torn off anyway and Principal Trask made him throw it away.
Hearing about that fight made me nervous about wearing an armband, even though I’m not even playing Command.
But now I think about what Mr. Powell told me about some people not liking us wearing armbands, and I figure Principal Trask must agree because her face sure is frowny. Which is straight-up wrong because they don’t have a thing to do with her.
Still, with her little vein-lined nose all wrinkled up, I sort of wish I wasn’t wearing my armband right now. I can’t help but remember when she made me take off my costume at Halloween.
When she told Bernard to take off that sock he was wearing, he said no. I don’t know if I could be brave enough to do that.
But all she says is, “You’re going to be late for class.”
I run all the way to shop.
60
Dress Codes & Disciplinary Action
Principal Trask’s voice booms out from the PA in shop.
“Attention, students!” her high-pitched voice says. “Please be informed that while we understand wanting to support . . . people . . . in the community. . . , the wearing of armbands is against school-policy dress code. All armbands need to be removed. Failure to do so will be met with disciplinary action.”
I hear someone snicker in the back of class, and I turn real quick to see who it is, but I don’t catch them.
I touch my armband. It makes me feel strong. I don’t want to take it off. I look over at Yolanda and her eyes look scared. Neither of us knows what to do.
Mr. Klosner tells everyone to get back to work on their projects.
&n
bsp; Alvin points at my armband while I’m waiting to use the table saw. “You’re supposed to take that off,” he says.
I shrug.
“Take off that armband,” Alvin says again.
“Make me,” I say, and shove my fists onto my hips.
Alvin is about five inches shorter than me, and he’s as scrawny as a chicken wing. He blinks a bunch of times and walks away. I guess he doesn’t need to use the table saw after all.
Just what sort of disciplinary action was Principal Trask talking about?
61
Tangles
Momma is rubbing coconut oil into my hair and combing out the tangles, and let me tell you, it is one good feeling having your scalp rubbed.
Today has felt as tangled as my hair. I sure wish there was a way to comb through it all. I didn’t tell Momma about Principal Trask’s announcement because I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. I know I don’t want to stop wearing my armband.
Then Daddy walks into my room.
“There’s been another shooting,” he says, and Momma forgets to be gentle and yanks my hair hard.
“Ow!” I say. For a second, maybe more than a second, I think he is saying Hana has been shot. For a second, maybe more than a second, I can’t breathe.
“What happened?” Momma asked.
“A Black woman was selling incense in front of a store,” Daddy said. He speaks real quiet and slow. “Someone called the police even though according to the store owner, there weren’t any problems. And when the police got there—” Daddy’s voice breaks and he runs a hand over his head.
Momma and I wait for him to find his way.
He lets out a long slow breath. “Two officers shot her,” he says. “They’ve been talking about it on the news.”
“Why did they shoot her?” I ask. “What was she doing wrong?”
“Not a damn thing,” Daddy says.
“Richard,” Momma says. She doesn’t let any of us swear. Not even Daddy.
A Good Kind of Trouble Page 17