One of the Good Ones

by Maika Moulite

  “If you don’t follow my instructions, I’m going to have to take you in.”

  Ximena lost it. “Take her in? Take her in?! For what? She’s not doing anything wrong. You just don’t want there to be any footage of your buddy assaulting an innocent person.”

  “Ximena, it’s really not—”

  “Of all the people here, you decided to harass a teenager?”

  “Ximena—”

  “Okay. That’s enough. Hand it over,” the officer said.

  “No! She’s not going to do that! You need to back off and—”

  “Shut up!” I shouted. “It’s not that serious. I just want to go—”

  “Did you just tell me to shut up? You’re coming with me.” The officer reached forward and grabbed me forcefully by the arm. My phone fell from my hand to the concrete, and the screen cracked, a spiderweb of fractures appearing at the point where it hit the ground. I could see the messages on my live stream continuing to flood in.

  Ximena grabbed my phone and held it up in the officer’s face. “I want the world to see the face of this coward officer as he takes my girl away. His badge number is—”

  The policeman plucked my phone from Ximena’s hands and slammed it to the ground again. This time, the screen went dark.

  14

  SHAQUERIA

  TUESDAY, APRIL 17—

  THE DAY OF THE ARREST

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  My name is called. Sha-kweer-ee-uh instead of Sha-keer-ee-uh. They messed up the pronunciation like I expected them to, but I didn’t dwell on it. It was a bit comforting, actually, knowing that these people with the power to change my life could make the same type of annoying mistake as just about everyone else on earth.

  The room was spacious but sparse. Three expensive-looking casting directors, a woman in the center with a man flanking her on each side, sat at a wide table littered with scripts, laptops, and coffee. I placed my backpack on the chair directly in front of their table and briefly wondered what was worth more, their outfits and electronic gadgets, or the brick in my bag. Jesus, what had I gotten myself into?

  “You’re auditioning for the role of Sloane, correct?” the woman said briskly. She took a quick sip of her drink and then tensed her face as if it burned. She was too busy to blow.

  I nodded in terror. Blinked a few times to pump the fear out of my eyes. Stared blankly into the camera’s little red dot.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” she said, meaning at that very moment.

  I coughed. Exhaled. Started.

  These words were old friends by now. I had studied them over and over and over until I saw them in my dreams. But for some reason, the flame that lit the emotion beneath them had been doused. Although my nerves were trying to get the best of me, I fought back. And with each uttering of a line, I felt a little more of Sloane shining through. The pure joy of playing someone else was returning. Yes, thank God, the rush was back—

  Too late.

  Their eyes told me everything I needed to know. They were uninspired by this performance. Their hands were confirmation. Papers shuffling, a peer into a smart watch’s tiny screen, a pen tapping on the table softly.

  We decided I was a No at the same time.

  “Thank you for your time,” the woman said. Dismissed.

  No. No. I couldn’t have come all this way to fail before I even had a chance to fly.

  “I really, really want this,” I croaked. “I can do this. Please—I can show you—”

  The man with the glasses squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable. The woman glanced at her watch again impatiently but said nothing. I grabbed that silence. Didn’t let go.

  Paused.

  “Let’s make one thing clear, Javier,” I hissed. “Those girls? Those girls will take one bite out of you, maybe two. Crunch your bones down to dust. Savor how new and sweet your blood tastes.”

  I chuckled bitterly.

  “But then they’ll lick their fingers. They’ll get bored. And you don’t want to see the students at Thatcher Academy when they’re bored.”

  The man with the rolled-up sleeves leaned forward, his hand scrawling a quick note as he read Javier’s line again. “What are you saying?”

  I glared at him with every atom of contempt I held in my body, for all the boys who assumed I owed them something, for all the adults who should’ve loved me, for all the lives I’d had to live to find the one that would stick.

  “You think you can show up here, throw an arm over my shoulder, kiss me a few times, and know me? Do you really believe you deserve to keep my secrets?”

  “I—”

  “Let me answer for you,” I said raising my voice just slightly and adding a touch of a quiver. “You don’t. No one here does. And that sure as hell includes the new guy.”

  They all exchanged loaded looks across their row of power. The dude who read for Javier even clapped a little.

  I did it.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said, with a smile. “You really woke us up. Who did you say your agent was again?”

  I bit my lip.

  “I don’t have one at the moment but—”

  “No worries,” she interrupted quickly. “This audition is open to everyone for this very reason. To find the diamonds in the rough.”

  “And you...” the bespectacled man said, shaking his head. In awe? “Well, we will be in touch.”

  I nodded slowly, reminding myself to breathe. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

  I floated out of the room and through the waiting area. I stepped outside and spread my arms wide, soaking up all the sun. I was alive. They didn’t hate me. I might just make it. The thought electrified my body, shot sparks through my limbs. But I had to keep it moving.

  A man stirred on the bus bench right outside the building. My—

  My heart thudded to the sidewalk.

  Darius smiled, and my cheek tingled from the memory of his hand colliding with my face earlier. He had been waiting.

  15

  HAPPI

  FRIDAY, JULY 27—

  3 MONTHS, 10 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  Everything hurts. My brain. Stomach. Pride. My eyes creak open in protest at the stream of sunlight aimed right at my face. I bolt forward in the bed when I realize my hotel room window was slightly smaller than the one I see now. This isn’t my room. My head spins at the quick motion and settles again as last night’s details drift lazily into my mind. So many drinks. Dancing by myself. Entertaining that boy’s advances. Getting close enough to...

  I shut my eyes and sink back into the bed.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Genny glides into the room, much too awake and unnecessarily loud.

  I growl and slide the white comforter over my head.

  “Sorry, Happi. I let you sleep as long as possible, but it’s time to get up,” Genny says as she gently tugs at my pillow. When I turn over in an effort to ignore her, she whips off the linen in one yank. I’m still in yesterday’s outfit.

  I drag my head to the side of the bed where the alarm sits on the nightstand. The clock claims it is 11:00 a.m., but my body swears it is about six hours earlier.

  “I thought the picnic was at noon,” I grumble.

  “It is!” Genny says perkily. “But Dad sent a text this morning saying that they want to have breakfast together. I was able to push it back to a quick brunch before heading to the park.”

  “Wait—Dad?”

  Our father is a man of few words, verbal or written. The only way we know our texts get to him is because he’s one of those monsters who keeps his Read receipts on.

  “I know,” Genny replies. She begins to untwist her long, medium box braids from the jumbo flexi rods she had wrapped them in. She runs her fingers through the bouncy curls but then bends her head over to gu
ide the braids into a tight topknot, her default style. I’ve always thought that she wears her hair like that because she doesn’t want any of her secrets to escape.

  I heave myself up and swing my feet to the floor. My shoes are lined up nicely, waiting for me to slip them on. Genny’s doing. I grab my bag, which was resting on the coffee table, and drag myself to the door. She hands me a bottle of coconut water and smiles.

  “Thanks.” I pause, anticipating the disappointed admonishment that is coming.

  Silence.

  I shut the door and take the few steps to my room. Everything is as untidy as I left it the night before. My messy room of an inside is even messier.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I roll onto my bed. My body aches, and my brain is foggier than the bathroom mirror used to be after Kezi would do steam treatments on her hair. Last night wasn’t the first time I drank. Before I stopped taking communion, I used to sip wine from the tiny little cups at church one Sunday a month. There would be pilfered beer at the drama club after-parties too, but I would usually just hold on to the one cup all night. Yesterday was a new experience.

  I will be at your door in 10, k?

  I glance down at my cell phone and send a quick thumbs-up to Genny. The last message I sent her had been slightly longer than a single emoji and much more in distress:

  Plz gt me

  My mind goes back to the party, and I remember feeling my middle clench, and then doubling over on Marcus’s shoes. Looking up in groggy horror as he screamed. Having partygoers rush over in confusion, then disgust.

  I heard the whispers.

  Can’t hold her liquor.

  Messy.

  Out of control.

  I took in Jalen’s wide eyes as he reached me, and his cousin Reagan’s look of mortification.

  “I’m sorry,” I croaked. My throat burned and my voice gave out, so it sounded like I’m sore. Same difference. Marcus looked torn. He probably wanted to be a good guy and not drop the girl who’d just unloaded on him. It was the type of story that made for a funny toast at a wedding. But we were not there. He hadn’t signed up for this.

  “Just go,” I whispered. “Please.”

  He bit his lip, and I waved him off. I balled up the rest of my pride. Threw it away. Sent my sister a frantic text.

  “Are you okay?” Jalen said. “Oh God, I should’ve been watching you.”

  “We’re barely a year apart, if that,” I choked out. “You’re not my chaperone. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Do we need to go...to the hospital?” he asked nervously. I could see his silent prayer, Please say no, please say no, please say no, zooming straight to God’s omnipresent ears.

  “Nope, I’m good,” I said.

  “Maybe I should call a—”

  “No worries. My sister’s on her way to pick me up.”

  I pressed my phone’s home screen. No message. I blinked back tears.

  She’s finally done with me.

  “I’m actually gonna go to the bathroom while I’m waiting,” I said. “She’s almost here.”

  “Okay...” Jalen said dubiously.

  I stumbled to the clubhouse, stepping gingerly over the towels, pool chairs, and scowls. When I’d locked myself into the biggest stall, I couldn’t believe it, but I giggled. Kezi’s ghost was loud and clear: Do you really need to use the wheelchair accessible bathroom? You can cop a squat in smaller quarters, Happi! The giggle moved to a chuckle, and the chuckle, a full laugh. I grabbed my sides to stop the aching as my body shook.

  “How am I doing without you, Kezi?”

  The laughs stopped, of course. Because shouting at the phantom of my sister did not make me feel better. She should still be here. Alive. She must be. The tears I’d held back escaped and found their way down my nose, past my neck, and into my shirt. I tried to breathe in between the sobs, exhale as I coughed away the bitterness that had nestled itself deep in my throat. I would just stay there forever. Perhaps I’d consider moving after I was all dried out from bawling and was just a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife.

  Buzz.

  Here.

  My self-pity party ended abruptly, like this night out. I rose to wash my hands in the sink before splashing cold water on my face to wake myself up. The rough brown paper towel I used to pat my skin dry was blotched with makeup and tears. When I stepped through the door, it would just be me and my eyeliner.

  The party was still raging when I gathered the nerve to leave the bathroom. I nearly ran into a hard body. Marcus was standing right outside the clubhouse as though waiting for someone. When he realized it was me, he sighed in relief and held up a water bottle, then silently offered it to me.

  “I’m good,” I said. I raced to the gates and didn’t look back (unlike Lot’s wife). I didn’t even groan at the whacky exterior of the car that had distracted the revelers from their conversations and grinding. Jalen was outside too, leaning into the driver’s window to hear what Genny was saying. I climbed in and shut the door. Jalen waved goodbye, and I lifted my hand halfheartedly. We peeled away slowly.

  I waited:

  What is wrong with you?

  What did you expect to happen?

  That’s what you get.

  Instead:

  “Who wears sneakers to a pool party?” Genny said.

  * * *

  My sister and I reach the hotel restaurant before our parents. The host leads us to a table, and we take the menus he hands us but don’t open them. There are a few businesspeople sipping cups of coffee and dining alone, but it’s pretty quiet. Genny and I sit in silence as well. She thumbs through her phone and I stare into space, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. I glance at her screen and spy a map.

  When the storm in my head finally gets too loud, I take out my own phone as a distraction. I scroll through Instagram lazily but stop and zoom in on a post from KingggMarcusIV:

  Yoooo what should their couple name be? Teagan or Ritus? Oh and shout out to the cupid who got them together

  Above his caption is a grainy photo of Titus and Reagan sharing a long floating noodle in the pool while looking deep into each other’s eyes and grinning shyly. I can’t help but smile. At least someone had a good night. I’m still too mortified to even Like the picture though and put my phone away instead.

  “Take your sunglasses off,” Genny mutters.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s more obvious that you’re trying to hide something when you’ve got sunglasses on indoors. Especially since you know better than to do that.”

  “Right this way, sir.” I look up and see Mom and Dad being led to our table.

  “Your server will be with you shortly,” the host says once they’ve sat down.

  Dad used to play the piano when he was younger. When he gets nervous, he taps out the scales on whatever surface is in front of him. I watch his fingers glide across the tablecloth, C, D, E, F, G, A, B, C, C, B, A, G, F, E, D—

  “So,” he says abruptly. Mom adjusts the shades she has on. Genny raises her eyebrows at me.

  “We are scared. No, terrified,” Dad continues. “It’s always been terrifying to be Black in America. But that’s all I’ve ever been. Your mother and I thought that if we kept our heads down, raised you gir—women right—” he looks pointedly at Genny “—you would be safe. But that...that didn’t pan out.”

  “It’s not fair,” Mom says. She whips off her sunglasses and stares at me and Genny plainly. Her eyes are still bloodshot, but they aren’t as severely red as they were at dinner last night. “It’s not fair that our children are killed just because of who they are or what they look like.”

  “And we stayed up talking until late,” Dad chimes in. “We read the letters Kezi wrote for us the day before her...birthday. The ones you left on the table. She told us in her own words why she had to move forward d
espite our reservations. And God spoke to us plainly too. He ‘has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.’”

  A dull ache thuds into my head as I follow where his words are leading us.

  “We got on our knees and prayed about this a long time,” Mom says. “And the Lord my God said that Abraham was scared to leave Ur. David was frightened of Goliath. Mary worried about the whispers of the community when she was called to carry Jesus.”

  Genny leans forward in her seat. I shake my head slowly.

  Dad continues. “But their fear was the start of their journey. It was never the end. My grandmother Evelyn used the Green Book to rebuild her family and start over in a new place. My mother met my father in California because of it. And here are Naomi and I, the parents of women who want to honor that bravery and power. So though we are still terrified...” He pauses. “We give you our blessing. Go do what you have to do.”

  * * *

  We do not stay for brunch. By the time they are done rattling off Bible verses and blessings, we all decide that we should just head to the picnic. The event will definitely have food, but Mom is one of those people who likes to nibble on something at home (or a hotel) before going elsewhere to eat. (“You never know what you’ll find!”) Since Genny has that ridiculous rented car, we all pile into it and head to the park.

  “You have to be vigilant, of course,” Mom says. They have not stopped talking about the road trip since they announced their change of heart. Their excitement seeps into Genny’s spirit, lifting it higher and higher until it reaches the ceiling of the car and hovers there. Her determination is present too, no doubt. Genny was taking this trip regardless of what our parents said. Like how Kezi went to that rally. But rebellion isn’t Genny’s way. She’s glad to be home in the lush garden of our parents’ good graces.

  “Of course,” Genny says cheerfully.

  “Do you know the route you two are going to take?” Dad asks.

  “Sure do,” Genny replies. “Old Route 66 and the new interstates, like I-40. I wasn’t playing when I said Kezi planned everything already. This trip will be like...driving by numbers. We’re just connecting the dots for her.”