One of the Good Ones

by Maika Moulite

  They all nod their heads solemnly.

  I slide my eyes to the left and the right. Mom is looking out the window. Dad is staring straight ahead in the passenger seat attempting not to be the back-seat driver that is in his nature. Genny hums along to the sounds of the rain forest playlist she has on. It is a melody that makes sense only to her.

  I do not want to be here.

  I do not want to go on this trip.

  I do not want to be trapped in this car any longer than I must.

  I am not ready to be caught up in the sadness, to be drowned in the memory of Kezi over and over and over and over. I loved my sister. I am certain she did not know that. And that truth suffocates me. Taking steps she will never walk herself flicks a broken switch in my brain and makes me insane.

  I can’t do this.

  “No one has once asked me if I want to go,” I say. “You’ve all had your tantrums...no, stay put, but oh, wait, we changed our minds, please go! And not one of you bothered to get my opinion on this trip.”

  Genny exhales. “Well, Happi—”

  I cut her off.

  “Let me make this easy for you. I’m not going.”

  As I make my pronouncement, we arrive at the park. Genny and Mom lock eyes with Dad in the rearview mirror, the Smith Family signal for An Impending Discussion.

  I hop out of the car and walk straight toward the food table.

  The buffet before me of potato chips, potato salad, hamburgers, coleslaw, and baked beans looks innocuous enough. But when the scent of sweet relish and dill pickle claws into my nose and reminds me of last night, I decide to fix a light plate for later. I cover my meal with a napkin to ward off flies then focus on filling up a paper cone with cherry and lemon snow cone slush. Sweet and sour, like Kezi and me.

  As I find a place to sit, I ignore the glances of the families mingling amongst themselves. They are fractured mirrors of us. They are the grieving widows, mothers, widowers, sisters, brothers, fathers, cousins, friends, lovers of the people whose bodies have been desecrated, whose faces get printed on shirts in veneration, and whose names trend online when another person joins their ranks. There goes the uncle of a pregnant woman who had been beaten so hard, she lost her baby. Beside him is the grandfather of a man shot and killed while standing on his own property. A few kids chase each other under the tables and through the jungle gym, not yet aware that the cherished memories of their loved ones will fade with each inch they grow.

  “Hi!”

  I close my eyes slowly, sending a rare prayer to ask for this human mosquito to leave me alone. All I want is to sit in silence. Soothe my frenetic heart into beating at a more reasonable pace.

  I feel the girl scoot onto the bench of the picnic table where I’m sitting. Yet another unanswered prayer.

  “I’m Asia Coleman. I wish I could tell your sister thank you.” When my eyes fly open, the most put-together preteen I’ve ever seen in my life sticks out her hand and shakes mine firmly.

  I gasp. “Jamal...” is all I say, and she nods. Her father was the man slain by police a few months ago in Florida. The man Kezi went to march for.

  I absorb her pressed top. The crease in her jean shorts. Her hair, perfectly smoothed into a straight bun. Asia had a growing social media following, cultivated after her father was killed. The moment she opened her mouth to express her grief at the first press conference after Jamal’s death, the media and folks online couldn’t get over how “articulate” she was—“and in the face of such tragedy at that!”

  They deemed her One of the Good Ones. Sometimes the phrasing was different—A Nice Kid, A Child with Promise—but the intent was always the same: this little girl was worth listening to because look at how composed she was! If we read her report card, we would see all As. If we spoke to any of her teachers, they’d call her a star student. Her father, Jamal Coleman, immortalized on the internet, if not in the history books, took her to church every Sunday. The cognitive dissonance of it all was something I couldn’t take. If I had been the one to die that day in the hands of police instead of my sister—what would they have said about me? I skipped school like I was allergic to desks? I got messy drunk at parties? I could have been a better sibling and daughter? And though that was all true, should those facts have any bearing on whether the world was livid at the injustice of my death or mourned for me? For Jamal Coleman? For Kezi? All the rest?

  When she is called to the witness stand to shred her heart apart in front of a supposedly impartial jury of those officers’ peers, maybe they’ll listen to her instead of whispering about her weight or how sculpted her hair is or the syntax of her English. Maybe they’ll just see a girl, robbed of her father. I doubt it though.

  I had noticed her speaking with a group of adults while I people-watched after deciding to take a risk and eat something from the plate I made earlier to quell my grumbling stomach. They held on to her every word. Their gazes followed her hands as they moved animatedly throughout her story. She spoke with the confidence of someone who had recited the words often, while somehow retaining all the emotion. She was a family spokesperson, like Mom.

  That’s an impossible job for an actual grown-up. But she’s a kid.

  “How do you do this?” I ask, keeping my eyes straight ahead. I pick at my barbecued chicken. Tear a piece off with my fork and dip it in my potato salad.

  “I was angry,” Asia says quietly. “I still am.”

  I find her gaze, swim in the deep brown of her eyes.

  “Why do you keep going then?” I ask. “How do you not let it eat you up?”

  “Sometimes it does,” she says thoughtfully. “There are days when I tell my mom that I can’t deal with everything and I just stay home from school and watch TV.”

  After the shock and funeral planning and back-to-back events died down, there were days I couldn’t move from my bed. The act of lifting my head from my pillow, dragging my body to the bathroom, and having to see Kezi’s door was too unbearable. I started sleeping on the couch downstairs just so I could avoid being so close to her room.

  “But that’s only sometimes,” she says. “I know enough now that, at the end of the day, or my life, I want to feel like I did the best I could to make the world better for other people. So other kids don’t feel like I feel.”

  I consider this preteen, with her calm demeanor, faint smile, and sense of justice... I am not there.

  “Hey. What did you mean by thank you? Were you a fan of Kezi’s?”

  She brightens. Kind of. “I was in my civics class and my teacher showed one of your sister’s explainer videos. It was about your rights when a police officer gets in your face,” she says. “That was the day my daddy was killed.”

  Whoa. I had no idea Kezi’s videos were part of curriculums. That schools trusted her words enough to share them with students. That they internalized them enough to use her tips in life-or-death moments.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Just turned thirteen. But I feel fifty.” Asia grins as she says it, but there is an emotional maturity about her. The kind of mental aging that comes with loss and growing up too fast.

  “So you’re telling me, when that cop came up to your dad’s car, you thought to record because of Kezi?” I remember that video clearly.

  I have a right to do this. Speak calmly.

  “Yeah. My voice was trembling just as much as my hand was while I recorded,” she says, looking down at her fingers. “Even though Daddy died... I wanted people to know the real story.”

  I don’t think. I take her hands in mine.

  “Because of you, we know what happened,” I say. “I’m glad you saw her video. ‘Lost’ body cam or not...we know the truth because of you.”

  Yes, we’re crying. I pull out the thin napkin in the plastic utensils packet and hand it to her as she gives me hers. We laugh.

&nbs
p; “I’m sorry you lost a sister. I don’t know if it makes a difference to tell you...but you can leave here knowing she helped a lot of people.”

  It helps. A little. But I didn’t know Kezi. Not the way a sister should.

  I wish...

  Then I realize.

  I have to find Genny.

  16

  KEZI

  TUESDAY, APRIL 17—

  THE DAY OF THE ARREST

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  I could hear Ximena’s shouts as the police van drove away. I was in the back of the vehicle, seated on a long, narrow bench and farthest from the door. As the officers had urged me forward, I’d noticed thick black block letters printed on the inner doors and groaned softly. The mocking words echoed in my mind, bouncing down my tense neck muscles to my restrained hands as we pulled out: HOLD ON TIGHT, IT MIGHT GET A LIL BUMPY. There were three other people with me. Two women sat beside me, one of them much older and the other about my age. The man in the black tracksuit was alone on the other side, a metal partition separating him from us. As we sat quietly, I couldn’t help but replay what had just occurred. One second I was listening to Mrs. Coleman’s speech about her son, and the next, I was being forcefully dragged into the back of a cop car.

  Ximena had followed along, screaming about wrongful arrests and other theoretical concepts she had learned about in social studies, but the officer had paid her no mind. There was even one point when she’d grabbed my right arm and the officer had pulled on my left, leaving me in the middle about to be split in two. During the tug-of-war, my camera strap broke, and Ximena bent down to pick up my most prized possession. The officer used her moment of distraction to pull my arms behind my back and slide a zip tie decisively over my wrists.

  “Cut it out, Ximena!” I screamed when she reached for me again. “You’ve done enough!”

  Ximena jumped back as quickly as if she had touched a flame. Her face was flushed with rage, and confusion danced across her features.

  “I know you’re trying to help but you’re only making it worse. Just go call Genny!”

  “I’m calling your parents!” Ximena still followed, this time leaving more distance between herself and the officer, her shout a little quieter than before.

  “Hey. I saw what you did out there, kid.” The man with the black tracksuit was speaking to me through the divider, his deep voice pulling me from my thoughts. “Thank you for standing up for me.”

  “Oh. Yeah. It was nothing,” I said reluctantly, certain that the officers could hear us from where they were seated. “I wasn’t trying to be a hero or anything.”

  “That’s what makes it even more impressive,” he said, a smile in his voice. “True heroes are the people who do something simply because they know it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Yeah, well. It still sucks that we got arrested for it.”

  “A small price to pay,” he said.

  “I’m—”

  The police van took a sharp turn and we all lurched to the right. I tried to use my hands to keep my balance, but since they were held in place behind me, there was nothing I could do to stop my head from banging into the side of the car.

  “Hey! You have people back here you know!” the older woman shouted.

  Something warm trickled down the side of my face. I didn’t need my hands free to know that it was blood. Suddenly, the car veered again, and I slammed into the girl next to me.

  “I’m sorry!” I said to her, trying to straighten myself in my seat.

  “It’s...okay...” she said through labored breaths.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “My...asthma...”

  We were seated so close that I felt each breath she took rattle through her chest.

  “Hey. Let’s breathe together, okay? In and out, real easy.”

  She nodded and followed my lead, matching each inhale and exhale. Her pressed hair was matted to her forehead, glued down by sweat. I probably looked exactly the same, since I’d straightened my hair that morning to switch it up for my birthday. Her long lashes finally fluttered open once her breathing returned to normal.

  Just as I opened my mouth to ask the girl her name, the tires squealed, and each of us slid haphazardly across the back seat of the van.

  “Yo. They’re doing this shit on purpose!” the man said, raising his voice.

  The rest of the ride was a pinball game, the four of us bouncing off the walls and each other. My stomach flipped with anxiety at each sharp turn. I prayed that Ximena had called my mom and dad. I didn’t want to give my parents a reason to yell at me and say I told you so, but I would take them fussing me out for all eternity if it meant not being in this van. I needed them.

  My head was whirling when we finally came to a stop. I heard the heavy footsteps of one of the officers sauntering to the back of the van. The doors swung open and sunlight flooded in. My stomach jumped to my throat, and I threw up at my feet.

  * * *

  A small group of people crowded around a man giving a speech as the officers led us through the precinct. Two balloons with the words Happy Retirement on them floated around him, lost souls in search of peace. The man didn’t look old enough to be retiring, his sandy brown hair just starting to gray at the temples.

  As if to explain, his voice floated above the crowd. “I am truly going to miss you all. And while I’m heading to Oklahoma to be closer to my dad, just know that you all are like family to me too.”

  Our eyes locked as they maneuvered us prisoners past the group. Even from across the room, I sensed the intensity of the man’s gaze following us, probably irked that we’d distracted his colleagues from fully listening to his speech. Shivers pranced down my spine, and I looked away. How odd was it that in the same day, life could proceed normally—calmly—for others while your own went up in a ball of flames?

  The girl from the police van marched hesitantly in front of me as we wove through the precinct. I followed close behind her, although we hadn’t spoken again since leaving the van. It was a strange comfort to have her near. But that feeling of familiarity was cut short by the officer who processed us for booking. She took one look at the both of us and separated us without saying a word. I watched them lead her away, the feeling of panic that I’d been trying to keep in check fighting desperately to claw to the surface. The girl turned around to look at me. I smiled at her in encouragement as she turned a corner. And then she was gone.

  An hour later, I was still sitting in a holding cell with thirty other women when my name was finally called.

  “Kez-EYE-uh Smith?”

  “It’s KEH-zee-uh,” I corrected.

  “Right. Well it’s time for your phone call.”

  I followed the officer and almost cried with relief at the sight of the phone. I drew in a shaky breath and dialed my mom’s number. She picked up after the first ring.

  “Keziah!” The panic in her voice oozed through the receiver. “Oh my God. Thank the Lord! We are stuck in traffic but on our way. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Ma. I’m fine,” I replied. “Just a little banged up.”

  “Banged up? What do you mean banged up?”

  “It’s fine,” I said carefully, aware of the police officer sitting nearby. “When will you be able to get me out of here?”

  “We’re working on it, Kezi, and have called an attorney but it’s not that simple. This isn’t detention. You’re in jail!”

  “Trust me, I know!”

  “Do you? You should’ve just listened to me and your father and not gone to this damn protest!”

  “Are you serious right now? You’re going to take the short time that we have for this phone call to yell at me?”

  “Well, maybe you’ll actually listen. Ximena called me in tears talking about how you interrupted an officer while he was making an arrest. Now, the
only way that would make any sense to me is if you momentarily lost your mind.”

  “Mom, you weren’t there!” I said raising my voice. “They were arresting a man who did nothing wrong. You didn’t raise me to not speak—!”

  “No! We raised you to be smart, and that was far from it. You put yourself in real danger, Kezi. There’s nothing wrong with what you do online, but you have to understand that things are different in real life. This isn’t some little video that you just fire out and go about your business. What you do in the real world can change the course of your whole life.”

  “Little video? For real? I don’t care what you say. I was doing the right thing and I would do it again. HE DID NOTHING WRONG!”

  I had spent the last hour trying to keep my cool, keeping my head bowed when talking to officers, making sure to not raise my voice too much when I spoke. But the dam that was safely storing all of my raging emotions had finally broken and everything was rushing out, engulfing me in despair, drowning me.

  “Kezi, you need to keep your voice down!”

  The fear and regret in my mother’s voice was palpable.

  Like clockwork, the officer who had taken me to make my phone call was now standing right beside me. “You’re going to have to get off the phone.”

  “Officer. Please. I’ll keep it down. I’ve just had a very stressful day and I want to finish this conversation with my mother,” I said.

  “Well you should’ve thought about that before you started shouting. Now hang up so that I can take you back to the holding cell.”

  “Please, sir. I’m a minor. I’ll be quick. I just need to know when they’re coming to get me.”

  “Kezi, just listen to the officer,” my mother said in my ear. Her voice was strained as if she was trying to hold back a scream.

  “According to your ID, you are an adult. I’m sure your mother will be getting you soon, but your time on the phone is up.”