Genny, Ximena, and Derek emerge from the next elevator whose doors spit out the passengers of the arch. I had gone ahead of them. They look slightly unsure what to make of me standing with my phone in hand, frowning.
“People say some wild things on YouTube,” I say lightly and drop the phone into my bag.
“Kezi used to keep a running list of the most insane stuff but stopped real fast once she realized they could actually be kind of creepy,” Ximena says. She pauses, biting her lip as if deciding whether or not to share her next thought. Finally, she continues. “The day before Kezi was arrested, she got an email that I could tell really rattled her. She made me promise not to say anything to anyone, so I didn’t, even though I really wanted to. But that account name stuck with me. Mr.no.struggle.no.progress.”
“What did the message say?” I ask, my skin rippling with goose bumps.
“It was so weird. The guy in the email said something about never being alone because they had each other. He went on and on about being more than a subscriber. It was strange enough, but then he attached a video to the message. It was a clip of Kezi speaking on that city hall panel a few months before. Remember that day? Kezi and I watched the video a few times but couldn’t figure out if he was the one who recorded it or if he was someone in the audience. It just felt...off.”
“Wow,” Genny says. “I wish she would’ve said something.”
“Me too. I tried to get her to change her mind, but she downplayed the whole thing,” Ximena answers. “I didn’t push anymore, because I figured it would just be another secret Kezi wanted me to keep. She always used to joke that the comments from just one of her uploads could fill an entire book.”
“From what I’ve seen, it seems more like ten books,” I say.
Genny chuckles, but there’s no humor in the sound. My heart squeezes as I realize this is just another thing Kezi felt she had to go through alone.
“Where to next, y’all?” Derek asks.
Genny looks down at her notes. “The Old Courthouse.”
We file out of the building and cross the well-manicured park that hovers over the highway beneath us. Clusters of lush trees flank us as the green dome of the courthouse beckons visitors to come explore. Ximena walks ahead, shielding her eyes from the yellow Missouri sun as she looks around the parkway.
I quicken my steps to reach her.
“Hey...”
“He—” She looks pained and stops herself. “Hi.”
She slows down a bit, so I take it as a signal to keep talking.
“Ximena... I wish I could say I’m shocked by my parents, but I’m not. I’m really sorry about the way they acted. It’s like they’ve forgotten that you loved her too...and maybe it’s not in the way they thought but so what? Why should it matter? I—”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Dude, you don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything.”
I shake my head. “Exactly. I didn’t do anything. Doesn’t that make me just as wrong? Yeah, I believe in God, but a lot of the rest that comes with church? I can’t get behind that. Telling people who they can love or that a man is supposed to run shit because of what’s in his pants...it drives me insane.” I didn’t plan to spill my guts at Ximena’s feet like this, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “Every Sunday I would file into pews just like the one at my uncle’s church and tune out everything they said while I sat through service like nothing was wrong. It makes me sick to my stomach to think Kezi had to sit there too. She was right beside me sometimes and never so much as flinched.”
“That’s because she would hold it all inside until we spoke.” Ximena sighs. “I tried so many times to get her to tell everyone, but she refused. She said there was no point rocking the boat at home when it wouldn’t change the way your parents thought. She’d joke that coming out would be equivalent to asking them to choose between her and Jesus, and there was no way she’d win that war.”
“That’s terrible. But with our parents, I can’t say she’s wrong. You know, the most absurd thing about the Sodom and Gomorrah story is that everyone loses their minds that the men in the town demand to have sex with the two secret angels who show up out of nowhere, but everyone seems to be cool with Lot offering up his daughters to be raped instead. Like, how can we take this seriously?”
You never even learn their names. Most of the daughters in the Bible don’t get a name. Except for the few, like Job’s girls. Jemimah. Keziah. Keren-Happuch.
I pause and then I ask the question that’s been swirling around in my head since we left Jasperilla. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Ximena doesn’t say anything, the only sound being the crunch of our steps as we continue across the pristine lawn. Finally, “She didn’t know how to.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can say. Sisters are supposed to be able to speak to one another about anything, their bond more secure than any safe under lock and key. But Kezi and I were akin to strangers.
“Don’t feel bad. It was hard for me from over here too,” Ximena whispers. “We were a secret from most of the people Kezi loved. Every time I saw you, I wanted to let you know, but it wasn’t my place. I understood why Kezi didn’t want to say anything, but it didn’t make it any easier to be hidden. She deserved to share that part of herself with both of her siblings in her time. If I could do it all over again, I would try even harder to get her to tell you, at least.”
I nod. If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t have been so closed off and untouchable. Though it’s too late for me to make it up to Kezi in person, there’s still time to get to know her, even if it is only through the eyes of other people.
“I was dumb to not realize you two were together though,” I say with a smile. “Everybody else at school thinks you’re fine as hell, why wouldn’t Kezi?”
Ximena rolls her eyes but smirks.
I surprise us both when I link my arms through hers.
“Just go with it,” I say, and she laughs. The chatter of Genny and Derek behind us pauses for one shocked moment before they clumsily stumble over their words so they don’t get caught eavesdropping.
We close the short distance, and finally we’re at our destination. The Old Courthouse is surrounded by modern buildings. The glittering reflections of countless windows mirror the sparkling white exterior, rounded columns, and impressive minty dome of the historical site. I stop and pull Kezi’s camera out of my bag to record the next installment for her channel. I pan up and down the building, zooming in and pausing at an onyx statue of a man and a woman holding hands and staring into the distance at something only they can see.
“This area has experienced many renovations, but no veneer or new coating of paint could ever erase the horrors that occurred on these very steps,” Genny reads aloud from a page of Kezi’s notebook. “Human lives were sold here. Families ripped apart. Children stolen. Souls desecrated. Right here.”
I steady the camera on her as she continues.
“But even in despair, there’s hope. Where so many were unsuccessful in their fight, Dred and Harriet Scott were able to change the course of history. They sued for their right to liberty, and their case eventually made it to the US Supreme Court. But instead of granting them freedom, the courts ruled that African slaves could not take their grievances to court because they weren’t US citizens and were of ‘an inferior order’ to their white counterparts. This verdict and its bigoted rationale shook the nation and became the most pivotal case in the eventual abolishment of slavery in this country.”
“Wait, so they didn’t get their freedom?” Derek asks incredulously.
“Not from the Supreme Court ruling,” I reply. “It wasn’t until the slave owner who they were fighting against married this guy who was anti-slavery that things changed for them. He convinced her to get rid of the Scotts, and she agreed under the condition that she receive the back pay from all t
he labor the Scotts had done for other people over the past decade. The Scotts were eventually sold back to their original owner, who freed their family within two months. And all of this likely only happened because they didn’t want to deal with the negative press that the case had generated.”
“Kezi? Is that you in there?” Derek stage-whispers in my direction.
“Ha. Ha,” I reply as I pause the recording so that we can enter the courthouse.
Genny leads the way and Ximena, Derek, and I follow. Inside, the interior of the dome is more impressive than the view from outside. Beautifully drawn Italian Renaissance style images complement the elaborately decorated balconies and supporting pillars. We explore each floor of the courthouse and tour various exhibits about women’s suffrage activists and restored courtrooms.
Just as we enter the gift shop, my phone rings. I assume it’s Mom or Dad breaking the silence we’ve maintained since Sunday and checking in to see how we are. I’ve been doing my absolute best to avoid any interaction with them until I know what I want to say, until I have the exact words to truly tell them about themselves. But when I glance down at my phone to begrudgingly answer, it’s Santiago’s grinning face that looks back at me instead. I’m so stunned that I almost miss the call.
“Hello? Santiago?” I say, right before he would have been sent to voice mail.
“Hey!” he replies. “How have you been?”
There’s no succinct way for me to answer truthfully, so instead I say, “Fine. You?”
“I’ve been great! Things are going really well on set, even though the girl who was their first choice for my love interest never showed up. They said they tried calling her over and over again and everything. She didn’t have an agent though, so they couldn’t figure out another way to contact her and went on to the next person. Anyway, I’m really growing more as an artist than I ever thought I could.” Santiago launches into a very one-sided conversation and shares the latest developments in his whirlwind new life of table readings, rehearsals, and interpersonal dramas. I try my hardest to be the dutiful girlfriend and ask the necessary follow-up questions, laugh at his jokes. But the more he speaks, the more I remember I am not the same girl. My earlier shock at seeing his call shifts from autopilot to agitation to outright anger. Blood boiling. Crimson sight. Furious. Not once has he paused to ask me how this trip has been. I told him about this new way of commemorating Kezi, but he hasn’t stopped for even a second to genuinely check in on how it’s going.
This is it. No more pretending our time isn’t up. It’s been up.
I make a beeline for the nearest exit, bumping into Derek as I do. I mouth Sorry to him and keep moving. Finally, I’m outside and racing down the steps to put some distance between me and the courthouse. My path leads me to where the car is parked. I take a deep breath as I go, filling every ounce of myself with air. Everyone knows that wind adds fuel to fire.
“Santiago.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, babe?”
“Do you want to ask me how I’m doing?”
“...I did,” Santiago says, clearly confused. “Right when you answered. You said—”
“I know what I said!” I snap. “But did you really care about my answer? Because you legit just had a whole-ass, ten-minute conversation by your damned self.”
“I didn’t realize—”
“Of course you didn’t realize,” I interrupt Santiago again. “You’re always too busy thinking about yourself. Meanwhile, I’m over here driving across the country because it was the last thing that my dead sister wanted to do, and you haven’t so much as sent me a friggin’ text message to see how I’m doing. That’s not something you forget, Santiago. The fact that your girlfriend’s sister died isn’t something that slips your mind, like a doctor’s appointment.”
“You’re right, Happi. I haven’t forgotten. But what am I supposed to say to you?” Santiago sounds upset with me, and I can’t believe it.
“You’ve never even tried to say anything!” I shout.
“There isn’t a handbook for this shit, Happi. I didn’t sign up for this!”
“You didn’t sign up for this?” I repeat, trying it out on my tongue.
“I didn’t mean it like that, babe. I’m sorry. I really—”
“You think I did?” I ignore him. “You think I volunteered to have my sister die the way she did? To die, period? Wow, Santiago. I always knew you were self-centered, but I chalked it up to the actor in you. This is... This is disgusting. And I’m going to do you a favor and take you out of your misery. You don’t get to be shitty to me and say that it’s because you don’t know what to do. Me and you are done. Now you don’t have to do anything. Do you understand? It’s over! Good luck on your stupid show. I hope it gets canceled after the first episode.”
I rip the phone from my ear and jam the End call button. I feel a scream bubbling up in my throat, but I push it down. I’ve already been flipping out in these St. Louis streets, looking like a maniac yelling at this boy over the phone. I’m not going to have someone call the police on me for having a nervous breakdown as I wait by Genny’s car.
But I’m trembling. I can’t keep it together. It’s not just the fact that Santiago and I broke up. It’s the idea that I somehow knew any better than he did about how to navigate this world of grief and loss. My vision blurs, and I close my eyes for a second. I just want the earth to swallow me whole. Instead, I feel the car shift as the weight of another person rests against it. I turn to see Derek standing beside me.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“That’s okay. I’m here. And you don’t have to say anything to watch my moves.”
Derek jerks his shoulders up to his ears, up and down, like he’s doing a weird new viral dance, and I laugh. With his mission of making me smile accomplished, he settles back beside me on the car, and I rest my head on his shoulder. Just like I used to do on long bus rides home.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Any time.”
He stands beside me and says nothing else. But he’s there. Exactly what I need.
21
SHAQUERIA
TUESDAY, APRIL 17—
THE DAY OF THE ARREST
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Darius’s long arms wrapped around me tightly, pulling me into a big hug. A spiderweb. His embrace was meant to comfort, but I wasn’t foolish enough to allow myself the false sense of security even for a second. I looked over his shoulder as I stiffly returned the unannounced display of affection, sure the busy people walking by and half paying attention thought he was my older brother or something. I tried not to flinch when he cupped my cheek and patted it. A reminder. A warning.
“I just wanted to wish you luck as you wait to hear back about that role you were trying out for. And give you a little something for you to grab a bite to eat,” Darius said gently as he slipped me a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “You should try In-N-Out. It’ll be the best thing your country self has ever tasted. And there’s just enough time to get it before you head over to where you’re supposed to be.”
I nodded rigidly at his unexpected “generosity” and thanked him. Darius didn’t say another word as he walked away. He stepped up to a black SUV I hadn’t noticed was idling a few feet from where we stood. I watched as he swung open the door on the passenger side and hopped in. Darius rolled down the window and waved his hand at me, a terse goodbye, and drove off.
I rattled out a shudder. I knew the game he was playing then; I’d had a foster mom play it too. Mess with your prey’s head by being cruel and kind. They’d never know what to expect from you and stay in check. I tried not to think about the moment when the nice act inevitably fell away and revealed the gleaming teeth of a wolf swaddled in sheep’s clothing, finally unleashed and ready to rip me to shreds.
Another Thatcher
Academy hopeful exited the building, the expression on her face clear that her audition hadn’t gone well. But mine had, if the casting directors’ reactions were any indication. I had turned it around. And I wouldn’t let Darius take that euphoria away from me. I glanced down at the twenty in my hand, and my stomach growled as if on cue. There was a lot about LA that was blown up to unimaginable proportions, but everyone was right about In-N-Out. And it was the perfect way to celebrate this win.
The restaurant wasn’t too far, so I walked, no, floated down the sidewalk to my destination. The air seemed clearer. The sky bluer. This was where I was meant to be. There was a freedom to success, to knowing that I was damn good. My life was going to be bigger than what any one of those people I left behind in Mississippi expected from a girl like me. They would never forget my name. And countless more would soon learn it. Shaqueria.
I just knew it.
It wasn’t long before I was seated with my order, a #1 combo with a chocolate milkshake. I held the juicy burger between both of my hands and had opened my mouth to take the first bite when I noticed a brown-skinned boy about my age glancing my way. He looked at the empty seat across from me meaningfully and smiled. I didn’t reciprocate. Instead, I slammed my feet down on the chair a little too forcefully and refocused on my meal. The young man frowned but didn’t approach.
Perfect. It was taking me much longer than I cared to admit to get over my ex, and I wasn’t about to invite any other distraction, no matter how cute. Especially now that I was one step closer to landing the role of my dreams. I had to stay committed. And maybe one day, when I’d Made It, or at the very least knew how I’d be able to consistently pay my rent, I could open up to the idea of letting someone in again. Being alone was my default and had been for years.
One of the Good Ones Page 16