So much so that I’d picked up my phone and called Genny.
“Hey are you awake?”
“Wow did my own baby sister just ‘u up’ me?”
“Ew. I’m coming over.”
Her voice had been clear despite the late hour, like she had also been spending quality time with insomniac monsters in her closet.
After replaying the voice mail again, I turn to her where we sit on the bed. “What are you doing up anyway?”
Her room looks like it’s still waiting for a guest to check in, minus the suitcase on the floor. But her desk is littered with lab notebooks and pens and highlighters. She has a half-full jar of trail mix open, and it’s clear she’s already eaten all the chocolate pieces and is now left with the boring raisins and peanuts. Her laptop is on top of it all, in an attempt to hide the mess.
“Couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d get some writing done.”
Genny is always on her grind. She’s smart but makes it clear that she puts in effort. A lot of it. She graduated high school early and eventually became the youngest Black woman to earn her PhD in integrative biology at Caltech. Kezi was going to be valedictorian. And I...begged my elementary school principal to let me skip a grade too when Derek was promoted, and she laughed in my face. I never told anyone. Too embarrassed.
I don’t even want to think about the work Genny’s going to get back to after our trip. She’s had the responsibilities of research, teaching, grading, office hours, and writing up grants for her lab added to her load.
“You’re much more productive with your nights than I am,” I say. “I personally split my time between staring at the wall and the ceiling.”
“Girl, bye,” she retorts. “Does that pile of junk over there look like I’m doing anything worthwhile?”
“Oh, uh, I thought it was your process.”
My sister grins. “Thanks. That’s just me being overwhelmed...it still feels like she was alive a few days ago,” she whispers. “I keep waiting for her to text me.”
I tuck my feet under my legs as I nod. “I know what you mean. Time keeps passing, but I’m not ready to be six months, then one year without Kezi, and two years, and then another and another. I need the world to slow down.”
Genny takes a breath. Gazes at me uncertainly.
“My therapist is helping me work through the circumstances of her death. Sometimes exploring those emotions makes me feel a bit better, but other times I get so defeated. There’s so much systemic injustice that I feel so tiny. What happened to Kezi could’ve happened to anyone else—and it does. It seems like it’ll never stop.”
I didn’t know Genny was in therapy, but it makes sense. The principal reached out to my parents and strongly encouraged them to take me to “talk to someone” after everything happened. I attended a couple of sessions. Even though I saw a private therapist, I knew the school psychologist was busy with students wanting to come in and speak to her as well. In my own sessions away from Thomas Edison Senior High, I wondered what my peers could say about my sister that I could not. The intruding thoughts became too much, and I stopped showing up. But I know I need to go back. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life running. Avoiding.
“Even dealing with this bullshit from Ma and Dad,” Genny says. “You would think they’d show some growth.”
I sigh. “Should we call him back? Maybe he won’t answer.”
The phone hardly rings, and then Dad is on the line, insomnia linking us all even with miles between us. We greet each other but say nothing else for a while. Finally he speaks.
“I’ve been thinking about your question, Happi.”
Genny and I wait for him to continue.
“And my answer is no,” he says quietly. “I don’t believe she’s in hell.”
* * *
Genny and Ximena’s truce still stands. Derek and I are Switzerland, neutral bystanders who happen to love chocolate. Genny keeps us on a strict schedule, and we are packed and ready to go to our next destination by eleven in the morning.
“Would you like me to drive, Genny?” Ximena asks politely as she watches my sister balance a bowl of instant oatmeal from the hotel’s continental breakfast on her lap when she gets in the car.
“That would be great, thanks,” Genny says.
They switch places as Derek and I raise our eyebrows at each other.
Ximena unhooks her Supreme bag from her chest and throws it in the back seat.
“Dude, did you just unclasp your fanny pack seat belt just so you can put on another seat belt?” Derek asks.
“Like I’ve told you fourteen times, it’s a waist bag, not a fanny pack,” Ximena says.
“Keep your bag in front,” Genny says sharply. “Please.”
Ximena appears stricken.
“You want it nearby, in case an officer stops you,” I explain. “Don’t be caught with your back turned, so they don’t have a reason to think you’re up to something sketch.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “I never thought of that.”
“It’s not your fault you don’t have to,” I say.
“Sorry. I’m still a little on edge from yesterday,” Genny mumbles. “I felt way more standing on that bridge where my ancestor was murdered than I expected to. Like, you hear stories growing up, but the characters seem so far away. Knowing his feet had once been where my feet stood rattled me... And plus hearing what Dwight from the gas station museum said, and running into that rude waitress who didn’t want to help us until the owner made her...it’s exhausting. I’m just trying to go on a road trip to commemorate my sister, dammit.”
We drive the two hours to Elk City in pensive silence, everyone exploring their own thoughts. When we get to the National Route 66 Museum, we drag ourselves out of the car, but our enthusiasm for the 1981 Miss America displays, the pioneer chapel, and the windmill collection is very limited.
“Just four or five more states to go,” I say, consulting my itinerary packet.
* * *
It takes us a little over two and a half more hours to get to Amarillo, Texas.
I won’t even front. The sound of a guitar from Jason Aldean’s song “Amarillo Sky” has been strumming in my head nonstop since we drove past the Welcome to Amarillo sign fifteen minutes ago. It’s not something I talk about a lot, but I love country music. All the crooning about tilling a small patch of land, riding a tractor, driving a truck, dancing in cutoff shorts, kicking your feet up on the dashboard. Doing your best to stretch a dollar so ends can almost meet. So much of it is about falling in love with the girl next door, living an entire life in that same twenty-mile radius of a small town. That’s what high school feels like. It’s the same people coming in and out of each other’s lives, building things up and burning things down. Sometimes it feels like we’re all going through life in a country song—different lyrics, maybe, but humming the same melody, and nobody’s listening closely enough to notice.
* * *
The next stop on our list is not far from the new hotel we check into. The Green Book’s Amarillo lodging options, Watley’s Hotel and the Tennessee Hotel, were demolished years back.
It should take five minutes to get there (three since Ximena’s driving).
But even she slows when she sees the sign for a park we pass on the way, standing right beside an elementary school with a different name: Robert E. Lee School Park.
“Daaaaaannng.”
Genny flips to her Amarillo notes page and reads.
“Named tributes and monuments to Robert E. Lee are being taken down (or conversations have begun for their removal) across the country, stretching from California to Florida. We’ve finally reached a point where enough people in power agree that naming public areas after a Confederate Army general is in, to put it lightly, poor taste.”
I suck my teeth impatiently.
“That’s what p
isses me off,” I say. “Have as much Southern pride as you want, ’cause I’m gonna rep West Coast, Best Coast all day. But don’t pretend like the Civil War wasn’t about keeping Black people enslaved.”
Yes, girl! I can practically hear Kezi crisp and clear in my brain.
Genny folds up her notebook and smiles. I know her thoughts are in the same place.
* * *
I don’t know what time we expected the Wonderland Amusement Park to close on a Wednesday night, but when the ticket seller wished us a “wonderland wonderful” hour, we decide to split up. Genny and Ximena laser in on the funnel cakes and Derek and I are relegated to the Ferris wheel, where we can record aerial shots of the entire park for Kezi’s channel.
It’s Derek’s turn to hold up the camera to capture the roller coasters, water slides, and people eating candied apples and popcorn down below. As we lift higher into the air, I take out my phone and go to Instagram’s Discover page. He peeks at the screen.
“Yo, you watch those too?”
“I love a good ASMR video.”
“I watch like five before I go to bed,” he confesses. “Is that weird?”
“You have so many other characteristics that make you weird, Derek.” I smile. “What’s your favorite kind of video?”
“Hmm. I’m a classic kind of guy. Slime. But I’m not afraid to shake things up so I amend my answer to slime with shaving cream. You?”
I think.
“Honey being scraped from the comb for sure...and soap being scored into different shapes and shaved off or crunched up by hand.”
“They’re so calming. I mute the squishy noises though.”
“Oh my gosh, I know right? The creepy sounds take it too far!”
We watch the clip in amiable silence for a few seconds.
“You know what’s even weirder? The random text that goes with the posts,” I say. “Comment with the name of the second pet you truly ever loved.”
“Comment with which finger you’d cut off if you had to lose one,” Derek replies without missing a beat.
“What is the maximum number of fire ants you’d be willing to eat for $100,000? Share below!”
I scroll down to see what strangeness awaits us and am not disappointed, albeit a tad spooked.
Where do we go when we die? Comment below!
My phone beeps and jolts us apart. The three short buzzes send messages in quick succession.
Hey.
How are u?
I miss u.
The message is unexpected. And unwanted. Santiago.
“You’re still entertaining that dummy? After all that?”
I blink. Mask on.
“That is so far from your business I’m not sure they even make maps from where you are to over here.”
“Well, I’m just surprised you’re still in touch with him. You should think more highly of yourself. You’re really—”
“We’ve been having some fun on this road trip but don’t get it twisted,” I say. “We aren’t cool enough for you to be sharing unsolicited commentary on my life.”
“I’m not trying to make you angry, Happi. It’s just an observation. Wait—”
Without another glance in his direction I pull the Ferris wheel’s handlebar over my head. The park attendant comes over to help us exit the ride that has returned to the ground not a moment too soon, but I’m already gone. Derek’s mouth is still hanging open as I leave him swinging in the chair.
30
KEZI
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1—
3 MONTHS, 15 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST
EDMOND, OKLAHOMA
It has been three months and fifteen days since I died. The giant calendars of April, May, June, July, and August taped to the walls of my prison tell me so. Surely, I am no longer the lead story on the evening news. I imagine I don’t show up at all. But still, I am the only thing the devil thinks about. Jotted on the last square of July and the early days of August are words like Chicago, St. Louis, Amarillo, Edmond, Taxa, the Grand Canyon... I am an idiot for sharing my entire road trip schedule online, to have given him one more thing to know about me and obsess over. I teased meet-and-greets in various cities with my fans and revealed so many stops, down to the general vicinity of the campground I would stay at in the Grand Canyon. Made a video about it being the best spot for catching the sunset. I wasn’t foolish enough to post the exact places I would be sleeping each night, but now I regretted even revealing the days I would visit particular Green Book locations and public Route 66 attractions.
“O, Edmond Bridge.
the heart of town.
Hear it callin’.
O watch it all.
come tumbling down.
Hear it caaallin’.”
The old man pauses to catch his breath. He is ancient. His blue eyes are glazed over by a white film, cataracts dulling the icy orbs. His jowls sway with each word he sings. We are alone, but I am unafraid. He usually keeps to himself, although we spend hours and hours in this now nonfunctional freezer-turned-fortress. He mutters constantly, humming warbled nonsense under his breath. We may both be prisoners, but we are not the same. I am trapped with rope and tape, and he is trapped by his own mind.
He laughs until he gasps when he gets to that line about tumbling down. Every. Single. Time. I glare at him—Ellis—and he continues to howl himself into a stupor. He thinks my anger is about the song, but it’s much more than that. Over time, Mark has shared nuggets of information with me, perhaps hoping I will trust him if he shows that he trusts me. So I know the reason I am in Edmond, Oklahoma.
As we drove for hours, Mark shared his family story with me. Ellis had thrown himself into the upkeep of the restaurant after the passing of his wife, possessed with the idea of preserving it in her memory. But that all changed when a waitress came down to the then-working freezer in search of more ice cream, only to find Ellis shivering in a corner. He’d forgotten why he’d gone there in the first place and had been unable to find his way out. She’d called Mark up right then and demanded he “do something” about his father, because she “didn’t get paid enough to deal with this crap,” which he admitted was true.
In his brief moments of lucidity, Ellis screams and screams for someone to rescue him. Until he realizes he is not alone. My unfamiliar young Black face sends him into a frenzy every time, and he shouts even louder. Cursing. Calling me dirty names that chip away at my resolve, each word latching itself on to me like a raised palmprint following a slap.
“You’re behind this! You...you...you filthy piece of shit. Let me go!”
Somehow, in his warped mind, he believes I am the one holding him against his will. Although I am tied up and useless on the floor. The first time this happened, I prayed someone would discover us. Certainly there’d be a person curious enough to find the source of this commotion? But, like Mark promised, no one can hear us down here. Not with five inches of urethane insulation and steel standing in between my voice and the outside world. And no one ever comes.
“You see those holes? That’s so you don’t suffocate. And of course I turned up the temperature so you won’t die of hypothermia like Dad almost did,” he’d said, smiling.
If it weren’t for the calendars, I would have no sense of time. There are no windows to show me when the sun shows its face, or when the moon takes over. I know that I am underground only from the shuffling of feet and laughter and occasional fighting that go on upstairs. After all this time, I haven’t decided if they would even care if they knew I was right below their reveling. This is hell.
My fingernails dig deep into my palms as I ball my hands into fists at the sound of clicks and slides of bolts and latches unlocking. I’ve broken skin so many times, the scars make it harder to bleed now.
“Kezi.”
Just the breath from his whisper electrifies the hair
s on my neck and jolts my senses. The scream that is trapped in my throat blocks my inhale and exhale.
“Hi, Kezi.”
Every utterance of my name fills me with revulsion. I want to snatch away his tongue, to eliminate the pleasure he gets from using it.
“Kezi.” There is the hint of annoyance this time, even as he strolls leisurely to reach me.
In his twisted perception of the world, Mark thinks he is a nice guy. A good guy. An ally. He hands me my lunch, a soggy burger and fries, and water. Once a week he does exercises with me while I am still weak. His hands slide over my legs and bend them at the knee to keep them “nimble.” He rotates my arms so that my muscles don’t atrophy in their bindings. When I take the food, he wags a packet of multivitamins in my face and tears it open to give those to me too. (“There’s no reason why you should be Vitamin D deficient just because you don’t see the sun!”)
The pot he left me to relieve myself in is still empty, so he relaxes. I know there is a bathroom mere feet from this door. When Mark decided to move back, he said he had hired a contractor to make the basement area more livable for him. He does not seem to have visitors or friends or family besides Ellis. Each night I hear the same creak of a bed and the flow of water from a sink. The dings of the game shows he has saved on his DVR. I wonder if anyone thought twice about his request to keep the freezer.
“You won’t believe who I just saw.”
My shoulders leap up as his clammy fingers caress my chin. I yank my head away, but he steadies it firmly. This freezer, the only world I’ve seen in three months and fifteen days, shrinks even smaller when he gets this close. I can count every line on his thin face and each strand of gray peppering his sandy brown hair.
“You’ve been crying, Kezi.” He tuts in disapproval. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, probably stored there from some distorted idea of chivalry, and dabs at the trail of tears on my cheeks. “Well, here’s some good news. I was just talking to your family upstairs! They look good.”
One of the Good Ones Page 21