One of the Good Ones

by Maika Moulite

  What? No. He’s lying—My eyes must betray my shock, because he grins.

  “Yes, I met Genny,” he says. “And Derek...and Ximena...and Happi too.”

  I freeze.

  “Oh, I know them all, Kezi.”

  I don’t think about the straps and the ropes tying me down.

  I lunge.

  31

  KEZI

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1—

  3 MONTHS, 15 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  EDMOND, OKLAHOMA

  I am all rage as I pull against my restraints, fury guiding me forward. The binding around my right wrist rips from where it’s secured to the floor, and I use the momentum to slam a fist into Mark’s face. He screams and grabs hold of where his skin has already begun to redden, taking an involuntary step back from the force of my hand. I recoil clenched fingers to strike again, but he’s quick and slides out of my reach.

  Ellis stands by, watching in stunned silence, until I curl the restraint that is trailing from my wrist around my hand like a lasso, a whip. In two strides he is in front of me and smacks me across the cheek. My eyes water and I yelp from the pain, shocked that he can still deliver such a blow in his condition.

  “I’ve been dealin’ with your kind since I was a little boy,” Ellis shouts at me, spittle flying from his lips. “My daddy taught me just what to do with you n—”

  “Dad! No!” Mark interrupts as Ellis raises a hand to hit me again.

  I bring my arm in front of my face to block the incoming blow, but it never lands. Mark is standing in between me and his father. Ellis attempts to step around his son, pouncing on me with hate etched in every fold of his wrinkled paper skin. He doesn’t have time to pivot when Mark maneuvers himself between us again and shoves his father back. Ellis’s arms circle as he tries to find his balance, his right foot a few inches off the floor while his left leg teeters back and forth like a tree that’s been hacked away at the base. He topples and lands on his side with a sickening crack, and howls from what is surely a broken hip.

  “Look what you made me do,” Mark says, turning to me. His expression is one I haven’t seen yet. Wild. If I was scared before, I am in pure terror now.

  Mark walks to his father and kneels beside him. “I’m going to call an ambulance, Dad. Don’t worry. You’re okay.”

  A sole whimper escapes Ellis’s lips.

  I try to crawl away, but the restraints keep me locked in place. Mark is done consoling his father and turns his focus in my direction again. He steps toward me and pulls a key out of his pocket to release me only to grab my arm roughly to keep me still.

  “Why would you behave this way, Kezi? I thought we had an understanding,” he snarls in disgust.

  I say nothing as he drags me through the doorway that I’ve stared at for months in the hopes that someone, anyone, besides Mark would come through. My eyes are wide as I take in my surroundings. Mark’s quarters are so...normal that it almost makes me want to burst out in hysterical laughter. A guest would never know that just on the other side of this rustic living room, filled with beautifully polished chestnut pieces and expensive-looking tapestry, lies a prison more locked down than any high-security cell.

  Mark opens another door, and I am in his bedroom. An elaborate wooden bedframe is the focal point. The other furniture, a bedside table, dresser, an ottoman bench, are all selected to perfectly complement it. There are no pictures on any of the walls, nothing to suggest that he has ties to other human beings. Mark flings me onto the bed and I freeze, paralyzed with fear at what he might do, wanting desperately to follow the advice of my brain screaming run on repeat. He looks at me with disgust again, clearly repulsed that I would think he was capable of violating me. He races to open up his closet as I unsuccessfully attempt to move myself on the mattress. Rows of immaculately kept clothing dangle from matching wooden hangers. There’s a large box on the floor next to his shoes, and he riffles through in search of something. He stands when he finds it, cords and a large roll of duct tape in hand.

  Mark makes quick work of tightly wrapping the bindings around me again, even as I attempt to break free. My legs are tied together from my ankles to above the knees, arms bound from wrists to over my elbows. He secures my hands and feet together for good measure, making me a sitting duck, trussed and ready to await what comes next. Mark opens up a drawer and doesn’t say a word as he takes a balled-up sock and shoves it into my mouth.

  “I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve given me no choice,” he says as he unfurls the adhesive and places it over my lips. “I need to get my father some help and can’t risk you slipping away. I’ll be back okay?” He’s speaking in that pleasant tone of his again, like we’re good friends catching up over a nice cup of tea.

  He leaves me alone in the room, locking the door behind him. I fight the urge to break down right there on the bed. Tears flow from my eyes uncontrollably. I have to think. I have to get out of here. I breathe deeply through my nose, hoping to calm myself. I need to use my head and not pass out from fear. It’s time to act. I’m wracking my brain to come up with a plan when I hear the sounds of people walking down the stairs and into Mark’s living room.

  The paramedics! I attempt to sit up on the bed.

  Maybe I can make a noise to let them know I’m here. I scream against the sock in my mouth until I’m hoarse but can barely hear a sound through the gag. The living room grows silent again as the paramedics disappear through another door that’s slammed loudly behind them. They must be in the freezer area now. I’m running out of time to get their attention.

  I try to straighten myself again but fail.

  I’m so close, I think frantically. What can I do? What can I do? And then it comes to me. I shift my body on the bed until I am lying horizontally, the sheets bunching beneath me as I do so. After I stop a moment to catch my breath... I rock. It’s ever so slight at first, and then, as I push my whole weight harder, I gain enough momentum to roll over. And over. I roll and roll until I advance across the bed, until I’m on the edge, where I fall onto the ottoman and then the floor.

  The wind is knocked out of me from the impact, but I don’t stop. I can’t afford to miss my chance. I continue rolling, traveling across the floor of Mark’s bedroom until I’m lying right in front of the door. I have just enough space to pull my feet back as far as I can and kick toward the wall.

  Thump.

  There. That should be loud enough. I bring my feet back again and ram the wall. I’m not able to pull my legs back as far as I’d like, since my hands are tied to my feet, but it will have to do. I hear the paramedics open the door to the freezer room. Yes.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “What’s that noise?” an unfamiliar voice says.

  I try not to sob into the sock in my mouth and keep banging against the wall.

  “What noise?” Mark asks. He sounds jittery. The paramedics will think it’s because he’s worried about his father.

  “That noise,” the same paramedic says, and they all quiet as if they’re listening.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  “Oh, that? We’re below the bar. Someone’s probably had too much to drink.”

  Thump.

  “No, it sounds like it’s coming from that room over there.” The unfamiliar voice moves closer to Mark’s bedroom. My heart pounds in my ears. I bring my feet back and echo the noise against the wall faster.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “It’s my dog. I put him in there so he wouldn’t get in the way.” Mark’s impatient voice draws closer as he walks with the paramedic.

  I’m sweating against the restraints and trying my hardest to not let my legs tire from the strain. I’d fling my entire body against the wall if I could. I bring my feet back again, ready to slam it and—

  “Mark? Mark? Where are you?” Ellis’s voi
ce rings out, thick with pain and confusion. “Everything hurts.”

  “Please,” Mark says to the paramedic. They’re right outside the door now. “My father needs to see a doctor. He has dementia and is easily startled. We need to get him help and calm him down.”

  A pause.

  “Okay, fellas. Let’s go.”

  I scream against the sock until the sounds grate weakly against my throat’s raw flesh. Fling myself against the wall until I ache. Cry for help.

  But they’re already gone.

  32

  HAPPI

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 2—

  3 MONTHS, 16 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  AMARILLO, TEXAS

  I don’t just hold grudges. I nurse them. Swaddle them lovingly in cloth. Whisper nursery rhymes to them as I rock my resentment gently back and forth against my chest. I could be crumbling on the inside, but you would never know it. When we get in the car and head to the famous Chevy Ranch, it is very clear who I have beef with.

  “Good morning, ladies!”

  Genny looks over her tumbler of coffee in surprise from her shotgun seat.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Well, life is beautiful, so why shouldn’t I be?” I say, batting my eyelashes.

  Ximena grunts and leans her head back with her headphones on.

  In the driver’s seat, Derek is silent, but I’m not done.

  “You don’t mind if I—”

  He leans all the way over away from me and toward the door when I reach forward to connect my phone’s Bluetooth to the car. The ethereal chanting of Beyoncé’s “***Flawless” floats in, and I sing until it switches to “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” by Mr. Knowles-Carter. It takes me shouting the words of “My Prerogative” loud enough that Bobby Brown could probably hear them from all the way in California for Genny to look at me sideways. But I explain nothing and rap along innocently as I pretend to like my enemies in Drake’s “Energy.” Ximena finally pulls her headphones out when “Shake It Off” comes on and Derek doesn’t sing along.

  “Isn’t Taylor your girl?” she asks.

  “Her early discography, yes,” he hisses.

  I cackle internally as Ximena glances between the two of us and smirks.

  Derek exits I-40 and drives down Frontage Road for about a mile before stopping in front of an open gate. Despite the name, the Chevy Ranch has no horses. It is just a deep field of browned grass until we spy the rows of classic automobiles arranged in a wide circle with four lines of cars inscribed within it like a chicken’s foot; the peace sign. The heady chemical scent of paint reaches our nostrils before our eyes can take in the colors.

  “This is giving me serious Cuba vibes,” Ximena says. We get out of the car and walk up to the enormous art piece, clouds of dust exploding into the air with every step we take. Half of each car’s body is burrowed into the desiccated ground, as though this caravan’s journey to the center of the earth was stopped midway. Frozen. Must’ve ran out of gas. But the spirit of antiquity is still clear through the long, rounded trucks and thick exhaust pipes. There is a majority of eponymous Chevys, but Chryslers, Dodges, Mustangs, Cadillacs, and Buicks also make a strong showing. Not a bit of the cars are the original hues. They are coated in layers and layers of spray paint.

  “Which isn’t a coincidence,” Genny says, reading from her notes. “The art collective that created this installation wanted to bring attention to the need for peace during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962.”

  “My grandparents arrived in the United States as exiles just a few years before, but I remember growing up and hearing them talk about how scared they were when that was going on,” Ximena says.

  A group of people who appear to be in their early twenties and visiting from Europe based on their British accents and loud conversation about Americans “driving on the wrong side of the road” several cars down rummage through a wagon of cans and begin tagging a few feet from the ATTN: Do Not Paint the Cars sign.

  “Why do the cars make you think of Cuba?” I ask.

  “These classic types are still all over the place there,” she says. “The country’s been frozen in time ever since the embargo started. My cousins WhatsApp me videos flexing on the Malecon, and I see these old cars rumbling by in the background. They make for a cute picture on Insta when you’re on vacation, but they’re also a huge reminder of how locked away everyone is.” She looks down. “Kez and I started talking about us visiting my relatives over there. If we would still be allowed into the country, that is. The rules keep changing.”

  Derek pulls her into a hug, and I look away. Ignoring my sister’s best friend seems stupid now.

  “Oi!”

  We look to where the tourists are waving us over. Genny shakes her head and screams, “What do you want?”

  The guy (bloke?) who shouted first says, “Want to paint some cars? We brought way too much.”

  My sister opens her mouth to presumably turn down his offer when I hear myself say, “Yes!”

  “What are you doing?” she says. “The signs say not to paint the cars!”

  “What signs? Come on, check Kezi’s almighty packet. Did she tell us if it’s all right?”

  Genny flips to the page on Chevy Ranch and skims. She’s quiet as she walks toward the Brits. I grin.

  “What colors you got in there?” she yells over to them.

  Minutes later, we have the help of Harry, Liana, Oliver, and Thomas with painting massive letters on four cars at the bottom of the peace sign where the three prongs meet. It takes us over two hours to outline a K on one car, then E, Z, and I on the others. Ximena runs to our Mustang and grabs her portable speakers, and we blast Celia Cruz, who sings that the carnival of life isn’t as cruel as you think, and about Black girls who have tumbao (Azúcar!). As we wait for our streams of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple within the letters to dry a bit, Ximena gives the group a quick salsa lesson and then throws us at each other.

  “May I have this bailar? I’m sorry if I said that wrong, I took GCSE German back home,” the one named Harry says to Genny, who is beside me on the ground. We’ve been sitting in silence, knees to chin, shoulders touching, staring at our sister’s name inscribed on the metal trunks. Soaking it in for her. She looks at me uncertainly, and I smile.

  “God, yes, please take her,” I joke.

  Derek hops down to where Genny was and waves the camera in explanation of his presence. He pans up and down the cars and then leaps back up to walk through the sculpture to get more angles. Nods at me. I nod back.

  I go back to wishing Kezi could see this herself.

  33

  HAPPI

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 3—

  3 MONTHS, 17 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  TAXA, NEW MEXICO

  At first, the news stories would remind me in weeks: a Black teen activist—valedictorian and student body president—died one week ago on her birthday...two weeks ago...three weeks ago. When they moved on, and all that was left was the ghost of our final conversation and the spirit of heartbreak throughout the Smith household, I would count the time that fluttered by myself. Today Kezi would have been a day closer to nineteen years old, that funny age that is technically teenage but still adult, like eighteen, except without the pomp. She will never get to celebrate those uneventful birthdays, the twenty-threes or forty-fours. Instead she is three months and seventeen days dead, with an eternity to go.

  Getting out of bed, pulling the curtains back to expose the sun, showering, and making myself presentable to a world I do not want to interact with today feels impossible. I have—we all have—been moving nonstop for almost a week. I have embraced Kezi more these past six days than I have in years. I have kept her words close, meditated on them night and day like a psalm. I have attempted to get into her head to better understand my sister. But I have kept the why of it all, the why she is not
with us, at an arm’s distance. Guilt seeps into my skin when I ask myself, Why her? When I know that perhaps that would mean someone else would lose a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend, a best friend. And I know that Kezi would give her life up to prevent anyone from undergoing what she went through, what her loved ones went through in losing her. The why of why did this happen is a sticky web with many threads. Do I mean:

  Why did she go to the rally?

  Why did they arrest her?

  Why did she get sent to that jail?

  Why did she die?

  Why do Black people get disproportionately killed by law enforcement?

  Why did this fact weigh heavy enough on Kezi’s heart to speak up about it?

  Why didn’t I pay attention until it happened to me?

  Why did it feel like the world only cared about her death because of “everything” she had “going” for her?

  Why did that matter?

  Why does it feel like she’s not really gone?

  I can barely lift my head from my pillow this morning, let alone pick up my phone when I hear a buzz beside me on the nightstand.

  Hey, hey. Are you almost done? We’re waiting downstairs and checkout is in a few.

  I didn’t bother to change into sleeping clothes when I got to my room yesterday. The drive to New Mexico was smooth, but I am starting to miss home, the couch I sleep on downstairs... I am considering moving back into my room, even with the memories of Kezi steps away from my door. I no longer believe they will suffocate me.

  Not gonna lie. Haven’t started packing. Feeling...introspective.

  It is still uncomfortable to be open with Genny, but I force myself to do it. We are the two remaining of Job’s three daughters. So many of the women in the Bible are faceless. Even some of the genealogies list just the men and boys, like they populated the earth alone. But Jemima, Keziah, and Keren-Happuch are noted as descendants of a man who experienced the worst events of his life as a bet between God and the devil, and was then gifted with three daughters as consolation for all his suffering.