One of the Good Ones

by Maika Moulite

  Genny and I survive Kezi. Who she was will live on with us and Derek and Ximena. Even when I wake up with a mind full of whys, I have to remember that.

  The knock on my door brings me back, and I creak it open slightly to see Genny, her black suitcase in tow. I open the door fully to greet her, but before I can she starts talking.

  “So,” Genny says nervously. “Kezi had an idea that she hoped you would like. She wanted to have you play the part of Great-Grandma Evelyn from that project she was working on. She even reached out to a Shakespeare and the POC troupe to record them for her YouTube channel and everything. They perform Shakespeare but add their own twist to it. And they also incorporate the works of authors of color whose pieces should be considered classics too. But then when she...when she...when all of this happened, they never got to finalize anything. It was a long shot, but a few weeks ago I reached out to them myself. To see if they’d be open to doing something in her memory.”

  “What did they say?” I ask tentatively.

  Genny smiles. “They said yes. And they agreed to have you play Evelyn.”

  “What? Why would they do that?”

  “Well, Kezi recorded you practicing at home for the audition you had around the time of her birthday, without you knowing, and sent it to me. I remember her saying that you were driving her crazy reciting Helena’s lines for days on end, but you were pretty good. When I reached out to the troupe, I sent them the clip. They were eager to commemorate her, and after they saw you practicing, they were even more excited.”

  Whoa.

  “It’s for a podcast recording, so you’ll have the script the whole time,” Genny continues. “We wanted it to be a surprise that we could share with you together. But...”

  My sister’s ghost squeezes at my heart. “Genny, this is...this is amazing.”

  “When Kezi first mentioned she wanted to go on this road trip, we both knew you wouldn’t really be down for it. So we thought of something you might like, something just for you. And I know I don’t say it enough, but you are so talented, Happi. Kezi thought so too. This was going to be our way of showing that we support your dreams. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that we need to share how we’re feeling with each other while we have the chance.”

  I knew my sisters loved me, but in recent years it had felt like it was in that mandatory, familial way. As we grew further and further apart over time, I became uncertain about whether they were proud of me or even liked me. But as I watch Genny hold out a script to me and bite the side of her lip, I realize that my fears were unfounded.

  I throw my arms around Genny and hold her tight. We stand together, silent, as we find strength in each other’s embrace, the weight of Kezi’s presence hanging over us even in her absence.

  * * *

  “Welcome, Happi! Or should I say, ‘fair Helena’?”

  The theater director, Lionel Khan, shakes my hand firmly as Genny, Derek, and Ximena sit in the stands watching eagerly, as though this interaction were the show itself.

  “I’m so happy we were able to make this happen,” he says. “It’s truly our honor to commemorate Kezi and to have you with us. The clip that Genny sent of you was spectacular.”

  “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” I say bashfully.

  There is a sizeable crowd of diverse young families and couples here for the performance. A few people are just arriving, while others have settled in, baskets of picnic foods spread out to be eaten. There is even a camera crew from a local news station.

  The other actors are already seated in a semicircle, microphones poised in front of them like miniature disco balls. I walk to the empty seat located in the center of the performers and shuffle into place. I’m nervous, the pages of the script trembling in my hands as I adjust and readjust them. I look out at the audience and make eye contact with Genny. I can tell she is so proud, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness sitting right below the surface of her pleased expression. I know she is thinking the same refrain that has been echoing through my mind for this entire trip: Kezi should be here.

  Lionel stands before the audience, and the conversations slow until it is completely silent.

  “Greetings, everyone. Thank you so much for joining us for this recording of the Shakespeare and the POC podcast episode of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  Everyone claps in response. A few guests cheer.

  “Before we begin, we wanted to share a last-minute addition to the program that we think everyone will enjoy. A few months ago, we received an email from a young lady named Keziah Smith. She had a project she was working on that she wanted our help with. We were so excited for the chance to collaborate, but soon after, Kezi’s life was cut short.”

  I stare ahead, above everyone sitting on the ground in front of me as Lionel tells the crowd how saddened the troupe was to learn of what happened to Kezi, and how honored they are to have the chance to commemorate her today. He continues, sharing his thoughts on the importance of uplifting the voices of people of color, but I’m no longer listening. If I’m going to play my part, then I need to remember why I’m here. Because Kezi and Genny care about me. Because they want me to be happy. I take in a deep breath and release it, the tension sliding from my shoulders, down my arms, through my fingertips, until it floats far and away from me. I’m going to do this. And I’m going to do it well.

  “Happi? Would you like to say any words?”

  Lionel is looking at me expectantly and I smile, lean forward into my mic.

  “Hi, everyone. Thank you for being here today.” I clear my throat. “So, I learned about this project just a few hours ago when my sister Genny came to my hotel room and shared what she and Kezi had planned months before. I’m not exactly a...road trip kind of girl.” Members of the audience chuckle. “But my sisters figured out a way to make me feel like this adventure was something I could enjoy too. And for that I am grateful. I’ve learned so much about my family, my friends, and myself throughout this trip. I never would’ve imagined that I’d be in New Mexico performing a piece my sister Kezi wrote to honor our own ancestors as a way to honor her. But here we are. And I’m going to do my best to help bring her words to life and make her proud.”

  I look over at Genny, Derek, and Ximena. They are firecrackers on a hot summer night, shimmering bright with joy. Crackling with anticipation.

  “Thank you, Happi. We know you will do just that,” Lionel says kindly. He waves his hand with a flourish to begin. “Without further ado, we bring you the story of Evelyn Hayes.”

  I begin. “Oh, how I miss my hair.”

  34

  HAPPI

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 4—

  3 MONTHS, 18 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  FOUR CORNERS, ARIZONA

  One way in and one way out. That’s all we’ve seen for the last few hours as we drive down the two-lane road that’s taken us from New Mexico to Arizona. The windows are down, and fresh air fills the car, Ximena’s playlist crooning softly in the background. I look to my right and see wide open fields of brown. Bunches of fluffy white clouds flirt with the rocky sienna mountaintops while others kiss them outright. Even in this sparse land there are signs of life. If I look closely, tufts of green grass fight valiantly through choked earth as if to say I’m still here.

  I’m in the back seat with Derek again, and I glance at him. He’s humming along to the song that’s playing, his fingers tap tap tapping against his leg in time to the music. I smile, and he turns to me at that exact moment. I don’t like that I’m caught staring, but he gives me a quick wink and turns to look out his window, still jamming.

  Derek was all smiles after my Shakespeare and the POC performance. He pulled me into a tight embrace and said, “I’m sorry for what I said. Of course you can hold your own. That was stupid to get jealous.” I nodded, and he grinned at me so wide that I could feel my fac
e warm to 100 degrees from all the brightness. Any trace of our argument is long gone now.

  “We’re almost there, everyone,” Genny says from the passenger seat.

  I look straight ahead through the windshield and see a short line of cars waiting to enter the Four Corners Monument. We pay our fee and park our car in a row next to the other people who’ve come to be in four places at once. The ground crunches beneath our feet as we walk past stands of food, jewelry, and other crafts. A sign lets us know that the monument is administered by the Navajo Parks and Recreation Department. Derek holds the camera and captures our every step.

  “This is only a quick pit stop,” Ximena says into the lens when Derek pans to her. “But we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be here. The Four Corners Monument is where Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico all meet. It’s the only place in the US where four states intersect.”

  There aren’t too many people left to take photos, so the four of us stand together and wait. I glance around at the wide expanse and think how strange it is that the point of overlap for multiple territories is so...unassuming. I could easily imagine it being overrun by skateboarders, each daredevil using the ramps, benches, and guardrails as catapults for their outrageous tricks. A young couple walks up to take their picture and they stand across from each other, each of their feet planted on a state’s name, and kiss over the brass circle on the ground that marks the intersection point. A family of six is next, a harried-looking mother and father quickly corral their four small children together for their photo and they’re done in a matter of seconds, surprisingly efficient. Then, it’s our turn.

  The four of us position ourselves so that we are each on our own section. We look up and grin at the camera Derek hovers above us. We start to step away but stop when someone behind us offers to take a group photo. We turn to see an elderly couple wearing coordinated outfits smiling at us. The husband’s shirt reads I’m Looking for Trouble while the wife’s has Hi, I’m Trouble. Derek starts to give the camera to them, but Genny puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls out her phone instead.

  “This’ll be easier,” she explains.

  Derek walks over and shows “Trouble” how to take the picture, and we pause for a second time and smile.

  “Perfect!” Mr. Trouble says as he surveys his wife’s photo-taking skills.

  “Thank you very much,” Ximena says.

  “You’re wel—Oh, you have an incoming call.”

  “I’ll take it.” Genny steps up to retrieve her phone. “It’s my mom.”

  Genny greets Ma on the phone and pauses for a moment. “Seriously? Mom. That’s amazing! Kezi would—” She steps away from us to get a bit of privacy from Double Trouble, whose ears seem to have perked up at her excitement.

  Derek, Ximena, and I stay to chat a bit with the couple after moving out of the way of the other visitors eager to take pictures. Everything is fine until the woman pulls Ximena to the side and asks in a whisper if Genny and I are the sisters of “that girl who passed away out in California—the name sounds familiar, you know the one.”

  I can’t fight the feeling that I’m about to become another thing to ogle at this roadside attraction, so I excuse myself and walk around the stands. I stop at one of the jewelry tables to look at handcrafted bracelets, necklaces, and other pieces. A row of delicate silver cuffs with an embedded turquoise teardrop gem in the center of each band catches my eye.

  “So beautiful,” I say to myself as I touch it gently.

  “It is,” Ximena says as she walks up beside me, Derek in tow.

  “Y’all finally got rid of that couple?” I ask, masking my disturbance with a smirk.

  “Finally,” Derek says with an exaggerated sigh. “Man, those people could talk!”

  “Genny wants to get some footage of the landscape with us in it, so she sent us to look for you. You ready?”

  “Yeah.” I follow Ximena as Derek trails behind us.

  We find Genny standing alone, waiting for us where we entered the monument. She’s admiring the Arizona scenery, southwest plains rolling out to meet craggy mountains in the distance.

  “Who knew dirt could look so amazing, right?” I say to get her attention.

  “It’s beautiful in a desolate kind of way,” she answers.

  Genny adjusts the camera in her hands and takes a few moments to film the four of us hanging out and admiring the world around us. Derek and Ximena are chatting quietly, so I pull out my phone to check Kezi’s YouTube page. I make my way through the latest comments, answering each one as I scroll along. I stop when I come across a post from a prissyhoward.

  Have you seen this girl?

  Name: Shaqueria Jenkins

  Age: 18

  Race: Black

  My sister works for the district and learned that Shaqueria was arrested the same day as Kezi. They were taken to the same jail, but no one has heard from her. We’ve tried reaching out to the police department, but they say she was released. However, we recently learned that her personal belongings are still at the jail. No one has had any contact with Shaqueria, and we have reason to believe that she is missing or worse.

  There is a link included at the end of the comment, and I click through. The window opens...and my heart seems to freeze midpump as I am greeted by the smiling face of someone I recognize. It’s the girl from the Thatcher Academy audition. I was so wrapped up in my own drama that day, I hadn’t taken a close look at her. But now that I’m able to see her clearly, I notice she looks startlingly like Kezi—full lips, high cheekbones, warm, bright brown eyes.

  Something twists in my chest as I remember my last phone call with Santiago. “...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.” My stomach churns, becoming a tangled mess of knots as my mind works to make sense of it all.

  I’m still looking at my phone when Genny walks up beside me. She gingerly places the cover over the camera’s lens, apparently satisfied with the footage she’s recorded. Derek and Ximena join us, and I can tell they’re all restless and ready to wrap up our time at the Four Corners.

  Just as I open my mouth to share the comment on Kezi’s page, Ximena speaks. “How’d your call with your mom go?”

  “It was good. Really good,” Genny answers. “There are some members of Congress rallying to introduce legislation that will be named in Kezi’s honor.”

  “That’s amazing!” Ximena exclaims.

  “So dope,” Derek agrees.

  My instinct to speak up about the post on the page disappears, replaced by a large lump in my throat as I try to respond to this latest news. The feeling of loss that is usually so close to the surface whenever I think about Kezi is still there. Just as wide, just as deep. But now I have a bit of hope budding right alongside it.

  “She would’ve liked that,” I finally choke out.

  Genny pulls me into a hug, and I hold on tight. “Yeah she would,” she whispers into my hair.

  35

  KEZI

  MONDAY, AUGUST 6—

  3 MONTHS, 20 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  SOMEWHERE IN ARIZONA

  The chicken is unseasoned and dry, but I take a teeny bite anyway. My head weighs about as much as ten bags of sand, and I’m not sure my neck can support it much longer. My right ankle is rubbed raw from a rope that Mark keeps knotted around it. The other end of the rope is securely tied to the foot of the bed. It’s just long enough for me to walk throughout the cabin we’re in but short enough to keep me from walking out the door.

  The days since Ellis’s accident have been cloaked in mist. I try and I try to sieve through my memories for a full picture. But all I come up with is losing the fight against my closing eyes and waking up here. Welcome to Arizona, Mark had whispered this morning. I was just one state away from home. An image of the maps
papering the walls of my freezer prison flashes in my mind, and I think I know where we’re going. I made a separate video months ago about my excitement over visiting the Grand Canyon and founding a new tradition for me and my loved ones. If I am learning the machinations this man is capable of, then I think a crooked, rotted extended olive branch by way of a visit to a national park is in my immediate future.

  We are face-to-face, seated at a small wooden table in the cabin. There’s not much else here: a drab gray bathroom, a queen bed probably festering with bedbugs, and a clunky old television that needs an antenna to work. For the past three hours, I have been clutching my midsection and moaning quietly to myself. I know he’s heard me. I can see the tick, tick, ticking of his brain as he debates whether to acknowledge it. A thick forest surrounds us on every side and largely blocks our one window, but we can’t be that far from civilization, because Mark looks more agitated than usual. He’s trying to appear calm, but I have followed the shifting of his eyes from left to right throughout our lunch and since we arrived in Arizona early this morning. Maybe somewhere in the pit that is his mind he’s realizing the irrationality of his actions. I’ve abandoned my hospitalized, injured, elderly father to run off with my captured victim who is believed to be dead. Help, I’ve run out of ideas. Think, think, think, think, think.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he says, motioning to the feast of soggy rotisserie chicken, boxed golden raisins, and sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. His cell phone hangs precariously off the edge of the table, and I try not to think about how help is lying on the other side of a phone call. “Even the saloon’s food is better than this slop.”

  I breathe deeply and shut my eyes. “Is that really what you’re sorry for?”