I am so tired. So, so tired. But as I have drifted to and from this world over the past few days and months, I have held on to a lifeline. And I need answers.
“Mark.” I place down my fork. Since waking up from the last time he put me under, I have tried to smile often. Not make any movements that would make him nervous. Or angry. I can’t take any more of whatever he’s been using to knock me out. My eyelids are still only half-open, and I need, need, need to get back to myself if I want any chance of escaping this monster.
“Yes, Kezi?”
I contain the shudder at the sound of my name from his chapped lips and look down at the table, hoping I look ashamed. “I have my period.”
Mark blinks and stares at the ceiling. Groans at the disruption my biology causes him. He has asked about my menstruation from the beginning of this nightmare, but it’s been missing since my birthday.
“Can you use toilet paper?”
No, you cruel, stupid, idiot, I cannot. Do I look like a confused middle schooler to you?
I hang my head low to give my neck some respite and to wipe my eyes. My shoulders heave up and down silently.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry! I will be right back,” he says. “And I hate to be that guy...but there really isn’t any point in running, okay? The convenience store is right across the street.”
I nod. Sniffle.
He walks toward the door and my spirit soars. But it comes crashing back down to earth when he returns to the table to grab his cell phone. And then he’s at the door again, locking it behind him as he leaves.
I exhale, trying to center my raging emotions. My legs are lead and jelly at the same time. They wouldn’t be able to carry me two yards past the doorway, especially since I’m tied to the cabin’s bed like a ship moored to a dock. I’m scared to think of what Mark would do if he found me outside, frozen in my mission to escape. I’m not going anywhere.
Mark’s laptop is open on the bed. When we entered the cabin, he made a big show of promising to be “respectful” and offering me whichever side of the mattress I wanted. My face remained neutral as I shrieked inwardly and pointed stiffly to the side farthest from the door when I realized he was waiting for an actual answer. He’d nodded, pleased.
I hobble over to the computer, careful not to trip on the rope at my feet, and tap the keys desperately to wake it up. My stomach drops. Of course there is a password. I pause and think. And type. The box of concealed letters shakes to tell me I’m wrong. I try again. Same thing. I pause to collect my thoughts. I can’t have the computer lock me out and keep me from what may be my one shot out of here. Maybe...
generationkeZi!
My hands start to tremble when the computer twinkles to life, pulling up the last thing Mark must have been watching while I was knocked out. I see my once-hopeful face staring back at me. For a flicker of a second, I wonder if the unsettling messages to my account have stopped, since he has the real thing right here. But I’m not using the priceless few minutes I have to figure it out. YouTube is up, and the boxes of images on the Recommended section are all from my channel. I click one to get to my page and choose the most recent video. I gasp.
“Hey, y’all, we’re at the Chevy Ranch!”
Derek’s voice flows from the speaker as the camera points at a row of painted cars. He zooms in on the letters that spell out my name while Genny, Happi, and Ximena, who stand before them, present their handiwork with arms open wide. The screen cuts to them dancing salsa at various levels of skill along with four white people I don’t recognize. This time, I tear up for real. They haven’t forgotten about me. Happi is even there, looking, well, happy. When Mark said he saw them, I knew it had to be because they were going on the road trip I planned. But he didn’t mention anything about them filming it for my channel.
The slam of a car door jolts me. Mark is going to be here any second and I’ve wasted precious time watching YouTube videos. I consider sending an email. How simple would it be to send a mass message screaming I’M ALIVE? But who would believe that it was me and not some cruel monster who’s hacked my account? Keys jingle at the front door. Mark curses as the doorknob jams. I scroll down to the comments and type the first thing I think of.
I press Send.
The spinning wheel of death pops up, and I choke back a scream.
My message doesn’t go through.
36
HAPPI
MONDAY, AUGUST 6—
3 MONTHS, 20 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST
PINES, ARIZONA
“Who’s ready for an amazing show?!”
Genny, Derek, Ximena, and I sit side by side in the third row of the annual Black Rodeo Extravaganza put on by the National Association of Black Cowboys. The MC is doing a great job hyping up the crowd. The audience, full of people of all ages, cheers for the nine individuals who stand in the center of the rodeo ring.
“I’m Cowboy Rick, and these are your performers for today!” Rick goes down the row and has each person introduce themselves. Eight men, and a woman named Cheryl. Each of them waves a temporary goodbye to the audience and heads to the sidelines to wait their turn to show off their skills.
“Now a true rodeo show is risky business.” Cowboy Rick speaks clearly into his mic. “Each of the cowboys and cowgirl are trained professionals. We ask that everyone remain in their seats and out of the ring for their own safety and for the safety of our performers and livestock.”
With that final warning out of the way, the show begins.
The performance is mesmerizing. One after another the entertainers try their hand at bareback horse-riding, barrel racing, calf roping, and more. Each time they succeed with their tricks, the crowd explodes with applause.
Our attention has been glued to the ring for over an hour when Cowboy Rick’s voice booms through the speakers, “All right now, everyone. It’s time for the grand finale and what you’re all here for—bull riding!”
The audience members jump to their feet as soon as the first cowboy bounces into the center of the ring hanging on for dear life on the back of a bucking bull. His right arm whips back and forth with every jerk of the animal, but he holds on tight. For a brief moment, I wonder if the bull is okay with all of this, just as it stretches its hind legs and kicks them both back in the air with all of its might. The cowboy flies off and lands flat on his back. The wind must be knocked out of him, because he lies there, stunned.
“Get up! Get up!” the members of the audience chant.
The bull seems disoriented from the weight of the rider now being off its back, and it faces in the opposite direction. But then it gives its head one good shake and turns toward the cowboy, who is still lying on the ground. The bull lowers its large head and charges straight for the fallen man. The audience’s screams are deafening as the cowboy lifts himself off the ground just in time to avoid being impaled by the bull’s horns. He races to the sidelines and jumps over the fence in one leap, safely putting a barrier between himself and the provoked animal.
The crowd erupts with cheers at the narrow escape.
“That was a close one!” Cowboy Rick exclaims. “Our cowboy was on Black Lightning for a total of four seconds. That’s the time to beat. Let’s see how our other competitors fare.”
“Only four seconds?!” Derek blurts out from where he sits at the end of the row. “That felt like an eternity!” He’s enjoying himself and hasn’t taken his eyes off the ring once.
The show ends with only two minor injuries and as the audience trickles out, I see little Black and Brown kids mimicking the moves they just witnessed. We follow everyone out of the rodeo ring and watch as people make their way to different stations. There are guests swinging lassos in the air in one corner, and others being helped onto the backs of horses in a small ring.
We stand close to the horseback riders and wait for the host to meet us. Genny, who’s been recording since we arrived at th
e rodeo, has the camera fixed on Ximena.
“Wasn’t that amazing?” Ximena says excitedly. “The National Association of Black Cowboys puts on a traveling show every summer. Kezi kept everything about this trip a surprise but she was so happy to learn that their Arizona stop would happen while we were in town that she couldn’t help but share her excitement with me. Witnessing this myself, I can see why!”
“Hey, y’all!” Cowboy Rick walks over. He is, of course, using his very large ten-, twenty-, fifty-gallon cowboy hat to wave at us. “Thank you so much for coming to our Black Rodeo Extravaganza. We’re beyond pleased and honored you’re here.” He sticks out his hand to greet us, and we each introduce ourselves.
“Thank you for having us,” Ximena says. “That was a fantastic show.”
Cowboy Rick takes us around the ranch that the National Association of Black Cowboys has rented for the day. He’s a country man through and through, from his slow drawl when he speaks down to the sharp spurs on the back of his boots.
“How did you get into the rodeo business?” Genny asks from behind the camera.
“Well, we’ve had cowboys in my family for generations. My father is a cowboy and his father before him was one too. It’s in my blood.”
“I had no idea there were Black cowboys,” I say, impressed.
Cowboy Rick nods. “I’m not surprised. But that’s what the NABC is here to help change. Black cowboys are as American as apple pie, but we haven’t seen that reflected in the mainstream. At the height of cowboy culture, one in every four cowboys was Black.”
“Are you serious?” Derek asks. “I wish I had known that! I used to watch Westerns with my brother and my little cousins all the time. A Black cowboy would’ve changed the game.”
“Absolutely. The crazy thing about it is that during the Civil War, African Americans were the ones tending to the ranches while Southern and Western whites went to fight for the Confederacy. After they lost the war, you had white folks coming back to their farms in need of help taking care of the land and minding the animals, and that’s where Black cowboys came in. There was no barbed wire or mass transport at the time, so Black cowboys worked alongside white ones to herd animals, manage stampedes, and even fight Native Americans as they crossed through their lands.”
“Wow. Nothing like fighting folks in their own homes to rally people together,” I say sarcastically.
“It was a different time,” Cowboy Rick says simply. I try not to roll my eyes.
“What were Black women doing during this time?” Genny asks for the sake of the rolling camera.
“Black women were there, holding down the home and doing other activities they traditionally did back then,” Cowboy Rick answers. “But there were a few women who were pretty notorious in their own right. One woman in particular, Mary Fields, or better known as Stagecoach Mary, was the first African American woman mail carrier for the United States Post Office. Before that, she worked at a convent but was asked to leave.”
“Why’s that?” Derek asks.
“Well...she was a two-gun-wielding, hard-liquor-drinking, shit-talking badass who wore men’s clothing. Not exactly convent material. According to legend, the offense that got her kicked out was when she and a janitor got into an argument and they pulled their guns on each other.”
Ximena clasps her hands above her heart and laughs. “Oh my goodness, I think I’m in love.”
* * *
After the tour with Cowboy Rick, we sit down to eat. It’s one of the best meals we’ve had since embarking on our road trip. Fried catfish, collard greens, and a side of mac and cheese that has Genny running around asking anyone she can find about the recipe. It’s a heavy lunch, but we worked up an appetite spending a whole day trying to be rodeo people.
As I finish my second plate of food, I scroll through the comments on our most recently posted video and think back to the last time I was on Kezi’s page. Have there been any developments in the two days since I learned of Shaqueria’s disappearance? Once we got to our hotel that night, I’d done an internet search and found that prissyhoward was Priscilla Howard, a high school drama teacher in Jackson, Mississippi. But as for Shaqueria, it was almost like she didn’t exist—the one social media account I found of hers was devoid of pictures and there was a single video of her uploaded on YouTube by the county’s public school drama program over a year ago. The caption explained that the clip was of District Independent Events Winner Shaqueria Jenkins performing a monologue as Beneatha Younger, the ambitious daughter in A Raisin in the Sun. Her performance was...breathtaking. Still, I had clicked out of the window quickly; seeing an echo of my sister’s face on another body was too much.
I keep an eye out for anything else now as I continue reading the comments and leaving short messages for the subscribers who have shared their love for our road trip. Others ask questions that I do my best to answer:
Q: Where do you all sleep?
A: Hotels and motels but we’d love to stay at a “tourist home” that was once listed in the Green Book. They were like Airbnbs for Black people and are incredibly rare these days
Q: Who picked that car y’all are getting around in?
A: That was allllll Kezi! Very lowkey and modest decorating I know
Q: Who does the most driving?
A: Definitely Genny but mainly because she’s such a back seat driver otherwise
And then...my eyes fall on a comment that has my entire body breaking out in goose bumps.
You don’t get tired of always being so woke? Go take a nap sometime, damn!
There’s no way I could ever forget the last words I said to Kezi. I’ve been playing them on repeat since the moment they rolled off of my tongue.
The account name shouldn’t mean anything to me—mr.no.struggle.no.progress.—but I pause on it as something tickles at the back of my mind. Would one of the students who was around when I said the most regrettable words of my life leave this comment as a prank? Why would someone be so cruel? But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if that’s not it at all. I open up a separate tab, my pulse pounding as I type the username to see what I can find. The blood that was so swiftly running through my veins freezes as I see pages and pages of comments on Kezi’s YouTube channel. Some seem normal but others are decidedly off. I realize then that I’ve come across a few of them myself in the time since we began the trip. Not too long ago, Genny, Ximena, Derek, and I were talking about the strange posts that Kezi would receive. But to see a complete record of this one user’s interactions is chilling.
I know I’ll sound ridiculous, but I type up a response and barely want to think as my heart pummels my chest. Could Kezi be—
“You ready?” Genny claps a hand on my shoulder, and I stifle the scream that bubbles up to my throat.
“Whoa,” Genny says looking at me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yea-yeah. I’m good. Let’s go get Ximena and D.”
* * *
We say our goodbyes to Cowboy Rick and the other performers and pack ourselves into the car. It’s my turn to drive. I settle behind the wheel and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I don’t want to worry the others and tell them about the bizarre comment that I came across, but it’s taking all of my strength to stay focused. I adjust myself in the seat again and check my mirrors twice before heading to the hotel where we’ll be spending the night.
I don’t argue with Genny when she asks to choose the playlist. As I drive, my thoughts hone in on the likelihood that one of my classmates hates me enough to cause me emotional distress. While I haven’t always been the friendliest, I don’t think there’s anyone who would try to hurt me in such a way as to relive one of my least-proud moments. But if this isn’t the work of some unidentified enemy, then who could it be? Because the alternative is impossible. Isn’t it? To think that Kezi could be...alive? I can’t even
begin to let myself imagine something as wild as that. One mention of this to Genny would definitely have her cutting our trip short and marching me straight into a doctor’s office.
I’m still trying to contain these absurd thoughts when the red-and-blue lights of a cop car reflect off the windshield and snap my attention back to the road.
“Aw shit,” Derek whispers from the back seat.
I was distracted, that was certain, what with thoughts of Kezi swirling like a cyclone in my head. But I know I wasn’t speeding. My nails are digging crescents into my palms as I pull over. I turn down the volume of the radio. Genny switches the music from Cardi B to Carole King. She must see how tightly I’m gripping the wheel, because she peels the fingers of my right hand off, one by one. She holds my hand in her lap and tells me to look at her.
“We’re okay,” she says. I nod and wait for the officer to get to my side of the car. He taps on the glass, and I move slowly to press the button to lower the window.
“Hello, Officer,” I say as politely as my nerves allow me.
“Hello, young lady,” the officer says. “Do you know why I’m pulling you over?”
I can feel the tears welling in my eyes at the simple question. I need to calm myself down. Some officers don’t take kindly to emotional Black girls blubbering behind the wheel of a car.
“N-n-no,” I stammer.
“You just switched lanes back there and didn’t use a signal.” The policeman bends down to get a closer look at my face and I suck in a breath. I think back to seconds earlier, see myself maneuver the car to the right lane without warning, submerged in my thoughts. He stares at me a little longer, and then glances at Ximena in the back, his gaze lingering on Derek beside her before moving to Genny beside me. “Wait. I know you guys.”
Genny tightens her grip on my hand.
“You’re sisters of that girl who...who died recently. You’re on a road trip in her honor.”
One of the Good Ones Page 24