One of the Good Ones

by Maika Moulite

  “Yes, Officer,” Genny answers, stepping in because I am trembling like a leaf beside her. “But...um. How do you know that? Sir,” she adds.

  “Paul, call me Paul,” the officer says. “But yes, I saw it on the morning news. They had a really touching segment about it. Where did y’all stop today?” If Officer Paul notices me trying my hardest to keep it together in the front seat, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  Genny tells the officer about our time with Cowboy Rick, but I can tell she’s on edge too. She and the others’ laughs sound hollow as they politely listen to the policeman joke about his first time attending a rodeo.

  He’s talking about his favorite Western films when he cuts himself off. “Where are my manners? You all must be exhausted! Let me escort you to your hotel. Where are you guys headed?”

  Officer Paul walks back to his car and soon drives ahead of us so that he can guide us to our destination. I’m on autopilot as I follow him. All I have to do is make it to the hotel, and we’ll be all right. In a few minutes, we’re in front of the building. Officer Paul drives up beside us and rolls his window down.

  “All right, y’all. Have a good night. And have a safe rest of your trip, you hear?”

  He waves at us one last time, and Genny, Derek, and Ximena mirror the motion. As soon as he drives off, I crumple in my seat. The anxiety that I’ve kept from spilling out from my insides is now rushing off my body in waves. Tears are dripping down my face, and I hiccup from how hard I cry. My shoulders shake with sobs that have been buried deep inside me from the moment I learned Kezi was gone.

  Is this how my sister felt in her final moments? Pure terror had coursed through my body from only being pulled over. What must it have been like for Kezi to have an officer restrain her? To put her in the back of a police car? There was no denying that the officer’s gaze had stayed a bit longer on Derek in the back seat as he inspected us. I don’t even want to consider how differently things could’ve turned out if the policeman hadn’t recognized us, if he wasn’t a nice man, if he perhaps didn’t think we were some of the “good ones.”

  I’m wailing now. What do people who don’t have a YouTube page with a formidable fan base rely on when they’re pulled over? I know I should keep quiet, since we’re parked in front of the hotel, but I can’t plug the avalanche of grief that has been weighing me down from dislodging itself from where it’s hidden for the last few months. These demons are being purged right now.

  “I was so scared,” I say through my sobs.

  Genny pulls me into an embrace and lets me cry until every tear is shed.

  37

  KEZI

  MONDAY, AUGUST 6—

  3 MONTHS, 20 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  SOMEWHERE IN ARIZONA

  Go, go, go, go, go. I press on the comment button one last time to see if the message will post and sigh in heavy relief when it ultimately goes through after I refresh the page. I turn to stagger back to the table but realize I haven’t closed the window. I click to the home page and put the computer to sleep.

  The knob finally turns.

  “Oh, you’re up,” Mark says, carrying a plastic bag full of snacks. His gaze darts to his computer, which appears untouched.

  “I was trying to open the door for you,” I say quickly, my hand on my stomach. “You were struggling.”

  He smiles and walks toward me. I force myself to stand in place.

  “I told them these were for my wife,” he says, holding up another bag full of pads and tampons. He laughs to himself. “So it wouldn’t be weird.”

  Holy shit.

  I take them and nod. “Thank you.”

  “You can say my name, you know.” The monster stands before me, with his mouth turned up at the corner. Waiting.

  “Thank you... Mark.”

  “You’re very welcome, Kezi. I’ll see you in, oh, let’s say three minutes?”

  He motions to the bathroom. Shows his teeth in what I’m sure he thinks is a smile. It’s more than the two minutes he usually gives me, but apparently menstruation makes him generous. I still haven’t actually gotten my period. I suspect that’s due to a mix of the stress of this entire experience, my weight loss, and the drug cocktail he uses to keep me down. But I need some more time alone. Even if it’s sixty seconds.

  The only window in the bathroom is a small rectangle way up on the wall near the showerhead. It’s so high that I’m too short to even attempt to crack it open, even when standing on the edge of the tub. I can’t waste any more time on escape plans that won’t work.

  I unwrap a tampon.

  * * *

  “Feeling any better?” Mark shouts through the door. I swing it open before he does it himself.

  “I get terrible cramps, but I should be okay,” I say, arranging my lips into what I hope looks like a grateful smile pushing through pain. “Thank you again.”

  I move to the bed, pull back the stiff, dingy comforter and sit down gingerly. All I want is for my body to get back to normal. To know that, when I try to run, I won’t pass out, and he won’t catch me.

  “Mark?”

  He looks up from his computer, surprised. I usually refuse to speak to him. But I need him on my side. And that means making him believe I’ve accepted my fate as his hostage.

  “Could you please tell me more about the girl who...you found in the jail?”

  He gets a look on his face as if he’s debating in his mind, and then he relents. “It’s not a very interesting story, Kezi. I’ve told you that already.”

  I hear the exasperation and push a little further. Clutch my middle and bend over, in pain. “Please, Mark? Just to distract me?”

  “Okay, okay. When you two walked into the jail, I saw the resemblance immediately. She looked, you know, rougher, but so similar in face and body type. After the fire,” he continues as though he was not the person behind the conflagration that destroyed a police precinct, “I had to act fast. So after she died, I pulled her out of her cell and into yours. I compared bodies—don’t worry, even though I had to do it quickly, I was incredibly respectful,” he says earnestly. “Being a medicolegal death investigator was very, very useful. I’m the guy who calls up families and confirms identities and assembles histories...and explores bodies to get more information for cases.”

  I tug the comforter up to my chest, to block this invasion of privacy. But it is too late.

  “I rummaged through my investigation kit, found a permanent marker to dot a smattering of moles exactly like the patch on your right shoulder blade. Parted her hair to the left to match your hairstyle that day. And switched her into your clothes,” he explains.

  I breathe out, hopefully pushing my revulsion away with the air.

  “Didn’t anyone notice she was gone? Or that she was...dead and I was passed out?”

  “I’m no Usain Bolt but I’m speedier than I look.” He barks out a laugh. “Trust me. Common sense flies out of people’s heads when they’re running for their lives. And who was going to believe anything some thuggish prisoner said if they happened to see anything on their way out? It was a hectic day. I know those guys. The police had no desire to point out that they had a missing body, in the middle of what was already a public relations disaster. That building was overdue for an upgrade, and everyone knew it. Anyway, a kid that age getting busted for dealing drugs? You’re not doing that stuff if you come from a good place. Kismet. Nobody missed her.”

  He looked up to the ceiling, as if checking to see if he remembered everything.

  “As for your parents...when they came to claim you, her body was burned so badly that what they saw of her looked like your identifiers, so...”

  Oh God.

  The thought of my parents, filled with grief, trying to pull themselves together to inspect the body of someone who they believed to be their daughter is too much to bear.

 
“What was her name?” I whisper.

  “Boy, I don’t know. It’s not important,” Mark says, sliding his thin hands through his hair, looking awestruck that I am still speaking. “You’re important. She—she’s Claudette Colvin. You’re Rosa Parks.”

  I can’t stop the tears flowing down my face. I am disgusted and angry, but first, I am sad. For this girl whose name I don’t know, who no one knows. Mark might not have killed her, but he desecrated her body and killed her memory. I understand exactly what he means by comparing this young woman from the jail to the teen girl who refused to give up her seat to a white woman on a bus in Alabama nine months before the more socially palatable Rosa Parks did the same thing. Colvin was darker skinned. Became an unwed mother a little after the incident. The protestors fighting for change who prayed at the altar of respectability politics, along with the rest of the world would have said her “baggage” was a distraction.

  “She got booked for drug dealing,” he spits out. “Not exactly helping the cause or fighting the prevailing stereotype about Black people. You, now—you mattered. Straight-A student. Class president. Internet following. Gorgeous face. Beautiful, beautiful future. You were one of the good ones!”

  Mark says this all with a wide grin. It’s clear he believes I should be flattered at the idea that my loss would be felt, but not that of another human being. How could someone who’s watched and rewatched all of my YouTube videos as much as he’s proclaimed to these last few months not see how wrong this is? One of the good ones. How does he not realize that, in order for him to see a young Black girl’s humanity, she must have a list of accomplishments to justify her existence? It’s not right.

  “I also want to apologize,” Mark says, tears pooling suddenly in his wild eyes. The temperature of the room has become intolerable, and beads of sweat are forming on his greasy forehead. He continues, revealing his warped thoughts to me in full. “Not just to you. But to all African Americans who have passed through Edmond. I’ve known about my family’s participation in the mistreatment of your community my entire life. I know it was wrong. I do not condone their actions.”

  I stare at Mark in confusion. But then, I recall his father and his ceaseless verbal abuse. That racist litany rained down on me like clockwork as the days melted into months in the freezer. And yet, it sounds like Mark is talking about something more.

  He pats his pockets and pulls out his cell phone. The screen flashes white as he looks for something on it.

  “But I’ve... I’ve wanted to make up for their wickedness ever since I learned about them. And today... Well, today, I did that.”

  “...What do you mean?” I ask slowly, keeping my voice level and the venom contained.

  “Congresswoman Anushka Patel of California introduced the Kezi Smith Bill in the House of Representatives on Monday, to address the national issue of police brutality, in honor of the slain teenager,” he reads. “That’s you.”

  But I’m alive. I want to scream.

  “You’re young, Kezi, so you may not understand how much of an impact your death has made on the world. How many times has a Black person been killed unjustly by police? Tell me.”

  Mark hops out of his chair and paces back and forth, mumbling more to himself than speaking to me.

  “But I mean, really, what do you expect to change? When you’re dealing with thieves and drug dealers and suspicious-looking people? We’re supposed to have sympathy for them?”

  He stops.

  “Everything you’ve gone through is for the greater good—you know that, right? This is what your community needs! ‘If there is no struggle, there is no progress’, exactly like Frederick Douglass said. You’re so brave, to be this sacrifice, just as I told your sisters.”

  The phone he has been waving in his hand vibrates.

  My heart sinks when he looks down to read the alert, his face contorting into a disbelieving frown. When he speaks, I know my time is up.

  “generationkeZi has replied to your comment?”

  38

  HAPPI

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 7—

  3 MONTHS, 21 DAYS SINCE THE ARREST

  GRAND CANYON, ARIZONA

  The Grand Canyon, in all its majestic, exhausting, imposing glory, is technically not a part of Route 66. But when one of the seven natural wonders of the world is only a short drive away, Kezi will make you stop. And yet, I know it’s more than that—I know she thought about how homogenous our national parks’ visitors are, how many Black people in particular don’t feel welcome in them, and she wanted to be an example to the country that nature is for everyone to appreciate. That doesn’t mean I won’t do a little complaining anyway.

  “So. You’re kidding, right?” I ask the three pairs of eyes that are locked on my face. Genny, Ximena, and Derek stare at me expectantly in hopes that I will change my mind and agree to their absurd idea. “You want us to pay to sleep on the ground?”

  “It’s a campsite!” Genny says. “I said at the very beginning of this trip that there would be some camping. It’s not my fault if you weren’t paying attention.”

  “I didn’t think you were serious!” I reply.

  I can’t believe how eager my road trip companions are to sleep outside.

  “We’ll be under the stars. It’ll be beautiful.” Ximena tries her hand at convincing me.

  “It’s what Kezi wanted,” Derek adds matter-of-factly.

  I sigh, relenting like everyone knew I would. “Fine, fine. Y’all win. But I get dibs on the best of everything. The comfiest piece of ground, first drink of water, biggest piece of chicken, all of it!”

  The three of them cheer in unison, and I roll my eyes to the late-afternoon sky. Lord help us.

  We make for the campsite that Kezi reserved months earlier. It’s situated at the south rim of Grand Canyon National Park and, according to the person at the visitors’ center, it’s the most frequented part of the park. He points out the lavatories on our maps and gives a quick rundown of the rules of the canyon.

  Once we’re at our campground, Genny unlocks her Mary Poppins bag of a trunk and pulls out some of the supplies we’ll need: two tents, and sleeping bags for each of us. I’m surprised to see there’s running water not too far from our site, and a bit farther out, there’s even a shower. We have to pay to use it, but a shower’s a shower.

  Getting a campsite ready is a lot more work than I imagined, because we spend a good deal of time putting together our sleeping arrangements and finding the public bathrooms (which I’m hoping I can hold off using until we’re back in civilization). Finally, we have to set up the campfire.

  “Can you all go grab the wood from the car?” Genny asks us just as I sit down.

  I groan. “You couldn’t say that before I got comfortable?”

  “Come on. This fire isn’t going to start itself,” Genny says, pulling me up.

  “I’ll go with you,” Derek volunteers.

  We head to the car and grab the different sizes of tinder and kindling that are stowed in the trunk. Before arriving at the Grand Canyon, we made a stop to pick up some firewood. Just as I started to comment on the strangeness of paying for wood when it would be in high supply at the campground, Genny had explained that picking up the wood around the campsite was prohibited, because it messed with the ecosystem of the park.

  Derek stands close to me as we gather the supplies, but I don’t move away. I get the feeling there’s something he wants to say, but he doesn’t. I figure he’ll share whatever it is when he’s ready, so I don’t ask.

  We return to the camp, hands laden with our wooden gold, and it takes Ximena and Genny an hour to get the fire started in the allotted fire ring. But it’s there, a small spark coaxed and prodded into a full flame. We sit around the heat and light, each of us lost in our own private thoughts as we eat the chunky vegan chili Genny made. The mood is comfortable and reminds me of
home.

  “The sun is going to start going down soon,” Genny says. “You all should go catch the sunset.”

  “Come with us!” I say as I stand up. It must be the natural beauty of this place, of being surrounded by the rocky gradients of brown, rusty red, and amber, but suddenly I am breathless. Exhilarated.

  “It’s okay. Go on without me. I’ll keep an eye on the fire,” Genny replies. I can feel her sadness, and I know she is thinking about Kezi. About how much she would’ve enjoyed the whole trip. And now her on-the-road love letter is nearing its final sentence.

  Derek and Ximena start walking to the path that will lead us to the canyon, with their flashlights in tow just in case we stay at the cliff longer than we anticipate. But I linger. I don’t say anything as I sit down beside Genny and pull her into an embrace. She’s been with me every step of the way, a welcome support this entire trip. And I have something I need to tell her.

  “Thank you,” I say to my sister as we separate from our hug.

  “For what?” she asks.

  “For getting me to come on this adventure. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re welcome,” Genny says with a small smile.

  We sit like this for a moment, the crackling of the fire ringing out as the wood snaps from the heat. Finally, Genny speaks again. “You know, it still doesn’t feel like she’s gone to me. Even after we’ve been on this entire trip in her honor. I don’t know when it’s supposed to get easier.”

  I don’t answer as I debate whether or not I should finally give voice to the thought that has remained unformed because I refused to let myself go down that path. To hope. But then I give in and speak it aloud. “Would it be crazy to think that she’s not really gone?”

  “Well, none of us are ever really gone,” Genny starts. “She’ll always live on—”

  “No, I mean, what if Kezi is actually alive?”

  My question floats on the air.