My phone buzzes in my pocket, and since Q. is still sorting their cards, I slip the goggles up onto my forehead, take out my phone, and unlock it. I expect it to be a text from Steph asking if I’m okay, but it’s from Malcolm. My throat closes as I read it.
Malcolm: I better not find out you play that shit.
Malcolm is a lot of things, moody being the most annoying, but he’s never aimed his raw anger directly at me before, and my blood is jumping. I reread his text. I better not find out you play that shit . . . or what? I think of Atlanta. I think of our life together at Spelman and Morehouse and all the nights we’ve spent in each other’s arms, dreaming of a future in which we can live surrounded by people who won’t treat us differently because of how we look, and I wonder if Malcolm would give all that up if he found out I play video games. All our plans, gone? Just like that? I glance at my door as if I half expect him to be standing right there. It suddenly feels colder in my room, and I toss my phone on the soft carpet and try to focus on the match.
But I can’t stop imagining what Malcolm would say if he knew I SLAY—or what he might do if he finds out I created this.
6. HOME GAME
* * *
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
My name is Jaylen, and I can’t believe I’m about to start round three of a duel with my celebrity crush.
Most people wouldn’t consider her a celebrity, but I do. Most people haven’t named themselves after a precious jewel because she did, but I have. She’s as magnificent up close as she has been in the arenas. I’ve tried replicating her algae-green dress so many times, but I can never get the design right. Mine always ended up looking like tacky prom dresses. So eventually I gave up and gave myself a huge black robe instead, kind of like PrestoBox.
I still think Presto was robbed in that duel against Zama. Who uses a Hustle card in the last round of the semifinals? A bad sport and a crybaby, that’s who. Cruel.
I look at the cards I’ve got for round three. Emerald’s cards are already on the floor in front of her, and her fingers hover over the one on the left. I’m in the lead, 1200−800, and I might have a shot at this if I can use these last two right. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I got these gloves at a garage sale. They’re fabric, and there’s a hole in the left index finger where one of the sensors keeps popping out, but I can’t afford new ones, so I’ve got to work with what I got.
I couldn’t ask for better round-three cards. The Mumbo Sauce card and the Louisiana Barbecue card, which don’t really go together in real life, since mumbo sauce is mostly found in the DC area, and it’s almost impossible to find authentic Louisiana barbecue anywhere but Louisiana. You’d never see sweet and tangy mumbo sauce at a Louisiana barbecue, but Q.Diamond does what she wants, and today she’s serving Louisiana barbecue with mumbo sauce.
I kneel and touch Louisiana Barbecue first, using my right hand since my left glove is prone to act up. The card flips over, and I whip out a giant brochette from under my robe. I look at it and take a moment to appreciate the artwork. The meat looks juicy enough to eat. The barbecue sauce glistens so pretty I could lick it right off. I want to tell Emerald how beautiful it is and ask her if she lives in Louisiana like I do, but I don’t have time to open my keyboard before she calmly, like the goddess she is, touches her card and holds out both her hands facedown. Then she points at my feet. I look down.
My feet have sunk into the floor of the dueling ring, which has turned into a thick, bubbly yellow mess that looks like lava. Then her card flies up and appears in the corner of my screen.
Mom’s Mac and Cheese.
I try to move my feet, but the floor is too thick and gooey. How appropriate. She’s hexed my Louisiana Barbecue with Mom’s Mac and Cheese. If I were on my deathbed and had to pick a last meal, I don’t know which one I’d ask for.
“Well played, Queen,” I say aloud. I suddenly hope nobody heard me upstairs.
I’m tempted to take off my headset just to check for footsteps coming down into the basement, but Emerald is moving again. Her hands produce fireballs hovering just above her fingers, and her second card flies up into the top corner of my screen.
Fuck. Another Battle card. Good ol’ Alabama Sunshine hot sauce kicking my ass again.
My dad thought it’d be funny to put a hit of that in my juice bottle at a cookout when I was little. I barely remember it, but Granny loves talking about it. She always follows that story up with, “My Louisiana baby boy grew into a hot-sauce man.”
She still doesn’t know I’m a she.
Nobody knows, and I can’t imagine when I’ll be able to tell them. Sunday after church never seems like the right time, and weekday evenings after class at my Christian high school don’t seem right either. My parents both work Saturdays, and so do I, and I absolutely cannot tell them over the phone or by text, because then the anger will just build over the course of the day, and the whuppin’ will be even worse.
Emerald isn’t throwing fireballs at me and I wonder if she’s having connection issues. Doesn’t feel right clubbing her with a meat kabob while she’s stuck, so I send her a message.
Me: Go on! Don’t go easy on me!
Emerald: Thought you might be having connection issues.
Without warning, my screen erupts into a burst of fiery fury, knocking me back a couple of steps. Certain parts of my parents’ basement creak, and the explosion from the fireball is so loud in my headset that I can’t tell if I stepped on a bad floorboard.
I don’t have time to check. I swing my brochette as hard as I can, but she just leans back to dodge it. My feet are still stuck in this mac and cheese, but I dodge fireballs like Muhammad Ali. I was so happy when the Muhammad Ali card got approved. I’m the one who proposed it. I hope she holds another poll soon. More fireballs. I can hear them whizzing past my ears, and I’m so glad I spent the extra ten dollars on a binaural headset instead of the regular one, which transmits sound equally through both headphones. It makes this feel so much more real.
I glance at the board. That damn fireball blow cost me four hundred freaking points, and now we’re tied 800−800. My other card—Mumbo Sauce—is sitting there unused. I consider canceling the brochette and switching to the Mumbo Sauce so I can have something to throw at her, and I’m grumbling to myself.
Why did I put both my Battle cards in round three?
It’s a rookie move, which I thought would give me the element of surprise. Once Emerald looked at my stats, I knew she wouldn’t think I’d leave both my Battle cards for the last round. Reverse psychology usually works in this game. But then again, it didn’t work out so well for PrestoBox, either.
I grab my Mumbo Sauce card, stack it on top of my Louisiana Barbecue card, and start swinging, hurling globs of that sweet, tangy goodness straight at her. I don’t hold back, swinging an invisible baseball bat in the middle of my parents’ basement, trying to be as quiet as I possibly can.
She can’t dodge fast enough! She ducks and leans and jumps out of the way, but eventually one hits her square in the chest and she goes flying backward off the edge of the ring and splashes into the murky water.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts as I look at the scoreboard: 800−500, and the clock is ticking down the seconds.
3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
Yes! Yes, I win! I’m so happy I start dancing, listening to those sweet victory drums pounding in my headset. I can’t describe how spectacular it feels to beat the developer of SLAY in a duel. She’s climbing out of the Swamp, and I extend my hand to help her back up into the ring and pull her into a hug.
I’m sure I look ridiculous standing down here in the dark by myself with my arms in a weird hugging position, and I know there’s no one here with me, but I still feel like I can feel her somehow. I mouth the words “thank you,” and my cheeks burn with tears. I don’t think she’ll ever understand what she’s done for me. To have a place like this where I can be who I am is indescribable. It feels like waking up for the very fir
st time.
“Jaylen!”
The voice startles me so bad, I rip off the headset and hurl it—I don’t even know which direction—until it makes contact with my computer screen. Glass shatters and shards make a tinkling noise as they scatter all over the room, and everything goes dark.
Oh, my God. No, no, no. No!
I scramble to find the headset, kneeling and feeling my hands along the floor. The gloves and socks protect me from the glass. I just have to be careful not to set my knees down as I move. The light flickers on, bringing everything to life again, and I jump to my feet and look across the room to the stairs, where my mother is standing in her nightgown, holding a cigarette in one hand. She told me she quit.
“Just what are you really doing down here at that computer, Jaylen? Huh? At eleven at night while you’re supposed to be sleepin’?”
I swallow and try to keep my breath calm. I can feel my pulse in my throat as I watch her walk down the stairs toward me. A tear falls. Dammit. I can’t wipe it away or she’ll know. But if she comes closer, she’ll see and tell me that men of God weep for nothing.
“Now, I’m not mad at you.”
That’s a lie.
“But I already know what’s going on, and I think it’s time you and I had a talk about what you do in the dark.”
I know what she thinks I’m doing down here, and this time, that’s not what’s happening. I’ve never been caught watching porn, but I’ll admit to doing that if it can keep her from finding out about SLAY. And if I’m ever able to afford another monitor.
I wonder if my character, Q.Diamond, is standing as shit scared as I am right now in the middle of that ring in the Swamp. I wonder what Emerald is thinking watching me. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
Mom gets close enough to touch me, and panic tingles all through my body. I know I can’t dodge her hands nearly as well as I can dodge Emerald’s fireballs. She yanks her hand up into the air and lunges at me, and I reflexively go reeling backward into the couch in my room, my arm catching the lamp in the corner.
“I’m sorry!” I scream. “I’m sorry!”
Her eyes are wild with rage, her backhand still raised threateningly, but the corners of her mouth tip upward for a split second, and I realize there’s a hint of triumph in her face. There’s a satisfaction at seeing the fear in my eyes.
My terror melts into anger. Anger at myself, for giving her that.
“You let me catch you down here looking at naked girls on that computer again and I’ll drag your ass to the church steps and beat the love of God into you, y’hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’m sobbing now. I can’t help it. I’m curled up on the couch with my eyes shut tight, listening to her footsteps getting fainter and fainter and creaking up the stairs. I listen for her to slam the door before I grab the only pillow down here, which smells like cat pee and mothballs, but I don’t care right now. I bury my face into it and scream all the air out of my lungs as loud as I can, until my toes curl and I can feel my blood pulsing through my body.
I scream for Emerald, for Q.Diamond, and for me.
I know when I’ll be able to tell my parents who I really am.
When they’re dead.
7. FAIR GAME
* * *
I woke up this morning—Saturday—to a message from Cicada. I was so happy to hear from her, itching to ask her what she wanted to tell me, that I didn’t realize what she’d said until I read it three times:
Cicada: You’re on the news.
Me: What?
Cicada: They’re talking about you. Look.
There’s a YouTube link. My questions for her can wait. I click the link and watch as two white newscasters—a man and a woman—begin assessing the validity of my game with a middle-aged Black man on the other side of the screen.
“We have Dr. John Abbott on our show tonight,” says the white guy, whose shoulders look like he could use a long massage. “He’s a professor of African American studies at MIT. John, thank you for joining us tonight. This game called SLAY . . . what is it? Where did it come from? And is it racist?”
There’s a moment of silence as the sound transmits from the newscaster to John, a Black man in his fifties or sixties with square glasses and worry lines in his forehead, and I hold my breath, wondering which side he’ll end up on, wondering if he plays in secret or if, like Steph, he’ll advocate for it anyway.
“Yes, the game is called SLAY, and although I’ve never played myself, I understand it’s very violent. If you remember Tokyo, the card game of monsters and violent duels, it’s a lot like that. Players log in, they create a persona, and then they fight each other to the death. It’s quite gruesome.”
I’m really getting tired of these ignorant-ass people who don’t even play weighing in on my game. This wasn’t even for them. It was for me. I should have kept Emerald to myself.
“As far as whether it’s racist,” John continues with a shrug, “I haven’t played, so I cannot weigh in on whether it’s exclusionary, but if it is, then of course it’s racist—”
What? I want to throw my phone. A new banner message pops up from Cicada at the top of my phone that says, What do we do now?
The female newscaster, with long brown hair and hazel eyes, starts asking questions.
“But, John,” she begins, “when a new user goes to the site and tries to set up an account, they’re met with this image.”
I’m horrified to see the SLAY log-in screen, with those big green letters, appear on my phone—the ones I wrote:
Welcome to SLAY. To create an account, you’ll need a passcode from a friend who already SLAYs.
“So, it is exclusionary then, Jan,” says the male newscaster.
“Yes, and a local mom has written to us about this with her concerns, saying, ‘My son asked a friend in his class if he plays SLAY, and his friend said yes. But when my son asked for a passcode, his “friend” told him, “You can’t play because you’re white.”’ ”
The male newscaster looks shocked and appalled, as if Black kids aren’t treated unfairly every day in Legacy of Planets.
The professor is impressively calm as he replies, “Do we know, Derek, if this is a reflection of the game’s official policy, or an isolated incident?”
I make a fist and mouth the word “yes” as I’m silently rooting for Dr. Abbott. He may not SLAY, but at least he’s looking at this situation with some damn common sense. Let’s go with the isolated-incident theory and wait until white people forget about this so we can go back to our Nubian realness in peace.
Jan says, “Mr. Abbott . . .”
I imagine an alternate universe in which Professor Abbott interrupts her with, “That’s Dr. Abbott.”
But in this reality, he doesn’t, and Jan continues. “There have been several cases like this all over the state of Washington. We’ve been getting e-mails since this morning, when Jamal Rice was murdered, bringing to light this underground community. This is the boy in Kansas City who was caught in the cross fire of a disagreement between two friends over ownership of coins in the game. According to his brother, Jamal’s tribe of three pooled their coins into Jamal’s account so they could buy every single SLAY card in the game, but Jamal changed his mind in the middle of the deal and held the coins for ransom in exchange for real US dollars, and that’s when things went sour. Derek, we’ve got ‘tribes,’ we’ve got ‘coins,’ and now we’ve got a murder. This is sounding more and more like an underground Internet gang! And this violent game is excluding white players on the basis of race. I just don’t know how you can entertain the argument that this isn’t racist.”
A gang! I growl and pace across the carpet in my room. They actually called us a gang! Malcolm says this always happens when Black people gather in large numbers, no matter what it’s for. “Where one Black man is, there is a thug,” he says. “Where two or more are gathered, there is a gang. So sayeth the word of the white man.”
I laughed when he said i
t, but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s right.
Come on, Professor, I urge.
“I think the factor that we’re missing here,” he begins, “is the lens of gaming while Black. When I was a young man, I used to play video games. Sometimes I watch my little nephews play Legacy of Planets, and the number of times I hear expletives hurled at them would make you sick. The number of times I hear the N word aimed at them—they’re six and eight years old—should make you angry. I think what we’re missing is the understanding that the world of online gaming is naturally cruel, naturally dog-eat-dog, very exclusive, and in some cases, hostile toward people of color.”
Derek opens his mouth, and I find myself holding up a silencing finger just like Dr. Abbott does before he continues.
“I think Black gamers deserve to have a safe arena in which they can play freely without having to deal with racial slurs and the threat of violence to them should they win a campaign.”
I can’t help but laugh at his use of the word “campaign.” He must know something about Legacy of Planets. He’d probably love SLAY. I hope he’s lying and actually plays. We need more people like him rallying for us.
And then he goes and disappoints me.
“As for the question of the game being racist,” he continues, “we absolutely cannot solve this problem with more division in the gaming community. What we need right now is unity and constructive discourse to develop a solution that doesn’t exclude anyone, especially on the basis of race.”
This man is really trying to all lives matter my game. I want to click the home screen. I feel like I can’t watch any more without popping a blood vessel, but I remember that I’m listening for them to talk about me, Emerald, so I sit back down on my sofa and kick my feet up on the pouf.
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