SLAY

by Brittney Morris

  “What’s the nature of this demographic? Do you not allow low-income people to join your club? Is it for young people only? Only people who live in a certain area?”

  “It’s only for Black people.”

  She pauses and stares at her binder, so I keep talking.

  “It’s not . . . racist exactly, is it? I mean, the club doesn’t talk badly about white people or anything. But you have to have a passcode from an existing club member to join, and all existing club members are Black.”

  “Have these existing club members been informed that only Black people are allowed to join this club?”

  I stop and remember the mission statement.

  A fabulous mecca of Black excellence in which Nubian kings and queens across the diaspora can congregate, build each other up, and SLAY.

  “It says it’s for Nubian kings and queens across the diaspora.”

  “Sounds like a fantastic place.” She grins.

  I wish I knew if she has a character. She’d SLAY so hard, and if she dressed her character like she dressed herself this morning, I’d have to cop her look.

  “But it sounds like, hypothetically, you would be concerned about someone bringing legal action against you.”

  “Sort of. Against my persona. I have a username in the online club, and the person who is suing—who would be suing—would be suing my online persona. They don’t know me in real life.”

  “You mean they wouldn’t under these hypothetical circumstances.” She chuckles.

  Dammit, why am I so bad at making up stories? I’ve kept Emerald a secret for three years, but I can’t keep up a hypothetical story about her?

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I think this online club sounds like a lovely place,” she says, “but I think you may be right to be concerned. The American justice system does not take discrimination cases lightly, and from the information you’ve provided to me, the prosecution may have a case in this instance.”

  My heart sinks all the way through the floor. That can’t be right. There’s no way this can be legal. White people under Jim Crow legally kept their whites-only spaces, and to this day, Black-exclusionary spaces still exist, especially online. The fashion industry is predominantly white, Hollywood is still overwhelmingly white, and, as Steph once pointed out, white people had a monopoly on the word “nude” until recently. White people are the standard in so many different industries, but the minute Black people build something for ourselves, we’re wrong for causing division.

  I press my fingers against my eyes. I hear her set a cardboard tissue box in front of me, and I gratefully take two and dab my cheeks and eyes, pocketing a third for my shoes later.

  “Thank you,” I say. I want to thank her for being honest with me, even though I have no idea where to go from here. If someone does decide to sue, there’s no way I can afford a lawyer without telling my parents who I really am. I can’t just pay the settlement, whatever it is, because neither I nor my parents have thousands of dollars to throw away. I know Ms. Coleman means well by being honest, but she’s essentially just told me that if someone sues, Emerald’s secret identity can’t stay secret anymore. The whole reason behind SLAY—wanting a private space for me to explore who I am—is gone. And whatever judge takes the case would probably force me to let the plaintiff play too, and then what’s the point?

  “And unfortunately . . . ,” continues Ms. Coleman.

  I force myself to look up at her, even though I’m not sure I can handle whatever is coming next if it’s worse than finding out I’m going to have to out Emerald.

  “. . . I won’t be able to take your case if you do decide to hire an attorney. I’m a family litigation attorney, not a civil rights attorney. I won’t be able to help you.”

  Great. I’ve just spent all my money on a consultation with a lawyer who can’t even take my case. I’m so mad I want to overturn this table and run all the way home. I just stare at the tissue box, unsure what to say. I can feel a vein pulsing in my jaw, and I’m afraid if I open my mouth, something venomous might spew out and burn both of us.

  “But off the record, please don’t give up. I know you’ll figure out how to navigate through this.”

  I nod even though she’s wrong, and force a half-hearted “Thanks, Ms. Coleman.”

  I get up and turn to leave, and I hear Ms. Coleman stand too.

  “Oh, Wakandria,” she says, “I meant to ask you.”

  I turn to look at her.

  She’s got her hands clasped in front of her, and she asks me matter-of-factly, “Do you eat meat?”

  I freeze. Did she really ask me what I think I just heard?

  “What?”

  “Do you eat meat?” she asks me again. She definitely knows.

  She SLAYs! This woman who became my ultimate style icon twenty minutes ago, and who probably drives a Bentley to her two-million-dollar mega-mansion on Mercer Island after work every day, plays my game! I want to scream! I want to cry! I want to hug her and ask her what her SLAY name is. This queen staring at me is a gamer? I can’t believe it.

  I laugh a little and say, finally, for the first time in real life, “We meet at dawn.”

  I look closer and realize there are tears in her eyes as she says, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “For what?”

  “For giving my son and daughter a place to go after school.”

  I don’t know what else to do but nod. All I did was make a video game. Anyone can do that nowadays, by the power of Google and boredom. I haven’t done anything spectacular. I’m not Nelson Mandela. I’m not MLK. I’m not Rosa Parks. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything revolutionary. But this woman is looking at me like I saved her life somehow.

  She thanks me again and assures me that I “needn’t worry about the fee,” that it’s taken care of, and that I might need it if I decide to find another lawyer.

  • • •

  Hours later, after retiring to my room without dinner, I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything Ms. Coleman said. I think about the fact that even she, an attorney with her own firm, has children with nowhere to go after school. And I know what she meant. I know she can afford to send her kids to the very best after-school programs on the Eastside, but that’s nowhere to go if you’re the only one who looks like you.

  I can’t sleep. I open Instagram to distract myself, and it takes only thirty seconds for me to wish I hadn’t. There’s a hashtag circulating—#Justice4Jamal—accompanied by captions like If you are a gamer, you ARE Jamal Rice and Where are you, Emerald?

  I shut my eyes. I’m thousands of miles away from the crime scene in my comfortable bedroom in Bellevue, doing exactly what every Black pioneer in history would condemn. I’m hiding.

  I’m silent.

  I close out of Instagram and take a deep breath, retreating to WhatsApp. Cicada is offline. Of course. Just when I’m ready to answer her question, which has been boring a hole into my conscience all day—am I Black enough? I consider answering now, while I have time, but then I begin to ask myself questions. Did she ask that because she doesn’t feel “Black enough” or maybe doesn’t believe in the “one-drop rule”—the idea that as long as you have one drop of Black blood in you, you can call yourself Black? Does she think I don’t think she’s “Black enough”? Does she think I resent her for having light-skinned privilege, or un-nappy hair? Wait, she might be bald in real life like her game character. Never mind. Still, though, these unanswered questions are enough to make me realize, maybe I’m not ready to unpack my answer. Maybe I’m not ready to talk about this yet.

  Silent again.

  I toss my phone to the end of my bed and shut my eyes hard, pressing my fingers into them. I want to open my eyes and go back to last week, before all this—before SLAY—got complicated. I’ve never wished so bad for Cicada to be online. Maybe if I could just say something to her, start talking, I’d arrive at some kind of answer for her. That’s what we do best, right? W
e discuss things. We sort out the cards, we compare notes, we align, and then we run this game like the warriors we are. We figure things out together.

  I don’t know what I need right now. I need to relax. If things can’t go back to the way they were last week, I need to at least pretend they are for a while. Just for an hour or so.

  I climb down from my bunk bed and head to the computer.

  I have a duel request from Anubis’s semifinals opponent, Spade, who has a fro-hawk as far off his head as he is tall, making him a whopping twice my size. I can’t turn that down. He also took advantage of my text-on-clothing initiative and made a pair of sunglasses that say RUDE in rainbow letters across the lenses with a big ol’ sassy period at the end. I kick myself for not thinking of that.

  We battle in the Rain Forest, among the vines and lush greenery, so close to the Chasing Waterfalls—yes, I called it that—that we can hear the rushing water so clearly it feels real. Toucans squawk somewhere deep in the jungle. They aren’t really there in-game. It’s just an audio track. But I like to imagine that they’re real—perched on some tree, snacking on whatever it is toucans eat, watching the match. Round one is going okay. I just wish I could relax and focus on the gorgeous scenery while we duel, but Spade keeps bringing up my chat box, trying to talk to me the whole time with illegible abbreviated messages.

  Spade: I cn’t blieve Im actually dueling u rite now!

  Spade: Thx 4 dueling me.

  Spade: I may b king of rain4st but is honor 2 duel u.

  A very kind person, and an expert dueler—his use of the ’Fro card is perfectly timed, encapsulating him in a giant Afro before I can deal the first blow. But I can’t focus on dueling with all these messages flying at me, and my heart’s not in this match. I’m tired. I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like eating. I can’t stop thinking about what Ms. Coleman said.

  The prosecution may have a case in this instance.

  My VR headset is fogging up inside with the heat of my tears, and I finally send Spade a reply at the end of round two.

  Me: Hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but I shouldn’t have started this match. It’s late and I’m tired. Mind if I forfeit?

  He sends me back the most comforting message I could receive right now.

  Spade: Not @ all. Go rest. U r a queen and this is ur game.

  You are a queen, and this is your game.

  I force a smile and a Thanks, and just as I’m reaching up to pull my headset off, a new message appears in my SLAY inbox, in the corner of my screen, from a player named Dred. It stops me cold.

  Dred: It’s me.

  I just stare at it. I read it over and over. Who is me? I finally work up the nerve to type a response.

  Me: Do I know you?

  Dred: You had to expect me if you’ve been watching the news.

  A chill goes up my spine. For a moment, I think this is the ghost of Anubis haunting my computer, and I wheel my chair back a few inches just in case I’m the next victim of the video-game version of The Ring. I look around my pitch-black room, which feels suddenly colder.

  Me: What’s your name?

  Dred: Scott.

  Scott. Do I know a Scott? Then I reread his last message. Dred: Scott. This guy has named himself after the Dred Scott decision—the infamous 1857 Supreme Court case that ruled a Negro was not entitled to sue for his own freedom even though he lived in a free state. The case that ruled Blacks were not, and could never be, citizens of the United States.

  Me: Have we met before?

  Dred: Not yet. But you had to know someone would lead the charge and take down this racist online dumpster fire of a game eventually.

  Holy shit. Is this guy insinuating that he’s actually going to sue me? Like, for real? I mean, I anticipated it happening eventually—I wouldn’t have gone to see Annette Coleman if I didn’t think it could—but I didn’t expect it to happen a few hours after meeting her.

  My forehead is clammy with sweat, and I briefly consider banning him immediately and kicking him off the server, but that would only give his case fuel. I decide that the best thing I can do is to keep him talking.

  Me: How did you get an account?

  Dred: Same way everyone else gets an account.

  Me: What do you want?

  Dred: I want to duel.

  Me: Why?

  Dred: Same reason everyone else wants to duel.

  Me: I don’t have time.

  Dred: Fine. I’ll just duel someone else.

  Me: Why are you here?

  Dred: Same reason everyone else is here.

  I’ve already had enough of the word games. I click his profile and navigate to his character, and what I see scares me to death. He’s chosen the lightest skin color possible, which almost looks white, he’s shaved his head bald, and he’s given his character a tiny black symbol that looks like a four-petal flower, right between his eyebrows. That flower petal is the closest thing in the game to a swastika, and I can’t imagine that’s not exactly what he intends it to be.

  Me: If you wanted to be included, you’ve got what you want. You’re here.

  Dred: I said I want to duel.

  Me: I said I don’t have time.

  Dred: I’ll just find somebody else.

  The audacity of this boy coming into my game and acting like he’s not here to terrorize my kings and queens. I know what he means by I’ll just find somebody else. He’s not talking about dueling. He’s talking about harassment. He’s talking about stinking up my inbox. He’s talking about making this game hell for me.

  I could block him, but again, fuel for his potential lawsuit.

  Me: Please leave me alone.

  Dred: As long as I live in a free country, I can inbox whoever I want. I’m an equal player. All players are equal here, right? All you need is a passcode. If you don’t like me, though, you can block me.

  I’m not falling for that trap. Does he really think I’m going to walk right into that?

  Me: Are you trying to piss me off? Because it won’t work.

  Dred: No. I’m trying to be the first thing you see when you open your inbox, and the last.

  He’s got me. I’m scared to block him, and I’m scared to keep typing, and I can’t duel with his messages flying all over my screen. I can’t take this. I log off and turn off my monitor, and the minute I put my headset, gloves, and socks back into the drawer and lock it and find myself sitting at my desk with that black computer screen staring back at me, the tears overtake me, and I cry. Hard. I fold my arms, rest my forehead on my hands, and let the sobs out. Granny used to say that the best remedy for a dry patch is a little rain, and I believe her. I feel better once my face has dried on its own, but I still don’t know what to do with myself. I’m tired enough to sleep, but I’m awake enough to wish Cicada was online. If I text Malcolm, he’ll assume it’s a booty call and want to FaceTime, and even if I could manage to avoid all talk of the game and focus on him, I could never let him see me right now, when my face looks like it’s been attacked by a hive of bees.

  I don’t have anyone I can call and talk to, just to talk. I could send Cicada an emergency text alert, but it’s six thirty a.m. her time on Sunday, which is her only day off from class, and I don’t have the heart to wake her up.

  • • •

  There’s a knock at my door so soft I’m not sure I actually heard it, and that’s when I realize I’ve been asleep. I look at my phone. Ten thirty p.m. I’ve been asleep at my desk for over an hour and my neck is killing me.

  “Hello?” My voice feels like sandpaper.

  “Hey,” comes a whisper.

  “Steph?”

  I double-check to make sure my drawer is locked, and then I stand and feel my way to the door.

  “You okay?” I ask her.

  “Yeah, yeah, just let me in,” she urges. She sounds concerned or rushed, or both, and I unlock the door and open it. The hallway light is on, and I’m sure I look exactly how I feel—like Black Dracula.


  “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” she asks.

  “What do you want?” I force a smile.

  “Can I come in?”

  I have no one else to talk to tonight. I let my little sister in, and we sit down—her on my sofa, me on the pouf. After she clicks the lamp on, I can see she’s staring at me with a smirk that says she knows something’s wrong, and I’m trying not to look back at her with a face that admits she’s right.

  “Okay,” she says, “you may have Mom and Dad fooled into thinking you’re ‘too tired’ to eat, but not me. You don’t skip dinner for anything, including sleep.”

  I just look at her in silence. I don’t know what she wants me to say.

  “So, I ordered a pizza,” she says casually, crossing one leg over the other and folding her arms. “Pepperoni and olives. Your favorite. Now tell me what’s up.”

  I try so hard to think of something believable—I’m on my period. I failed an exam. Harper and I got into a fight. But I asked Steph if I could borrow a tampon two weeks ago when I ran out in the middle of the school day, I don’t fail exams, and Steph needs just one text from Harper to confirm that we’re all cool.

  She leans in close and whispers, “Did you step your white Keds in dog shit?”

  The laughter bubbles out of me, and I cover my mouth to keep quiet. I’m grateful for her sometimes. She knows how to get me laughing, even if my world is falling apart—in this case, literally.

  “That doesn’t sound like a no.”

  “No, Steph. No, I didn’t.”

  “Then what is it? Ever since that conversation with Harper and Wyatt last night, you haven’t been yourself. Skipping meals, going to bed early, moping around all day like you and Malcolm are going through some—” Steph gasps and grabs my knee. “Did he hit you? Because if he hit you—”

  “Jesus, Steph, no! He would never hit me.”

  “Good,” she says. “I’d have to kill that boy.”

  Between the way she says “that boy” and the fact that she’s wearing a hot-pink nightcap and matching satin robe, she’s acting like Malcolm’s auntie instead of a girl a year and a half his junior.