“Yes. I’d rather be proactive,” says the first boy.
I grab the brush in the corner of my server room, which is really more like a small closet at the far end of the common room, and begin sweeping the dust off the floor of my server closet out into the hallway. They’ve lowered their conversation to hushed tones behind me, and they don’t raise them again until they switch languages to Italian. They couldn’t have known that my mother is Italian, or that my father taught me a bit of Portuguese, or that I learned English in school, and Spanish on my own. They wouldn’t have said what they say next if they knew.
“That’s the African girl.”
I freeze, resolving not to turn around. The African girl? Really?
I flip another switch and check our server utilization. Sixty-six percent isn’t bad. Not enough to buy more RAM over.
“What’s her name?” comes the next question, also in Italian.
I take a deep breath and begin checking out our system security, moving down my checklist to my list of the Ten Immutable Laws of Security Administration. But the boys are still talking, and now they’re discussing blockchain security.
“Do you think she would know? She’s in our class, right?”
“The hell would she know about blockchain?”
All right, I’ve had enough. I give up on finishing my list, push myself to my feet, shut and lock the server room door, and turn to face them.
“I’m happy to help,” I say in my sweetest Italian. “Would you prefer that I explain in Italian, English, or French?”
The first boy, the one with the dark hair and blue eyes, is looking at me like I just did a forward flip over their heads and somersaulted out the door. I close the distance between us and step between the two of them in silence and down the hall, hands trembling around my bag strap. My head is throbbing, and I feel dizzy. With our operating systems updated, and the whole server room taken care of for the week, I decide I can finish my list tomorrow when those two aren’t here. For now, I plan to go straight back to my flat.
I step through the front doors of the research building and feel the fresh air on my face, and suddenly my cheeks begin to burn. The clouds are out, bringing with them a cool, welcome change from yesterday. I pull my sleeve over my knuckles and wipe my eyes dry. It’s ridiculous to be crying right now, I know, but “the African girl”? I know those two boys. I saw them in my Cryptographic System Security course last semester. They always sat at the back of the class and asked a million questions, and I always knew the answers to at least a third but never spoke up in class. I just assumed they were doing what all of us do—ask questions you already know the answers to, in order to get class participation.
Maybe I should start answering their questions directly in class from now on, just to remind them what I know. Maybe I’ll even answer in Italian.
I walk down the steps into the western university garden just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read the name and my chest tightens. I stop walking. The world around me feels like it’s been sucked into a vacuum. I can’t answer fast enough.
“Ciao, Dottore Ricci? Come sta? Come sta mia mamma?”
Hello, Doctor Ricci? How are you? How is my mamma?
I’m prepared for the answer, and I’m not. He doesn’t even give me official news, really. He just asks, “Would you like to speak to her?” and I know what that means.
This is the phone call. The phone call I knew was coming eventually, but you can never really prepare for. I find a quiet spot on a concrete bench by a wall with a trellis of roses leaning against it, out of the way of anyone who might have nothing better to do than hang out in the western garden on a Monday. Dr. Ricci finally hands the phone to my mamma. Her voice is soft. Softer than usual.
“Mia luce,” she says. She sounds absolutely drained of energy, but I can hear her smile through the phone.
“Ciao, mamma,” I manage. I hope she keeps talking so I don’t have to keep hiding the fact that I’m crying. “Come ti senti?”
She proceeds to tell me that she’s doing just fine, but she’s sleepy all the time now, and no matter how many times she tries to play it cool and act like nothing’s out of the ordinary, the doctor won’t forget to make her take her pills.
“There are blue ones,” she says in Italian, “that are the size of euros! Big blue oval euros. And they taste like rotten eggs. It’s not natural.”
It gets me to smile, even as I wipe my tears.
“Mamma, I’m coming home to see you,” I say, although I have no idea where I’m going to get the money. My scholarship covers only room and board, and meager food. I have exactly thirty-seven euros in my bank account.
“No, no,” she insists, prompting a fit of coughing through the phone, which grows muffled, I’m sure from her coughing into her arm instead of into the speaker. “Stay and study. Too expensive for you to come home. Don’t waste your money.”
I would spend every last dime I have to be back in my mother’s house in Florence right now, making spinach-and-sausage pizza in the wood-burning stove and sneaking sips of limoncello when she’s not looking. I would spend all my money to go back to a time when her mind was well enough to notice me sipping anyway, and her body was well enough to chase me around the house for it.
“Mamma,” I say, “I want to see you.”
Nothing.
“Mamma?” I ask, panic suddenly gripping my chest. Maybe she fell asleep? Maybe she dropped the phone?
“Mamma?” I ask again.
“Hmm?” comes the answer. I breathe in relief that she must have dozed off. That’s it. I’m going to see her.
“Mamma, I’m coming to see you. I don’t care how much it is.”
“Mia luce,” she says with a yawn, “study hard, okay? Call your father sometimes.”
I haven’t spoken to my Afro-Portuguese father in over a year, and he lives in Avignon, right here in France. In his mind, I was never supposed to learn computer science beyond how to refresh a browser, because it’s “too dangerous.” Too dangerous for him, maybe. Too dangerous if you dabble in layers of the Internet no one should dabble in. Too dangerous if you gamble with your nest egg on sites no responsible adult has any business visiting. Too dangerous if you blame the Internet for the consequences of your actions instead of your own hubris. If I spoke one word of computer-related anything to him, the conversation would be over, and since coding has become my life, I have nothing to say to him. I won’t call him. But I can’t tell my mother this.
“Va bene,” I assure her. Her breathing has changed. She must have fallen asleep with the phone closer to her mouth this time. She and I used to run two miles a day together in the summer every morning. She was a warrior—still is a warrior. My jaw aches terribly as I hold back more tears.
“I’m so proud of you, mia luce,” she whispers.
If I could show her what Emerald and I have built together, and the hundreds of thousands of people who log in every day to watch us, she’d be exponentially prouder.
But, my mother is white.
I knew I was sworn to secrecy the day I volunteered to be a SLAY mod. I knew from the beginning that it meant I couldn’t tell certain members of my family what I do. Not ever. But now, holding this phone to my ear, hearing my mother say she’s proud of me, something nauseating settles in the pit of my stomach, like I’m lying to her in the silence. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow.
“I love you, Mamma,” I finally say.
But I don’t hear her voice anymore. There’s a rustling sound that echoes through the phone, startling me, before Dr. Ricci comes back on the line.
“Claire, are you able to come visit this week?” he asks.
I know what he’s asking, what he’s telling me. My mother, the only one I can call when I’m lonely, the woman who taught me never to be ashamed of who I am, and to seize what I want in life, is about to leave this earth. There’s a high-speed train that runs from Paris to Milan, and a two-hour train th
at runs from Milan to Florence, and then I have to hope I have enough money left to buy a half-hour taxi ride to my mother’s house.
I nod and reply, “Absolutely.”
I have to make it out there. I have to kiss her face one more time. I have to tell her how I couldn’t have done any of this without her support.
“Bene,” he says. “I look forward to seeing you.”
Dr. Ricci has been around since before I can remember. He was my grandmother’s doctor when she was sick, and I’m sure my mother once got a call just like this one about her. My stomach knots up at the realization that the only one whose hugs can help me get through the pain of loss without my mother . . . is my mother.
“Anche tu,” I say.
I hang up the phone and navigate to the TGV train ticket website, where I find a discounted student ticket for sixteen euros, which means I can travel to Milan, and I’ll figure out how to get to Florence from there, somehow. I buy the ticket so fast, I’m physically exhausted from the stress of it. I lie on the concrete garden bench and stare up at the blue sky, and at some point, I drift off to sleep and dream of running down a dirt road in Florence in shorts and a tank top under an even brighter blue sky, with my mother running next to me.
13. HEAD GAMES
* * *
The next morning I walk into Jefferson looking a hot mess. I threw my hair in a puff, didn’t even have time to shower or smooth down my edges, and I’m wearing brow pencil only. No lipstick, no eyeliner, no mascara, nothing. I’m actually hoping I don’t see Malcolm today, not so I don’t have to explain to my boyfriend why I’m not wearing makeup, but because if he’s particularly attentive, he might ask me if I’m sick, or ask me to explain what’s wrong, and I don’t have the energy or the brainpower to think up convincing lies on the spot today. He’ll see right through me.
But other students notice. Harper notices. She brings it up at lunch. It’s chicken tenders day, and the lunch lady gives me an extra honey mustard sauce without protest, which never happens. Those workers guard sauce packets like Smaug guards gold. Harper has found us a spot at the far end of the room before Malcolm can find me. I haven’t seen him all morning, and I’m starting to wonder if he skipped.
“So,” says Harper, leaning forward and smiling cheerfully at me, “I told the lunch ladies that I wanted a cookie instead of a granola bar, because today they have peanut butter cookies.”
She takes the peanut butter cookie off her tray and slides it onto the edge of my plate next to the cookie I already have. I’m already halfway through my fries and a quarter of the way through my chicken tenders. My stomach is begging for food like I haven’t eaten all weekend.
“Thanks,” I say between bites.
“Anything for my Kix,” she says.
I smile.
“Did I ever tell you why I call you Kix, by the way?” she asks, leaning in closer until I’m forced to look up at her. I shake my head. I never really knew there was a meaning behind it.
“ ‘Kix’ was a slip of the tongue when we first met that day at the funnel-cake truck. I didn’t mean to say it. I meant to say ‘Kiera, this cake is amazing,’ but I said ‘Kix, this cake is amazing,’ and I didn’t want you to think I was an ass for saying your name wrong, so I played it off like I meant to do that. Even back then, I couldn’t admit when I was wrong. But now, I’m admitting it. I was wrong. And, listen, I’m sorry for what Wyatt said to you last night. I know I technically didn’t say I agree with him, but it took me way too long to say anything to him, which is almost as bad.”
I’m impressed with Harper for saying that. I think of that Elie Wiesel quote again: Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. “Lucky for you,” she says as she puts a forkful of salad into her mouth, “Wyatt faked sick this morning. Guess he’s just not into Mondays now?”
Of course he faked sick, I think. He has to study over a thousand flash cards about Black culture so he can fight me tonight in an online virtual reality arena in a game that I invented but can never tell you about.
“Thanks,” I say finally. “And thanks for the cookie.”
It’s salty and sweet and delicious, and I’m genuinely grateful to have two now, and equally grateful not to have to face Wyatt all day. My phone buzzes just as I spot Steph walking across the lunchroom with Holly and Gretchen, who are both Beta Beta Psi, and a third girl I don’t recognize. She’s short, skinny, and very light, Rihanna’s shade, and she has long chocolate-brown hair that falls down her back in tight little coils, and bright gray eyes. She’s too far away for me to tell if they’re contacts. Must be the new Beta, Jazmin. She looks like a SLAY character, maybe someone from the Tundra like Cicada. I wonder if she plays and if they’ve dueled before.
“Hey, what’s up with you and Malcolm lately?” asks Harper. “Like, I don’t want to be nosy or anything, but I am curious, did you break up with him?”
“No, why would you think that?”
“He says you’ve been ignoring him. Look.”
She hands me her phone and I read the messages one by one.
[Saturday, 9:02 p.m.]
Malcolm: Ay you talked to Kiera lately?
Harper: Who is this?
Malcolm: Malcolm.
Harper: Hi, Malcolm.
Malcolm: You seen Kiera?
Harper: I haven’t talked to her since last night. I think she’s avoiding me. Maybe she’s mad at me?
Malcolm: Yeah, she been blowing me off today too. Tell her I don’t like it.
Harper: Don’t you have her number?
Malcolm: Yeah, but I ain’t seen her. She’s definitely avoiding me. Won’t talk to me, won’t let me over. Mad disrespectful.
Harper: Sorry.
[Sunday, 4:38 p.m.]
Malcolm: You heard from Kiera today?
Harper: Yeah, she texted me.
Malcolm: Cool.
[Sunday, 9:04 p.m.]
Malcolm: What did she say?
Harper: Why don’t you text her?
Malcolm: I did. She won’t answer.
Harper: Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you.
Malcolm: Fuck you then.
[Sunday, 11:40 p.m.]
Malcolm: Hey I’m sorry for wat I sed earlier. I been drinking. Was Kiera in keyboarding today?
Harper: No, Malcolm. It’s Sunday.
Malcolm: Right. I’m going back to bed.
[Monday, 8:01 a.m.]
Malcolm: Kiera’s definitely ignoring me and I need you to tell her that I don’t like it. Have you told her yet?
Malcolm: Harper? Tell Kiera I don’t like being ignored.
I look at Harper now. She looks a little confused and a little nervous.
“You didn’t text him back?” I ask.
“Not after that! I hate to say this, Kix, but your boyfriend is kinda scary, and I don’t mean because he’s Black, I mean because he’s just scary.”
Harper gets all my side-eye at this moment, and she quickly realizes her mistake.
“I didn’t mean that your boyfriend is scary because he’s the only Black guy here. Sorry—that was silly—I didn’t need to bring race into this at all. Ugh. I just meant that he’s scary because he’s sounding more and more threatening, and his texts are bordering closer and closer to harassment. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but you’d better work it out before this gets out of hand—”
“Queen!” booms a voice from the middle of the cafeteria. I look up, startled, to see Malcolm walking toward us. He’s got on that black-and-yellow Honey Lemon jacket I bought him for Christmas last year, and jeans and fresh white kicks. He could use a lineup, but otherwise, he looks fine as ever. I haven’t texted him in over twenty-four hours, and I know he wants answers. Despite my exhaustion, and my lack of makeup, and my shaking fingers and racing heart, I leave my tray at the table and step around to meet him.
“Hey, boo,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. I take his hand and begin to lead him back to my and Harper’s table, when he
yanks his arm away from me and bellows, “You ignoring me altogether now?”
People are glancing over their shoulders at us now as we stare at each other in the middle of the lunchroom. I’m glancing around and silently begging him not to embarrass me. I’ve been going through enough lately. I just need him to stay calm so we can talk this out like adults. I just need him to come over and hold me after I win this duel against Dred, which I really wish I could tell him about. If I win. Panic comes over me again, when I remember that I have to basically fight to the death tonight for everything I’ve worked for the past three years. I don’t need this stress right now.
“Babe, please,” I say in the smoothest voice I have. I move my arm down his and interlace our fingers, guiding his hand to my hip as I lean in close. “I’m sorry I’ve been away. Come over tonight?”
He’s so close to me now, but his eyes are flashing wildly. I don’t recognize him.
“Are you okay?” I finally ask.
“Am I okay?” he asks, his nostrils flaring. “You got the nerve to brush me off for almost two days and then ask me if I’m okay? I thought you were my queen. You’re supposed to have my back. What happened? Where the hell have you been?”
I want to tell him everything right then and there—about Emerald, about SLAY. I want to believe he’d understand that my game is different from all the ones he says are a distraction for Black men. That I fell in love with video games before we even met, and that VR has to be my first priority right now because I’m the sole guardian of a safe space for hundreds of thousands of Black people. That has to be important to him, right? I look up into his deep brown eyes, searching for a hint of softness, some confirmation that he’d be open to hearing an explanation. But all I see is rage, and I’m petrified.
“Malcolm—”
“You don’t owe him an explanation,” comes a familiar voice behind me. Steph loops one arm through mine and stares him down. In the other hand, she’s holding a cup of black coffee without a lid, even though she exclusively drinks hot cocoa with extra marshmallows. I can see the steam rising off it, and I already know she went and grabbed it from the coffee machine for one purpose.
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