SLAY

by Brittney Morris

  I pair the Representation card with the J’s card for round two. Representation will triplicate me, creating three Emeralds, and the J’s card will summon the power of the ultimate sneaker and let me jump all over the ring. With three of me flying all over the place, Wyatt won’t know which one to hit first. By combining a Battle card and a Defense card, I’ve created a very Hex-like maneuver.

  That leaves Innovation and Hell Naw for the last round—a point boost, and an impact reversal card. That’ll work against whatever Battle cards he’s planning on holding on to. I’m ready. I look up at Cicada and nod. Then I turn back to face Dred.

  “Duelers, have you chosen your cards?”

  I raise my Black power fist in the air, and he lifts both hands to the sky, never taking his eyes off me. He thinks he’s got a strategy, but I have an advantage. I know him—the real him—Wyatt. He has no idea Emerald is actually the quiet nerdy Black girl in his class with the big hair who helps his sister with math homework, or that despite my nonconformance to his perceptions of Blackness, I’m Black enough to crush him in a SLAY duel.

  “Duelers, on your mark!”

  I lower myself to the floor, one knee on the ground, knuckles sinking into my carpet, eyes on Wyatt. He’s got his feet spread way too far apart in a weird anime-like pose that’s probably supposed to look intimidating. To me, he just looks easy to topple.

  “Get set,” says Cicada.

  I can hear my pulse in my ears, and the auditorium dissipates into almost dead silence.

  “Go!”

  I race for my first card, and I tap mine just before he taps his.

  “Okay!” cries Cicada. “Come through, Queen, with the Black Love card. Yaaaaas.”

  I lose it laughing at Cicada’s attempt at the very American “yaaaaas,” which ends up sounding exaggerated from her accent. Then I watch my card take effect. Dred grips his head and falls to his knees. He’s wobbling, a golden twinkling haze floating around his head like fireflies. The Black Love card is so named for its ability to mesmerize and daze your opponent, because love, marriage, and romance in the Black community are ultimately symbols of intangible strength. It’s kings and queens building each other up emotionally, praising and prioritizing each other. I think of myself and Malcolm and all the nights we’ve shared in each other’s arms, not necessarily having sex—just talking, lying out in the backyard, looking at the stars and dreaming about Atlanta. I think of all the times he’s called me Queen. I think of all the times he’s shared an excerpt with me of something he’s read about the experiences of Black women, and confirmed with me if it’s true. He believes me. He believes my experiences. He loves me in his actions. And when he makes love to me, he calls it worship. I glance up at the card on the Megaboard, at the artwork of two crowns side by side, undazzled by jewels, just plain gold. Genderless. Equal. I’m grateful to actually have the opportunity to enjoy this, until Dred, lying helpless on his side, holds up his next card.

  “It’s,” continues Cicada, “the Shuffle card? Dred has used a Shuffle card in round one—what a dirty trick!”

  Shit. I had so much fun creating that card too—it’s a double entendre. Shuffles are done at Black weddings, birthday parties, and other events all over the world, and the Shuffle card, named after them, shuffles all six of your opponent’s cards—in this case, mine.

  I watch as all six of my cards, now facedown in the corner of my screen, slide around to different slots and light up gold. Before I can assess my next move, Dred’s fingers are on his second card, his eyes are glowing blue and pink, and I take off sprinting in the other direction. I already know the card before Cicada makes the announcement.

  “Dred chooses the Black Jesus card!”

  I can hear the first laser charging up, and I dart left and sprint as fast as I can around the ring. He’s watching me, both of his arms glowing, one pink and one blue. The Black Jesus card was a ludicrous invention of Cicada’s one day when she was feeling especially mad scientist. It’s literally an amalgamation of everything epic she could think of mashed into one big ball of godlike awesomeness—or horror, from my perspective.

  I know a few of Dred’s powers—the laser eyes and arms, and the flying, which he’s doing now. But I forget about the telekinesis until a glowing blue dagger flies out from under his robe and sails straight toward my face. I forget for a moment that I’m a warrior and yelp as I dodge it just in time, and I’m glad I decided to leave my mic off. And then I freeze, remembering my Black Love card is still at work, making him dizzy. I’m hard for him to see. And if I stay perfectly quiet . . .

  I slink across the floor like a cat and touch my second round one card, hoping it’s still That One Auntie’s Potato Salad.

  But it’s not.

  It’s the Innovation card. Dammit! His Shuffle card scrambled my point boost card into the first round, which means I just boosted my zero points by 25 percent. Useless!

  Cicada breaks character and gasps from somewhere above me. The audience rumbles into booing and rattling of chains and swords and jewelry. I’m out of round one cards, and he’s still got a solid thirty seconds of lasers, flying, and telepathy, and he knows it. His arms emit searing light in all directions, like one of those strobe lights you see outside strip malls, except these are flying as fast as a ceiling fan, which makes them impossible to dodge. I jump over one and duck under another. I even have to roll to dodge another, and I worry that I’m getting too close to my bunk bed. This arena may be the size of my backyard, but my combat space is still only as big as my room.

  I’ve been to Wyatt’s house. His room is the size of my living room. He can flip and jump and swing his laser arms wherever he wants.

  One of the lasers hits me and pink sparks explode across my screen, blinding me. I shriek, startled as Emerald goes careening backward, landing on her back with her green gown flying up over the screen in a green haze. I scramble to brush the sheer green fabric away from my face so I can dodge the next laser, just as the drums begin.

  “Yes!” I holler in the privacy of my room. Finally we can move on from this bullshit and I’ll get some cards I can actually use! Bring on round two!

  “All right, everyone, that marks the end of round one. We have Dred on the board with three hundred points and our queen at zero, but that’s okay! That’s okay! We’ve got two more rounds, people. Here we go. Round two on my count. Duelers, are you ready?”

  I pry Emerald off the ground and raise my fist in the air. Dred has descended back to the ground, and the hex has worn off. Since he forced me to use both Hex cards in round one, I either get a Battle card or a Defense card. No more funny business. Just offense or defense.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . . Go!”

  I’m not messing around this time. I slap both cards, ready for whichever two of mine are next, curse that Shuffle card. So does he, and I dart left, knowing anything could come flying out from under that huge red cloak of his. His inky black face is zooming toward me as quick as the Flash, and I spot the blur of his now giant feet encased in the whitest of sneakers just before he picks me up under my shoulders and slams me to the ground.

  The Michael Jordan card. It gives players increased agility.

  I look around, wondering what in the world my cards are doing. Are they working? I don’t look any different. I don’t feel any different. He’s still standing over me, about to pick me up again, and I dart between his legs, under his robe, watching the fabric wash over me. And then I think up an idea, and I pray to whatever that Cicada—Claire—actually got around to that update.

  I grab two huge fistfuls of the fabric and yank as hard as I can, sending him flying backward. The sound of his body hitting the floor of the ring rattles the whole arena, and I can hear the audience roaring from under this cloak of his.

  Yes! I wish I had time to open my keyboard panel and thank Claire. The fabric isn’t immaterial anymore! It’s interactive now, and very, very grabbable.

  He’s rolling around out there s
omewhere, but I keep playing games while I’m waiting for my cards to kick in. Then I notice the fabric is moving differently around me. I kick and it seems to catch on my feet. I start kicking and crawling my way out from under the cloak and realize I’m wearing J’s! The J’s card is one of my round two’s! My jumping ability is increased by 70 percent.

  “Excellent use of the Michael Jordan card by Dred. His agility is up by 50 percent, but that’s a masterful execution of the J’s card by our queen. Dred also has an activated Swerve card, canceling 80 percent of that throw to the ground.”

  Shoot. Why, though? He’s getting way too lucky with these cards. I decide to put those J’s to good use and roll out from under the cloak and spring up on him from behind, leaping thirty feet through the air and wrapping my legs around his waist. My arms are clamped around his neck and I’m gritting my teeth.

  Go home, Wyatt! Go home!

  But he can’t hear me. I’m channeling my anger now, though. I just want to kill him. I clamp harder, and his hands fly up to try to pry my arms from around his neck. I watch the Megaboard as my points tick up and up. It’s 300 – 150, since my Hell Naw card reversed the points from that body slam I took earlier. I’m clamping as hard as I can. 300 – 250. 300 – 275. The drums rattle the arena, and I release him grudgingly. If I had just had ten more seconds, we could be tied!

  “We end round two with a twenty-five-point lead by the usurper, kings and queens!”

  The stadium is hollering, and I hear them take up chanting, “Emerald! Emerald! Emerald!” high up in the stands, some howling in my honor. It’s admirable, and it’s meant to give me hope, but I know what each of us has left in our decks—a Battle and a Defense. No tricks left up his sleeve. No tricks left up mine. It’s all brawn vs. bob and weave now, and if he’s been keeping track, he knows it too.

  “Duelers, are you ready for round three?” hollers Cicada.

  I raise my fist into the air one final time as I take one more look around the stadium—at all the characters standing in the swamp water in all their splendor. So many colors, so many shades, so many gorgeous faces, and then I spot those red deer antlers and that rainbow face with the piercing blue eyes.

  Q.Diamond is watching me, unmoving. Just staring. A chat bubble appears above their head in white.

  “Finish him,” it says.

  Hell yeah I will.

  Cicada yells, “And go!”

  I tap my last two cards, Dred taps his, and two Emeralds appear on either side of me, courtesy of the Representation card. They operate on their own, racing around the ring until we’re encircling the man in Blackface with the huge red cape who was invincible just a few moments ago. Now we have him. The other two Emeralds will mimic my every move, which can be a benefit or a drawback.

  I summon the power of That One Auntie’s Potato Salad and conjure up a potato from my right hand, then hurl it straight at Dred’s head. An arm, long and bony and pale sickly green, bursts out of the floor in front of him and I reel back.

  What kind of noob gets lucky enough to draw the Michael Jordan card and the Michael Jackson card in a single duel? My Emeralds and I hurl potatoes from our hands like softball pitching machines, but Dred’s Thriller zombies are faster, catching potatoes and launching them back at all three of us. One Emerald is hit square in the head and lands in a heap on the floor, and I decide to change up my strategy, lifting my hand, pulling a mountain of mashed potatoes from the ground underneath me and pushing it across the ring while I swing my arms as fast and hard as I can, showering Dred and his undead horde in a torrent of french fries.

  It was fun explaining to Cicada about the horrors of That One Auntie’s Potato Salad—you know, that auntie who’s not allowed to bring food to the cookout unless it has a price tag on it. The thing about that one auntie’s potato salad is that you never know what’s going to be in it. I’ve seen all kinds of things in Auntie Tina’s—raisins, almonds, grapes, pickles, peas, and avocado chunks.

  Dred is lucky I only have potatoes in my arsenal.

  But he’s unlucky I know all the things you can do with potatoes.

  I rain down a ring of razor-sharp french fries around him, encasing his zombies in a potato jail while I circle on my wave of mashed potatoes, but his zombies get creative and yank them out of the ground, wielding them like swords. But before they get too many of them, I go straight for Dred. I take a leap from the crest of my mashed mountain, flip, snatch a potato sword from the ground, raise it over my head, and thrust it through his eye with every ounce of strength in my arms just as the drums begin to rattle the arena.

  He picks Emerald up and throws her to the ground, and, with my vision blurry, I look around at the sea of zombie limbs and tattered clothing disappearing into the ground. One skull that doesn’t feel like being a good sport twitches and clicks its jaw open and closed before dissolving into dust.

  “Well, well, well!” sings Cicada’s voice from the rafters. My eyes dart to the scoreboard and my heart sinks.

  Dred’s score reads 700, and my score reads 700.

  “For the first time I’ve seen in person, kings and queens, we have a perfect round three tie!”

  Dred is staring at me and pacing the floor like a raging bull, but I’m smirking. After all this fighting and running and throwing potatoes and shooting lasers, this game will come down to luck. Karma. The ancestors. Whatever.

  “Please,” I say again.

  Cicada descends to the ring until she’s standing between us.

  “In the event of a tie, duelers will each draw a single card from the master deck and duel. The first warrior to score a point wins.”

  I look up at the crowds from where I stand in the middle of the ring, and that’s when I notice all the text bubbles.

  “New York, New York.”

  “Jakarta, Indonesia.”

  “Abidjan, Ivory Coast.”

  “Berlin.”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Paris.”

  “Oslo, Norway.”

  “Nairobi.”

  “Cloghan, Offaly, Ireland.”

  “London.”

  “Corvallis, Oregon.”

  “Lahore, Pakistan.”

  What did I miss in chat? I keep reading, and Cicada must notice my distractedness.

  “Queen Emerald, look at these kings and queens, look at where they’re from. Look how far and wide our support goes!”

  “Paris” appears over Cicada’s head, and I start typing in a private chat as the crowd roars and shakes their spears and stomps their feet at the revelation that their beloved Cicada is from France.

  Me: What are you doing?!

  Cicada: I don’t care anymore. Let them know. Let everyone know. You should announce where you’re from!

  Me: We are at risk of being sued! You think it’s a good idea to announce to everyone where we’re from?

  I hate to be so cut-and-dried about it, but it’s a foolhardy thing to do. Cicada thinks with her emotions a little too much sometimes, and in this case, it might actually get us thrown in jail.

  Cicada: Good point. Good thing Paris is a big place.

  I look up and around at the arena again, reading locations I’ve never even heard of before, across all continents. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find out there are Black people in some of these places, but I am. I read Amsterdam, Beijing, Reykjavik, and a place in Sweden called Gothenburg. We really are everywhere.

  We really SLAY everywhere.

  But Bellevue, Washington, isn’t big enough. If I announce my city, Wyatt might put it together. There are only so many of us here anyway. He’d figure it out, or at least ask me about it at school, and I can’t lie for anything.

  Me: I can’t, Claire.

  It still feels amazing to know her real name. Even if I can’t declare to the masses where I’m from, I can at least tell my most trusted friend.

  Me: But I can tell you. I’m from Bellevue, Washington. Just across the water from Seattle.


  Cicada: No wonder you’re so good with programming.

  I have to laugh. She knows her geography. Puget Sound is home to so many tech giants, it’s a wonder I wasn’t born knowing how to code.

  Cicada: Ready for me to deal these last two cards?

  Me: Hell yeah.

  A long pause lingers as she continues typing.

  Cicada: I wish my mom could’ve met you.

  My heart sinks, and the guilt overwhelms me. I’ve been so focused on kicking Wyatt out of SLAY and back to the land of the white normal that I’ve forgotten about Claire’s mom entirely.

  Me: I wish I could’ve met her too.

  Me: I’m so sorry, Claire. I’m so, so sorry. For you and your family.

  She’s typing again.

  Claire: It’s okay, Kiera. She would’ve loved to see all of this. You, these people, everyone in this arena, you ARE my family now.

  By the time I start typing again, her voice is exploding through the arena.

  “Duelers, are you ready?” she screams. All five hundred thousand characters are jumping up and down and splashing the swamp water all the way up the walls of the auditorium, and I look up at the night sky and take a deep breath.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper into the silence of my room.

  “On my count, you will draw your next card and fight! Let the best warrior win.”

  I look up at Cicada, who’s looking at me as she counts, “Three . . . two . . . one . . . Go!”

  I lunge for my deck, pick up the first one, read the word “Unbothered,” and throw my body across the ring, across my carpet, as hard as I can. Emerald slides and raises her arm above her head to create a crystal clear diamond shield over her body as Dred goes wild with the blows outside her shell. I, Kiera, slide across my carpet, feeling the heat intensify up my arm as the rug burn sets in, and I hear a loud, sharp crack! like the snapping of a pencil in my left ear.