Black Buck(108)

Nights later, HQ was buzzing. Just like the sadists at Gitmo and Abu Ghraib, Jason and Rose made no effort to hide what they had done. The video of Clyde’s confession looped on the screens, and the Happy Campers celebrated as if we had truly won.

“Aye, lemme getchyour attention,” Jake said, raising a beer. “I know it’s been a rough coupla weeks ’n’ that we all been a bit divided, but here’s to the enda that.”

“And to Jason and Rose for doing what they had to do to keep us safe,” Ellen added.

“As well as t-t-to Sensei Buck,” Trey chimed in, winking at me. “For remaining our f-f-f-fearless leader.”

“To Jason, Rose, and Buck!” everyone shouted, clinking cans, downing flutes of cheap champagne, and passing joints around like they were at Burning Man, Woodstock, or one of those events where white people suspend all law and fuck themselves senseless.

I didn’t feel like celebrating—not yet. It all felt too soon. I was headed upstairs when someone grabbed my hand.

“Hey,” Soraya said, not letting go. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”

“Nah, not really. Mad tired. Jus’ gonna knock out, but have fun.”

“If you say so.” She sounded disappointed.

A few hours later, as I was finally settling into sleep, my phone went off, snapping me awake. I picked up without looking at it, betting it was Kujoe calling to beg me to let him back.

“Hello?”

“Buck?”

It was a woman’s voice. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Who’s this?”

“Sandra Stork. I’m calling because you’re in trouble.”

“Trouble?” I asked, turning the light on. “What kind of trouble?”

“Buck.” She paused. “Everyone knows. The media is already drafting their articles to drop tomorrow morning.”

“Everyone knows what?”

“Listen, we could play games or you could be straight with me. An anonymous source reached out to all major outlets an hour ago saying that you’re behind the Happy Campers. They sent a video of you addressing a large group of people, discussing plans for combating that group of Nazi salespeople. There are also other clips.”

Kujoe, that motherfucker. He must’ve been recording the Hush Harbors.

“Even if that were true,” I said, closing my eyes, “why are you calling me?”

She laughed. “Because I can’t stand to see smart young brothers used for target practice. So I want to give you a chance to get ahead of this. Come on Rise and Shine, America tomorrow and present your case before it’s too late. I won’t go easy on you . . . because I can’t, but at least you’ll be able to control part of the narrative.”

I had known the war wasn’t over; it couldn’t have been. People like Clyde—rich, white, and powerful—don’t succumb to physical threats, and they also don’t make them. Their warfare is institutional, psychological, and strategic. In chess, you don’t beat your opponent by rocking them in the jaw, you back them into a corner until they have nowhere else to go.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, clutching a pillow to prevent myself from breaking something.

“Are you sure, Buck? This may be your last chance before everything gets out of hand.”

I took a breath and replayed the last week in my head: Clyde’s videos, the bake sale, our failed attempt at cyberwarfare, the race riots at Sumwun, Clyde’s kidnapping; everything was already out of hand, and the only thing I could do now was face the music instead of trying to control, control, and control it.

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “I’m sure. But thank you for looking out, Sandra. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, Buck. Good luck.”

After that, sleep was impossible. I walked downstairs and people were passed out all over the place, looking like bodies on a battlefield. Except for one. Soraya stood in the kitchen nursing a glass of wine.

“Hey,” I said. “Got one for me?”

She forced a smile and poured me a glass of red. We clinked glasses. But there was enough pain in her eyes to let me know the smile was a front.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was jus’ thinkin’ about Mrs. V, that’s all. It was only a little over a year ago when me, you, her, Jason, and Mr. Rawlings were in here eatin’ pizza and laughin’. But now”—she waved her glass around—“everything, I mean everything, D, has changed. This room, this house, you, me, us. Sometimes I think, Man, this is all so great, I’m somewhere I never thought I’d be, but then I remember the past, your mom, and I jus’ miss it all so much.”

I put my glass down and took her face into my hands, wiping as many of her tears away as I could. “I know the feelin’, habibti. Trust me.”

She brought my hand to her lips, holding it there before looking up at me. “Whatever happened to Mr. Rawlings, D? Did you ever go look for him? Did you try to help him?”

I tried to speak, but there was a lump in my throat. Ever since I kicked him out, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.

I looked at her and shook my head; tears blurred my vision.

“He didn’ deserve that,” she said as she rested her head against my chest. “He didn’ deserve any of that.”