Seven Days in June(19)

The air had gotten thick. They both blinked. Once, twice, and then continued to stare at one another. Not stare. Gawk. With such single-minded focus that the crowd was forgotten. The event was forgotten.

Belinda and Khalil sat between them, looking back and forth like they were in the stands at Wimbledon. Cece’s eyes grew to anime proportions. What were they witnessing?

“It’s true. I’m not a woman,” started Shane.

“Exactly.”

“And you’re not a vampire. Or a man.”

“Bloop,” muttered Belinda.

“And yet Sebastian? He’s one of the most vivid, true portrayals of masculinity I’ve ever read. Especially in the third and fifth books. Sebastian literally and figuratively sucks the life out of everything around him. And he’ll drain Gia one day, too—he knows he will—but he can’t stop himself from loving her. Maybe it’s ’cause he knows that in the end, she’ll survive him. He knows Gia’s tougher than him. By virtue of being a woman, she’s stronger. Girls are given the weight of the world, but nowhere to put it down. The power and magic born in that struggle? It’s so terrifying to men that we invented reasons to burn y’all at the stake, just to keep our dicks hard.” He paused. “You made Gia’s magic broom ten times stronger than Sebastian’s fangs. Witch trumps monster. Tells me everything I need to know about why men are scared of women.”

Eva was too stunned to breathe. Against her better judgment, her eyes locked with Shane’s again. Whatever he saw there made him hesitate for a moment. But then he kept going.

“You’re not a man,” he continued, “but you write the fuck out of ambivalent masculinity. You’re not a man and it doesn’t matter, because you write with sharpened senses and notice the unnoticed, and your creative intuition’s so powerful you can rock any narrative to sleep. You see. And you write. With Eight, I do the same thing.” He eyed her with an unmistakable familiarity. “I’m just not as good as you.”

Belinda leaned over to Khalil and whispered, “You wanna reopen the fluff conversation, or you good?”

Eva’s jaw went a little slack. Light-headed, she nodded in slow motion. She would not let him see how thunderstruck she was. And she refused to let him have the last word.

“Well,” she managed. “That was quite the interpretation.”

“It was quite the read,” he said, his voice low.

“Yours…too.”

“Appreciate it.”

Then Eva finally tore her eyes away from Shane. And only then did he seem to remember that he was in public, and let out a small breath.

The audience was loud in its utter silence. No one spoke; everyone was transfixed. In over a decade of authordom, Shane Hall had barely spoken five (comprehensible) sentences to the public. And suddenly, he was here, in person, delivering a clear-eyed, feminist monologue. About Eva Mercy? It was so thrillingly random. And curiously, unmistakably charged. Hardly anyone in the audience had read the Cursed series before tonight, and now they couldn’t get on their Amazon apps fast enough.

Eva forgot about the audience. It was just her up there, trapped in the spaces between Shane’s words—the things he didn’t say.

Eva nervously twisted her cameo ring around her finger.

He’s read my entire series, she thought, frantically fidgeting with her ring. Every word.

Just then, the single Cursed fan in the audience burst into applause, his purple witch hat wiggling. Then he exclaimed, “You’re a fellow fangirl! Do you have Sebastian’s S pin?”

“Nah, it’s been sold out every time I’ve logged on to EvaMercyMercyMe.com.”

Eva’s face was on fire. He’s tried to buy the pin? He knows my website?

“One more question, then we’ll let Mr. Hall go,” said Cece, breaking the spell with a dainty cough. She had to do this because Khalil was so upset about losing the audience’s attention he was practically spurting cartoon steam out of his ears.

A twenty-something ginger stood up. He looked like Prince Harry, if Prince Harry lived in Red Hook.

“Hi, I’m Rich from Slate. Brenda, Khalil, and Shane, your work is powerful. Eva, I wasn’t familiar with you before this evening, but that was quite a testimony from Shane.”

Eva smiled weakly, like a woman on her deathbed trying to be brave for her loved ones.

“Can you detail some of the explicit racism you face as Black authors? Shane?”

“Me? Uh…no.”

“No?”

Shane repeated, “No.”

“Is that not why we’re here?” said Khalil.

“It’s why you’re here,” said Shane.

Okay, but why are YOU here? Eva’s brain screamed. Temples throbbing, she unconsciously snapped her trusty rubber band against the flesh of her right wrist.

As if hearing her thoughts telepathically, Shane shot her a quick glance. When he saw the rubber band, his expression went cloudy, concerned. He paused, as if forgetting what to say next. It was a look she remembered vividly. Eva dropped her hand to her side.

“You want the truth, Rich?” asked Shane.

“Please,” said Rich, his eyes lighting up in the way that so many liberal white people’s had since the election. Like they were aching to be told how bad it was, how bad they were, their guilt turning them into masochists. Rich’s thumb hovered over the voice-recorder app on his phone. “In this climate, it’s important to share testimonies. Let’s hold America accountable. Let’s take her crimes seriously.”