Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(69)

I approach Chiamaka and her eyes survey my outfit critically. Then she lifts the balaclava up slightly, revealing her unimpressed expression.

“That’s the best you could do?” she whispers. I’m wearing all black; I don’t understand why she’s making a big deal about it.

We are basically wearing the same thing, except she’s wearing red-bottom heeled black boots and I’m wearing Converse. At least my shoes aren’t going to click loudly and alert Aces and all the other anonymous people out to get us that we are here.

“What?” I say.

She shakes her head, pulling the balaclava back down roughly. “Nothing, just come and watch the window with me.”

“What does this see into?” I ask, walking up to the back door and the window next to it. I can barely see anything with Chiamaka’s big head in the way.

“The library,” she says.

Convenient.

“Anyone there yet?”

“Obviously not. Do you really think I wouldn’t say anything and keep watching them play on the computers?”

I look up at the dark sky. God, please give me eternal patience.

“I thought we were going in and hiding behind the cart by computer 17.”

She sighs loudly. “Let’s go in.”

She pushes the key into the hole—loudly—and opens it—loudly—and then steps in—loudly.

I’m no crook, but I know how not to get killed, or found out, and Chiamaka clearly doesn’t. I follow her inside, watching her try to tiptoe but fail. We turn in to the library. The room is cold, quiet, and empty. I scan our surroundings, my eyes landing on computer 17, at the very edge, still. Untouched. Ominous.

“Hey, look,” Chiamaka says. I follow her gaze to one of the walls adorned with what feels like hundreds of black-and-white framed photographs, all with years labeled clearly on the frame. Freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years for each graduating class. It’s kind of creepy, the school keeping all of these in Morgan Library, of all places. Like the students make out while the Niveus alumni watch.

I’m almost positive the photos weren’t here when we came on Thursday.

I scan the wall for the junior year photo for our graduating class, crouching a little to focus on it. There are so many of us. At any other school, my face would blur and blend in with the rest of the class, but I find myself easily. Dark skin as prominent as Chiamaka’s; the sea of white making us stick out comically.

I spot a sophomore pic from 1963 out of the corner of my eye, where two Black straight-faced strangers stare back at me. I see the change in them in the next picture over—their junior-year photograph—one of the girls seemingly taller in this one. It’s weird seeing black-and-white photos of Black people sometimes. TV had me thinking we didn’t exist until the eighties.

“We should probably go and hide until Aces comes … It’s getting close to nine, and I don’t want to be caught and have to die wearing polyester,” Chiamaka says. I start walking toward the cart by computer 17, but I’m quickly pulled in the opposite direction, toward computers 6 and 7.

“Go under and drag the chair to hide your body,” she whispers, completely abandoning the plan she was so adamant we follow. But I do what she says, taking a seat next to her on the floor, under the table, then dragging the chair forward to cover me.

I peek out slightly, computer 17 in my direct vision.

Maybe this plan is better.

We sit in silence for a while. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, leaning back against the wall but hitting my head against the table in the process.

“Shh!” Chiamaka says, looking annoyed at the fact that I injured myself.

I don’t trust myself with words right now, so I don’t reply.

“That reminds me … What took you so long to get here?” she whispers, hitting me across the head, her balaclava now off and in her lap.

God, please … patience … thanks.

What took me so long? I was with Terrell, actually, at an ice-cream joint near his place.

“I was eating dinner,” I tell her, because ice cream technically is dinner.

I can feel her roll her eyes. Apparently, now eating’s a crime too.

“Next time, waste someone else’s time with eating; we have a creep to catch.”

“Sorry, I’ll starve and faint right in front of Aces instead—”

She pinches my leg.

“What now?” I almost shout, looking at her. Her eyes widen, and she shoves her hand over my mouth quickly.

“I saw legs!” she whispers harshly, her head turning toward the figure. There’s a pounding in my ears as I catch a glimpse of movement.

Holy shit.

Inching forward, I peer out through the gaps between the chair legs. I see a person dressed in black, an oversized hoodie covering their small frame, with black jeans and shiny Docs. Their footsteps are heavy, boots scratching against the carpet, gloved hands limp by their sides as they step toward computer 17.

This is it.

“Shit,” I whisper without thinking, triggering an abrupt pause from the figure. I freeze for a moment, and I swear my heart stops, my body vibrating as I scooch back slowly. The figure turns toward us, scanning the room, and I see the scary smile of the mask from Thursday, the one that’s been haunting me since, with its pale, vacant expression making it look so monstrous and terrifying. They stop looking around and continue heading toward the computer.