Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(83)

Devon just stares at my phone, a vacant expression on his face. It’s like he’s not fully here. He’s still shaky; not as much as this morning, but it’s like he’s a human-sized Chihuahua.

I click my fingers in front of his face. “Hey, Devon?”

His head snaps up, his eyes glazed over. “Sorry … Yeah, this is fucked up,” he says.

It’s more than fucked up. These people are evil. But I can tell he’s had to take in a lot in the last twenty-four hours; I can’t expect him to be fully present. I don’t think I’m even really here, or processing it.

I’m tired.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He shrugs, looking away from me and handing me back my phone.

I take a seat next to him.

“Me too. I feel like crap,” I reply to his silence.

We sit in the quiet for a few minutes. I need to know how to move forward from this, to not feel stuck.

I grew up in this world.

One where my hair was petted, tugged, laughed at, pointed out, banned in school rule books. And so I straightened it to comply, to ensure they didn’t probe me or touch me like I’m some pet.

I got the grades to look smart, because a part of me always feels dumb around them. I got the respect, acted proper, thought I was doing well. Thought I’d get into Yale, no problem.

Problem.

No matter what I do, no matter how much I iron down the hair that springs from my scalp, or work as hard as I can, I’m always going to be other to them. Not good enough for this place I’ve tried to call home all my life.

I can “fix” the kinks in my hair, but not the kinks in this whole system that hates me and Devon and everyone who looks like us.

A sniff breaks me out of my thoughts and I glance at Devon. He’s trying to hide his face, but I see him wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his alien hoodie.

He’s crying.

I pretend not to notice, wait until it’s not so obvious before I speak again.

“Why don’t we talk more tomorrow, when we’re both well rested. It’s a lot to take in today. We can meet in the morning, think of a strategy to make those people realize we will not be derailed.”

He looks at me, bleary-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“We didn’t come this far to just come this far, right? We can’t let them win, so tomorrow morning I’ll meet you and we can think of ways to beat them. Neither of us is in the right headspace tonight,” I say.

He nods slowly. “Can we meet around twelve? I have to be somewhere in the morning,” he says.

He can’t be serious.

“Is it more important than Aces?” I ask.

“I have to see a friend tomorrow,” he says, standing up now. I stand with him.

“Okay, we can meet at twelve … I can come over to your place?”

“Okay,” he says. I was only asking to be polite; I’ve heard about the neighborhood he’s from. It’s not a place I’ve ever been to, nor do I want to visit. I was hoping he’d say no.

We walk downstairs and Devon mutters a goodbye before leaving.

“Was that your friend leaving already?” Dad asks as I walk into the living room. He’s reading a book and eating a bowl of soup, glasses edging toward the tip of his nose.

I nod. “Yeah, he didn’t feel well, so we’re meeting up tomorrow instead,” I say, thinking about how exhausted Devon looked.

“Everything okay at school?” Dad asks, flipping the page of the book.

I wish parents wouldn’t ask that so much. Especially when the truth might hurt them and make them hate you. If I told him “No, school is awful. In fact, I don’t think I can go back, because the whole school is racist and they hate me, Dad,” he wouldn’t get that. He wouldn’t understand anything I told him, because it’s not something he’s ever had to deal with. All he’d register is the fact that I’ve been accused of theft, murder, and fornicating with random boys. And he’d think I was disgusting. I already hate me enough for the both of us.

Besides, even if I did tell him everything, I know he wouldn’t do anything. Dad couldn’t even defend me when his family would say racist things to me when I was a child. He’d just watch silently as Grandma would mock me and the way I looked. Said nothing when his family no longer wanted Mom and me to visit. Why would he defend me now?

So I say: “School’s great, Dad.”

And then I tell him another lie—that I’m tired—and I go to my room, and I try to sleep.

But all I see is her.

Images of Martha on the ground after we’d hit her. Dream sequences … or now maybe memories … of me drunk, stumbling into a room, music from the party playing in the background. I start panicking because I see these blond little bloodied dolls everywhere and then I see a figure, which turns toward me, and it’s her.

I’m screaming but no one can hear me. I’m crying, I can’t stop crying. The music is blasting. I’m shouting, “You’re not real!” and she’s laughing. I can see my reflection in the mirror behind her, my silver dress sparkling in the dark room, the straps hanging off my shoulders. I look like a mess.

I am a mess.

I’m screaming but no one can hear me.

I’m screaming so loud, but no one can help me.