Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(91)

In my backpack, safely stored away.

“Yep.”

“Good, where was I … We show them everything, and then we plan our attack on the school with the journalist, and we take it from there. Today is the last day that Niveus can control us,” Chiamaka finishes.

“Right,” I reply, trying to sound as convinced as she does.

From the corner of my eye, I see a police car.

“And what’s the worst that can happen? Really … we’re going to be just fine,” Chiamaka says, I suspect, to herself rather than me.

“Yeah,” I reply, eyes still focusing on the flashing lights of the car behind us. I hope they aren’t flashing at us. The last thing I want is to speak to a cop right now.

“Even if Central News 1 doesn’t want our story, we can go to any other station that wants this,” she continues, oblivious to the car, oblivious to how agitated I am.

The flashing hasn’t stopped.

I think they want me to pull over.

Sweat beads on my scalp. My hands are slippery. I haven’t got any other option—I have to pull over.

I could throw up all over the interior of this nice car.

“Chiamaka, I think I have to pull over. That police car has been flashing at us for a while.”

Chiamaka turns around to look, then turns back.

“We need to switch seats,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt.

I follow suit, unbuckling mine.

I try remembering Ma’s words.

If they ask you questions, answer politely. Don’t go searching for your phone, don’t touch your pockets! Don’t, please don’t, just do as they ask, put your hands where they can see them.

I love you.

“Pull in there, we need to switch before they see us. My windows are tinted, so let’s hope they can’t,” she says as I pull over with shaky hands. She hits me, whispering, “Hurry,” as our limbs tangle. I finally get to her seat, and I jump when I hear the tapping on the car window.

Chiamaka winds down the window and says, “Good afternoon, Officer.”

His eyes meet mine. I look away.

“Realize you were doing thirty-five in a twenty-five lane?”

Really?

“Sorry, Officer, apparently I can’t read properly,” she says. I ignore the jab at me.

“Giving me lip?” the officer asks.

Chiamaka shakes her head. “No, sir,” she says.

He looks at us, unimpressed. “License and registration, please,” he says, getting out a notepad.

Chiamaka reaches up into the top section of her car and shows him something. He takes it, scanning it slowly. The guy is the stereotype of every cop we imagine when we picture how the gun pointed to our head could look in the all-too-normal narrative.

He’s big, broad, with a blond beard, beady eyes.

“You two look like you should be in class, not out on the road,” he says, still staring down at her details.

“We’re in college,” Chiamaka lies.

“Got any college ID on you?” he asks.

Why the fuck does it concern him?

“With all due respect, Officer, we are not obligated to show you that,” Chiamaka says.

Clearly, her parents didn’t give her the talk. Her hands visibly shake from their position on the wheel.

Or maybe she just knows, because we all know, that the feds kill us all in their own game of social eugenics.

The officer stares at Chiamaka silently, his gaze cutting through her, frustration swirling in his eyes. My stomach flips.

He writes something down on his notepad, then hands her back the papers.

I can finally breathe again when he moves away, but in the same breath, he turns back and leans into the car. It feels like my nightmare. The monsters attack and chase me, but I can’t run or hide because they just always seem to know where I am.

“Boy,” he says sharply. I look up, chest pounding, aching.

“Yes, sir,” I answer, hoping my hands are visible from their position in my lap.

“Do your seat belt.” His eyes scan my clothes. I look down with him.

“Yes, sir,” I say, not wanting to move too much, give him a reason to “defend” himself.

My hands shake, my face heats and sweats as I softly click it in, his gaze on me the entire time.

He finally taps the car and leaves to go back to his own and I can breathe again, even though everything aches.

I hate that these systems, all this institutional shit, can get to me. I hate how they have the power to kill my future, kill me. They treat my Black skin like a gun or a grenade or a knife that is dangerous and lethal, when really it’s them. The guys at the top powering everything.

If it isn’t Niveus that does it, any one of them could get us.

The guys at the top are bombs and explosives, killing millions, getting away with it.

“Need a moment?” Chiamaka asks.

I nod, sniffling now, not able to hold back the tears that escape, or the cries that leak from my mouth. I place an arm over my face, and I let myself go.

Chiamaka’s hand slides through mine and squeezes.

And even though I hate to admit it, I’m happy she’s here.



* * *



We are in the parking lot, surrounded by few cars, watching the Central News 1 building like we’re waiting for it to come to us, not the other way around.