Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

Because Jamie is—was—my best friend. Sometimes best friends mess up, fall out. Sometimes we make each other so angry it turns into resentment, and from resentment, hate. The way he looks at me now, I can see it is definitely hate. For whatever reason, Jamie hates me … But Devon … “Is it because we’re Black?” There is nothing except Jamie and me. No hallway. No whispers. Just us. “Calling me a racist?” he asks. Growing up, I realized quite quickly that people hate being called racist more than they hate racism itself. Which is why I’m not surprised when Jamie pauses, places a hand in his pocket, and slowly swivels back around as he speaks. On his face there is this unsettling smile that grows wider the longer I stare at it. He steps forward. “Would I have touched you if I hated Black chicks?” My body vibrates, anger boiling my blood, vision blurring. I push him, hard, and he stumbles back. Laughter escapes his grinning mouth as he catches himself. Why the hell is he laughing? “I’m not Aces … but I’m a bit confused here, Chi.” He steps closer, the smirk replaced by furrowed eyebrows. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Since freshman year?” “What?” I ask. I can’t stop staring at Jamie’s face, at how easily he makes such drastically different emotions appear. It’s like he’s got a switch somewhere on his body. “For people to know your name, for everyone to talk about you. Popularity?” His confused expression morphs into pity. “Now you have it, Chi.” He moves forward again, so close t...