Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

Terrell is seated in front of me, listening to my audition piece. I feel nauseous watching him. What if he says my piece is bad and that I should scrap it all? Sometimes I feel like the time I’m spending perfecting this audition piece is pointless. With the way things are going, if this Aces bullshit reaches Juilliard, I don’t think it will matter how good my audition piece is. They won’t want a student who’s been accused of all the things Aces has accused me of. Especially since none of the accusations were entirely false.

My thoughts once again occupied by the posters in the hallway. My face. Chiamaka’s face. It’s hard to ignore the lack of white faces on the posters. It’s hard to ignore the obvious thing tying Chiamaka and me together now: our Black skin. There’s so much cramming my mind. I don’t feel safe at school, or anywhere, really—like I’m constantly having to look over my shoulder. I learned when I was younger to keep how I really felt buried, deal with feelings later, on my own. I’m good at burying things in deep boxes in my mind. I’m good at being okay most of the time. Until I’m not, and the boxes burst open and I explode.

“We’ll be okay,” I tell him, even though I don’t mean that at all. I just don’t want to drag Terrell any deeper into this. But honestly? I’m terrified. This is our only option at this point, but the situation seems to be spinning out of control—it feels like suddenly everything is at stake. And we have no idea who our opponent is.

I bury things. It’s how I cope. I don’t face them head-on like Chiamaka does. There’s always the risk you’ll get seriously hurt if you do that, dragging others down with you.

I remember in elementary school, I had this white teacher. I couldn’t understand it back then, but she just felt evil. I always got this sense that she hated us—me and the other Black kids in my class. She’d be nice to Jack but would talk down to me like I did something wrong. At the time I didn’t understand it, but maybe this is what’s really going on. Maybe Terrell is right. It makes sense—Ward would have access to all our files, to the school on weekends. He’d be able to play with the CCTV, shut the lights off, create anonymous school accounts … But how do I even go about proving that type of thing? “We probably need more concrete evidence, though. I’m hoping that on Sunday, we’ll get that. If all fingers point to Ward, we take him down,” I say. I swear I’m starting to sound just like Chiamaka.

“Devon, I think something bad is going to happen to me.”

I notice some of his friends look at me like they are scared of what I might do to them. The fear in their eyes makes me feel a little unnerved. Even when I was on top, no one looked at me with genuine fear, like they’re doing right now.

The picture from that night makes me feel strange. I’ve never seen it before, and I have no memory of it. Those dolls … they remind me of those dolls from my dreams, the ones that look like her. Why would someone release this picture now, if they’ve had it for an entire year? What else happened that night?

“Sure about that, Chi?” he asks with a smile, giving me a look that crumples everything inside. It was a look I always thought meant mischief. But now … it feels like hate. The candy store … Aces knowing so much … The way Jamie is speaking. Before it seemed impossible, seeing as he claimed to love Belle, but maybe he would jeopardize their relationship just to hurt me. Like I said, love and hate are twisted versions of each other. Maybe his secret hatred of me outweighed whatever he felt for Belle.

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...

Before Aces hinted that I’m a murderer, I thought the whispers and the judgmental gazes were the worst feeling. I was wrong. The silence is much worse. Now, whenever I walk into a hallway or step into a class, everyone goes silent, even the teachers. The silence is a lot louder and more suffocating than their low voices. I barely made it through today. It’s hard trying to pretend I’m okay when I’m not. I finish detention, after doing a double shift for missing yesterday’s, and waiting for me outside is Belle. She has this huge smile on her face—like I haven’t been accused of murder, like my whole life isn’t falling apart, like someone isn’t trying to ruin me. Belle hasn’t seemed fazed by what Aces said; I don’t know if that makes her naive or perfect. She hugs me, but I can only feel like this hug is a goodbye. I’m just waiting for the next message from Aces now—their story, their evidence. What are they going to say? That I was the one who drove the car, hit the girl, and left her there? In reality, I’m an accomplice at most, but that doesn’t matter. Aces has twisted everything. And who’d believe me over legacy kid Jamie Fitzjohn? No one. My power has only ever been in the hallways, in what people thought of me. How can that compete against someone whose parents are Niveus alumni and donors, people who hold actual power?

My stomach turns, and I remember our conversation from earlier. How Jamie looked at me like I was so beneath him. How confident he seemed that he wouldn’t be implicated in all of this. This whole time I was convincing myself that Jamie was as scared as for his future as I am for mine, but truthfully, he’s a white man and they are able to get away with murder.

I don’t know exactly what it means or why Belle is the only girl I have ever thought about in that way, but I don’t want to examine my feelings; I just want to like her and not think about my parents or the people at Niveus and their judgments and opinions.

From watching TV and reading books, I always got the idea that a girl liking someone who isn’t a guy is meant to be a big deal and that there should be this pressing self-hate that comes with it. I feel almost weird with being this okay with being attracted to Belle, but then again, there’s nothing weird about this in my mind; it feels right. Belle says goodbye, closing her front door. I start to walk toward my place, a headache forming as I’m left alone with my worries. I can’t imagine not following through with the future I’ve dreamed about; I can’t imagine going to jail; and I also can’t imagine how disappointed my parents will be. I’ve only ever worked to make them proud. Now they’ll think all their sacrifices were wasted on a monster.

All will be revealed … I’m ready to have a ball, are you?—Aces This isn’t just texts and high school pranks. This is now all of my deepest secrets. This is my house. My home. Where I thought I was safe. Aces must have gotten my address from the central administration system. But I have no idea how they got through the gate. I look around my empty foyer. I move toward the stairs. It’s so quiet, my footsteps echo. If a tree drops in a forest and no one is there, does it make a sound? If a girl all alone in a big fishbowl screams and no one is there, can you hear her? Does she even make a sound? My phone buzzes. It feels like I’m reliving the same nightmare over and over, and it will never stop.

What does Aces want from us? What is the end goal? It feels like everything is out of control; I am out of control. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re three steps ahead, and everything we’re doing is playing right into their hands. Sunday feels so far away, but I don’t know what else to do. I go to my phone and watch as my fingers hover over the 9 and 1. But I can’t call the police. However bad it gets. I can’t call them, because Aces knows about the hit-and-run. Or at least, I can’t call them before we catch who is behind this. So I open my contact list and scroll down. I hesitate for a heartbeat before hitting the call button.

Chiamaka does scare most people, but an actual murderer? I don’t know. She has been in denial about a lot of Aces stuff we both know is true; plus there was the stuff on the USB. But I also know Aces is trying to twist everything against us, so who even knows if it’s true, or the entire truth. And after the masked figure in the hallway, those posters of Chiamaka and of me, and being followed, I’m scared about what they might be plotting next. It feels like the tone has changed this week. It was nasty before, but now it feels dangerous.

“Good. I’m going to go now. Stay safe and try not to do anything incriminating between now and Sunday,” she says. I’m confused. “What do you mean?” She sighs. “Try to keep your dick in your pants; that’s what I mean.”

I don’t want to tell him everything, make him worried. This is dangerous enough.

“High school feels a lot slower than it is, but trust me: It’ll all be worth it when you’re at college—whether that be Yale, or Stanford, or NYU, it doesn’t matter.” Mom always loves to stress the fact that the college I go to doesn’t matter—but why would she and Dad send me to private schools all my life, get me the best of everything, and then expect me to give them mediocrity in return? “And college is way more fun, less stressful; flies by like that.” She snaps her fingers. People are always telling me this about college, that it’ll be better than high school. Given the way the last three weeks of school have been, anything could be better than high school at this point. “I’m scared I won’t get into college at all.” “Don’t be silly—you have the grades, the attitude, the extracurriculars,” she tells me, finishing up now. All of that made me feel safe last year, when Aces didn’t exist. Now I’m a thief, a liar, a murderer

In the reflection is a girl who looks like me, only different. Normal me has her hair whipped into straightness, a full face of makeup five days out of seven, and the look of eternal confidence. Now I stare at myself, like I always do, confused by this thing my hair can do. It can go into this style and change me completely. I’m no longer Chi, but Chiamaka, daughter of a Nigerian mother who loves the hair on my head more than I ever could. “Thanks, Mom, it’s great.” And I mean it. I love having my hair like this. But I never go outside like this, ever. It’s too risky. I’d rather straighten than get prodded and stared at, stroked like an animal and questioned. Like Jamie looking at me yesterday as if I were some science experiment he’s intrigued by. I want to stand out for being the smartest and the best, not because my hair frizzes and fascinates. Mom appears behind me in the mirror and I turn to face her. She smiles at me, like she’s so proud. If only she knew all the things I’ve done. Who I really am.

“Well, I named you after my mother. Like you, she was smart and beautiful, knew what she wanted—and what she didn’t.” Her smile widens. “Chiamaka means ‘God is beautiful,’ and Adebayo, from my father, means ‘she who came in a joyful time.’” Mom never talks about her family; I’ve never even met them or been to Nigeria. But I know Mom loves them. Sometimes she’ll cook something and say, This was my mom’s favorite, or she’ll tell me about her childhood and the busyness of Lagos—where she grew up: Think New York is busy? Lagos is truly the city that never rests. But she never goes into detail, just gives me glimpses of her life before she married Dad. I’m always left feeling unsatisfied, like I’d dreamed of eating a meal after being starved for a year, got to have a bite, and then had it quickly snatched away before I could sate my hunger. I sometimes wonder if Mom’s family was as disappointed in her for marrying Dad as Dad’s family was when he married Mom. I wonder if they ever met me, whether they’d hate me for just existing, like Dad’s family does.

“Although, like your dad and I, my parents came from different worlds. While they were both Nigerian, they were from different tribes. My mother was Igbo and my father was Yoruba. I felt lucky growing up to have that mix of such rich cultures, and I wanted you to feel that too. I wanted you to see your name and feel the richness of where you’re from. I wanted you to know that when I call your name, Chiamaka, I’m saying My daughter is beautiful and smart, and she brings me so much joy.” Her eyes are glassy as she takes my face into her hands and kisses my forehead. I smile, feeling teary, but not because I’m sad. I never thought to be proud of my name like that before, or knew that it had some special meaning.

I wish Mom would stay and tell me more. I wish she’d work less and spend longer telling me all about the world she grew up in, who she was before me. But instead I watch her move away. “I love you,” I tell her before she goes, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I don’t say it often, so I don’t blame her for looking so shocked.

Placing my head on hers, I breathe her in again, her scent making me want to dissolve forever and forget about everything. The mission tomorrow, how scared I am, how my future is hanging in the balance.

“Want to continue not talking?” she asks, the yellow of her bra making everything inside tingle. “Not talking is my favorite thing to do,” I tell her.

I knew she was serious when she said, “Wear all black,” but I never thought she meant Dress like a criminal too.

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.

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.

It’s weird seeing black-and-white photos of Black people sometimes. TV had me thinking we didn’t exist until the eighties.

ACE OF SPADES SECRET SOCIETY Generosity, Grace, Determination, Integrity, Idealism, Nobility, Excellence, Respectfulness, and Eloquence. Aren’t those our school values? An animation of a smirking guy dealing cards grins at me in the corner. The words Press enter for some fun! appear across the screen, and even though I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack, I press enter. The school values dash across the screen, swirling and spinning, before arranging themselves in a line. Press enter again! the screen tells me, and I do. In a flash, most of the letters disappear, leaving the first letter of each word, like an acrostic. N I G G E R D I E Cold rushes through me; it feels like someone is walking over my grave. Nigger die? The fuck?

Distribution of DR’s messages. Distribution of DR’s messages. DR … Devon Richards. Messages … All the shit Aces has been sending to everyone. The screen blurs and I shut my eyes, squeezing the tears out. Jack’s been sending the messages to people. Jack’s the reason Dre found out about all of this. Jack’s the reason Dre broke up with me. Jack’s the reason I can’t breathe whenever I enter the school. I wipe my eyes and drag the mouse down, watching as more familiar names appear. Unable to process, I’m numb as I click back and choose the Bishop folder. Like before, there are rows of names, with short sentences detailing more tasks next to each one—all of them checked off. The lists in the files aren’t long enough to be the names of every single person at Niveus, but I recognize a lot of them as students. Anger bubbles inside as I read more familiar names, like Mindy Lion and Daniel Johnson and other people I’ve shared conversations with, sat next to in classes for almost four years. All of them, in on this. This. What is this?

There’s so much going through my mind right now. My face is wet, my body tense. This is bigger than we’d imagined. So much bigger. Aces isn’t one person, or even a small group … It’s so many people. And there were so many files I didn’t see. My mind is racing. But the most prominent thought over all the noise is: Who was that person in the mask?

“I know it’s been hard for you at school,” Belle starts, “but I want you to know … you can trust me.” I look at her, and I feel like I can tell her anything. I’m so exhausted, these secrets weighing on my conscience. I can trust her. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Aces was right about me. I’m a bad person, and before you say I’m not, I am. I’ve done a lot of bad things, and it’s all coming out now and I can’t stop it.” Belle is silent for a few moments. I don’t look at her at first, too scared that she’ll look at me like I’m some monster. But when I open my eyes, she’s weirdly calm. “I’m scared,” I say quietly, sniffing. “Of what’s happening to me and what’s going to happen.” “You’re going to be fine,” Belle says, taking my hands again. “We all have skeletons.” I feel hot, hoping my sweaty palms don’t gross her out. Belle looks at me like I’m not the person I think I am. I wonder how many skeletons she has? Every face in here flickers, morphing into the girl’s. Is it a trick of the light? Or is it my brain playing games once again? I feel like I’m surrounded. I look at Belle and see her hair matted with blood as her face shifts. I feel like I’m losing it. The walls of what was left of my sanity are cracking and breaking away. “Chi…,” she says softly. “No matter what, you’ll always have me, okay?” There’s a snap in my head, like someone clicking their fingers, and all the faces return to normal, including hers. It’s not much, but being here with Belle makes me feel better. And he...

Coming back to Niveus feels like I’ve returned to the scene of a crime. Like those guilt-ridden criminals in investigator shows, I feel as if I’m walking into an open trap. One step in the wrong direction and it’s over. Somehow a girl I never met before the accident is behind Aces and wants to ruin my life. But who is she? Why is she doing this? And how? Is this revenge for what happened that night last year? Has the girl found out who I am and wants me to suffer like she did? On first thought, it might seem like a smart move for me to stay at home, but with Mom and Dad gone all day, and knowing that girl could be coming for me—waiting until I’m alone to strike—I had no choice but to return to the safety of a crowded school of my peers, who hate me.

Someday someone’s going to knock you off your high horse.

Usually people stumble over their words when they speak to us, glancing up at us like they are in awe of the fact that we are breathing the same air. They don’t wear the unimpressed expression Richards does. I know Ruby for sure won’t like that, and I find it funny, loving that about him. Anyone who can make Ruby stop thinking she’s better than the rest of us—particularly me—is someone I applaud.

For once, he looks determined. As determined as I am to end this. He’s right: I do know what he wants to talk about—why I ran and left him alone. But I can’t get my head around how I would even go about telling him what I saw. I have to tell him, though, I know that—we’re running out of time. Something tells me that the girl is dangerous, which means she could hurt us like I hurt her. Last night might have been our only shot at stopping whatever plot she has, and I blew it. I have to tell him, even if he thinks I’ve completely lost my mind.

I wonder if he knows the girl is really alive. I wonder if he knew all along … “Want me to apologize for kissing a girl you aren’t even with? Want me to say I’m sorry for breaking the best-friend code? Oh wait, we aren’t best friends. We aren’t even friends. Want me to beg for your forgiveness for liking someone without your fucking permission?” His eyes widen, but before he speaks, I continue, because that’s what happens when you hold so much back without release. “You didn’t like Scotty or Tanner. Didn’t like Georgie or Paul. You hate it when I’m with someone else, because you think you can control me, control my body. Well, you can’t, Jamie.” How, after everything, can Jamie think he still has a say over anything I do?

He looks so out of it, as though his own worst nightmare also rose from the dead and showed up last night.

Aces is about race, and someone powerful at the school has made it their mission to create a group to get rid of me and Devon. And they’re winning. I have even more questions than answers, like who that girl really was and how she’s connected to this racist plot. How many people are involved? How far does this go? Are we safer here, where the masked figures lurk in corners wearing the faces of our former friends behind the plastic, or at home, where it is so quiet and anyone could do anything? I have one final thought as we exit the lab separately. This might be our last week at Niveus Private Academy

I feel shaky all the time, like there’s a masked monster behind me, watching my every move.

One of the unspoken laws I grew up with was Don’t be a snitch. Even though every part of my body is fighting it, I say, “I feel like a lot’s happening.” I can feel the hood-me slapping the private school boy seated in this chair around the face, threatening me. Mr. Taylor isn’t like other teachers, I tell myself. I feel safe around him, and he’s always wanted the best for me.

“I think I know who put up those posters. And the people who did that are still spreading rumors around about me and my … friend. I thought I could handle it, but it’s only gotten worse. I think we’re in danger, and I think we need someone to help us stop it before it’s too late.” I shouldn’t have come in today. What I saw told me that Niveus itself is somehow at the center of this all, but Chiamaka wasn’t answering her phone and I needed to tell her. I should have told her and left, taking her with me. Instead of using my common sense, I found myself wandering off to music class, like a zombie. I even saw Daniel. He smiled his big handsome smile at me, but all I could see was his name on that list, and him pretending to be nice to me but ruining my life behind my back. I can’t “act normal” when I know something really fucked up and dangerous is going on. I shouldn’t have listened to her. I shouldn’t have stayed.

“I was once in high school too. Kids can be horrible, so I can imagine what you’re going through.” Something in his eyes changes; it’s a small flicker, but I notice it. Sympathy, I want to say, but it feels like something different. “Especially with college applications coming up, I know how stressful it can be,” he finishes. I nod. “Juilliard is the only thing keeping me sane right now.” This piece is coming together—kind of. I think Terrell was right about the drums. The drums will definitely make it better, but then what if it’s still not good enough? I look up at Mr. Taylor, who is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’m not sure why. “You’re applying to Juilliard?” he asks. Which is so strange, because, obviously. He and I discussed it at length at the end of junior year. It’s all I’ve been working toward. I don’t feel like I can give an answer to that, I’m so confused. But I nod slowly. “Son—” A laugh jerks out of his mouth, then another, and then he’s full-on laughing. “I’m sorry—I just—seeing your face—I can’t keep this up,” he says between breaths, laughing like I told a really funny joke, slapping his knee with exaggeration, basically screaming. “Son, you’re not going to Juilliard.” He wipes his eyes and I feel something sink. What the fuck? I know it’s hard to get into and everything, but … Mr. Taylor doesn’t sound like Mr. Taylor right now. He’s the most optimistic person I know; he encourages all of us to do things we want to do—he’s encouraged me since I ...

We should have left sooner. Should have jumped to conclusions, should have pieced everything together. I rub my eyes roughly. I need to leave. I need to get help.

This feels like one of those nightmares I used to have when I was young, where I was trapped inside a cell of some kind, screaming for help, but no one would hear my pleas over the sound of the evil nightmare monster’s laughter. I run as fast as I can toward the black gates, slamming the exit button by the steps. I need to get out.

I feel like Belle is the only good thing in my life right now. I’m scared of Aces ruining that too somehow.

It’s watching me … like any moment it will transfigure into the girl, tackle me to the ground, lift its scary mask, and smile.

I gaze up at the wall of creepy photos, hundreds of white faces watching me. And in the odd photo, Black faces stare out, wearing blank expressions, their hair beaten into submission like mine. The Black faces aren’t always in the photos. That’s to be expected. Most good schools didn’t let people who looked like me in, and when they did, it wasn’t many of us. I can’t imagine what life would have been like for them, having protesters outside their schools every day, parents complaining about their existence there. Like they were these dangerous criminals, just because their skin was brown and not cream.