Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

1965 … 1975 … 1985 … The Black students … they all just … disappear. Their senior year.

Parents always like him, mine included. Like me, parents can’t see through his façade; they can’t see that his charm is manufactured and underneath it all lies a really terrifying person.

The page finally loads fully and the first picture pops up, Martha’s photos appearing one by one. Blond hair. There are tremors in my head. White skin. Searing pain in my stomach. Her piercing scream. Numbness in my hands. So much blood.

Bullshit is on the table next to the mouse, staring at me like I’m invading his space. Maybe I am.

“Did you know niveus means ‘white’ in Latin?” I shake my head; of course it does. Terrell types in Niveus Private Academy this time, then hits enter. “These people are slick as fuck, but not that slick,” he says, his voice quiet as he concentrates on the screen. “It’s almost like they want you to find this shit. Like they’re proud of it. I mean, right here it says that the school was founded by some of the biggest funders of slavery—popular plantation owners, merchants and bankers who financed operations. It’s all here, you don’t have to go looking too far.” My head swims and I zone out, the shock making it hard to process it all. Terrell goes on about the school’s founders, but I close my eyes, thinking about the money Ma put into that school, just to get me through. All for nothing. We have struggled every day, every fucking day, and it won’t mean a thing. “Von.” I snap out of it and look at Terrell. “Hmm?” “The school was founded in 1717. Isn’t it more than coincidence that the computer they use to do all this shit on is computer 17?” Yeah … Coincidence … My heart beats fast as I look at Terrell, his hair jolting as he types, focused. “Terrell,” I say cautiously. “How did you know that?” He looks at me. “What? That the school was founded in 1717? It says it right here.” I shake my head, organs shaking, mind shaking, everything shaking. “How did you know about computer 17? I never told you about that.” He pauses, and then dimples appear as he shrugs. “You must have told ...

“Do you know what you want to do about Niveus?” I don’t say anything; I can’t bring myself to. I can see him trying to understand my sudden shift in mood, looking at me, unblinking, like he wants to say something.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asks, and I don’t know what to tell her. The school you have to work three jobs to keep me at is incredibly fucked up and racist. No one asked for my permission before leaking my life to the world. Me and the boyfriend you don’t know about broke up … Oh yeah, and, Ma, I’m gay and I don’t want you to hate me for it, because I love you so much and I can’t live with you hating me, so please don’t. That’s what’s wrong; all those things, and then some. But I can’t speak; if I speak, I’ll tell her everything, and then she’ll hate me. So I just cry and cling to her. The bubbles in the boiling pot grow louder. “Vonnie, tell me what’s up. You know you can tell me anything, right?” I shake my head. That’s what she says now, but she doesn’t mean it. If I had girl problems, I could tell her everything, but not this. “I don’t want to lose you, Ma.” “Boy, I’m going nowhere. Jesus keeps me alive and well. Tell me what’s wrong.” She pulls away and forces me to look at her. “I hate school.” What a fucking understatement. “And you work hard so I can go.” I can’t breathe, I can’t look at her. “I hate it so much. They look down on me, say things about me.” I’m crying so hard it shakes my bones, rattling my rib cage. My nose blocks and I feel trapped in my own body. “Vonnie, you only have a few months left … You should have said something ages ago; I would have pulled you out if I knew you’d be happier somewhere else.” “It’s only gotten really bad now. They keep talki...

“What I know for certain is that you went to school, and you came back soaking wet, with a huge bump on your forehead and blood all over.” Goose bumps prickle my arms as the image of me engulfed by the water flashes: a little boy who looks a lot like Terrell dragging me back, screaming that cracks the walls of my brain. “I asked Jack—about what happened, why you were wet, bloody, beaten. I don’t usually ask; I know you don’t like me to ask, but you’re my child and you were hurt.” Her voice breaks at the end, but she looks at me, hard-eyed, like she doesn’t want to show weakness. Even her back is rigid.

“I cried and prayed for you, Von.” Ma’s voice tears the memory apart, the brown plastic film from the videotape unraveling in my mind. “I prayed you would be okay,” she continues. “But I knew this neighborhood and I knew that school was too poisonous, especially if what Jack said was true. After that, you didn’t want to talk about it, hid away in your room, and eventually, I assumed you forgot … blocked the memory.” I did forget. She wipes my face. Wipes away the tears, the snot, and whatever else sticks. “You don’t care that I’m gay?” I ask, because that’s what scared me most. I feel a little lightheaded as she shakes her head. “Don’t do drugs, stay out of trouble, do well in school, date whoever you like. That was the only thing I ever said to you.” I’m crying again, body jerking forward as the tears spill. Mama pulls me into her arms. I never thought the conversation would happen this way. “I love you so much, I just want you to be happy,” she says quietly. You too, Ma. I want you to be so happy.

I checked your messages when you were asleep, that’s how I knew about computer 17. I’m sorry, I just wanted to help.—T It’s okay. I’m not sure if it is okay, I’m not sure if I trust him anymore or if that excuse is even real, but I’m too tired to be angry at him. Besides, he’s my only real friend right now. Sorry again.—T The memory of us in the middle school playground replays over and over in my mind, then the memory of us kissing, how nice it felt. Terrell holding my face, kissing me like kissing me was a good thing … Followed by blinding pain my brain won’t even allow me to remember in full. But I see their fists, I hear them shout. And I know in that moment that kissing me is bad, very bad. I feel dirty. They made me feel so fucking dirty. And then I’m on the beach, the sand getting in my sneakers, the waves calling out to me. The water crashing violently, with its arms wide open. The sea is so perfect to me, it makes me feel at peace—but it’s nothing like that, not in the slightest. It’s chaotic, it swallows lives and people. The waves scream, hit, beat the sand down, like the sand is an abomination. And even though the sea is this monster, I’m drawn to its chaos. I grew up on that shit. That chaotic shit. It’s all I recognize. My pa and his major fuckup, my ma and her fuckups—with her messy, abusive boyfriends who left us when her clothes would burst from her swollen belly—to me and my fuckups. My everyday fuckups. And so, I stepped into the sea, let it pull me in. ...