The Blackbirds (32 page)

Leather belt around Hakeem's neck like it was a noose, my heeled motorcycle boot against the back of his head, pushing, strangling him, Hakeem beat the floor in submission, begged me to stop. It had taken a minute, maybe two, but we finally had an understanding.

Do unto others. Make them remember. I had learned that in Hoosegow. That was how a naïve fifteen-year-old had learned to survive in Hoosegow. Be an angel to those who respected you. Those who dissed you, make them wish they'd met the devil instead.

I let him go, left him gasping for air. I stepped over overturned furniture, over a broken coffee table, over fallen family pictures, and went to the kitchen, took another sharp knife, and while he scooted back, tried to crawl away from me, I carved a profound message in his front door, left a warning letting all others know what kind of philandering man he was. It was the kind of message no man wanted the police to see, the type of message no man wanted in a police report. They would see the artwork and know he'd treated a woman wrong, and no matter how severe the damage, they would fault him, they would blame the victim who reported the crime.

I dropped the knife, was about to leave, but remembered I wasn't done here. I went to the bathroom, retrieved my toothbrush and tongue brush, then went to the pantry for my box of Honey Nut Cheerios. I glowered at the condo I'd never visit again, at the man Kismet's heart still loved. I snapped a photo of Hakeem, on the floor, beaten like he'd
never been beaten before, bested by Destiny Jones. Then I snapped a photo of the message engraved in his door.

I made the Vulcan salute, and said, “Live long and prosper, bitch.”

We held eye contact. He was too terrified to utter a word.

Whatever we'd had was upside-down and inside-out now.

I walked out the ruined door, eased it closed behind this broken affair.

Hakeem's phone in my hand, I headed back downstairs, deleting all photos. He had taken over thirty shots of me sleeping in the nude, from every angle possible. When I was near his damaged Big Wheel, I dropped his phone on the pavement. I expected to hear sirens, to see police, same as it had been on that night a long time ago. Scared because of what I had done, and at the same time trying not to be girly and break down, I threw my Honey Nut Cheerios, toothbrush, and tongue brush into the garbage bin. With my phone, as tears rolled from my eyes over my cheeks, to my chin, I sent the video I had taken of Nancy and Hakeem to Eddie. I hoped Eddie came over and kicked Hakeem's ass too.

The Kismet Kellogg inside me ached. I had broken up with Hakeem.

The Destiny Jones part of me was afraid. I had committed a crime. I rode not knowing if Hoosegow was once again in my future.

This could be the road where my freedom ended.

I zigzagged streets doing the speed limit, heard sirens yelling from all directions, heard the wails of those who were sworn to protect and serve as I white-lined traffic and fled east. When I was caught at a light, I was startled when another biker pulled up next to me, rolling in neutral, the engine revving to get my attention. Pink CBR. Pink Shark helmet. It was Indigo. She gave me the thumbs-up, then pulled her helmet up on top of her head for a second, took out tissues, and blew her nose.

I flipped up my face mask and asked, “You still feel bad?”

“I feel pretty good now. Just the end of the congestion, I think.”

“You shouldn't be riding in the night air. You should be either in your Rubicon or rocking the BMW with the heater on.”

“I'm happy to see you too.”

It was dark so she couldn't see my red eyes.

I didn't ask her where she was coming from, or why she was riding in the chill of the night when she knew she wasn't feeling well. I guessed she had been to Bel Air to spend time with Olamilekan. Or had crept to the Palisades to be with Yaba. Life was that way for the unsettled.

Police cars whizzed by, lights flashing.

My heart raced. I thought about Hoosegow, the one for adults.

Indigo and I headed south, sped against the crisp night air, rode against the wind, and I drove with a few tears falling, still trying to outrun Kismet's unwanted emotions, her undeserved heartbreak, trying to speed away from the pangs of my past, trying to get away from a false love. Indigo kept up. When we hit Crenshaw, we caught up with Ericka. She was heading home too. As we all turned left into our four-unit apartment complex, Kwanzaa's car came from the opposite way, had come up West Century and turned north on Crenshaw. She flashed her lights and blew her horn at us and let us all go before her, then turned right inside the gate behind us, the last to enter Little Lagos.

Colorful balloons were all over the rails, more than I had left out this morning. Ericka had hooked it up real nice.

Thirty seconds later, we were all smiles, checking whatever issues we had at the gate, singing “Happy Birthday” to Kwanzaa Browne, first the traditional version, then the Stevie Wonder version. We all went to our individual nests, and took quick showers. I did the last of my crying in the bathroom, cried and gave those tears to the ocean. We all dressed in inexpensive costumes we had bought in Santa Monica. This was what Kwanzaa wanted us to do. It was silly, but it was her birthday and she wanted us to dress up like characters from
Ever After High
.

Kwanzaa wore a Cerise Hood costume. Cerise Hood was the daughter of Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. Indigo was Raven Queen, the daughter of the Evil Queen and the Good King. I was blessed with the attire of Apple White, the daughter of Snow White and her king. Two days ago, I would have seen my costume as the perfect costume, but I thought I had found my
muh
-
fukin'
king. Hakeem had turned out to be just another court jester. Ericka became Briar Beauty, daughter of Sleeping Beauty and the prince.

All the characters from
Ever After High
were rebels and friends.

We reconvened in Kwanzaa's apartment to open wine and share a bottle in celebration.

As always, I became James Van Der Zee. They gave me their phones and I took what seemed like a hundred photos of my Blackbirds. They posted their photos to social media right away. I shot a video for Snapchat. Kwanzaa used a feature to make them all look like raging demons
that needed an exorcism. It became laughs, hilarity, and silliness real quick.

The food Ericka had cooked earlier was put in the microwave and a small birthday cake from Hansen's was on the table. We sang to her again, this time with me recording the moment. It felt like I needed two bottles of wine for myself. Indigo had carried homemade chicken soup in her backpack, the soup in a Tupperware bowl, the sealed Tupperware wrapped in Saran wrap.

Her hair had been rebraided and it looked awesome.

Kwanzaa asked, “Did you go see the Dominicans?”

“I got it braided on Venice Beach.”

Indigo was in a good mood and had a fresh bruise on her neck. As melanin-blessed as she was, Olamilekan or Yaba or some new dude had to suck hard for that to become visible. My guess was the American footballer had scored a few touchdowns tonight.

Kwanzaa had a hickey on her neck as well. No one else noticed. I refused to ask her if she had seen Marcus Brixton. Most surprising of all, Ericka Stockwell's neck looked discolored too. Her hair was too short to hide the mark. That was twice in a few weeks I had noticed that sudden rash. A woman with her complexion, her skin told stories.

Indigo asked, “Destiny, are you okay?”

“I'm great.”

“You look intense.”

“Why do you look like you've been shaken up and stirred?”

Indigo shrugged. “Did you stop by Hakeem's? You look shaken and stirred too.”

“Yeah. I went to see him.”

“Your eyes are bloodshot.”

“Might be catching what you've got.”

“I hope not. We don't need two of us with this issue.”

Kwanzaa said, “Destiny, is Momma Jones back in the country?”

“My mom should be here in a few days. Whassup?”

“Marcus lied about me. But I don't want to get into it right now. Your mom knows how to handle things. Your mom knows people. I need to get in contact with Momma Jones.”

“I won't be angry, but are you sleeping with that scum Marcus Brixton again?”

“Hell no. He won't ever see, touch, taste, smell, or hear this again.”

“He can hear it? Does he put your conch up to his ear and hear the roar of the ocean?”

“Marcus has messed with the wrong one. Just get me in touch with your mother.”

“How bad?”

“This is worse than Hurricane Katrina and the crash of the
Exxon Valdez.”

“Damn.”

“He has messed with the wrong one. And on my mammy-sucking birthday.”

I nodded, felt her anger, left that issue at that, said, “Ericka?”

“Hey, Destiny.”

“You okay?”

“I'm trying not to laugh. Marcus will never hear the roar of the ocean again.”

I hand-combed my locks, then asked, “Who dropped the package off at my dad's?”

Ericka raised her hand, like in a classroom. “Oh, yeah. I was your drug runner tonight.”

Ericka ate a bag of potato chips at record pace, then jumped up, danced while she sipped wine. Her skin was flushed, her hair smelled like weed, and she had the munchies.

Kwanzaa got up, started dancing to “Uptown Funk” with Ericka.

Suddenly Kwanzaa had a broad smile, and as deep brown as her skin was, a sweet glow. Cerise Hood and Briar Beauty were getting down like they were Bruno Mars. Indigo joined in, and the Raven Queen danced like she was the happiest of the lot.

She asked, “What's the plan, birthday girl?”

Kwanzaa said, “Okay, tomorrow we're taking the tops and doors off your Rubicon and going to Belmont Shore. We're having breakfast at a bistro on Second Street with my dad and my stepmother. I want to go to La Creperie Café. Then we're going to say good-bye to them to kick
it at one of the beaches between there and Huntington Beach with my mom and my stepdad. We'll be low-key, so bring your suntan lotion and reading material, and after I kick my mom and bonus dad to the curb, on the way back we're stopping in Long Beach and we're going to Forever 21 at the Pike to see what's on sale, maybe go by H&M and see what's on sale too, and we're riding the Ferris wheel. Then we're bowling at El Dorado Lanes on Lincoln in Westchester.”

Kwanzaa stopped dancing and sat back down. Indigo sat back down too.

Ericka danced around the living room and said, “Get up and dance, y'all. Destiny, grab a phone and take some more photos.
Hot damn
. We should have gone out dressed like this.”

Kwanzaa laughed. “What did you do today that has you bouncing off the walls?”

Ericka laughed. “Went to see Dr. Dubois. Got that out of the way. I still can't believe she remembered me and Mrs. Stockwell.”

Kwanzaa asked, “Do you ever call the woman who gave you life your mother or your momma?”

“The only place it will say she is my mother is in her obituary, and on my copy it will be scratched over or blacked out or I'll use Wite-Out or chew her name out of the program.”

I asked, “Did you see the doctor after you dropped the meds off at my dad's crib?”

“Before. Indigo pulled a disappearing act on me and I was left holding the bag, so after I spent some time at Debra's office, I had to come all the way back here to get the package. I made dinner, cleaned up my place, then I took it to your dad's crib. Feels like a ton of stress has been lifted today. I feel light. Now get up and dance, Apple White. Get up and dance. Stop acting like Hakeem wore your butt out.”

“So how was the visit with Leonard's mom? What did she write about you and your mom?”

Ericka stopped dancing and smiling like it was the morning after a good night.

She said, “She was real cool, real nice to me, but I am still scared to read whatever she wrote about me and the wicked witch.”

Ericka said that she had the pages that Debra Dubois had given her in her apartment. She wanted one of us to read them before she dared to revisit her past. Ericka handed me a card that had Leonard Dubois Jr.'s cell number on the back.

She said, “Your name came up. Your first love wants to get in contact with you.”

“He wasn't my first love. He was my only one-off, and should have been a never-off.”

“Your first lover is still crushing on you after all these years. That's so cute.”

“The way he was carrying on, are you sure that number isn't for Indigo or Kwanzaa?”

Ericka laughed like she was buzzed beyond belief.

Indigo asked, “What kind of juice are you on, Ericka?”

Ericka kept on singing and dancing.

We sipped wine like queens without kings. We celebrated like we'd never had an issue in the world. We danced like heathens. We sat at Kwanzaa's kitchen table, ate more food, became the characters from
Ever After High
, played Scrabble and partied geek-and-nerd style. We cleaned up, grabbed pillows, and got comfortable on the sofa and floor.

Kwanzaa turned on the television, used the app I'd installed and streamed
Medicine for Melancholy
. Ericka fell asleep ten minutes into the movie. Then Indigo gave in and the Raven Queen was out like a light. About three-quarters through, Kwanzaa pulled her hood over her head, and soon feel asleep texting someone. Her phone dropped from her lap. When the movie ended, I peeped at her screen. She had thanked some guy named Cristiano for kicking it with her at the Club. She also had been online looking at photos of men who had been born with a condition known as diphallia, resulting in them being born with two penises.

I guess that was the type of porn she needed to play the fiddle and get through the night. I guess she craved a unicorn.

Made me wonder about Marcus. There was a message from him as well.

I was tempted to scroll up and read the exchanges between her and
Marcus, but I didn't give in. I respected her privacy. As a friend I supported all her decisions, good or bad.

I was a ride-or-die friend.

I turned the television off, collapsed on the sofa with Ericka, our heads at opposite ends. She had been so happy tonight. The same way I had felt when I had started with Hakeem.

I hadn't seen Ericka with that kind of glow but once since we'd all been living in the quads, and that was a few weeks ago. I bet she was seeing some guy at her job as a booty call.

I tried to sleep at Kwanzaa's place, but kept tossing and turning, kept sitting up, kept feeling the angst breathing in my chest, felt the downside of love burning in my bloodstream like a hot poison, so I stood outside awhile. Dressed like Apple White, probably looking either silly or like a hooker to anyone who looked up and saw me leaning against the railing, I took in the night air, listened to the noises of the restless city, to the cars, to the sirens, to the echoes of danger, to society gone bad, to culture gone wrong, to a gluten-free world abandoned by its savior. The din was overshadowed by the rudeness and loudness of music bumping as carloads of inconsiderate fools went by.

I'd get over Hakeem. I would get to the other side of this bad feeling, same as I have other things.

I sat on the stairs trying to freeze myself in the desert air, then finally yawned, gave up on punishing myself, and ended up walking back to my apartment, to my unmade bed.

I pulled myself into a fetal position.

I wanted to erase Hakeem from my mind, never mention him again, and move on.

I suffered the same intense feelings for Hakeem that Kwanzaa had had for Brixton.

We didn't make it to my birthday. I had wanted to tell him who I was before then, and had hoped he would have accepted me as Destiny, had hoped I could have paraded my happiness in front of my girls, in front of my dad, in front of my mom, in front of the world that had belittled me.

Beyond our walls, beyond our gates, the scream of sirens resounded.

Each cry reminded me of when they had come for me. It reminded me of when they had thrown a fifteen-year-old on the ground like she was a terrorist, handcuffed her in front of her mother, father, grandparents, perp-walked her in front of the entire community, and with local news recording every precious moment, they had dragged her away, her mother and father yelling, grandparents screaming and crying in the background. Her face had been blurred on the news, but the community knew which private school girl had taken a sudden fall from grace.