A storm was climbing up the coast. On the walk to Rah’s car, Milan and I tilted into each other for body heat. I pulled the flaps of my jacket across my body. The wind felt like someone slapping me in the face with their belt.
“Bruh likes you.” The unlit cigarette in Rah’s mouth moved when he spoke. His lighter kept blowing out. I could tell it was agitating him.
“You don’t even know him,” I said.
“I know how niggas are.”
“So what if he does?” I snapped.
Rah shook his head like I was the disappointment of the century, speeding up his stride. Milan hung back with me. “Let him be mad, babe. He’s not your man.”
We muscled through the wind up a quaint residential street. Christmas lights, prematurely hung, mocked us with their candy-colored cheer, ornaments glinting off green spruces in big, darkened windows. Rah stared into the homes with morose bewilderment. His truck was a rusty nail jutting out of a line of sleek electric cars. Something glittered on the concrete.
As we drew closer, I saw one of his windows had been smashed. “Fuck, what happened?”
Rah got in silently, sticking the key in the ignition. Milan looked at me like,Are we really still driving with this man?I dropped into the passenger’s seat, stiff and alert. It was colder in the car than it was outside. Milan fell into the back seat opposite the broken window, flicking away flecks of glass. “I’d crashoutif this was my car,” she muttered.
I stuffed my hands between my thighs and cautiously watched Rah’s profile. He looked resigned, like someone who expected bad things to happen. Chucking his cigarette still glowing onto the pavement, he lurched out of the parking space. We didn’t talk about the broken window again.
THE GUN
CATHERINE “CAT” ST. CLAIR:24, Black. Long dark hair, pretty but in a harsh way. At home she’s like her name: stealth, observant. In the street she’s frazzled and searching. A lion lopes inside her waiting to leap, wanting to rip the world limb from limb until it listens.
DORINDA “DORI” ST. CLAIR:Late 50s, Black. Pretty like an 80s singer. Her curls are dark, vast tunnels she works to keep up like a second job. Her crow’s-feet make her look kind when she smiles. She moves like a woman on a mission she’s already lost.
JOEL ST. CLAIR:60s, Black. A tower crumbling brick by brick. Gravity pulls his face toward the floor. Imagine: a whole body being pulled toward the floor. This is Joel St. Clair.
FADE IN:
INT. ST. CLAIR HOME, TOP OF STAIRWELL - EVENING:
Late November, two weeks after the election. The trees have lost their life, their color. Gnarled branches break off, twisting away from each other. We find ourselves in a modest two-story home in Shepherd Park, a neighborhood wedged between DC and Maryland. Outside: The street is quiet in a way that’s comforting. Inside…
CAT perches at the top of the stairwell like a bird about to take flight. She listens to shouting downstairs where…
INT. ST. CLAIR HOME, KITCHEN - EVENING:
DORINDA is pissed. But beneath her rage, afraid. But beneath her fear, exhausted. But beneath her exhaustion, a million other things she doesn’t have the energy to tend to.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table while JOEL stands in the doorway. If you drew a line between them, it’d be long and crooked.
There’s a gun on the table. No one’s reaching for it. It feels more like a bomb than a gun.
DORINDA
Have you lost your mind?
JOEL
Don’t start.
DORINDA
(Dorinda makes her mouth like she’s about to scream but doesn’t)
I want this thing out of my house.
JOEL
