“Just call the number,” Devon says.
And so, I do.
35
DEVON
Wednesday
I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was up thinking about everything.
My pa—how he’s gone and how Ma knew that but didn’t tell me. Andre sitting in that cold, dark cell, alone and scared. How I don’t have complete faith that this plan will work.
Chiamaka called Central News 1 yesterday, and we got a meeting set up with a journalist for today. I’m meant to meet Chiamaka at her place, but I’m already dreading it. I’m tired of having faith things will work out, only for any hope I have to be violently crushed.
I hear a vibration that I don’t register until I look at my bedside table and see the screen lit up, a spotlight illuminating my dark bedroom. I grab it. It’s already five in the morning.
Time flies when your life is going downhill.
It’s a text from Chiamaka.
Are you up?—C
Yeah, I’m up.
That feels like an understatement. Yeah, I’m up. Not becauseI’m an early riser, but because every time I try to close my eyes and dream, it gets twisted. The images become monstrous and violent. I’m scared to sleep. So, I’m here drowning, rain spilling outside, the open window making it louder, brothers snoring beside me. Up.
How are you?—C
I don’t know.
I answer honestly. I just feel so lost and angry.
Same.—C
Then a moment later, the phone buzzes again.
We’ll be fine. This plan will work. Just going to print out all our evidence. Make sure you bring the posters.—C
Okay,I say, not believing herWe’ll be fine. We aren’t, and we probably won’t be. And I’m tired of it, tired of living like this.
As the rain lightly hits the window and the cold rushes in, I scan my cramped bedroom, and it’s like I’m looking at my life through a new pair of eyes. Our weird floral-patterned green carpets that I never really minded before, making me feel itchy and sick; large dark closets with clothes that spill out; peeling bright-yellow wallpaper; and that battered TV my brothers love so much. I look at this room now and it hurts to think that life might never get better than this. I feel destined to drop out of high school, stay here, in this house, in this room, listening to Ma pray to a God who covers his ears when she chants.
I used to tell myself this wasn’t permanent, that I’d live somewhere someday where I wouldn’t have to share a bed with my brothers or sit in this home of mismatched things. But who was I kidding.
Boys like me don’t get happy endings.
The stories I was fed about working hard and being able to achieve anything… That’s all they are, stories. Lies. Dangerous dreams.
I close my chat with Chiamaka and find myself mindlessly scrolling, searching for a game, social media, something to get lost in before I have to get up, put on my uniform, and play pretend with my ma. I’ve decided I can’t tell her about this yet, but I will soon, once I’ve seen this plan through. To be honest, if it works, she’ll see it for herself.
I scroll through Twitter, curling up in a ball and letting my thumb move up and down the glass screen. Then, as if smacked in the face, a thought occurs to me.
New tweet. The cursor blinks at me, waiting for me to write something. Amid everything that’s happened, I’ve let so many people tell the world who I am. I’ve let Chiamaka tell me what we should do. I just want, for once, to say something and for someone, anyone, to listen. I can do that on here.
But what would I even say? It’s not as if I have many followers; I hardly use this account.
The screen shines bright, making my eyes hurt a little. I move my thumbs, then read over my words one last time.
