She sighs loudly. “But youcandrive, right?”
I drove my first car when I was twelve. It was to get Ma to the hospital, back when we still had a car. She was giving birth to my littlest brother, Eli. Sometimes I’d drive Dre’s car when I’d do drop-offs for him.
“Yeah, I can—”
“Get in.”
We have a miniature stare-down. The bags under her eyes and her tangled hair are in hyper focus now. She looksreallytired.
I sigh. “Okay, fine.”
She mutters “Thank God” before tossing the keys back at me, narrowly missing my face. I nearly make a comment about that, but I figure it isn’t worth being insulted again and also she clearly isn’t doing so good, so instead I silently unlock the doors and watch as she walks over to the passenger’s seat, slamming the door shut.
I get in, closing the door and clicking my seat belt into place. I press a button and the engine bursts to life. If this was another time, another day, a different context, I might’ve commented on how cool her car is.
“Wait,” she says. I look over, watching her chest move up and down rapidly. It calms after a few moments. “Okay, you can go.”
I place my hands on the leather wheel of her car and my feet on the pedals.
Even though I have little faith in this plan, I can’t help thinking,This is it. This is finally it.
I press down, and the car starts to move out from the front of her house. The gates open immediately and before I know it we’re racingdown her street, filled with white picket fences, large black gates, and perfect rooftops with perfect families beneath them.
“Let’s repeat the game plan,” she tells me.
“We go to Central News 1—” I begin.
“We go to Central News 1, we speak to the person at the desk, telling them we have an appointment with that journalist I called yesterday,” she interrupts. “We show the journalist the files, with the printouts, the picture of the yearbook and the posters. We show them the texts—wait, youdohave the posters, right?”
In my backpack, safely stored away.
“Yep.”
“Good, where was I… We show them everything, and then we plan our attack on the school with the journalist, and we take it from there. Today is the last day that Niveus can control us,” Chiamaka finishes.
“Right,” I reply, trying to sound as convinced as she does.
From the corner of my eye, I see a police car.
“And what’s the worst that can happen? Really… we’re going to be just fine,” Chiamaka says, I suspect, to herself rather than me.
“Yeah,” I reply, eyes still focusing on the flashing lights of the car behind us. I hope they aren’t flashing at us. The last thing I want is to speak to a cop right now.
“Even if Central News 1 doesn’t want our story, we can go to any other station that wants this,” she continues, oblivious to the car, oblivious to how agitated I am.
The flashing hasn’t stopped.
I think they want me to pull over.
Sweat beads on my scalp. My hands are slippery. I haven’t got any other option—I have to pull over.
I could throw up all over the interior of this nice car.
“Chiamaka, I think I have to pull over. That police car has been flashing at us for a while.”
Chiamaka turns around to look, then turns back.
“We need to switch seats,” she says, unbuckling her seat belt.
