I follow suit, unbuckling mine.
I try remembering Ma’s words.
If they ask you questions, answer politely. Don’t go searching for your phone, don’t touch your pockets! Don’t, please don’t, just do as they ask, put your hands where they can see them.
I love you.
“Pull in there, we need to switch before they see us. My windows are tinted, so let’s hope they can’t,” she says as I pull over with shaky hands. She hits me, whispering, “Hurry,” as our limbs tangle. I finally get to her seat, and I jump when I hear the tapping on the car window.
Chiamaka winds down the window and says, “Good afternoon, Officer.”
His eyes meet mine. I look away.
“Realize you were doing thirty-five in a twenty-five lane?”
Really?
“Sorry, Officer,apparently I can’t read properly,” she says. I ignore the jab at me.
“Giving me lip?” the officer asks.
Chiamaka shakes her head. “No, sir,” she says.
He looks at us, unimpressed. “License and registration, please,” he says, getting out a notepad.
Chiamaka reaches up into the top section of her car and shows him something. He takes it, scanning it slowly. The guy is the stereotype of every cop we imagine when we picture how the gun pointed to our head could look in the all-too-normal narrative.
He’s big, broad, with a blond beard, beady eyes.
“You two look like you should be in class, not out on the road,” he says, still staring down at her details.
“We’re in college,” Chiamaka lies.
“Got any college ID on you?” he asks.
Why the fuck does it concern him?
“With all due respect, Officer, we are not obligated to show you that,” Chiamaka says.
Clearly, her parents didn’t give herthe talk. Her hands visibly shake from their position on the wheel.
Or maybe she just knows, because we all know, that the feds kill us all in their own game of social eugenics.
The officer stares at Chiamaka silently, his gaze cutting through her, frustration swirling in his eyes. My stomach flips.
He writes something down on his notepad, then hands her back the papers.
I can finally breathe again when he moves away, but in the same breath, he turns back and leans into the car. It feels like my nightmare. The monsters attack and chase me, but I can’t run or hide because they just always seem to know where I am.
“Boy,” he says sharply. I look up, chest pounding, aching.
“Yes, sir,” I answer, hoping my hands are visible from their position in my lap.
“Do your seat belt.” His eyes scan my clothes. I look down with him.
“Yes, sir,” I say, not wanting to move too much, give him a reason to “defend” himself.
My hands shake, my face heats and sweats as I softly click it in, his gaze on me the entire time.
