Belle nods, a sly smile on her lips as she reaches up to her shirt and starts to unbutton it.
“Want to continue not talking?” she asks, the yellow of her bra making everything inside tingle.
“Not talking is my favorite thing to do,” I tell her.
27
DEVON
Sunday
I knew she was serious when she said, “Wear all black,” but I never thought she meantDress like a criminal too.
Chiamaka waves to me by the back entrance of our school, with a set of jangly keys in her hand and a balaclava covering her face. I got in through the back gate, usually left open for cleaners to come through. It’s one of the rare places in Niveus without any CCTV. I kept watching my back on the way here, looking for scary masked figures with sharp knives ready to kill us both. But the streets were empty, with no sign of anyone following me at all.
I approach Chiamaka and her eyes survey my outfit critically. Then she lifts the balaclava up slightly, revealing her unimpressed expression.
“That’s the best you could do?” she whispers. I’m wearing all black; I don’t understand why she’s making a big deal about it.
We are basically wearing the same thing, except she’s wearing red-bottom heeled black boots and I’m wearing Converse. At least my shoes aren’t going to click loudly and alert Aces and all the other anonymous people out to get us that we are here.
“What?” I say.
She shakes her head, pulling the balaclava back down roughly. “Nothing, just come and watch the window with me.”
“What does this see into?” I ask, walking up to the back door and the window next to it. I can barely see anything with Chiamaka’s big head in the way.
“The library,” she says.
Convenient.
“Anyone there yet?”
“Obviously not. Do you really think I wouldn’t say anything and keep watching them play on the computers?”
I look up at the dark sky.God, please give me eternal patience.
“I thought we were going in and hiding behind the cart by computer 17.”
She sighs loudly. “Let’s go in.”
She pushes the key into the hole—loudly—and opens it—loudly—and then steps in—loudly.
I’m no crook, but I know how not to get killed, or found out, and Chiamaka clearly doesn’t. I follow her inside, watching her try to tiptoe but fail. We turn in to the library. The room is cold, quiet, and empty. I scan our surroundings, my eyes landing on computer 17, at the very edge, still. Untouched. Ominous.
“Hey, look,” Chiamaka says. I follow her gaze to one of the walls adorned with what feels like hundreds of black-and-white framed photographs, all with years labeled clearly on the frame. Freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years for each graduating class. It’s kind of creepy, the school keeping all of these inMorgan Library, of all places. Like the students make out while the Niveus alumni watch.
I’m almost positive the photos weren’t here when we came on Thursday.
I scan the wall for the junior year photo for our graduating class, crouching a little to focus on it. There are so many of us. At any other school, my face would blur and blend in with the rest of the class, but I find myself easily. Dark skin as prominent as Chiamaka’s; the sea of white making us stick out comically.
I spot a sophomore pic from 1963 out of the corner of my eye, where two Black straight-faced strangers stare back at me. I see the change in them in the next picture over—their junior-year photograph—one of the girls seemingly taller in this one. It’s weird seeing black-and-white photos of Black people sometimes. TV had me thinking we didn’t exist until the eighties.
“We should probably go and hide until Aces comes… It’s getting close to nine, and I don’t want to be caught and have to die wearing polyester,” Chiamaka says. I start walking toward the cart by computer 17, but I’m quickly pulled in the opposite direction, toward computers 6 and 7.
“Go under and drag the chair to hide your body,” she whispers, completely abandoning the plan she was so adamant we follow. But I do what she says, taking a seat next to her on the floor, under the table, then dragging the chair forward to cover me.
I peek out slightly, computer 17 in my direct vision.
