Page 72 of Meet Me on Greenwood

"Are you all right?"

Gema turned just as a siren sounded with a long wail. For a half a second, everyone in the room went still. It was the kind of pause that happens when everyone hears the same thing at once, but no one knows what comes next.

Then someone shouted. "Coppers!"

The room broke.

People moved in every direction at once, tables lurching, glasses spilling, the band dissolving mid-note. Blue uniforms began pushing through the main entrance with their weapons drawn.

I grabbed Gema's hand. "Come with me!"

She didn't argue.

I pulled her back through the corridor, away from the uniforms and toward the rear of the building. People streamed past us in both directions, some laughing like this was a part of the fun, and others worrying about spending the night in prison. Nearby, an officer had a Black man pinned face-first against the wall, baton pressed hard into the back of his neck, while a few feet away a White patron was simply being waved toward an exit with an almost bored flick of the wrist, his tie still hanging loose, his hands never once touched. I watched a Black musician go down hard when an officer shoved him and no one stopped to help him up—not because no one cared, but because stopping meant risking becoming the next one on the ground. The police were brutal, and enacted their rage on Black patrons more fiercely, because there was no recourse or repercussions.

"Rita," Gema said, pulling back. " Where is she? I’ve lost her!"

"We'll find her outside. Keep moving."

"I am not leaving without—"

"Gema." I turned to face her in the narrow corridor. "Rita knows this place. She has been here before. She knows where to go. You don't, and you don’t want to be detained by them." I held her gaze. "Trust me."

She nodded, and I pulled her forward. We moved together toward the back door and the promise of the cool evening air beyond it.

27

Gema

Wealthy Indian Girl Prefers Home with Colored Folks

The moment we stepped outside, we were caught in a storm. Having been underground, it was a shock to be pelted with rain.

"This way," Houston yelled as thunder cracked through the sky.

"We should find Rita—"

Screams permeated the night, along with sirens and the smack of batons hitting the pavement. We ran for several blocks, pushing through crowds of people, and sprinting so fast, I nearly lost my heels twice.

I didn't know where Houston was taking me until the alley opened onto a small, wooded area in the middle of the city. It was a pocket of quiet, tucked between warehouses. It felt like the city had forgotten it was there. A weathered fountain stood at the center, water sheeting off the basin's edge in the rain. Gas lamps at each corner threw amber light across the wet flagstones. At the far end, a wooden shelter was completely consumed by vines. The foliage was so dense, it created a cover from rain.

Houston ducked under and pulled me in after him.

The sound changed immediately. Rain fell on leaves above us instead of open sky. The low murmur of the fountain cut through, and the gas lamps cast a soft light through the gaps in the vines, while we were cloaked in shadow inside.

I stood catching my breath, water dripping from my headband, as I looked around at the small impossible shelter.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"It used to be a park, but once the buildings were constructed, it became abandoned. I heard the land belongs O.W. Gurley, one of Greenwood's founders."

I looked around at the overgrown grass and the beauty of the cracked fountain, very aware that Houston was watching me. "It should remain a park," I said, turning back to him. "Will they find us in here?"

"I have never seen anyone here. I came across it weeks ago, and I don’t think many people know it exists."

He bent down to wipe away the vines covering a smooth a rock.

"Come sit," he said. "Your feet have to be killing you."