Chapter 8
In my free time, I isolated myself in the library and worked on flyers to advertise a new student paper. The Sovereign—that would be its name! It was bold, rebellious, just like Pa’s paper. This one would be mine. Something I could own!
I slipped a few flyers into my bag, a thrill rushing through me as I thought of taking charge of the narrative. As I prepared
to leave, my eyes landed on a familiar person sitting at a table, absorbed in a book. It was the boy from the Chinese restaurant
I’d almost applied to.
Imagine my surprise at finding him here, wearing a long-pleated skirt that fell just over his knees and heeled boots—two choices
that clearly rejected the dress code and made him look almost like a schoolgirl. He wore the fashion well, even with the pressure
of being the only one here who was neither Negro nor white.
He looked up as if he’d felt me staring and then gave me a happy wave of recognition.
I made my way over, one flyer still in my hand. “Hi,” I said with a smile.
“Hey,” he returned, leaning forward and closing the book. “Funny seeing you here.”
“Likewise—I didn’t know you went to this school.”
“Just started,” he said, holding up what he was reading, which I realized then was the West Egg pamphlet. “Zihan.”
“Nick.” We shook hands.
I felt this heaviness as I glanced down at the flyer in my hand. Should I share it? But then I thought there was no point in having an idea just to keep it hidden, and with great hesitation, I gave him a flyer.
He skimmed it, then looked back at me. “The Sovereign?”
“I’m starting a paper,” I said, the words avalanching out of my mouth. “The school-funded one is very one-sided, so I think
the Blue House boys need a way to have our own say here.”
I braced for a dismissal, but Zihan nodded thoughtfully and then shrugged with approval. “I support it. I haven’t been here
long, but they put me in restaurant training, just because I have been doing that my whole life. But the point of coming here
was to do something new, you know? They think they know you already, just from looking at you.”
“Exactly,” I said, sliding into a chair at the table. “And they don’t—in the slightest. That’s why I’m doing the paper, so
we have a space to write out our own stories. You could write something if you want—share your take on it all.”
He tilted his head, considering it, and then he nodded. “Maybe. Do you live in the Blue House? I’m still living back home.”
“Room 17,” I confirmed.
“Neat. What are you up to now?”
We left the library at the same time. The late afternoon sun stretched across the outdoor hallway, and a breeze stirred loose
leaves along the ground.
“Have you found anything to like about it here, so far?” I asked.
Zihan said, “I like the look,” and gestured to the polychrome brickwork of the White Hall classroom building beyond the hallway.
The complex masonry glowed in the light. “It reminds me of Great Britain. You?”
“I’m finding things to like,” I said honestly. “It still feels big to me.”
He looked at me, his expression open and thoughtful. “It feels big for me too. But it is still early.”
We walked to the Blue House, where the common area was buzzing with noise—my dormmates joking and tossing cards at a table,
someone throwing a rubber ball against a wall. Zihan hesitated at the door, then stepped in with me behind him.
He raised the flyer and waved it in the air. “Hey, just want to make sure everyone has seen this?”
My face instantly started burning up when the chatter quieted, and a few heads turned our way. One of the boys, a wiry kid
with glasses named Jerome, took the flyer from Zihan’s hand and squinted at it. “The Sovereign?”
“It’s Nick’s idea,” Zihan said, looking back at me. “A paper for the Blue House.”
I stood there frozen and embarrassed from the attention . . . but there were murmurs of agreement. Jerome handed the flyer
to the boy beside him—James. One by one, the others passed it around, curiosity alighting in their eyes.
“You need writers?” Jerome asked.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a rush of confidence.
“I could do sports,” James offered.
“That’s good,” I said. “We need different sections.”
Zihan turned to me, smiling with satisfaction, and I realized in that moment—I liked the new kid! Zihan saw the bigger picture!
He’d show up for what mattered! Maybe I could call him a friend.
I caught Zihan’s eye, and he nodded. I nodded back, cozy in the comfort that I wasn’t figuring this out on my own.
With my dormmates behind me, my defiance toward Charlie only began to blaze brighter. New ideas for how to take matters into
my own hands kept running through my head, wherever I went.
As I cooked at Kirby’s that weekend, I thought of how I’d need to find a way to print and distribute the paper—how much would
that cost?
I’d also need to make sure no one could stop it from getting around. And that it didn’t become too popular. What if the White House boys reacted to it the way they did in Greenwood? What if they killed me?
If only I could live without the constant fear of meeting death just around the corner.
Throughout my shift, when Mr. Kirby spoke to me, it took me seconds to speak back. I was so wrapped up in my paper, and the
risk involved with printing it, that I was barely there. When my shift ended, I went outside to flag down a cab, and a scream
exploded through the night, “Help!”
It came from a nearby alleyway.
Normally, I wouldn’t get involved. But something pulled me toward that scream. I turned into the shadows, my heart drumming
as I moved closer, until I saw them—a man was grappling with a woman over a bag, and she was desperate to hold on to it. I
was about to call out when I recognized her: Vivian, the hairstylist!
I ran toward them, my pulse racing, but before I’d come up with my next move, the man turned, his eyes dark and cold as he
aimed a pistol at my chest. “Back up,” he said, his voice like ice.
“Oh, for God’s sake, he’s a child!” Vivian’s voice was laced with fear, but it only made me more determined.
I wouldn’t back down! My hands went up slowly to show him I wasn’t a threat. As he turned his focus back to Vivian, just for
a moment, I seized my chance.
I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard. The gun went off in a deafening blast, the bullet disappearing into
the sky. My mind flashed back to that day with my father’s killer, along with the anger, the determination to survive. I’d
won that fight, and I’d win this one!
I shoved the man backward, sending him stumbling down the alley. In the chaos, Vivian had somehow grabbed his pistol.
She shoved the bag into my hands. We stood there, catching our breath as the man scrambled away, disappearing into the night.
Vivian looked at me with amazement that made me realize—maybe I wasn’t a kid anymore?
She broke into a smile, shaking her head as if she’d just witnessed the impossible.
“Thank you, Nick!” she cried, wrapping me in a hug. “You saved me! These streets are dangerous. Come, let’s get out of here.
Don’t want him returning with friends!”
Vivian pulled me down the alleyway, heels clacking at the uneven terrain. She was wearing only a leotard and fishnet stockings.
Toothsome curls jumped around her head, and one half of a fake eyelash was dangling off her eye.
“Vivian? Where are we going, exactly?” I followed because I was scared, but I couldn’t help but smile about the dark adventure
I’d stumbled into.
“It’s about time you knew,” Vivian replied. “Your cousin keeps saying she wants to keep you out of trouble. But living in
the big city? Trouble finds you anyway.”
So, Daisy was in danger. I knew it!
It got darker as we went, and an increasing amount of trash appeared on the sidewalks that we were traversing.
In the streets behind the businesses and tenements were brick buildings that were unassuming on the outside—you’d never know what they were for.
They were a grid of rentable suites, up for grabs, but with boarded up windows and rats scurrying along the curbs.
Vivian took me past a squeaky gate, through a lot, and then through a green door. There was a hallway behind it, dimly lit,
filled with many doors. We walked straight through it until it opened to a small empty speakeasy, where red leather booths
sat behind a counter.
At the back of the bar, nearly hidden in the shadows, a narrow staircase spiraled downward. We descended into the basement,
stepping into a warehouse packed with trolleys, crates, and carts. A faint, toxic tang lingered in the air as we weaved through
the maze of supplies.
My eyes darted around, searching for Daisy—something told me she had been here before.
Finally, we stopped in a room that looked like a kitchen—or a science lab. There were several counters, with liquid flowing
through glass jars and tubing.
A big woman in a black tailored suit was sitting in a throne-like chair at the far end of the room. Her face was round and
assertive, and a cigar smoked from between her fingertips. Her hair was long, half natural and half braided down. Another
woman stood by her side braiding the rest of her hair. They both looked at us.
“Who’s this?” the sitting woman asked, raising an eyebrow.
I swallowed as I took in her commanding presence. My eyes surveyed the room until I saw someone familiar pouring liquor into
a bottle. I had to squint some, but I knew that face. “Daisy!”
Daisy looked up and her eyes widened. “Nick?” She dropped the bottle.
“Jordan!” the sitting woman shouted as the bottle exploded, spilling glass and pungent fluid all over the floor.
Daisy jumped away from the spill. “Oh, goodness.”
The throne woman sighed and dragged a hand over her face. “Daisy—I love you, but that’s six dollars.”
“I’m sorry,” Daisy said, seeming flustered. “I’ll clean it up. This is my cousin, Nick. Nick . . . Jordan.”
“Ahhh,” Jordan purred. “Li’l cousin. How’s your melancholia doing?”