Cary St.
by Nia June
In Richmond, everyone was always running towards the music. It’s how you knew where to go. We all wanted to fall into something, run into something, be somewhere we’d never expected to be. And the music would take us there. On Marshall St., Kingdom Come and GKMC were pushing bass into the pavement and making us tread an earthquake. At King’s, Dreams and Nightmares fizzed in our throats until we erupted in choir. On Harrison St., Acid Rap severed the sky into an open wound, inviting us to take flight and crash into God. On Cary St., everything was static, raspy white noise.
We never wanted to go to Cary St., but the moon was hardly ripe, so we had a lot of living left to do. And we were getting tired of King’s. Me, Zion, Brandon, Rasheed, and Sapphire. All of us, aimlessly cruising on foot, adrift in the nooks of nightfall. Sapphire and I were giggling and singing: you need to, fix yo afro daddy, ‘cause it’s flat on one side. You said you was going take me to see Wu Tang baby, so I braided my hair. The hem of my little black dress kept crawling up my thigh and it felt like everybody was gathered around, waiting for the pink monster between my legs to come out and bawl. But Sapphire was by my side tickling me with the tips of her fingers, feathering the blonde hairs on my legs as she pulled at the hem of my dress. Thank you, I say. That’s what your girls are for, she says. So, we’re giggling and singing: You said you was going take me to see Wu Tang baby, so I braided my hair. Sapphire’s skin was sticky with shea butter, but I put my head in the nape of her neck anyway. And we waited to cross over Randolph St. and onto Cary St.
Cary St was pouting; it was ready to split open, empty itself onto the concrete and fill the cracks with malt and music. Zion was somewhere straggling behind us, tangled up in Brandon’s fingers. He held her waist and cupped her chin and she thought she was a real woman. Rasheed was in the thick of it all, trying to decide between me and Sapphire. But I knew he had his eyes on Saph and her cantaloupe bosom. Plus, those obsidian eyes; he was waiting to be set ablaze. Somehow, we all fell back into a knot, tied to each other while Greek life unfurled onto us. Blonde lips howling the foreign tongue of enemy territory.
We decided on 1301 Cary St. cause the door was wide open and “305 to my City” was begging for us to come in and see it all: We did it, we did it. We so far from finished. I brought you right back just so we can relive it. We stumbled up the stoop and found our footing on a pine floor shredding into splinters. Our heels were unforgiving. We got down real low and made sure everyone knew that we were real dancers. The walls were a brassy kind of ruby, so bright that it was hard to raise your eyelids and take in all the tinge. “305 to my City” faded into something unfamiliar, so I scurried to the kitchen for a drink. Rasheed was asking Sapphire about her childhood. I didn’t have one, she said. Zion was rolling her hips on Brandon. And Cary St. didn’t seem so bad after all.
And then, on my way back to the red-faced room, I heard a white girl say: Who let these niggers in my party?
You never really know what to do when they say it. You can practice your response, say you’ll make them eat your knuckles, say you’ll shrug it off. Or spit your carefully rehearsed, colorful clapback. Or maybe you’ll summon some ancestors. But none of that matters when they say it. When they say it, you become unsure of everything you thought you knew about the world. You can’t remember anything about yourself. You forget your name and the people who gave it to you. Your heart stutters. Your ears ring to blood. And your tongue forgets where it’s at. Like this: What the fuck did she just say? Sapphire says.
You heard me! Who invited you here? Do you even know who’s house you’re in? My heart started pedaling, running around inside of me, knocking against the walls of me. Before it made its way to my mouth, I saw something take flight. Swimming at the speed of light – chubby as butter and yolk – a loogie leaps out of Sapphire’s pharynx and lands in the white girl’s left eye.
Hawk spit.
Tears fell from her right eye while snot spilled from her left. Both eyes were boiling. Those eyes. Those eyes never had to curtsey. Never had to see through any other pair of eyes. Those eyes have never seen anything outside of those eyes. Oh my god, Zion whispers. I grab Sapphire’s fluttering fingers. She grabs back. Her top lip curled up, looking into those eyes.
The room gushed with horror. Everyone clicked their tongues and clutched their lungs. Gasping and gagging – some at nigger, some at the phlegm. You’re such a bitch Eva, why would you say something like that?! or You’re disgusting! How could you spit on someone? Then a tall and brash brown-haired white boy carved a corridor into the crowd, shoving and tossing bodies with every step. He reached the little white girl – Eva – and his eyes glowed something evil. Eva, are you okay? Baby? She continued weeping and lifted her limp-pasty arm to point at us. Now, perhaps if the boy had peaked under Eva’s hands, he would have seen that there was no blood. Maybe pink-eye in the morning, but no blood. But he just looked at her with her limp-pasty hand, draped over her eye. Looking like a pseudo-princess.
Looking like prey. Looking at us like we’re predators. Pack of wolves, wilding. The boy placed his hand on Sapphire’s shoulder and howled: what’d you do to her?! Howling like it was some Greek letters: What did you do?! Sapphire showed some teeth and said nothing. I tighten my grip around her hand. Say something you fucking bitch. Just as my heart reached my mouth, the boy cocked back. But, before he could imprint his knuckles on Sapphire’s skull, Rasheed stepped forward and ate the blow for her.
Snot.
Blood. Slug.
Blood. Spit.
Blood Sirens.
Blood.
Keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t move! Don’t you fucking move! Hands where I can see them! Brandon’s hands were on each side of his face, where anyone with eyes could see them. But cop number one still pressed Brandon’s face against the cement. Knee in Brandon’s back – knee digging for gold in Brandon’s back. Cop number two decorated the police car with Rasheed, made him the color of the house we just left. We were all seeing red. Zion’s screams defeated the sirens with ease. Sapphire lit a Camel for calm, couldn’t stop her leg from trembling though. My heart kept beating on my insides – except this time there was no way it would make it to my mouth. I was far too afraid to say what needed to be said.
Cop number one: Brandon Kyrie Jones. 19. You been drinking Brandon? Brandon shook his head. Open your fucking mouth and answer me boy! Brandon spit out some blood to make space in his mouth for a cold, stiff, and stuck: no, sir. Then he turned to Rasheed, who was squinting to keep blood from seeping into his eye. How about you, Rasheed Porter. You been drinking? Rasheed looked up at the cop, probably a fuzzy freckle through the squint: Naw. I haven’t. Cop number two: What happened here?
We said nothing. Silence is better than truth here.
Brandon, through a grimace, looked at the three of us and smiled: Damn, y’all should’ve just took us to King’s.