Color Me In by Natasha Díaz

Author:Natasha Díaz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2019-08-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

News of my performance has permeated the social media airwaves, thanks to Janae’s YouTube video of the evening, and everyone at Pritchard seems to have noticed. People smile at me when I enter the building and as I walk down the hallway. I’m used to gliding past without seeing so much as a glance in my direction—the constant attention is overwhelming at first, but as the weeks pass, I begin to enjoy the visibility, yearn for it, even.

The school days always go by more quickly as Thanksgiving approaches. The teachers are all irritable and in desperate need of a break, so they find excuses to show films or send us on field trips rather than preparing hourlong lesson plans. Usually, Stevie and I would use the freedom to hide in the corners of the library, but ever since the night of our unexpected performances, I’ve barely been able to pin him down, and it doesn’t help that any free time I would normally have has now been commandeered by Jesus or Rabbi Sarah.

Today, I made sure to get to school early and have a roll and iced coffee waiting for Stevie when he arrives. Stevie hops out of a car on the corner. His neon orange headphones act as a bull’s-eye among the crowd. I stand up a little taller to try to get his attention.

“Hey!” I wave to him with urgency, as though I’m injured on a road in the pitch-black dead of night.

He catches my eyes and scrunches his brow but walks over.

“Here!” I thrust the breakfast offering into his arms.

“Thanks,” he says without much emotion.

“How are you?” I press.

“Nevaeh?” LaShawn Marshall, the head of the Black Student Union, stands before us and blocks the entrance to the building.

“Hi?” I say, surprised she knows my name.

“I saw your video. The BSU is cohosting an open-mic fund-raiser against police brutality. Can we sign you up to perform?” She talks a mile a minute.

My parents have never spoken to me about the cops, not the way I see Anita and Zeke do with Jerry every morning.

“Hands. Eye contact. Listen. Be calm,” Anita chants to a made-up beat as she zips Jerry’s jacket.

“Hands. Eye contact. Listen. Be calm,” Jerry echoes.

But a sharp sickness radiates through my body every time I am forced to look at images of broken Black bodies that air on loop. My parents and I were in the kitchen, probably a year ago, eating breakfast, when the hosts of The View interrupted the show to share the breaking news that yet again, a cop who had killed an innocent Black child had been exonerated. The cop’s monthlong paid leave of absence was deemed fair retribution for the life he stole for no good reason other than that he could. I watched the screen, mesmerized, as he walked out of the courtroom smiling, likely heading to meet his family at home and celebrate his freedom.

I remember when the camera shifted to the parents of the victim, a formerly living human now reduced to a hashtag.

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