I squinted and hissed like she was dropping lime juice on a wound. “No. Please, I’m not ready.”
Paying no heed to my resistance as I sat back on the bed, Aminah shoved the Brown Sugar inbox in my face. This seemed particularly cruel. I wondered if her showing me hate messages was like that training montage in Creed II where Rocky made Adonis punch the air over an open flame? Was she trying to toughen me up for the fight of my life? I blinked at the screen, ready to shove it away, when I saw the first message.
Solidarity Queen! Don’t know what happened with you and Zack but we miss Brown Sugar.
I took the phone from her and scrolled. There were more messages like this—sandwiched, of course, between the expected misogynistic comments, but still, there were much less of those than I’d anticipated. And then something else that made my breath hitch and my hair stand on end. Messages from girls who had also dealt with Zack, who said that he also took pictures without their consent, that he lorded it over them, taunted them with the pictures if they broke things off with him or challenged him.
My palms were sweaty and I snapped up to shoot an inquiring look at Aminah. She nodded grimly.
All the remaining desolation drained from my body and was replaced with an all-consuming compulsion to kill, and if not kill, then to maim. My jaw clamped together. It was one thing to do it to me, but the fact that he’d been getting away with doing it to other girls . . . that he would likely go on to do it to other girls. The sadness that had stiffened my bones fled, the rage made me feel supple, fluid, and I felt myself melting into someone I recognized more. I’d allowed too many men to drive me to contort myself into a diminished version of who I was and could be. He had attempted to make so many women feel so small, so he could feel big, and it was going to be my pleasure to ensure we trampled him underfoot.
Aminah gasped and clapped her hands together. “Oh, it’s happening.”
Shanti smiled, something conspiratorial and curious. “What’s that look on her face?”
Chioma nodded sagely. “I think she’s summoning energy from the crystals.”
Aminah shook her head. “Nope. That’s Killa Keeks coming back with peppeh. What’s stage one?”
The plan was configuring in my mind, becoming solidified as something I needed to do rather than something I could do. It was sealed with fury and conviction. There was no choice in this.
“I need to meet with Simi.”
Aminah raised the back of her hand to my forehead. “It’s gonna take a while for her to fully recover, poor thing. Take your time, babe. You’re delirious.”
Chapter 27
From: Dr. Miller
Subject Line: A Notice
Ms. Banjo,
I have heard about a recent ruckus on campus and I know you have exempted yourself from class for the last two seminars. I want to send you a pertinent reminder: You are an intelligent, powerful young woman, and any situation that makes you feel lesser than is deceptive. Your power is in your truth. Stand in yours. Be loud in yours. The numbers for your show have dropped, but I am proud of what you have done with your voice regardless. I am also proud of your contribution to Mr. Korede’s film. I have seen the rough cut. It is beautiful. You make a wonderful team.
I hope to see you next week in class.
Warmly,
Dr. M
I was going to vomit. I’d been fine on the drive down with the girls—more than fine—all of us singing loudly, badly, to my playlist. It was fun, possibly one of the most fun times I’d had in uni, and for forty minutes I’d forgotten about things like heartbreak and social pariahdom. But it was clear to me now that those feelings were just hibernating till we pulled up to the car park of The Pemberton, where I was faced with Blackwellians stepping out of cars, dripping with sauce, posing for the cameras and poised for drama. My plan had kept me steady until this moment, balancing me out when I considered that showing up to the biggest social event on the Blackwell calendar might be too exposing and undoing for me. I told myself that there was too much at stake for me not to do it, and yet here I was, nauseous, palms and pits prickling, frozen by the car as the girls buckled shoes and did last-minute spritzes of setting spray and perfume. I was receding into myself again.
I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to see Malakai. He was hired to film, so I knew logically he would be here, but emotionally I couldn’t comprehend the idea of seeing him. I’d missed him so bad that every time I saw something that reminded me of him I felt an alarming twinge in my chest. Turned out everything reminded me of him.