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She slid down several steps, scraping her left palm against the wooden rail. She had the misfortune of catching it on a large splinter, and the resulting gash was brutal, but she had refused to go to the hospital, afraid they would draw her blood and report her for underage drinking. Instead, she let her father wash and bandage it, and she promised to take care of it. But she picked at it constantly. Two months later, it still wasn’t healed.
She checked the weather on her phone. It would be sweltering hot, not unusual for August in Georgia, but the classrooms were sure to be cold. They cranked that air conditioning system up to the max, and it almost felt like a punishment, rather than a comfort. It wasn’t uncommon to see kids bundled up in hoodies or coats, shivering their way through class despite the ninety-plus degree temperatures just outside the door.
But no hoodie for Bria. She’d had her outfit planned for weeks. Fitted, ripped jeans, a white V-neck t-shirt, gray gladiator sandals, and her small red leather cross-body bag. She liked to keep it simple, and as a cute girl, she could afford to. Some might even say she was pretty, and that was especially true now that Nyleah was dead and she was free of the constant comparisons. Both girls were brown-skinned, fit, and on the dance team, but Bria thought the similarities ended there.
She piled her hair on top of her head in a big coily puff and styled her baby hair with gel and a toothbrush. A quick swipe of eyeliner across each eyelid and a couple of passes of lip gloss and she was ready to go. But she just stood there, staring at her reflection, hating what she saw. The bags under her eyes emerged after the incident and had only gotten more pronounced as the weeks wore on. Despite being attractive, she wasn’t a vain girl. She just didn’t like that there was visual evidence of her state of mind.
“Bria! Let’s go! You’re gonna be late and you’re gonna makemelate!” her father shouted up to her.
She rolled her eyes. “Two minutes!”
Her daddy had insisted on driving her to school today. Every year, the same thing. The same behavior. Always first in the door to introduce himself to the teachers on welcome night, and always last to leave, because he was helping to clean up afterward. When she was younger, he would check out the classroom, making sure her desk was clean, checking her chair to make sure it wasn’t wobbly or cracked. As she grew older, he toned it down to just letting the teachers know who he was and who Bria was and that he expected excellence, as if teachers don’t have enough to worry about. She had begged her mother to talk to him, but she never would. “You’ll appreciate him one day” was her only response. At least he was letting Bria ride the bus this year. Just not on the first day. The first day was his.
He was already in the car when she finally made her way downstairs, so she grabbed a granola bar and yelled “Bye, Mommy!” on her way out the door.
It was a short drive, and Bria stared out the window for most of it, daydreaming about senior year. She was almost free, almost grown. It was going to be a good year. It had to be. Because she didn’t understand how things could possibly get any worse.
They pulled up in front of the school. Bria began to gather her things, but her father's hand on her arm stopped her.
“Bria, I want to say something before you go.”
She waited, saying nothing.
“I love you, and I’m very proud of you. This is your last year, and this is the last time I’ll be doing this. It’s sad for me, but I know this is a happy time for you. I want you to enjoy this year.”
“I will. And I love you too.” She put her hand on the door handle, and he stopped her again.
“One more thing." He took a deep breath and exhaled. “If anybody asks you about what happened, you say nothing. I mean it.”
“I know.”
“This is serious, Bria. Say nothing.”
She looked into his eyes. “Daddy, I know. I won’t.”
“And if anything ever happens, you call me first.”
“I will. Bye, Daddy.”
He sighed again. “Bye, baby.
Kids were milling about, nervous and excited. Bria entered the crowd that was headed toward the door. People bumped into her, and someone called her name, but she felt and heard nothing. All she could think about was her father’s warnings. Why couldn’t she talk about it? It was strange.
The principal had sent out an email a week ago letting parents know there would be grief counselors available during the first week of school. The number to the national suicide hotline was displayed in large block letters at the bottom. Bria had almost convinced herself to go by and talk to one of the counselors, but now, that was out of the question.
Strange, indeed.
Seeing that her locker—number 438—was on top made Bria smile. First time she'd smiled all day. Because getting a top locker was like winning the lottery.
Some girl had actually dropped a stack of books on Bria’s head last year, accidentally, of course, but the girl spent days apologizing for the faux pas. On the last day of school, the girl had brought her chocolate chip cookies. Bria never did learn that girl’s name, but she did learn something else from that incident. She had obviously accrued some clout at Stockton High School. Her name meant something. Finally.
She installed the shelves her dad had bought her and stuck the dry erase board and bejeweled mirror on the inside of her locker door. She was checking her hair and makeup when she saw a handsome face approaching behind her.
“Bria! Hey girl.” Bakari Wilkins wrapped her in a bear hug. At almost 200 pounds and a full head taller than her, Bakari was a giant compared to Bria. Her mother would be so happy to see this. For years, she and Iesha, Bakari’s mother, had joked about arranging their kids’ marriage to each other. And if she was being honest, Bria wouldn’t be too upset about that.
“Hey! How was your summer?” she asked politely as she pulled away from his embrace. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him; on the contrary, she’d had episodic crushes on him ever since they met. She’d spent a considerable amount of time wondering whether he felt the same, but she never asked, and he never volunteered the information. Her mother’s mantra was, “If a boy likes you, you’ll know it,” but her mother grew up without cell-phones and social media. The game had changed, and not for the better.
“Summer was cool. I was bulking up, went to camp, the usual.”
