by Annalee Hardison
I really have to pee. I briskly walk down the hall trying to avoid everyone as I am just not in the mood. I finally get to my locker and put in the combination as the locker door swings open with a familiar squeak. As I’m getting my books together, I see my friend Shameeka out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey Shameeka, how are you?! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” I say with a big grin on my face. Her brown eyes widen, and sparkle as do her full lips, displaying a set of perfectly white but slightly crooked teeth. “Hey Annalee, I’m good! What have you been up to?”
We hug and talk about how it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. We haven’t had any classes together for a while but we were incredibly close in fourth, fifth and sixth grades. We reminisce a bit more, remembering the same bullies we had to deal with. The cranky old teacher Mrs. Rouse, who smelled like mothballs and body odor, constantly reminding us of “how many days it would be before she could officially retire.” All the stupid boys we both had crushes on.
I tell her how I always loved her work in our art classes. Her artwork was always so perfect, vivid and beautiful, whereas mine looked like I might have been dropped on my head as a baby. We look at each other and cackle with laughter just like we used to when we were little. She asks what I’m doing on Saturday May 19th and tells me it’s going to be her Sweet-Sixteen birthday party, inviting me to her house for it.
“Sure, that sounds like fun! What do you want for your present?” I reply, knowing that I have no idea what to get her as it’s been several years since we last hung out outside of school. She tells me not to worry about it because she knows I’ll pick out something good for her like always.
“You still live in the white house across the street from Food Lion?” I ask as we’re both walking backwards to still see each other. “Yes!” she yells as we get further apart from one another.
We wave at the same time and turn to our classes, not knowing it’s the last time we’ll ever see or speak to each other again.
I finally get home after school and ask my mom for $30.
“What’s it for? Because you’re not buying any more clothes.”
I tell her it’s for Shameeka’s sixteenth birthday, intentionally not looking up from my purse as a wincing pang goes through me at the thought of how my mother will inevitably react. “Who? Is Shameeka that black girl you always got in trouble with in middle school? How many times were you sent to the office because of her?”
I let out a long exasperated sigh and try not to raise my voice because that would only make things worse. I can actually feel my ears start to get warm as I try to contain my temper and calmly explain to her that Shameeka was never the troublemaker mom assumes she was. I tell her that I was invited earlier today, and I’d really like to go despite my mom’s prejudiced reservations about it. To this she fumes and rolls her eyes, telling me I’m not going because Shameeka was a ‘bad influence’ on me, not to mention her family lives in a really terrible neighborhood. “Forget it!” my mom replies coldly.
I open my mouth to protest. She yells at me to shut up about it and storms out of the kitchen. Sometimes I wish I had been born to a different family and wonder what that’d be like.
The weeks go by in a sullen blur as I’m in a depressive funk, agonizing about how racist my parents are, my tentative plans to sneak out to go to Shameeka’s party and feeling my anxiety build as I panic, having no clue what to get her as a present. I’ll be able to get the money from dad because he’s not as bad as mom, but I still have to be secretive about it no matter what. The last time they caught me in a lie they threatened to sell my car for “not abiding by their rules.” It’s such bullshit. And we don’t talk about it. Ever.
I go to school several days later on a Monday morning, feeling listless and flatter than usual. I’ve barely slept the last few nights, stressing myself out and letting my anxiety roil around in my stomach like dull knives trying to stab their way out. I definitely can’t go to Shameeka’s party. I think my mom suspected me of planning to sneak out, so she told me this morning that I’m grounded for constantly talking back to her and won’t be going out for the next month and a half. I couldn’t even look at her when I left. I feel so dejected and angry.
I walk up to my friends in the hall, noticing they’re all crying and upset.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, dreading the answer because it’s already been a long string of crappy days.
“Shameeka and her family are dead. They were shot and killed last night by her sister’s ex-husband and the two girls he’s living with, the creepy Mitchelson twins.”
The news of this is like getting hit in the chest with an invisible sledgehammer, forcing all the air out of my lungs as the pain overwhelms me with its singular devastating blow to my heart. I am numb. I can’t breathe. The words my friend spoke rattle around inside my head as I grasp for any semblance of understanding what was just said to me.
I don’t want to believe it.
I start to shake uncontrollably. I feel like I’m going to vomit and faint at the same time. The tears well-up in my eyes, almost blinding me.
“They didn’t have to kill her!!” Tomeka shrieks in disbelief, sobbing violently. I take off and run through the halls to the bathroom, getting her some tissue and coming back completely out of breath from my panicked sprinting.
The bell rings and we all part, going to our first class. I’m barely in my seat when the vice principal comes on the intercom for an announcement.
“Students and Faculty, I’d like to have your attention please. Last night one of our students, Shamicka Davis, died in her home with her family. Police are currently investigating this, and we’ll know more soon. Please keep Shamicka and her family in your prayers.”
I turn towards the intercom and raise my voice even though I know he can’t hear me “It’s Sha-mee-ka, you asshat!” My teacher gives me a look but says nothing.
The VP’s delivery was so flat and rushed I’m instantly insulted. I know it’s terrible news he’s giving but it completely lacked the thoughtful consideration it deserves. She was my friend and now I’m never going to see her again.
I fight back tears and ask to go to the bathroom.
I remember the first time we ever met. We were in fourth grade when my first period started at school. I was crying in the bathroom because I was not prepared. She asked me what was wrong, and I told her in a hushed whisper expecting to be mocked. She silently reached into her purse, pulled out a maxipad, handed it to me, and smiled. She walked out of the bathroom after telling me it was going to be alright.
And it was, until today.
I walk back to class and slump into my seat as the devastation tries to suffocate me.
The pain in my heart spreads out inside of me as I try to compose myself.
I cannot hear what my teacher is saying.
I can only think of Shameeka and how we had recently reconnected, our final conversation playing over and over again in my head. I lean forward in my chair and let my head droop down over the desk as my tears splash on the dull beige Formica surface, making watery splotches that look like surreal drawings of amoebas. A slight smile flickers across my face.
I realize the perfect gift for Shameeka’s birthday would have been a really nice colored pencil and watercolors painting set. The growing lump in my throat swells to it’s breaking point and feels like it explodes inside of me, the jagged shards of it piercing though my heart and shattering my mind in a million different ways.
I start to raise my hand to ask if I can go home for the day, then silently get up and walk out of class without waiting for an answer.
Annalee Hardison is a student at LAGCC and has lived in NYC for over 20 years. She is an English major, has a cat named Squeaky and wants to become a professional author if Trump doesn’t get us all killed with his Twitter account first. God help us all.
Photo, “silhouette of person walking on hallway” by Basar Dogan on Unsplash
