Tochi Onyebuchi - Riot Baby

“Yo, this bud got me smizz off the bliggedy, y’heard?”

I hear the voices before I get to my floor, and I know from the jump that’s Havoc and some other cat from my building in the stairwell. I’m two floors below them before I smell it. I hate when the elevator’s out, because it means I gotta walk through weedsmoke that fogs the whole place up. You can’t even see out the window when they get going.

It’s a colder autumn than we’ve been getting, and who wants to freeze their fingers off while getting high?

“Yo, pass the blunt, though,” says the other cat.

And when I get to their landing, I see through the haze that he’s got on a Nike Tech hoodie.

“It’s poppin’ in Brooklyn tonight, they’s gonna be mad bitches there.”

Havoc doesn’t see me coming, but I try to play it like I’m not scared of them. I don’t have Malik with me, and even though Havoc has no reason to, he’s still the type to sniff fear through the smoke and pounce. They’re all like that. Suddenly, my book bag’s the heaviest thing in the world.

“Nah, bro,” says Havoc. “We got beef in Brooklyn. It’s slow.”

“Then we out uptown, then.”

“Nah, nigga. We got static up there, too.”

The other cat’s sounding more desperate. “Dawg, let’s hop out to the city then. If your hoodie got a check on the left, and it’s a Tech, they give you neck, bro.”

I can see Havoc shaking his head. “We not vegetarians when it comes to the beef, bro.”

Can’t stop, can’t slow down. So, I walk like I don’t even hear them. The other cat, when he sees my silhouette, reaches for something at his waist, but Havoc puts a hand out to stop him. If I was Housing Police, I wouldn’t be moving this slow.

“It’s just me,” I manage to get out.

And Havoc chuckles, though I can see the other cat ice-grilling me like I’m from the wrong set.

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” Havoc murmurs. Then to me, “You smoke?”

I shake my head. “If I smoke, I’m homeless. Mom ain’t got that kind of energy.” Also, Malik would kill this nigga if he ever found out I got offered weed when I’m supposed to be on my “stay in school” shit.

“Yo, lil nigga.” This from the other cat. “What’s it like outside?”

For some reason, his voice paralyzes me. I don’t know why I’m so scared of him, but everything just feels ominous. Like the feeling you get when you’re about to get into a fight, when all the blood rushes to your face and time runs and crawls at the same time. “What, you mean like cops? Couple outside the building, but—”

“Nah, the weather.” What I said makes him chuckle, and he loosens up. Like he knows I’m cool now. “What’s the weather outside?”

“It’s mad brick out there. I think it’s starting to snow.”

The other cat rolls his shoulders. “I’m good, I don’t get cold.”

Havoc raises an eyebrow. “You goin’ out with a hoodie?”

“Yeah!”

Havoc shakes his head, takes a puff from the blunt he’s still holding. “Oh, nah, you different, bro.” He coughs around a laugh. “You gon’ catch frostbites, my nigga.”

The other cat sucks his teeth. “I don’t catch frostbite. Them shits don’t bite me, I taste like doo-doo.”

“My man, just put on a coat.”

I’m laughing behind my fist, trying to keep them from seeing, because I don’t know if this other cat’s the type to flip his switch mad quick and dead my shit for giggling.

“This hoodie’s my coat!” says the other cat. “My coat, jacket, sweater, shirt.”

“Bro, you wylin’.” Havoc can’t stop chuckling now.

The other cat tries to stay serious, but he knows he’s playing too, so we all have our little weed-filled circle of laughter until I hear something crash upstairs.

Our laughter dies down, and that ominous feeling climbs back into my belly.

“That you?” Havoc asks, gesturing up with his chin.

Mama and Ella been arguing a lot more lately, and I’ve gotten pretty good about timing my absences so that I miss the worst of it, but I can’t go back out now. Not all smelling like weed with the cops by the entrance and the snow beginning to fall outside. So I just bow my head and let out a small “Yeah.”

“Stay up, lil nigga.” Havoc daps me, and, to my shock, the other cat daps me too, though he doesn’t say anything.

When I get to our door, I hesitate, then I pull my key out and nudge it open. I flinch every time I hear something break. But there are new sounds that keep me stuck in the hallway. Maybe if I wait long enough, it’ll stop. But then voices reach me. Someone trying to talk or scream, but something’s choking the words inside them.

My book bag thuds when it hits the floor, and I rush to the bedroom I’ve shared with Ella since we were little to find cabinets shattered and window glass all over the floor and a blanket wrapped tight around Mama’s neck while her feet dangle off the floor. At the center of the storm stands Ella, her eyes glazed over, her teeth bared in a snarl, one hand raised in the air like it’s gripping an invisible neck and squeezing.

She’s going to kill Mama.

“Ella!” I shout.

I go flying backward into the hallway. A yelp comes out of me when I hit the wall and fall to the ground. Now furniture in other rooms starts to hover in the air. I rush in again, but this time winds buffet me, pushing me back. The storm roars in my ears, and I scream, “Ella!” My fingers grip the door posts. The door is gone, ripped clean off its hinges. “Ella!”

Something inside me rips. Thought vanishes; then, for an instant, I glimpse it. Flashes of memory and feeling like mirror shards. An argument about cleaning our room. A white doctor nudging Mama out of the way while Mama attends to a patient. Someone getting onto the hospital elevator before Mama has a chance to get off, blocking her path. Kids getting handcuffed and tossed into the backs of police vans. Burly almost-police roaming high school corridors during the breaks in between classes. Then I’m back, and everything is calm and Mama’s on the floor clutching her neck and coughing and Ella stands in the middle of the room, stunned and soundless and weeping. Mouthing over and over and over, “I’m sorry.”

I rush over to Mama as she tries to push herself upright and fails. “Mama,” I whisper. “Mama, are you all right?” She manages to sit upright and, with her back against the wall, waves me away, taking deep, shuddering breaths. I scan her eyes, as though to know what’s in them is to know what she needs, and I see calm and patience, but there’s fear, too. And I want to kill Ella for making Mama afraid.

But then I turn back and I see my sister on her knees, her hands limp before her, tears racing down her cheeks, and I feel it too.

I’m afraid of her.

It’s late when I come home.

Even though Mama’s still at work, the TV’s on in the kitchen, and Ella’s sitting at the table, staring straight at it like it’s got fishhooks in her. It’s not the same blankness she had during her attack a few months back. This is different. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this.

“Ella! You left the door unlocked! Mama’s gonna kill y—”

Red and blue lights flash on the screen. That’s nothing new. News about police or about somebody getting shot, but Ella hasn’t moved once since I stepped inside. Her hair is completely gray. Her fists tremble.

I’m about to cuss her out; then I stop and figure whatever she’s watching must be important.

On the screen, police tape flaps in the breeze behind the newscaster bundled up in a November coat. Friends leaving a nightclub. NYPD on scene. Fifty shots fired into a man’s car. Sean Bell. The newscaster keeps going, but I’ve only got eyes for Ella, who can’t stop staring.