Everyday People

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  Dedicated to Brook Stephenson

  We love you.

  We miss you.

  We cherish the time we had with you.

  INTRODUCTION

  For a while I had this long-standing joke that when Black babies are born they are smacked to encourage their first cry of life, swathed, and placed on the bosom of the person who brought them into this world, and then they’re handed a copy of The Black Poets, edited by Dudley Randall. The Black Poets was the quintessential book I’d see on the shelves of my fellow Black writer friends. If you were into literature, especially poetry, as an African American, then you had to have this book. It verified your commitment to the cause and for the culture. If you don’t have it, why not? How will you learn about those who came before us? Where we’re going and where we’ve been? No shade, but I have my copy. Whether I got the book soon after coming into the world or not, I cannot say.

  There are other seminal anthologies used for study and inspiration, such as The Scribner Anthology of Contemporary Short Fiction or E. Lynn Harris and Marita Golden’s Gumbo, a celebration of African American voices. I’d like to think that Everyday People: The Color of Life—A Short Story Anthology will be that type of book over time. On shelves not only for reference but for pleasure, a book housing short fiction from an array of wonderful contemporary writers both established and emerging that speaks to experience, loss, fulfillment, and also being at that fork in the road where decisions must be made yet are not always pursued due to failings of moral fortitude. Each story will always speak to our humanity and the universality of who we are as People of Color/Indigenous People.

  As I told the contributors when I approached them, Everyday People isn’t “my baby” in terms of inception. This book was birthed through the ingenuity and enthusiasm of the late Brook Stephenson, a wonderful person and literary citizen who loved books as much if not even more than I do. He wanted to see a new collection celebrate PoC voices. The aim here is to continue what other writers have cobbled together of not only Black voices but Asian/Pacific Islander, Indigenous, and Latinx ones as well. At a time when “diversity” is used as a buzzword, Brook sought to invest in the stories that people may not be seeing. The name of this anthology is not meant to solely focus on the racial composition of the writers or characters but to showcase the larger story and relationships depicted as well as the landscape—be it in New York City, Maine, Alabama, Great Britain, South Korea, Ghana, or Sri Lanka. As the Sly & the Family Stone song of the same name goes “I am no better and neither are you / We are the same whatever we do . . .”

  I inherited this anthology after Brook passed away suddenly and Atria was gung ho about seeing it come to fruition. From there I solicited and corresponded with contributors during a very tense time (the 2016 US presidential election). I was heartened by how eagerly those I reached out to wanted to add their names and fiction in any way they could, or even offer a hand after the fact. In 2017, I found that reading their submissions reinvigorated me with the power of the written word when things seemed bleak. In addition, the versatility of our experiences as expressed in each story fortified me in new ways. These stories, mostly new and some republished, pack a punch in all their iterations, leaving me sated knowing that the world will have a chance to also engage with these characters and writers. From the political to the personal, from familial strife to geographical displacement, from heartbreak to ego checking, stories that gain inspiration from Langston Hughes’s Simple series (Jason Reynolds) to expounding on the depths of grief (Glendaliz Camacho), each contributor draws from a well of work that can be studied and should be savored.

  I hope that in this time when people seek to be more inclusive and representative in their writing and reading that Everyday People will be that compilation reached for and sought after for the bevy of short fiction that doesn’t relegate the authors or characters to their “status” as much as recognizes their skill.

  I want to extend a tremendous amount of thanks to every contributor (Courttia, Brandon, Alex, Nana, Allison, Mitch, Carleigh, Dennis, Yiyun, Mia, Nelly, Hasanthika, Jason, and Glendaliz) for sharing not only these stories with me but for the continuous work you do in your craft and your unyielding support of other writers in this industry so that we may see more PoC/Indigenous voices rise up. And thanks/blessings to Brook Stephenson, who is greatly missed. I’m confident we did you and your vision for Everyday People proud.

  —JENNIFER BAKER

  November 2017

  LINK

  Courttia Newland

  AARON FELT IT for the first time, a pulsing at the back of his skull, firm pressure between his eyes. A throbbing ache behind his ear, low ringing. He’d made a call the night before, half believing nothing would come of it, only to wake up with sensation invading his head. An answer. There were others. He called again during breakfast, his mum fussing around as usual, and felt three stronger replies from three directions. The back of his skull, between his eyes, behind his right ear. He relaxed into the warm, steady pulsation, chewing until there was nothing left but lonely oat kernels, Mum going on about him doing the housework while she was at the hospital, Aaron ignoring every word.

  He should have known what to expect before he got there, might have if he’d thought about it harder, but he’d been more concerned with his own nerves alongside the jarring pain of the too-bright, too-loud veneer of normality, a glistening, shifting bubble on all sides. The cheap glow of budget clothing stores. The counterfeit stall selling defrosted E-number cakes they claimed were organic and homemade. The row of fruit and veg stalls, the lightweight shack of the CD hut, its walls thin black material, rippling as the masses walked by. People, too many, too fast or slow, darting through gaps in the crowd or halting right in front of him until he swore and sped past the lurching granny sideways on, guilty for subscribing to group consensus. He hated the old center during the day.

  It was almost a relief to swerve into the pissy-oasis of the car park entrance, a small enclave leading to oil-dark steps. He climbed past two olders, hunch necked, puffing a ripe blunt, smoke and urine filling his head, making Aaron cough, them stare. He trotted upward until he met swing doors, pushing into the expanse of the first floor. Breathed deep, tasting exhaust fumes, smog. Sighed. He wandered across concrete, taking the steep incline of driveways instead, up and up until he reached the sixth floor.

  They stood by thin railings looking at the streets. The downturned meringue peaks of the bus station awning, the glass underground entrance and panoramic Westfield steps, the six times removed hum of the crowd. There were three, of course. Two girls, one boy. It took a moment before he clocked that he knew them. Not well, not to talk with, just from around. Live anywhere your whole life and you’re bound to see the same faces, Groundhog Day for real, only less dramatic, more tedious. Crossing the street to the corner store, standing in line for Maccy D’s, sitting rows from each other on the bus. Only one he’d ever wished he could talk to, or thought about longer than the time it took to walk by. But he knew all three as surely as the silent boasts of tags on street signs, or missing digital letters on the countdown. They all belonged to the bits, were all home.

  The tall kid wore a school blazer, was lanky and broad with a face like a pinched raisin, the
lopsided mini-Afro of a younger. The ’fro looked like a disabled black dorsal fin, making his screw face infantile: a man’s aggression beneath a toddler’s hairstyle. Aaron stifled a laugh. The girl was short and BRIT Award thin, a few years older than himself, blond hair tied back, falling to her waist, brown leather jacket with bare zips, sensible shirt, trousers, and flat shoes, the dark rings of a part-time weed smoker around her eyes. He’d seen her going in and out of the dentist’s opposite his GP’s surgery for long enough to assume she worked there. She was hard-faced and gaunt, smoking a withering fag, looking more like thirty than the early twenties she really was.

  The other girl was a manifestation of dreams. Tall as Aaron, tight storm cloud jeans betraying a curve of hips, snug roll-necked gray top tucked in at the beltless waist, as gorgeous above as below. Aaron saved the best for last, after he’d taken in the rest—deep brown skin, unblinking eyes, lips maintaining a perpetual pout. The slim denim jacket, blue LDN fitted and rare matching Nikes that told the world she was not only down but prided herself on originality. Normally the type he sneered at inside his head knowing he felt unworthy, except she was here and that made her different from the others, a woman of substance rather than image.

  All three lived within a square mile and passed each other randomly at least once a week, possibly more.

  He approached, only really seeing her, heart leaping at the odds of her being one of them. The others lost clarity and focus, becoming peripheral. He was smiling, and she noticed, recognition curving her lips upward, Aaron drawn by the strength of a connection he’d not known existed until now. He almost reached out a hand toward her, managed to stop himself (too soon, way too soon) pushed his glasses up on his nose and widened his grin.

  “Oh, hell nah, not him, too, are you lot bloody serious?”

  Old Girl, expression wrinkled, shook her head with even more violence than her words, hair whipping her back and shoulders. Tall Kid spat laughter. Dream Girl’s smile didn’t exactly grow, but didn’t disappear. Damn it. Skinny bitch.

  He ignored her, stopping before them, eyeing the younger two without saying anything. Actually he didn’t know what to say but an older cousin had told him silence often made him look confident if he pulled it off right.

  “Are you shittin’ me? You lot seriously trying to say that’s him?”

  They stared him out, daring him to say the real reason he came up to the sixth floor acting like he knew anything. Dream Girl seemed uncertain. Tall Kid’s swaying body, hard eyes, and clenched fists made him look as though he wanted an excuse to spark him, and would probably enjoy it.

  “They’re not saying it’s me. I am, because it is. I called you. Last night I said I could feel you, all of you, and I meant it. Now I want to know why.”

  He let that sink in, concentrating on the white trail scribbled across blue sky behind their heads, fading into wisps, then nothing but molecules, hearing low gasps, mutters, feeling the atmosphere change. Dream Girl and Tall Kid relaxed. Old Girl felt it, too, sucking hard enough on the fag to hollow her cheeks and make her eyes bulge, enhancing her death stare, which roamed in all directions until she threw the blazing stub at his feet, where it exploded into a bouncing trail of sparks. Aaron refused to move or acknowledge what she’d done. He stared into her eyes, waited.

  “Have fun on yuh play date, then.”

  And she was off, brushing his shoulder lightning fast, muttering curses all the way to the fire doors, which clapped sudden thunder after her. He scratched his head, turned to the others.

  “What’s her problem?”

  “She thought you’d be older.”

  “How’d she know I’m not?”

  Both smirked. He felt himself grow hot and tried to shake it off. Be cool. He had to be cool.

  “She thought we’d all be.”

  That was better. Tall Kid stepped forward, eclipsing Dream Girl with his broad body. Aaron could see her aura glowing on all sides. He imagined he could even feel her heat. Then the fist was high, up in his face.

  “Limo,” Tall Kid said, less hard, practically smiling. Except he couldn’t quite do it, could only manage a sneer.

  “Huh?”

  “My name. Limo.”

  “Oh, cool. I’m Aaron.”

  They connected knuckles, Aaron wincing at the force of contact as always, teeth clenched trying to hide it. He never understood why they couldn’t just shake hands, or at least slap fingers.

  “Christie.”

  Damn, bruv. She was even hotter close up. Teardrop hazel eyes, long, dark lashes, brown skin underlit with red infusion, cute dimples on both cheeks. She smelt of something sweet, consistent. He smiled as much as he dared without foiling his cool, and didn’t know how to greet her, so he settled for doing nothing, disappointing himself. It speared him deep inside to think she might have felt the same way. He fought against his insecurities again.

  “She’s not even that much older than us.”

  All nodding, conceding defeat. Old Girl’s view had won, right or wrong. She’d left them feeling like the kids she claimed they were.

  “So what now?” Christie said.

  Aaron didn’t even have to think about it. He’d been doing enough last night, nursing that very topic like a sore muscle. His first troublesome thought was their obvious opening question.

  “Show us.” He pointed at the railings. “Down there.”

  They walked that way. Bodies bent, they looked at the streets below. The nearest were the hoards waiting by the lights for traffic to slow to a stop so they could cross. Christie went first, seeing as she’d asked. He tried not to snatch a peek at the blue jeans stretched taut against her bum and thighs, to keep his eyes on the roads, but it was tough.

  “Which one?” Limo propped on his elbows, searching the crowds.

  “Him,” she said. “Bald guy, blue suit.”

  “Don’t point.” Aaron heard himself, bit his lip. Granddad.

  “Sorry,” she said, lowering her hand, shooting him a look he felt, not saw. Not malice, regret. It made him like her just that little bit more. She understood he wasn’t being an arse, only cautious.

  “Just so they don’t see us,” he told her, still feeling bad.

  “Sure.”

  “He’s crossing,” Limo warned, and then her attention was back. Her threaded eyebrows lowered.

  “No he’s not,” she muttered.

  The green man was flashing; beside him yellow digital numbers fell from 10. Blue Suit stopped in the middle of the crossing, head pivoting. A small kid bumped him, looked up in shock, and went around, dragged by the hand and momentum of a woman who was probably his mother. The surge of pedestrians flowed around Blue Suit like a river around a stone, slowing to a trickle until he was alone. The green man disappeared. The count reached zero. Blue Suit remained in the center of the crossing. Limo sniggered, covering his lips. The red man returned and a BMW revved, leaping forward. Blue Suit looked perplexed but stayed where he was. Horns beeped. Drivers got out of cars. It was all getting too much when Blue Suit did a strange robotic turn and went back to the mall side of the road where he’d started. A driver made to follow—red in the face, trackie bottoms, and XXL T-shirt. Christie grunted surprise, leant forward. The driver walked back to his car just as purposefully as he’d left, got inside, and roared away. Blue Suit blinked into the faces of his fellow commuters as if they could tell him what had gone wrong. Christie backed away from the railings.

  “Classic,” Limo said, slapping brick with an open palm.

  “Well done,” Aaron said, meaning it. She gave a teeny smile, something less focused in her eyes. This time he tried to avoid them.

  “My turn,” the Kid said, a little too eager for Aaron’s liking. He watched him, not the road.

  Hunched like a cat, the Kid’s chin rested on the cradle made by his folded arms slowly licking his lips. When he saw what he wanted he rose, stiffening. “This’ll be bare joke,” he grunted through half-closed lips, nearly too low to h
ear. Aaron saw pure concentration, more focus than Christie.

  “Don’t do that,” he heard her say. “Don’t.” Then she turned away from the street below. Aaron, alerted, slipped into the space next to Limo.

  A gathering of boys about the Kid’s age. Blazers and thick school jumpers, pointing. Work commuters passing, heads turned as if to view an accident, still walking toward the crossing, shaking their heads. A woman, megaphone in one hand, Bible in the other, placard at her feet—JESUS SAVES—calling God’s vengeance, pointing at the homeless man with his arms and legs wrapped around a lamppost, hips moving, slow grinding, rubbing against hard, grubby metal. Peals of laughter reached them. Aaron gritted his teeth, said nothing. When the British Transport Police approached the homeless guy, Limo let him go, bringing him back to face heavy hands on his shoulder, protesting as he was led toward a waiting patrol car.

  Limo slapped brick even harder, creating solitary, one-handed applause. Aaron looked back at Christie. She was frowning at her box-fresh trainers, arms wrapped around her own body.

  “That’s not funny,” he told him.

  “Is to me.” Limo towered over Aaron, concrete hard again. “Each to his own, innit?”

  Aaron tried a look that said he was beneath some schoolkid’s Grime-based posturing, turning back to the railings.

  “Fair enough,” he said beneath his breath, tuning out Limo’s rigid face and grubby blazer.

  The air filled with perfume. Christie had come closer, but he focused on the streets and another homeless dude. This one was sitting by a wall just beyond the totem pole of train station signage, a series of varied transport symbols stacked on top of each other. Behind the dude, who stared into space oblivious to the hoards tramping by him, stood a quartet of bright ATMs.

  “Him,” Aaron said, tilting his head. He heard their complaints, felt them jostle him on both sides, trying to see past the disgusting Day of the Triffids sculptures the council put up during the Olympics—to hide the old center from the world, many had said. Probably to hide the people too. Now the shimmering yellow and green petals worked in reverse, blocking Westfield and all routes out of Stratford. He silenced the thought. Concentrating, he found his target.