Blackout by Dhonielle Clayton

The Long Walk

Act 4

Tiffany D. Jackson

Washington Square Park, 8:38 p.m.

WE WALK DOWNFifth Avenue in silence, Kareem slowing enough so it doesn’t feel like I’m running to keep up with him. The streets are packed with people, all seemingly walking in the same direction as if by instinct. It feels both different and the same being with Kareem again. Or this version of Kareem. This new Kareem talks about his feelings with his dad yet still remembers my favorite ice cream combo. I want to tell him about all the films and shows I’ve watched over the last four months. But it’s not like he’s just coming back from a long vacation. We broke up. Don’t know if those convos are allowed anymore. Is it possible for us to be friends again? Is that what I really want?

We make our way through midtown to Union Square, heading deep into the Village, moving closer to downtown. Closer to . . . the bridge.

“How much longer do you think the power’s gonna be out for?” I ask, not bothering to hide the panic in my voice. “Like, it can’t be all night, right?”

He shrugs, mind elsewhere. “Maybe.”

I start to ask what’s wrong, but that ain’t my place. Or at least I don’t think it is.

“Kareem, I—”

My phone buzzes. An unknown number. Kareem looks over and brightens.

“Oh shit, that’s Twig,” he says and presses speaker. “What’s up!”

“Yo, fam! Where you at?”

“Still in the city, but making moves,” he says, checking the time. “What’s good?”

“Nothing. That’s what’s good. I’m trying to throw the party of the summer and everything’s working against me. Just get your ass here with quickness. Peace!”

Click.

“Okay. He ain’t much for talking.” I laugh.

“That’s Twig for you,” he says, before turning his head. “Hey, you hear that?”

Music. A deep bass from nearby.

He throws me a sly grin and nods ahead. “Yo, let’s check out the park for a second.”

I don’t argue. The more time we waste on detours, the more chances of the power turning back on before it’s too late.

We pass under the large white arch at the entrance of Washington Square Park. When the power is on, this thing is lit up bright white, reminds me of that big famous arch in Paris we learned about in European History. It leads to a massive fountain in the middle of the park, surrounded by benches and patches of grass. This is where all the New York University students and Village folk hang out. Even with the blackout, the place is packed, bands playing music, chess games in the dark, teens skateboarding.

“Ew! I can’t believe people are swimming in that nasty-ass fountain,” I say, watching a white woman sit neck deep in the murky pool.

“You blame them? It’s mad hot out here,” he says, laughing. “Hey, wasn’t NYU your first choice?”

I rub my hands against my dress. “Um, yeah.”

Back when I wanted to stay in the city.

Back when I wanted to still be close to him.

Back when my life and all the things I wanted included him.

We find the source of the music: a portable speaker playing Bob Marley’s “Is This Love.” A small crowd of hipsters dance and sing along.

“Ohhhh, okay! I knew I recognized this tune! It’s your people’s music!”

I roll my eyes. “Of course the white kids with dreads smoking weed on a college campus would be playing Bob Marley.”

“Come now,” he teases in a fake Jamaican accent while two-stepping, waving me on. “You trying to bust a whine?”

“Boy, quit playing,” I laugh.

He takes my hand and spins me around. “One dance won’t hurt.”

I slip right into his arms and even though this isn’t exactly a slow song, we sway slow, to our own rhythm. My arms instinctively find their way up his shoulders. His skin is sweaty and hot, his hands grip my waist . . . my neck is burning, the sky is spinning and I’m focusing on his feet because if I look up into his eyes I know, just know, I’ll kiss him. His lips graze my forehead, and my whole body shivers.

Girl, what you doing!

I jump back five feet.

“You okay?” he asks, frowning, as if he’s confused by his empty hands.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I squeak, searching for a distraction. Another speaker is playing a hip-hop beat on the opposite side of the fountain. A group of kids sets off a rap cypher, the crowd bobbing their heads. Kareem bobs along with them.

“Aye, whose beat is this?” he asks a guy near the speaker. “Shit is fire!”

As they chat, the crowd thickens and I struggle to take a deep breath, tugging on his shirt. Too many people. Waaaaay too many people.

“Um, we should get going.”

“Hold up one second,” he says, turning to me. “Lemme see your phone again?”

I hand him my phone, and he opens up Google, pulling up a weird music page, then grabs the aux cord from the speaker.

“Aight. Let’s see how y’all rock to this!”

Kareem puts on a new beat and the cypher continues, the crowd rocking along, asking him about his music. The beat is smooth, chill, something anyone could rap over but also makes everyone vibe to it.

“Thanks, man,” he says to the guy manning the speaker as they wrap up. “Yo, hit me up anytime!”

We walk off, heading for the exit, Kareem cheesing.

“That . . . was so dope, Kareem,” I squeal. “You made that beat on your phone?”

“Yeah,” he says, beaming. “I think they gonna hit me up for more beats. Maybe DJ a party.”

“I didn’t know you were trying to make . . . like a career out of this.”

“Don’t see how, it’s all I talked about.”

“Yeah but . . . I didn’t think you were serious.”

Kareem smile fades instantly. “Well, yeah. I was. My dad even convinced me to switch my major to audio engineering.”

So that’s how he was able to apply for the internship. He switched majors. And I guess that would explain why he was so into going to all those parties. He really has always been obsessed with music.

He tips his chin at a building ahead of us. “Aye yo, what made you change your mind about NYU?”

Glancing up at the NYU Library, I cook up a quick lie. “And waste all my money to go to school blocks from my mother’s house? No thanks!”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “But going to any college cost money, even the local ones. That’s why I need that Apollo gig. And all the DJ gigs I can get.”

Local ones? So he must be going to St. John’s with Imani. She been bragging all over school how she got a full scholarship. He wants the internship so he can go to college with her . . . instead of me. He’s being all nice and flirty so he can trick me into dropping out of the position.

Just like my cousin said, “He’s a pretty boy. You can’t trust those types.”

“Why’d we come this way?” I snap, crossing my arms. “We should’ve stayed on Broadway.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Thought a quick drive-by would help change your mind. Not be in such a rush to run away.”

I fake a laugh. “Ha! I’m not running away.”

He cocks his lips to the side. “Yo, you don’t think I know you, but I do know you, Tammi. You’re only trying to leave early because of what happened with us.”

He’s up to something.

A lump rises up to my throat, skin prickling. It’s a bull’s-eye hit I wasn’t expecting.

“That’s not true. Clark Atlanta was always on the list of colleges I wanted us to go to. I even filled out an application for you!”

He laughs. “Let me ask you something—you ever consider how I was gonna pay for all those schools you picked out for us? You have your parents to take out loans and shit. What about me? You know my folks can’t afford to send me anywhere.”

My mouth drops to defend myself, but I come up empty. I never once thought about the logistics of how we’d go school together. I was just so focused on getting there.

He shakes his head. “You wanted to go to NYU. That was your dream. I knew I couldn’t afford NYU, but I still thought we’d be here, in New York . . . together.”

“Well, things change!” I reply. “Clearly.”

“Not everything has to,” he says.

I throw up my hands. “Why, Kareem? Why after months of silence, why do you have so much to say now? All this time you could’ve talked to me and now you coming out your neck.”

He closes the distance between us, grabbing both of my hands.

“You know me,” he says. “I ain’t good with words and shit. That was your job! But I’m talking now. Is it too late?”

He leans down, resting his forehead on mine. I hold my breath as a voice inside me says, He’s right, I do know him! I know him more than I know myself.

“Is it too late?” he asks again, inching toward my lips, and the world starts spinning faster.

“Kareem,” I gasp, just as the phone rings in my bag, bringing me back to reality.

“It’s, um, my mom.”

Kareem straightens as I put the phone on speaker. “Hey, baby. You guys okay? I have Kareem’s mom on the line too.”

“Hey, Tammi!” Mrs. Murphy says. “How y’all doing?”

“Fine,” we answer in unison.

“Everything good?” Kareem asks.

“Kareem, don’t you remember? G-Ma moved to a home up on the Upper West Side on Wednesday. To be with her friend, Pearl.”

Kareem hits his forehead. “Shit. I forgot!”

“Upper West Side? We were just there!”

“I know, but don’t worry,” Mom says. “My friend’s daughter Nella is there visiting her grandpa and says she’s doing fine. Helping to keep others calm.”

I click off with Mom as Kareem stares in the direction we came from.

“Should we go back?” I ask.

He sighs. “Nah, we’re almost to the bridge. And your phone’s at thirty-five percent. We just need to get to Brooklyn.”

I nod. “Um, okay.”

The music grows faint as we head down West Fourth Street. I always imagined us taking long walks around here, but as college students. Now . . . I don’t know what I want anymore. All I know is that I miss him, and even though it has to, deep down, I don’t want this day to ever end.

Just as we turn back on Broadway, a red double-decker bus dips in and out of traffic, and I catch a quick glimpse of the driver.

“Hey!” I shout, running into the street after it, waving frantically. But the bus was already through the next light, making its way to Chinatown.

Kareem catches up to me. “Yoooo! Was that your—”

“I think so.” I laugh in disbelief.

“Damn! We could’ve got a ride! Well, at least to the bridge.”

This day has been a mess from start to finish.

“Let’s keep going, I guess.” I sigh, fanning my neck.

We walk in silence again before Kareem snickers. “Yo, if I didn’t say it before, good looking out back there with old boy in Times Square.” He laughs, bumping my shoulder. “Definitely wouldn’t have gotten the job after beating the life out of that chump.”

We catch eyes, nervously blinking away. Looks like we both need that job more than we’d like to admit. The blackout brought us back together—will the Apollo internship rip us apart?