Chapter One | I
My phone buzzes. I spin around in my chair so fast I almost fall. Birdie laughs. Frank Ocean plays. I chew on some strawberry Pocky. Another notification, phone vibrating against my desk. hey are you ok?? I pull at my hair in frustration. A ton of my followers are tagging me, mutuals DMing me, asking if something’s wrong, where’ve I been, am I all right? I usually post every night, but it’s been over a week now. I type and delete and retype drafts, the cursor blinking at me on my laptop’s screen, but my brain is blank, empty, nada, nothing is going on up there and, oh no, I’m also pretty cute, please, God, I don’t want to be a thembo—
I groan and toss my phone, my poor phone whose only crime was that it was in my hand—shit, a little too hard, it bounces off my desk and somersaults through the air and I scramble to catch it and this time I really do fall, crashing onto the hardwood, shaking my whole room with an echoing thud.
My mom calls from downstairs. “Lark? You all right?”
“Yeah!” I hiss and cringe and check my elbow. God, that really hurt. “Yeah, I’m fine!”
Wait, isn’t exercise supposed to stimulate the brain? I jump to my feet and run in place for ten, nine, eight—
Yeah, no. Never mind. I flop onto my back on my bed and stare at my ceiling. And I sigh.
It’s not the end of the world if I can’t figure out a post, but that’s kind of how it feels. Like all of my dreams are crashing down around me with every second that ticks by.
My mom says I’m just addicted to the likes. I don’t know. Maybe she’s right.
Music starts playing downstairs, the kind of R&B song that my mom swears was “the shit” about twenty years ago. She calls my name. “Lark? Lark! Come down!”
Gladly. I push myself up and thump down the wooden stairs. The windows are wide open, begging for any sort of breeze since PECO is practically snatching arms, legs, torsos, everything in exchange for electricity. I sneeze, sneeze, sneeze so hard I slip down a few stairs. Survived a pandemic, just to be taken out by pollen. I leap over the last two steps onto the landing and turn into the kitchen—and stop short.
Kas sits up on a counter, looking way too relaxed for a house he doesn’t live in. “Bless you,” he says with a grin.
I rub my nose and look at my mom, the traitor. Why does she always let Kasim inside? Just pretend you don’t see him or hear him knocking on the door. She sits at the white table pushed up against the wall. Her open laptop is streaming music. My whole life has changed . . .
She gives me a look.
Right. My face.
I wipe away the what’re you doing here? stare and force on a creaking smile. “Oh. Hey.”
CHARACTER PROFILE!
NAME: Kasim Youngblood
PRONOUNS: He/him
AGE: 17
BIRTHDATE: November 19
ZODIAC: Scorpio
HOMETOWN: West Philly
OCCUPATION: Student
Kas hops down from the counter, leaning against it with his arms crossed. He has beautiful dark brown skin, the kind of shade that reminds you of night. The top of his hair is loc’d and usually tied up, the sides shaved and ends bleached. He’s in a black crop top, black cutoffs, worn black boots, a spiral gauge in one ear. He always has this vibe that he thinks everyone should feel honored to be in his presence. Like he was a pharaoh or a king in a past life and I should be on my knees. To be real, I’m jealous of that energy. I mean, that’s the kind of attitude that doesn’t question, not even for one second, if he deserves to be here. If he, too, gets to take up space in the room. This crown is already bought and paid for, and I’m wearing the fuck out of it.
It could just be my imagination, but I’m pretty sure his smirk grows by a couple of centimeters when he sees me. That smirk. That smirk. Kasim should trademark that freaking smirk, I swear to God. “Hey, Lark.”
We watch each other. Kind of like we’re in a nature documentary, two natural enemies staring each other down before the attack. If this was an anime, lightning would spark between our eyes. Neither of us says a word. My mom’s gaze flits between the two of us like she’s worried we’re going to fight for no reason other than the fact that we’re breathing the same air. I’d like to think I’m pretty loving. I believe in world peace. I hate getting into fights and arguments with anybody. But Kasim, somehow, is the only exception, and not in that romantic Paramore kind of way. There’s got to be some sort of chemical explanation for why Kas and I can’t be in the same space without shit blowing up. I don’t know. Science isn’t exactly my strong suit.
My mom attempts to break the awkward silence. “Still up there staring at Twitter?”
Kasim’s gaze slides to me and judgment radiates from his pores. My defensive walls were already up, but they climb a few miles higher.
“I wasn’t staring at Twitter.”
“Uh-huh.” She recognizes my tight, clipped tone and raises an eyebrow. I can practically read her mind. One day you’re going to figure out that you need your friend more than you need the fight. I still don’t know if she meant the fight as in the struggle or the
fight as in the literal fight me and Kas have been in for the past year.
“Kasim, honey, are you staying for dinner?” she asks.
“No, thanks, I don’t want to bother—”
“You know you’re not bothering anyone.”
Kas meets my eye, glinting with an Oh, really? Lark, what do you think about the fact that I’m not bothering anyone? smile.
My mom notices. “Right?”
My voice is monotone. “Yeah. Stay for dinner.”
Kasim barely holds in a laugh. “I’d love to. Thanks, Ms. Winters.”
I’m really not in the mood for Kasim tonight, but my mom never turns anyone away. Even in the height of the pandemic, she would help anyone who needed it, especially Kasim and his big brother Taye. And I love that. Yes, community is important. But it’s also okay to have boundaries sometimes, right? Especially boundaries from ex-best friends who love to purposefully piss me off.
“Eggplant’s almost done,” my mom says, groaning as she pushes herself to her feet. “Set the table, okay, my love?” She puts a warm hand on my shoulder and kisses my cheek before she walks past me, leaving me and Kas alone. Seriously? She knows she’s wrong for that one. She knows this isn’t going to end well.
There’s a beat of silence.
I ask, “So what’re you doing here?”
My mom calls from the other room. “Don’t be rude.”
Kasim answers my question with a shrug and a grin, white teeth shining. Why is it that the most chaotic of queers have the sharpest canines? “I was just saying hi to your mom. I didn’t think I’d see you.”
Why wouldn’t you? I live here. “Yeah. Okay.”
We repainted all the cabinets white a few months ago, but some of the old brown wood still streaks through. Kas opens one of the cabinet doors to pull out three glasses with different patterns of fruit on them—strawberries, oranges, grapes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not happy to see me, Lark?”
“You came over last week, too,” I tell him, scraping open some drawers and pulling out utensils. “Plates, please.”
“Are you that mad at me for coming over?” Kasim opens the cabinets above the sink.
“I’m not mad.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“You know you’re only here for the free food.”
He puts a hand over his chest like he’s wounded. “Come on. I’d never take advantage of your mom like that.”
I have to admit he’s being sincere for once. Kasim’s mom died when he was four, and about three years ago his dad was charged for a few ounces, so now it’s just Kas and Taye, who’s been fighting to keep Kasim with him. When Kasim’s dad got arrested, my mom started offering to let Kas stay over whenever his brother had to do a night shift for one of his jobs. Kasim would stay here for weeks without leaving.
And the thing is, I actually liked it when Kas lived with us. We were best friends. We spent every second together. Skateboarding around the basketball courts. Going to the records store on Baltimore Avenue. Making TikToks with us dancing, falling, dying laughing, the sort of laugh where you can’t even make a sound and you’re just wheezing and gasping and crying and smacking each other and then falling over again, just to laugh even harder. He’s straight-up got the personality of Bakugou when he’s mad, so I’d call him Kacchan, and he’d call me Deku, and we’d watch bootleg anime on my laptop all night beneath the covers when we were supposed to be asleep, and any time we heard my mom walking by outside we’d drop and play dead, snorting and shoving each other whenever we made a sound. I could tell him anything. Anything. And he never judged me. “I’m afraid I’ll end up alone someday.” He shook his head. “Why? You’ve got me, right?”
But when high school started . . . I don’t know. I don’t hate him. I don’t hate anyone. Honest, I don’t. And I don’t think he hates me, either. (Most of the time.) But things definitely aren’t the way they were before.
Kasim’s smile grows as he watches me, like he knows how annoyed I am. “Something’s got you pissy.”
“I’m not pissy.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You seem pissy to me.”
Birdie inspects one of their wings. “You’re being kinda pissy, Lark.”
I grind my teeth. “I’m fine.”
Kasim snorts. “Yeah. Okay. You’re so calm. So peaceful.”
I take a tight breath. Maybe he’s right. I’m on edge. It’s always stressful, writing something for 20.1K people (and more) to see, to read, to give their opinion on, to like or not like, to agree with or to quote-tweet with a look at how fucking stupid this kid is comment. The fact that I’m stressed isn’t Kasim’s fault.
Besides, there isn’t any point in being annoyed. I learned from an early age that I don’t get to be angry or frustrated. Some people are allowed to take up space in this world, while other people are expected to disappear. When we don’t disappear, we’re hated and then blamed for that hatred. If only you’d been nicer. If only you’d smiled. If only you’d just sit down and shut up, maybe people wouldn’t hate you so much. It isn’t fair, but there’s a lot about this world that isn’t fair, right? I sigh, shake my hands back and forth to get some of the tension out, hum a Solange song. Well, it’s like . . .
Kasim puts the last plate down. “What’s your post about?”
He knows that if I’m staring at social media, it’s probably because I’m planning out a new thread. I wouldn’t say I’m famous, but my posts can get around 50K likes sometimes.
“Um.” I can’t meet his eye. “Not sure yet.”
He gives a half-smile. “Maybe it can be how to kiss white people’s asses to make them feel more comfortable with your
Jesus Christ on cheese. See what I mean? Kas likes to piss me off. It’s a game to him. Poke at me until I snap. He knows that I’m not radical, like him and his new group of friends. He knows that I’m all about peace. “Fuck peace,” Kasim told me once. “They don’t give us peace. Why should we give them ours?” He wants to rile me up. To make me angry so that he can smirk and say that I’m a hypocrite, and I’m not as peaceful as I pretend to be.
I pull out my phone. I’ve got more than twenty new notifications. More tags and comments and DM’s. lark are you alive?!! I scroll. “Maybe I could write about how anarchy hurts community.” Another argument we’ve had a million and one times. We always fall into the same patterns, the same cycles, the same fights whenever we come near each other. It’s like an addiction. We can’t stop.
Kasim cuts his eyes at me, fire shining in them. He’s like a volcano, tectonic plates shifting and pressure building. I can always tell when he’s about to erupt. “Tearing down a hierarchal society that’s built from racism is a good thing, Lark.”
“But what about community in the meantime?” I ask.
“We take care of each other.”
“Can’t take care of each other when resources are being destroyed.”
“We take that shit and redistribute it to the people.”
“Take it from people in the community, you mean?”
“No, from corporations—”
“People’s businesses in the same community get fucked up, too—”
“They aren’t the target.”
“But that’s what happens, right?” I say. “While you’re busy burning down the system, people are gonna struggle in the process.”
“People been struggling, Lark,” Kas says, his voice getting louder. “Damn, your head’s so far up liberal white people’s asses that you can’t see shit except theirs.”
“Christ, Kas, that’s disgusting.”
He ignores me. His smirk is gone. “Open your fucking eyes. Seriously.”
The argument’s really heated now. It usually is with us. I know my mom can hear, but she doesn’t step in. Kas stares at me for one long second, not saying a word. He can get pretty intense like that. Like an explosion contained in a human body, and even if you can’t see the blast and the fire and the debris, you can feel it coming at you.
“What?” I say. My voice cracks.
He only shrugs, looking away again. “You could write about dogs. For your post, I mean. Can’t go wrong with that. Might even get more followers.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re an asshole,” I say, and immediately regret it, because, yeah, that’s not very nice or peaceful of me at all. He has the perfect opening, the perfect opportunity, to point out that I called him an asshole and take me down with a FINISH THEM! blow, but he only lets out a laugh. A real one, too—not hollow or forced at all. Kas can be in a fight one second, laughing lightly like it was no big deal the next. Even when being insulted. Like he really and truly couldn’t care less. Yeah. I’m definitely jealous of that energy. “I guess I’m an asshole sometimes,” he says. “But isn’t everyone? Even if no one wants to admit it, we’ve all hurt someone else in our lives. You have, too.” I feel a spark of shame. Of defensiveness. I want to argue with him. But I force myself to stop. He’s right. It’s true, isn’t it? I’ve probably hurt someone also. We’re all human. We all make mistakes, and we all hurt each other, even when we want to think that we haven’t, or think that the other person shouldn’t feel hurt, because we don’t want to be the kind of person we point fingers at and say are bad people. We don’t want to be the bad person. Ever since I was a kid, I wondered about that—why we humans always like to point at someone else and say they’re the enemy while they point at us and say we’re the enemy. Maybe no one is actually good or bad, but a mix in between. Maybe the same is true with me and Kasim. “Just as long as we learn and grow,” he says.
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