Chapter One
SHE TELLS ME HER NAME is Gardenia, and then she waits as if she’s expecting a question she’s been asked a million times before. I don’t move, immobilized by both my own fear and the sterility of this office. I hate bureaucracy. Or, corporations. The stuffiness of it all, the way people wear dress clothes as if it makes them more trustworthy when it really just reinforces the fact that I—in my worn-out tennis shoes, basic rose-colored summer dress, and box braids that desperately need to be redone—don’t belong here. And that’s fine because I don’t belong here and I’d give anything to leave, to just pick up my backpack with all my possessions and go back to Tanya’s for the week. But I can’t because Gardenia is waving a document in front of me now and I am terrified.
Just like when she introduced herself, she’s tempting me to ask a question the more she waves this paper in front of me. I keep quiet.
When I don’t bite, she sighs and sets down the paper on the desk. I let my eyes shift a little so I can see the letterhead. “York University.” We look at each other. “Sorry?” I croak out. My voice doesn’t belong here, either.
“Do you know what this is?” she asks.
I’m tempted now to really look at the paper. It’s some sort of letter from York, a school I applied to at the end of last semester for their criminology program. Ironic, now. I don’t trust the legal system and I don’t care about criminology, but I just needed it to look like I was thinking about life after high school, you know? I didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention, so I applied to a bunch of stuff. Criminology here, psychology there, all programs that a person who is really thinking about their life would apply to. The guidance counselors at school didn’t bat an eyelash when I told them about my plans, and I told them about all of them, even though half of them weren’t true. Parts of me were so open. I’m not sure if that version of myself exists anymore.
It doesn’t matter.
I was almost free.
Gardenia is still watching me, so I answer, “A letter from York?” as innocently as possible. I still don’t know what kind of trouble I’m in.
She tilts her head, purses her lips, and it looks like she’s judging me hardcore. I am used to this look. “Apparently, the school has been trying to get in contact with you about a deferred payment program, and when they couldn’t reach your household, a very lovely adviser went out of their way to contact your high school guidance counselor.”
“I graduated already,” I say, almost like a challenge. For what, though, I don’t know. “In June. I’m seventeen now.”
“Seventeen doesn’t make you an adult,” Gardenia says, equally as bold. She sighs in that way adults do when they’re about to say something they hope will get an emotional rise out of you. “I’m here to help you, you know. It may not seem like it, but I’ve been in your situation.”
I bristle. Bristle. This nasty, creeping, prickly feeling whips up my spine. Anger floods my senses, coaxing me to shout and snap and curse at her until I run out of breath. She’s staring at me with these kind eyes and it makes me even madder. So what, then? She’s been in my situation, so what? She isn’t me, and I’m not like those other screwed up kids she’s probably seen before. I was fine
—I was almost free.
So I say, “I’ll be eighteen in, like, a month, so.”
She frowns, tilts her head again as if to say, Really? Then she sighs a second time. “Almost eighteen is not eighteen, and there are rules . . . Listen, Summer.” She clasps her hands together and leans toward me across the desk. I lean away on impulse. “Mr. Gordon, your old guidance counselor, rang your house many times and tried to get ahold of your, um, your g-guardians . . .” She stumbles on the word. Her eyes, flashing to the windows before settling back on me, betray her in a second.
She wanted to say “parents.”
“B-but,” she presses on, faking composure. “The number was no longer in service, so naturally, he was concerned.”
I glance away. “S-sure.”
“He had no choice but to go to the authorities, and by that, I mean reach out to us . . .”
“Us” being Child Protective Services. Because that’s what I am to these people: a child.
But I am almost eighteen and it may not mean anything to Gardenia, who I’m sure can no longer remember what it’s like to be young with a sense of style, but it means everything to me. I didn’t crumble under the pressure; I didn’t break when my life went to shit. After last year, after last summer, when . . .
Doesn’t she see? I can do this on my own.
What should be arrogance turns to fear, and my hands begin to tremble with uncertainty, with the realization that I was found by Child Protective Services and I may be in trouble. I’m sitting in a social worker’s office. Gardenia is a social worker. I am almost eighteen. These sorts of things don’t go well for girls like me.
I mumble, “So are you making me go to a shelter or something?”
“No.”
Silence.
“I—I want you to know that I’m not living on the street or whatever,” I offer. “My friends have been real good. I’ve been bouncing back and forth for a while now. Tanya, Sid—honestly, Sid’s like my best friend and I’ve been staying with him more than the others. He lives closer to my old school, so it was easy for me to get a ride with him and stuff.”
“Well, your friend Sid is also a minor, yes? So that doesn’t really help your case,” she tells me.
“Not just him,” I say with a click of my tongue. “He lives with his parents, and they’re actually so legit. His mom is a stylist and his dad sells cars. They’re really good people. No drugs, no drinking, nothing.” I want to also say and they’re white, just in case that matters to these people. It probably does.
“They’re good people but they let a teenager couch surf?” Gardenia asks, eyebrows raised in disbelief. She doesn’t have to say it; I can already hear her thinking, Some moral citizens they are.
I open my mouth to “yeah, but . . .” my way into an argument, but I figure there’s no point. I don’t know what will help, so I ask again, “Do I have to go to a shelter?”
Gardenia shakes her head. I’m so confused. “I’m going to have a talk with Sid’s parents and do a home evaluation, so leave me a number for how I can reach them.” She’s writing now, taking notes on the laptop beside her. A privacy screen and the glare of sun from the window prevent me from reading what she’s typing. When I look at her computer, all I see is a dark reflection. “If they’re approved, you can stay there and only there temporarily, but unless they’re going to resolve this payment deferral situation for you . . . I mean, ultimately, it would be best to locate
a relative as soon as we can.”
I scoff. I don’t mean to, but the thought is laughable. Our family had a few family friends here and there, but they all dipped after last summer. We don’t have any blood relatives locally anymore, either. I had an aunt, Amaka, who used to live here on and off, but we haven’t heard from her in a few years. Both my parents’ families, their siblings and cousins, either live in other provinces, other countries, or back in Nigeria where we’re from.
Gardenia’s eyebrow twitches at my scoff, like she’s reached her limit on dealing with teenagers for today. She stops typing, trying to keep her cool. It’s not working. She’s tan, but her skin is still burning pink. Sucks. “We’ll need to locate your parents, then,” she tells me as if it’s a threat.
Go ahead, I want to say, teeth gritted, eyes narrow. Go and find them if you can.
God knows I’ve tried.
Chapter Two
GARDENIA’S OFFICE IS ON THE fifth floor, and the ride down to the front desk feels extremely painful for some reason. I’m not sure why.
Wait, never mind. I figured it out.
It’s the stares. I don’t get them all the time, honestly. Sometimes when I’m out with my friends, skateboarding up and down the block, people will tilt their heads back to watch us. Maybe they’ve never seen a Black girl on a skateboard before. Maybe they’re unnerved by the fact that I’m actually really good. Not sure.
But sometimes when I get that double take, when that glint of knowing sparks behind someone’s eyes and their faces become withdrawn, I shiver. I know who they see when they look at me. The same height, the same smallness. The same confidence, the same regret. It’s all there. I am my parents’ daughter, after all, and sometimes I feel like everyone can see it. They can all tell.
I keep my eyes down until I make it to the front desk. The attendant there makes me sign my name in all caps to prove I’m actually me. I scribble Summer Uzoma without looking and set down the pen. The entire time, she’s looking at me like she’s got something to say, but she doesn’t speak. The threat of conversation sticks in the air between us. I know what her conversation would consist of, most likely. Her and everyone else.
Then, she reaches behind her desk to slide out my skateboard. I grab it, practically wrenching it from her grasp, as I take off.
Outside is hot and humid as hell. Sickening and sticky and unwelcoming. Summertime in Toronto means haze and heat until you’re dead. Sun that burns your skin beneath a thick smog that coats your lungs. I sweat the second I step outside the building.
Quickly, I pull my backpack over my shoulders and let my skateboard’s wheels hit the pavement. Looking around, squinting in the sun, I have a better idea of where I am. This busy street corner is filled with pristine office buildings, like those new types that are all glass and are supposed to make you want to work there. I hate them. Now I can’t equate them with anything else but this . . . this social worker. Gardenia. If she’s actually planning on making a stop at Sid’s place, it’d be better if I was actually staying there this week. I gotta get out of here, head back to Tanya’s, and grab my stuff.
But first, there’s somewhere I really want to go.
It doesn’t take long for me to look up a bus route that’ll take me to my old neighborhood.
Everyone keeps asking me if I still go there often. They don’t believe me when I say I don’t, and to be honest, I wouldn’t believe me, either. Anyone can tell I’m a liar.
I get on the bus, tucking my board under my feet as I find a seat near the back, and mentally prepare for the long journey to my old home. I consider calling Sid, giving him a heads-up that someone may be calling his house soon about me, but I don’t. If I remember correctly, he’s probably hanging with Kirsten, his girlfriend. It’s not that she’ll mind if I call or anything—Sid and I used to be way closer, and it’s not her fault, honestly, but just—I don’t know. Gardenia will call his house regardless. Me giving him a heads-up when he’s not even home feels trivial. I mull it over until the bus approaches my old street.
The house belongs to someone else now. There’s a red sedan in the driveway, a symbol that the owners are home, so I don’t bother getting close. Sometimes, I think one day there may be a sign, something that tells me Mom or Dad is looking for me. Like, maybe they’d leave a message for me, telling me everything will be fine and once I turn eighteen, they’ll . . . I don’t know. It’s stupid.
Forget it.
I ride my way to the community mailbox across the street, fishing for my key in my pocket. When I left the house way back then, I held on to the mail key, just in case Mom or Dad would use mail to contact me. I have to check the mail quickly so no one sees me lurking. I don’t think anyone around here would call the police or whatever, but it’s better to be safe.
So I turn the key, pull open the box assigned to my old house, and stick my hand in for any letters. There are three. Flipping through them quickly, I see two addressed to who I assume is the current owner, someone named George Glass. I put those back in the mailbox.
The third one makes my heart skip a beat. It’s a bit bulkier and the address looks like it’s been written quickly, but that’s not the thing that makes me pause.
It’s been returned to sender, clearly never making it to its intended location. And it’s addressed to “Oluwadara Akindele.”
Auntie Dara.
“Auntie Dara?” I repeat, flipping the letter over in my hands. Why is there a letter to Auntie Dara in my old house’s mailbox?
The letter had apparently been sent months and months ago, as evidenced by the semi-faded ink, and from the looks of it, it was sent by someone in my house. Otherwise, why would it be returned to sender and end up in our mailbox?
I open it quickly. There’s not much to it; just a handwritten note for Auntie, saying, “Send this to the lawyer if you don’t hear from me,” and some numbers below that don’t make any sense to me. They must be relevant for this lawyer, though, whoever they are. It could be a claim number or a . . . a client number. Right? The handwriting kinda looks like my dad’s . . . or my mom’s . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to tell, as if the person writing was trying to disguise themselves somehow.
Auntie Dara and my parents weren’t on the best terms for a while. And I haven’t heard from her since—
My phone buzzes and in the distance, I hear a door push open. Both sounds startle me and I fumble the letter into my bag, slamming the mailbox closed. My hands are jittery. When I look over my shoulder, I spot someone coming out of a house across the street. I don’t see which, but still, I drop my skateboard to the ground and push my way out of there. What if it was the person who lives in my house now? What if they call the police?
I fix my sunglasses on my face and ride harder down the road until the overbearing smog starts to feel like the slightest breeze on my face. Each time my feet collide with the pavement and I propel myself forward, I think of flying. That’s what this is to me. Soar
ing. Unabashed freedom. I think it’s the thing I want most in this world: to be free. And at least, for a moment, I thought I was well on my way. I thought I had it. Now with this social worker thing and this weird letter, I feel like I’m being rooted back in a place I don’t want to be.
Tanya lives near Centennial Park, which isn’t too far from my old neighborhood. I have to catch—I count on my fingers—two buses? Three? Either way, I’ll be a sweaty corpse upon arrival. “Don’t think about it,” I grunt to myself. Truly, the less I can think, the better. I skate to the first bus stop, tap my transit card, get on, sit. I get off at the next stop, wait for the second bus, tap my transit card, worry about how much money is still left on there . . . get on, sit. As I feel the ground rumble underneath the bus, I realize my jaw has been clenched this entire time. Trying to relax is hard. Tanya’s mom always says, “You don’t try to relax. You just relax.” I don’t get it.
Finally, I jump off at the last stop, the one closest to Tanya’s house, and take the back roads to the convenience store at the corner of her street. Two kids on bikes hang around by the doors, eyeing me while I make my way past them.
I take my skateboard in, holding it under my arm as I weave through the cramped aisles. They moved the card rack, the one that sells gift cards, top-up cards, and prepaid credit cards, to the opposite side of the store. Khalid, who owns the place, doesn’t trust a lot of the neighborhood kids, but for some reason, he doesn’t give me a second look when I walk in. He’s watching a small TV balanced on the corner of his counter. CP24, the news channel, shows a constant stream of people getting arrested or the government doing the bare minimum. People are protesting again, downtown and in other cities. In rural communities. Politicians are joining them, which is so stupid, honestly. It has very “help me stop me from ruining society” energy.
I need to ration what I have for my phone and my transit card, but Khalid only does phone top-ups here. I grab a top-up card and bring it to the counter. “Hi.”
He grunts in response, taking the card, scanning it, and reading out my total: “Twenty even.”
I hand him a crumpled bill and he taps the counter, telling me to leave it there. His eyes are homed in on the TV. I glance at it—just another news report—as I take the card and disappear.
Tanya’s house is a corner house, so her front yard is huge. The family uses it more for parking, though. She has so many relatives and they’re always visiting, parking half on the lawn and half on the driveway to fit everyone’s cars in. “Zim people, African people,” she would say, tsking and shaking her head. I wanted to relate so bad. My family is an anomaly as far as Nigerian families go. We never really had a large community of friends and family here. My parents always kinda kept to themselves, only letting a few people in.
The sweet smell of spices in the air greets me when I step into Tanya’s. Her mom doesn’t work, so she tends to be at home, letting something simmer on the stove. When I first stayed over, she looked me in the eye and said, “Sorry, I can’t make your traditional Nigerian food. We’re from Zimbabwe,” in a voice that made me feel I had done something wrong. Tanya’s mom has alwa
ys been really cool with me, but it took me a while to realize she meant it like she wished she could do more. She didn’t need to. They let me stay. That was more than enough.
Voices chatter in the living room on the other side of the wall as I slip off my shoes and set down my bag. My socked feet pad their way down the hall. The closer I get to the living room, the quieter it gets, until Tanya appears, almost bumping into me—blocking me from the doorway. She stumbles, her long, dark hair settling messily around her shoulders, and she smiles at me, nervous and awkward. “Yo, Summer,” she greets.
My eyes flash behind her head: her parents on the couch and CP24 on the TV.
Then, back to her. The panic in her eyes.
Within moments, the TV is shut off and quiet drapes over the room.
I know what they were watching, so I spare her the discomfort. Instead, I carry it on my own, feeling my stomach twist and lurch at the idea of another report on my parents. Another public plea from the police to find them.
Another shameful reminder that they’re on the run.
My throat feels like it’s closing up. It’s so hard to swallow, but I do so anyway, just so I don’t sound as hoarse. “Uh, h-hey. Hey. Can I . . .” My words get stuck in my throat, too. I don’t even know what to ask her. Just trying to fill the air so this whole encounter—the both of us pretending that the people she saw on TV with a big WANTED marquee under their faces aren’t my parents—will feel more palatable. Luckily for her, I’m a pro at this. Sidestepping, weaving, maneuvering. I do it so easily, both on and off my skateboard.
Suddenly, I think about Gardenia and how serious she was about finding my parents, finding me guardians who could deal with my tuition deferral. Then I think of my home, how I probably won’t be able to go back to it the way I used to, and how I found a letter addressed to the last person on earth I ever thought I’d hear of again. It hits me all at once.
“I gotta go,” I tell her, my voice uncharacteristically high. I turn on my heel and backtrack to the door.
Tanya follows, practically stepping on my heels as I make my way to the front hall. “But you just got here! You don’t have to leave. You said you’d stay till the weekend, right? Is it because of the news? Man, I swear, that shit was just on TV, like, we weren’t actually watching it. Plus, it’s kinda everywhere again, you know, now that new details have come out . . .” She goes on forever. I hate how guilty she sounds, when in reality, it doesn’t even matter. It’s on TV. It’s on my face. Everyone can see it. Everyone knows about my parents. And I don’t—I don’t care.
“No, no, you’re good,” I manage to get a word in. My voice cracks with my own nervousness. I slip my shoes on and throw on my clunky backpack. When I straighten back up, Tanya’s face is scrunched with regret. I say again, “It’s cool. I’ll explain later, but th
ere’s this thing with a social worker, so I might need to go to Sid’s at some point.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, wait, what?”
“I’ll explain later, I said.”
“Yeah, but—” She reaches out for my arm to stop me from running. “Is it serious? What happened?”
I let my weight shift from one leg to another, while Tanya’s grip on me loosens. “It’s . . . They just need . . . They found out I was on my own,” I say finally. Her brows furrow, drawing creases in her forehead. With this, she looks just like her mom: always a bit panicked at every little thing. “And now, they might be calling Sid’s parents to see if I can stay there.”
Tanya’s concerned-auntie face doesn’t let up. “That’s major, my friend,” she utters. “Will you be okay? Should—hey, you know what, hold up.” She taps her chin, nodding. Ideas piece together in her head. “Are you headed there now? Maybe my mom can drive you—”
“No!” I say at once. “N-no, it’s fine, honestly. Don’t worry about it.”
Tanya frowns. “Yeah, but—”
“I said don’t worry,” I shoot back. My voice can come out sharper than I mean it to sometimes, but Tanya doesn’t even flinch because she knows this already. She just tilts her head, stares at me. I’m the one who shies away from her gaze. I didn’t mean to be so harsh, but I just, I mean, I wish people wouldn’t make such a big deal about this. About any of this.
I avoid her searching gaze, saying, “I’ll be back,” while I slip out the door.
My backpack feels extra heavy as I’m heading down the road. I drop my skateboard and begin a steady glide back to the bus stop, ignoring the beads of sweat that have started forming along my nose. I feel lotion and sweat moisten along my arms.
A lot of the buses heading out of Tanya’s neighborhood serve the business areas, ...
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