We eventually turn onto Marigold Avenue, and even with the fire in my lungs I take a deep breath. Our store is in one piece. The windows are boarded up with that same “black owned” tag on them, like it’s lamb’s blood protecting the store from the plague of death. The street is pretty still. Top Shelf Spirits and Wine is the only business with broken windows. It doesn’t have a “black owned” tag either.
Goon stops in front of our store. He jumps out, comes to the back of the truck, and helps everyone out. “Starr, Sev, y’all got a key?”
I pat my pockets for Seven’s keys and toss them to Goon. He tries each key until one unlocks the door. “In here, y’all,” he says.
Everyone including the cameraman and reporter go in the store. Goon and one of the guys in the bandana get DeVante and carry him inside. No sign of Daddy.
I crawl onto the floor and fall on my stomach, blinking fast. My eyes burn and fill with tears.
Goon sets DeVante on the old people’s bench before running toward the refrigerator.
He rushes back with a gallon of milk and pours it onto DeVante’s face. The milk momentarily turns him white. DeVante coughs and sputters. Goon pours more.
“Stop!” DeVante says. “You ’bout to drown me!”
“I bet your eyes ain’t hurting no more though,” Goon replies.
I half-crawl, half-run to the refrigerators and get a gallon for myself. I pour it on my face. The relief comes in seconds.
People pour milk onto their faces while the cameraman records it all. An older lady drinks from a gallon. Milk pools on the floor, and a college-aged guy lies face-down in it and gasps for air.
When people get the relief they need, they leave. Goon grabs a bunch of cartons of milk and asks, “Ay, can we take this in case somebody needs it on the street?”
Seven nods and sips from a carton.
“Thanks, li’l homie. If I see your pops again I’ll tell him y’all here.”
“You saw our—” I cough and sip some milk, dousing the flames in my lungs. “You saw our dad?”
“Yeah, a li’l while ago. He was looking for y’all.”
Oh, shit.
“Sir,” the reporter says to Goon, “can we ride along? We’d like to see more of the neighborhood.”
“Ain’t no thang, homie. Hop in the back.” He turns to the camera and twists his fingers so they resemble a K and an L. “Cedar Grove Kings, baby! Crowns up! Addi-o!” He gives the King Lord call. Leave it to Goon to throw gang signs on live TV.
They leave us alone in the store. Seven, Chris, I are in the pool of milk with our knees up to our chests. DeVante’s arms and legs dangle off the old people’s bench. He chugs back some milk.
Seven takes his phone from his pocket. “Damn. My phone’s dead. Starr, you got yours?”
“Yeah.” I have way too many voice mails and way too many texts, most of them from Momma.
I play the voice mails first. They start out safe enough with Momma saying, “Starr baby, call me as soon as you get this, okay?”
But they soon become, “Starr Amara, I know you’re getting these messages. Call me. I’m not playing.”
They progress to, “See, you’ve taken this too far. Carlos and I are heading out the door right now, and you better pray to God we don’t find you!”
And on the last message, left a few minutes ago, Momma says, “Oh, so you can’t return my calls, but you can lead protests, huh? Momma told me she saw you on live TV, giving speeches and throwing tear gas at cops! I swear I’m gon’ snatch your life if you don’t call me!”
“We in deep shit, man,” DeVante says. “Deep shit.”
Seven glances at his watch. “Damn. We’ve been gone about four hours.”
“Deep shit,” DeVante repeats.
“Maybe the four of us can get a place in Mexico?” says Chris.
I shake my head. “Not far enough for our mom.”
Seven picks at his face. The milk has dried and formed a crust. “All right, we need to call them. And if we call from the office phone, Ma will see it on the caller ID and know we’re not lying when we say we’re here. That’ll help, right?”
“We’re at least three hours too late for any help,” I say.
Seven stands and gives me and Chris a hand up. He helps DeVante off the bench. “C’mon. Make sure y’all sound remorseful, all right?”
We head for Daddy’s office.
The front door creaks. Something thuds onto the floor.
I turn around. A glass bottle with flaming cloth—
Whoomf! The store is suddenly lit bright orange. A heat wave hits like the sun dropped in. Flames lick the ceiling and block the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
An entire aisle is already engulfed.
“The back door,” Seven says, choked up. “The back door!”
Chris and DeVante follow us down the narrow hall near Daddy’s office. It leads to the restroom and the back door where deliveries are unloaded. Smoke’s already filling the hall.
Seven pushes the door. It doesn’t budge. He and Chris ram their shoulders against it, but it’s bulletproof, shoulder-proof, everything-proof. The burglar bars won’t let us out anyway.
“Starr, my keys,” Seven croaks.
I shake my head. I gave them to Goon, and the last time I saw them he left them in the front door.
DeVante coughs. It’s getting harder to breathe with all the smoke. “Man, we can’t die up in here. I don’t wanna die.”
“Shut up!” Chris says. “We’re not gonna die.”
I cough into the crook of my arm. “Daddy may have a spare,” I say, and my voice is thin. “In his office.”
We rush back down the hall, but the office door is locked too.
“Fuck!” Seven screams.
Mr. Lewis limps into the middle of the street. He grips a baseball bat in each hand. He glances around, like he’s trying to figure out where the smoke is coming from. With the boards on the windows, he can’t see the inferno in the store unless he looks through the front door.
“Mr. Lewis!” I scream as loud as I can.
The guys join in. The smoke strangles our voices. The flames dance feet away, but I swear it’s like I’m standing in them.
Mr. Lewis limps toward the store, squinting his eyes. They widen as he looks in through the door, straight at us on the other side of the flames. “Oh Lord!”
He limps into the street faster than I’ve ever seen him move. “Help! These kids stuck up in here! Help!”
There’s a loud crackling to our right. The fire takes out another shelf.
Mr. Reuben’s nephew, Tim, runs over and opens the front door, but the flames are too much.
“Go to the back door!” he calls to us.
Tim almost beats us getting there. He yanks hard on the door, and the glass rattles. The way he’s pulling, the door will come off eventually. We don’t have eventually time though.
Tires screech outside.
Moments later, Daddy runs up to the back door.
“Watch out,” he tells Tim, moving him out the way.
Daddy fumbles for his keys and sticks several in the lock while muttering, “Please, God. Please.”
I can barely see Seven, Chris, or DeVante for all the smoke, and they’re coughing and wheezing next to me.
A click. The knob turns. The door flies open. We rush out. Fresh air fills my lungs.
Daddy pulls me and Seven through the alley, around the corner, and across the street to Reuben’s. Tim gets DeVante and Chris. They make us sit on the sidewalk.
Tires screech again, and Momma goes, “Oh my God!”
She runs over, Uncle Carlos on her heels. She holds my shoulders and helps me lie on the sidewalk.
“Breathe, baby,” she says. “Breathe.”
But I have to see. I sit up.
Daddy attempts to run into the store for God knows what. The flames swat him back. Tim rushes a bucket of water from his uncle’s restaurant. He runs into our store and douses it on the flames, but he’s forced to jump back too.
People trickle onto the street, and more buckets of sloshing water are hauled into the store. Ms. Yvette carries one from her beauty shop. Tim tosses it onto the fire. Flames eat away at the roof, and smoke billows from the windows of the barbershop next door.
“My shop!” Mr. Lewis cries. Mr. Reuben stops him from running toward it. “My shop!”
Daddy stands in the middle of the street, breathing hard, looking helpless. A crowd has gathered, and people watch with their hands pressed to their mouths.
Bass rattles nearby. Daddy slowly turns his head.
The gray BMW is parked in the intersection near the liquor store. King leans up against it. Some other King Lords stand alongside him and sit on the hood of the car. They laugh and point.