Page 16 of Wings of Ebony
My Ghizonian isn’t that great, but I’m pretty sure that lady just dimed me out. She points in my direction.Shit. I duck down lower. Patrol hands the woman a coin and she disappears toward the festival.
I press back into the shade as far as I can, stone scraping my cheek. Seconds pass like days, but Patrol stomps past without a glance my way.
I exhale and check my watch. Bri’s message from a bit ago is still blinking on the screen.
Bri: I knew the key would work! Eeeee!
Me: Like a charm.
The music from the festival a block over plays in the background. Bri’s house is through Market Street, which is off the main square. I should be able to get over there unnoticed if I—
Curious little eyes staring at me from the far end of the alleyway snatch my attention. I can barely make out the features on his tiny face, but his sooty, tattered clothes are a giveaway. His face is thin and where his cheeks should be plump and smooth, they sink in.
Macazi.
The magicless.
They live in sanctioned housing if they’re lucky, but with no magic—no way to contribute to Ghizon—they’re treated like litter society hopes will just blow away.
“Hi,” I say, but he turns to run away.
“No, I’m not gonna hurt—Listen, I have something for you. Can you wait right here? I’ll go get it.” His expression doesn’t change. Ireallydon’t have time for this. Patrol could come back any moment.
“It’s a gift. Uh—pris!”
His face lights up at that word and I promise to be right back. I skip over a few blocks and keep my head down. Last thing I need is for the Patrol Ijustlost to catch sight of me. But what am I supposed to do? Let him starve in an alleyway?
I jet across an intersection that veers off to the eastern side of the island where tightly knitted rows of units sit, their roof tiles staggered like steps. The east side’s where Bri and most Zrukis live. As the perimeter of the festival comes back in view, scents of qui, something like a turnip with the flavor of garlic, wafts past and my stomach churns. Meatmen hover slabs of dripping carcasses overhead, searing them with flames from their fingertips. The really talented ones can sear it with breaths of fire.
I stick to the shadows close to the buildings and wait. A boy no older than Tasha grins at the crowd, offering skewered samples. The clink of coins changing hands slices through the melodious backdrop.
Meatman sets down his slab to talk to a customer and the little boy is absorbed in serving an eager group of samplers. I slip my hand around the metal skewer and snatch the entire slab of meat, woodsy spices dancing under my nose as I hurry back to the alley with hotjuices dripping down my arm. “V’ja, maca,” someone shouts. I don’t look back.
Little Guy is still there and his mouth falls open at the sight of the savory meal.
“Take it to your mom. Quick, hurry.”
His brows meet.
I fold his little arms around the skewer, grease running down his arm. “Takethis”—I point—“to yourmom.” I cradle my arms, then give him a gentle shove. “Hurry. Fast.”
He just stands there staring. Why didn’t I pay more attention in Language class? I sigh. How do I say, “go” or “mom?” I don’t have a clue. “Listen, kid. You gotta get the hell—I mean, you gotta get moving.” I rip off a piece of meat and hold it to my lips. He watches me chew and something clicks; he understands. He runs off hugging the slab of meat, which is as big as he is.
If that were Tasha, I’d want someone to make sure her belly was full. It’s only one meal, but it’s something. Angry voices grow louder. Meatman’s coming around that corner any second. I take off in the opposite direction, toward Bri’s, when my wrist shakes.
Bri: You close?
Me: Sorry, detour. Yeah, Why?
Bri: It’s your father. He’s on his way here.
Ihatethe man who calls himself—my father.
For bringing me here. For leaving Tasha there. For coming to the block to “change my life,” but not coming back to save Moms. For being a stranger myentirelife. Ihatethat I wear his nose and our shoulders hang the same way.
So grateful Tasha didn’t grow up with that BS. Her pops was around, offering to take us places, apologizing for my pops being MIA. Said he knew him for a bit before he got snatched up by the cops. That’s what folks assume happens when you ain’t been seen around the way—either locked up for ten or carried by six.
But that wasn’t true in my father’s case. He wasn’t behind bars or in the ground. Hechoseto leave before I was even out the womb. Moms would make excuses, but I stopped caring around Tasha’s age. By then, I figured if that nigga ain’t want nothing to do with me, I didn’t want nothing to do with his coward ass either.
