The Cost of Knowing, page 21
“Y’all been asking me to bring her on tour wit me, and she hella busy and all that. But, just for tonight, are y’all ready for the sovereign of strings? The oracle of orchestra? The high priestess of hair ties? Y’all know who I’m talmbout!” The whole arena erupts in screams and shrieks of delight, although I’m not sure I even know who it is. Oracle of orchestra? Who the hell?
Suddenly Shiv, front and center, runs straight backward into the darkness and smoke, which comes rushing off the front of the stage like a waterfall of clouds.
A new sound comes ringing through the speakers. A familiar whee-ooh-whee-ooh, and then silence. My heart pounds as I recognize it, and I feel Isaiah’s whole body tense and his glowing gloved hands pat the front of my forehead.
“Alex!” he cries. “It’s The Rush!”
I smile, wondering how many of these people are going to know this song as well as we do. It’s so old. It’s so underground. This album isn’t on Spotify. It’s not on iTunes. It’s not on YouTube. If you don’t have the original CD, or the vinyl, or an illegal download from 2006, good luck. I squeeze Isaiah’s ankles as if we’re about to go to battle, as if this is a competition. Whee-ooh-whee-ooh comes the sound again. But it’s different this time. It’s not a synth anymore. I know this instrument. Strings. It sounds like strings.
Violin?
A pat-pat-pat-pat-pat roars to life all around us, the sound of helicopter blades. Light pours out of the sky. Gasps ring out around me, and we all look up. Wispy blue fabric flaps in the wind like a jellyfish overhead, and I squint against the blinding light until I can make it out. I see pencil-thin legs, and slender arms, one holding a large, shiny violin the color of Aunt Mackie’s dining room table. A huge black bun sits at the crown of her head. Cobra, Leviathan, and Shiv all stand in a line at the front of the stage with an arm extended out toward the girl, and she turns, takes hold of Shiv’s hand, and leaps off the helicopter ladder onto the stage. When she turns to face us all, her cheeks are glowing rosy pink, and her eyes are a deep brown. Her lips are a faint pink, and her skin is ghostly. Jaws drop, including mine. Her blue dress is like a cloud around her, fading into the smoke that’s still pouring off the stage. She looks like an angel.
I tap the back of my hand against Isaiah’s thigh, and he leans his face down so he can hear me better.
“That’s Nyein Chen!” I yell to him. He nods, and I hope that means he remembers the name.
Nyein Chen, the twenty-year-old award-winning concert violinist whose concerts are supposed to have “a much different clientele” than, say, a Shiv Skeptic concert. The girl whose music is supposed to be for people who are “less likely to get drunk and high than people who attend a Shiv Skeptic concert.”
Looks like America’s perfect classically trained princess is an honorary Dragon.
Whee-ooh-whee-ooh goes her violin siren, which sounds just like a cop car.
The crowd loses their minds over that one, as many connect for the first time that the violin made that sound, not a computer. Nyein’s mouth curves into a grin as she looks out at the arena, and she freezes just like that, with her violin pressed against her neck, and her other arm raised in front of her face with her slender fingers on the bow. She walks slowly, fluidly, to the side of the stage where Cobra is standing. She steps in front of him and guides the bow into another whee-ooh-whee-ooh. And then she runs to the other side of the stage, like a delicate blue feather, and releases another whee-ooh-whee-ooh into the arena.
I would pay to see Mrs. Zaccari’s reaction to this.
Nyein reaches up, rips a hair clip out of her bun, lets all her long black hair down her back, secures the clip to the top of the violin neck, and rips that bow across the whole instrument like a mad scientist into four sharp, squealy whoop-whoop-whoop-whoops before Shiv launches into the first lyrics of The Rush. The song “Black Gold.”
“I was born in ’87 to a cheater and a liar,
Mothafuckin’ Uncle Sam and his greedy Golden Eye.”
I grin at the video game reference. Both of Isaiah’s hands come away from my forehead as he raps along, swinging his arms along with Shiv. Nyein is still tearing up that violin. At her own concerts, she’s careful to keep a neutral face. Not a smile. Not a determined stare. Just a flat-mouthed, open-eyed, relaxed gaze. But now, she’s almost unrecognizable. She’s gritting her teeth as she plays, commanding sound from the strings. She brings that whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop of cop sirens front and center, and I wonder how many people here are hearing “Black Gold” for the first time, and how many understand the lyrics. Shiv doesn’t do anything by accident. The Rush has six references to a concept called the “black gold rush,” the spark of mass incarceration in the nineties, before I was born. I learned things from that album that they won’t teach us in school—about Uncle Sam’s greedy Golden Eye, and how people make billions of dollars incarcerating the poor, people on the South Side, like me. Like Isaiah. They saw money to be made off locking up Black people, and Reagan, Bush, and Clinton were happy to oblige with legislation.
Greedy-ass, triflin’—
Before I can finish my thought, I notice Cobra looking down at us. Not just at the sea of people in GA. His dark eyes are huge, trained directly on me.
On Isaiah.
Like Jesus reaching out to Peter on the boat, Cobra reaches out his hand, covered in his signature silver rings and black snake tattoos wrapped all around his fingers and wrists, to us. He ignores the screaming fans in the front, arms reaching up to grab him, and beckons in our direction. People around us start looking up at Isaiah.
“Go on, little dude, he wants you up there!” yells a man behind us.
Wait, what?
I panic. How is this happening? Cobra wants Isaiah onstage? Like, for real? I pat Isaiah’s leg and yell to him, “Do you want to go up—?”
“No!” he screams, before I can finish my sentence. But there’s hesitation in his voice, and I don’t know why. Isn’t this what he’s wanted for years?
“Why not?” I ask.
“What if they laugh at me?” he whispers shakily, tightening his arms around my head. “What if… I… I can’t, Alex. I’m… scared.”
“Is this what scares you most?” I ask, the pieces connecting in my head.
Maybe this is his cure.
“Y-yeah,” he says. I don’t blame him.
“You don’t have to,” I say. “But what if it’s… you know… the answer.”
Cobra is still reaching out to him. People in front of us start glancing over their shoulders and making way for us. Suddenly, because we have the attention of Cobra Katjee, we’re kids again to them. I feel hands on my arms and my back, guiding us forward. Everyone’s screaming. Shiv is on the other side of the stage, rapping the next line, my favorite.
“12.5 percent of the US population makes up 62 percent of US incarcerations.”
It’s true.
And with stats like that, one has to believe either that Black people are more prone to crime, or we’re being targeted unfairly.
We reach the front of the stage, and Isaiah’s whole body has tensed. Cobra looks so much older than twenty-seven up close. There are creases at the sides of his eyes and lines in his forehead. If I met him at a cookout, I’d default to “Uncle Katjee” before “Cousin Katjee.” But his eyes are kind, and his smile is warm and sure. He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “We’ll take care of him.”
We’ll take care of him.
I realize the full weight of what that means. Isaiah and I came here looking for a near-death experience, and once I let Isaiah go up there onstage, he’ll be so far away from me. At least a dozen feet. I won’t be able to protect him.
I’ll be helpless again.
Unless.
My heart starts to race as I realize what I have to do. I think back to our grandparents. To Buddy Lyons. To Ursa and Kando and Takaa, and I remember the thing that connected us all—fear. Deep, paralyzing fear that runs all the way through every man in every generation of our family. And I think of my dad’s hands gripping the steering wheel as he drove headlong into what he thought was the cure. It was brave, what he did. But it wasn’t what scared him most.
And as I stand here looking up at Cobra Katjee’s outstretched hand, I realize I’m doing the same thing.
Being at this concert with Mrs. Gomez’s money makes me feel uneasy.
Letting go of Isaiah makes me feel helpless.
But there’s only one thing that absolutely terrifies me right now.
I take a deep breath, plant my feet firmly on the ground beneath me, and prepare to do what I should’ve done when I first saw the vision of him lying at the bottom of that hole in the ground. What I should’ve done in the graveyard yesterday when we decided to go looking for trouble in the hope of kicking this curse. I look at Isaiah’s leg, hanging over my right shoulder, and I wrap my fingers gently around his ankle. And this time, I don’t let go.
The vision begins, sending my heart rate into the stratosphere.
I’m sucked into a whirlwind of light. Isaiah is standing on the stage between Cobra and Leviathan, with Shiv crouching a bit to talk to him. Isaiah is looking Shiv Skeptic right in the eyes, only feet away from him, and I know I have to let him go. This is what we came for. This has made it all worth it—sneaking out, taking the money back from Maria, even my fight with Talia.
It’s time Isaiah and I did what’s best for us. I watch the joy on Isaiah’s face, his mouth open in a huge smile. But it sinks. His eyes go wide.
Everything goes red.
Isaiah kicks his leg away from my hand, snapping me back to the present. His hands are on my forehead, and I can hear him whisper, “Alex… I’m scared.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper up to him. There are tears welling in my eyes as I step forward. “It’s okay to be scared, Isaiah.”
“I… can’t do it by myself.”
“You’re not by yourself,” I say, knowing it’s about to happen. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
I close my eyes and think of Shaun.
“I’m right here, okay? I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a long pause where Isaiah goes quiet, and then I feel something that surprises me beyond anything I could’ve expected out of today. I feel a tiny, soft kiss on my forehead, right at my hairline.
“I’m right here too, okay?” he says.
I nod and kiss his knee, since it’s right next to me.
“We’ve got each other. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, stepping forward. He extends his arms out to Katjee, who’s still patiently reaching for him. “Ready?”
Katjee’s smile grows wider as he says again, “We’ll take care of him.”
I believe him. I have to. And before I let Isaiah go, I yell up to him, “Knock ’em dead, Izzy!”
Cobra locks his arms around Isaiah’s and pulls him up onstage like his hundred-pound body is nothing. A literal weight is off my shoulders. He looks so small up there, a tiny copy of Cobra wearing a red version of his sweatshirt. The whole place erupts in cheers, those glittering cell-phone flashes lighting up the arena for him. If I wanted to make this the night of his life, I’ve done it. I hope that wherever Talia is in the audience, she sees Isaiah now, living his dream of being Izzy Rufus on stage before a crowd of hundreds of thousands. And I hope, after it happens—whatever it is—that she understands why this was so important.
I slip my hands into my jacket pockets and brace for the vision of my jacket, but…
Nothing.
Nothing happens.
“What?” I ask out loud. Holy shit, wait, is it gone? Can… can it really be… gone? Just like that? I pat my chest, expecting a vision of my jacket. Nothing. I touch my jeans. Nothing. I kick my leg up and touch my shoe. Nothing.
Nothing.
Just here. Just now. Just this place, and the lights, and the music, and Isaiah walking to the middle of the stage with Cobra Katjee on his arm. He squints against all the lights, raising an arm to shield his eyes. And then he finds me, and I stare up at him, hope flaring in my body like a fever. And I hope, or pray, with every fiber of me that Isaiah’s power is gone too. I raise my eyebrows at him to ask.
Well?
He stares at me for a moment—in disbelief—his mouth hanging slightly open, eyes wide. And then his lips curve into a smile, and he nods and steps in place like a giddy six-year-old on Christmas morning.
Yes!
We’ve done it!
I’ve never cried from joy, or relief, or the slurry of emotions I’m feeling right now, but my vision is blurry, and I choke back a sob that gets drowned out by the hollering around me.
We’ve got each other. No matter what.
I nod up at Isaiah proudly in return and hope that maybe whatever thing Eli was trying to warn us about will just… not happen. That maybe since we’re rid of this curse, the orishas will skip out on the danger part of tonight. That maybe we’ll both get to go home, and maybe my vision about Isaiah will be wrong.
Shiv turns from his spot on the other side of the stage and holds up his arm. The music shuts off as if someone zipped it up into a soundproof bag. I’m so close, I can hear his shoes as he crosses the stage. He towers over Isaiah, who takes a step back from him, probably overwhelmed at the sight of him.
Shiv is a huge dude.
But he bends in front of Isaiah, drapes a big sweaty arm around his shoulders, and asks in the kindest voice, “What’s your name, li’l red?”
He hands Isaiah the mic.
“Isaiah,” he says sheepishly. His voice is shaking, and my heart is pounding. Come on, Izzy, make it count. He’s probably so scared up there.
“Isaiah, everyone!” hollers Shiv to the whole place. More screams and cheering. A voice rings out in my ear next to me.
“Nigga, that’s your brother?” it asks. The voice belongs to a slender Black woman standing to my left, who’s my height, with hoop earrings the size of my hands and eyelashes as long as my pinky finger. I nod at her.
“He’s lucky,” she says.
“He’s adorable!” cries an overly spray-tanned lady to my left, who has her arm on my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say.
What the hell else do I say? I look up at my little brother, at the boy hundreds of thousands of people are watching in adoration, who just a few minutes beforehand was being hissed at because we needed to get back to our spots just a few feet behind where I am right now. Now they love him.
I still can’t believe I’m really watching Shiv talking to my brother, and then I remember I should probably be getting this on video. I pull out my phone, vision-free, and unlock it. Another series of texts from Aunt Mackie.
MACKAYLA KAPLAN: Alex Matthew, I need to know where you and Isaiah are right now. You know to be home by the time the streetlights come on.
MACKAYLA KAPLAN: Talia’s not answering her phone either. Are you all together? Are you okay? Please text me back.
MACKAYLA KAPLAN: Alex, call me back right now or I’m filing a missing persons report.
What the fuck?
That’ll get the cops involved. They’ll send out Amber Alerts and whatever else, and the cops, plus Isaiah and me, tonight especially, could spell disaster. I’ve seen too much shit on the news. Too many hashtags. I already know how that story often ends, and of all the ways for Isaiah to go out, I refuse to let it be that.
I text her back.
Me: We’re fine, Aunt Mackie. I’ll explain everything when we get home. Promise.
I hurry and send it and open my camera. I hit record just as Shiv turns back to Isaiah and says, “You know The Rush?” he asks.
Isaiah nods.
“S’far as I’m concerned, that makes you a Dragon, Isaiah.”
The whole arena roars to life again. Holy shit, this is beyond what I could’ve dreamed up for him. Just going to this concert was enough. Hearing songs from The Rush live was enough. Getting Isaiah on stage was more than enough. Getting rid of these visions was beyond more than enough. Getting him initiated as an honorary Dragon? One of the greats?? Hell. To. The. Yeah.
“Now, I’ll ask you again, li’l Dragon,” says Shiv, leaning over before him again. “What’s your name?”
Isaiah’s eyes flicker as he looks out at all the eyes staring back at him, and he takes the mic in his hand and says with newfound fire in him, “Whaddup, y’all. Izzy Red is in the house! The Red Dragon! Haaaaa!”
His haaaaa comes out like a baby lion cub on stage with three kings of the jungle and a mighty queen. Nyein has been standing calmly on the other side of the stage, and she claps along with the rest of this place, watching Isaiah like a proud big sister, even though she’s just met him. Her eyes are warm, and she nods her approval at the name.
“That’s dope, li’l man,” says Shiv. “A’ight, Izzy Red, the Red Dragon, as an honorary Dragon, you’ll need some official gear.” He nods Cobra Katjee and Leviathan over. Leviathan unclamps his silver wrist shackles, which he wears to remind him where he came from, and leans down in front of Isaiah, smiling at him as he holds them out. Isaiah rolls up his huge red sleeves to reveal his chicken-wing arms, accepting the cuffs with the biggest smile before throwing his arms around Leviathan’s enormous neck. I laugh and smile along with everyone else in this place, intermixed with a collective awwwww that fades into applause. Leviathan stands and picks up little Isaiah like he’s nothing, twirling around with him before setting him back down on the stage floor. Isaiah wipes off the side of his face all casual, but I laugh, realizing Leviathan must be sweaty as hell up there.
Cobra comes forward next, ceremoniously sliding both his hands under his enormous cobra hood and pulling it back, revealing his short black hair, untying his bandanna from around his head, and offering them out to Isaiah. Cobra ties it securely around Isaiah’s forehead, that silver dragon glyph glittering proudly between his eyes. His grin is huge, and so is mine.
