Elkwood Academy, page 1
Elkwood Academy
Fike Daodu
Published by Fike Daodu, 2023.
Copyright © Fike Daodu, 2021
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First paperback edition May 2021
table of contents
prologue
black speck
cafeteria things
to kill self respect
not a rebel
raceless crime
racist-dar
lunch with the girls
the word
laura johnson
deal’s over
the whole history debate
the melting pot
campaign week
when nat visits
had it coming
born to sing the blues
the plan
white bros™ headquarters
brett gets exposed
elkwood has an issue
protests at elkwood
election day
little changes
the cookout
prologue
a story
for every “we don’t want you here”
for that child
who called me black
like it was
a dirty word.
rolling off his young tongue like venom.
as if my blackness would fall off my body like
specks of dust,
falling into the wind
and drifting away
for the boys
who walked past me in the halls
and muttered it
loud enough for my insides to be
torn apart
for feeling invisible
although i e x i s t.
for brushing me under the rug,
setting the rug on fire
and turning a blind eye to my presence
when i exist
and when
all i’ve ever wanted was to be seen
but now i burn
and they sniff my ashes
while pretending they had never set me on fire
in the first place.
black speck
Okay, so remember that school you used to go to?
You know, that nice one. Modern looking, maybe a smidge traditional. Relatively large, spacious classrooms, nice uniforms and a strict dress code. Yeah, that’s the one; pretty Christian, pretty private, pretty white. And in all honesty, that last fact in itself isn’t the problem.
No, the problem is the fact that you’re in this sea of white, and you’re the one black speck.
On top of that, the one thing that I’m sure might resonate oh-so-deeply with you is that moment when the teacher would decide to talk about racism or slavery.
And every single eye would be on you.
That’s me right now. And when I say “every single eye,” I mean every single eye: from the kids who could normally give less than a crap about history class, to the other top tier nerds in front who barely interact with me if they can help it.
They’re not even subtle about it, and pale eyes are burning into my skin, which is practically on fire, by the way.
Meanwhile, we have Ms. Wilson in front, short, dirty blond hair tucked precariously behind her ear, as she goes on about the Atlantic slave trade, and how my ancestors were whipped and tortured and abused.
Fun.
Her eyes flicker to me for almost a tenth of a second before they go back to blatantly avoiding me.
I hear a sound from behind me, a scoff or snicker of some kind. I’m thinking some strange mix of the two.
My eyes drift in the direction the sound came from as subtly as they can.
Messy hair, a consistently arrogant grin stretched onto his lips, his entire aura dripping in pure future fratboy.
Brett. Brett McSomething. McKelly? McClain? I’ll never remember.
He’s positioned with his eyes on the teacher, a pencil lazily positioned between his thumb and forefinger, and the shadow of a smirk on his lips. Move up a bit and you’ll see his pale blue eyes and brushed brown hair that he’s certain makes him the most attractive being in the space.
Brett is the one your parents should’ve warned you about: a never-dropping cold expression, a cool demeanor that commands the universe, a scathing glance that drags all attention to him in seconds. When the universe fears you, you’re indomitable.
With Brett, there’s no semblance of calm, no thoughtfulness, no understanding of the fact that he isn’t the sun, or that the rest of us don’t in fact orbit around him like serf-esque planets.
However, it’s far too early and I haven’t had any coffee, so I don’t dwell on the thought.
Instead, I will my gaze back to the front to Ms. Wilson who is emphatically talking about how everyone was negatively impacted by the slave trade, or how it gave descendents of slaves better opportunities than their African counterparts, or something equally as scary and staggeringly inaccurate.
Even so, I’m planning on saying exactly nothing.
After all, that’s my role in the school. The black girl that does not utter a word unless mandatory. Someone who stays quiet through every untruth told during history class; an aid to help the majority feel comfortable.
As a “minority”, in this country and in this class, I’m the one student whose ancestors actually lived through the hell that Ms. Wilson is trying so hard to downplay.
Minority. Strange how the word slips from people’s lips in such an othering way.
As in, one of those things is not like the other.
Brett raises a hand as Ms. Wilson is speaking and I internally exhale an exhausted gust of air.
“Yes, Brett?” she asks, dropping whatever she was saying to let him speak.
My mind flickers back to the few times that I’ve raised my hand in this class, Ms. Wilson’s response usually being a “hold your thought, Amina, I’ll get back to you in a minute.”
She’s never actually gotten back to me, but I digress.
“I’m wondering why all this focus on black slavery is necessary,” he starts, and other students physically recoil at the dreaded word, and the unapologetic audacity he possesses to ask that bold a question smack in the middle of class, “seeing as tons of other races were enslaved.” He finishes it with a glance in my direction as though he’s waiting for me to say something.
I say nothing.
“That’s a good question, Brett,” Ms. Wilson lies through her teeth. Although, maybe she genuinely believes it. I’m not sure which is worse. “It’s because as good citizens and students, it’s important to look back on history and understand the mistakes that have been made in order to improve.” She nods emphatically, grey eyes wide and passionate.
My mind tosses that thought over in my mind; whether slavery should be classified as a ‘mistake’. After all, the word ‘mistake’ is for when you drop a fruit in the grocery aisle. A mistake is when someone jostles another person at the airport. A mistake is when you forget your math homework at home the day it’s due.
Capturing and enslaving an entire race for over four centuries? I trill my lips. Not sure if mistake is the word she’s looking for.
That being said, I’m sure the answer is supposed to satisfy Brett, but he’s not done. “Interesting point, Ms. Wilson,” he nods, speaking in the charismatic way he always has, “but I feel like it’s become a bit of a crutch for the black community and is starting to do more harm than good.”
A blonde girl to my left makes a small gasp at the somewhat alienating label of “the black community” and my eyebrows fly upwards at the word “crutch”.
There’s some value in talking about how you snatched people from their land, shipped them halfway across the world, tortured, abused and assaulted them, hung them, set them on fire, and benefited off their enslavement for centuries. I bring my bottom lip beneath my teeth. History can’t be erased. Brett knows this.
Of course, I’m better off not voicing that statement.
Ms. Wilson visibly fumbles for words and Brett raises an arrogant eyebrow, waiting for the lady to formulate a coherent sentence. “I don’t know if that’s particularly appropriate, Brett.” Her eyes dart to me, “I think it’s still important to talk about since it’s quite a significant part of global history and... ” she chuckles nervously, “this is history class, after all.”
Her words are feathers, barely grazing the surface.
There's more to the Triangle Trade that separates it from other types of enslavement.
That’s what I want to say.
No other slavery was based on race. That’s what I would add. After all, if there’s anything I’ve learned from Debate with Mr. Pham, context in an argument is everything.
I tilt my head to the side.
If I had a voice, I would tell the class that the belief that people were inferior due to their race was what gave slave owners the liberty to do whatever the hell they wanted to their slaves.
Shaking my head, I click my pen. Once, twice.
If I had a voice, I would st
Also happened to be the first and only large-scale slavery operation that history had ever seen.
Tilting my head to the side, I hold my pen to my bottom lip in thought.
Comparison, analysis. Always emphasized in an argument.
Whoever was the descendant of a Roman slave some two thousand years ago? Not exactly distinguishable from a descendant of a Roman emperor in this day and age.
Ergo, they can’t be treated differently.
In another world, I would’ve told Brett that Roman slaves were literate, were allowed to read, had slaves of their own. Meanwhile, black slaves were lynched or tied to train tracks for even attempting to read.
I exhale a silent laugh. There’s a reason that the word ‘slavery’ is associated with the Atlantic slave trade. My lips quirk upwards. It was one of a kind.
However, in this world, I don’t utter a word to Brett. This world is far too big for me to fit into. In this world, I’m miniscule and silent and non-existent, and my words are not meant to rise to the atmosphere.
“Well, I think—” Brett starts, ready to continue grilling Ms. Wilson, but the bell rings, saving us from the rest of the painfully uncomfortable conversation.
Practically jumping to my feet, I shuffle my supplies, more than ready to be done with that conversation, and the other teenagers around me seem just as eager to head out.
Eyes flicker about uncomfortably, eyes that were not-so-subtly burning into my skin moments ago.
“We’ll continue this discussion next class,” Ms. Wilson forces a pretentious smile onto her lips and Brett rolls his eyes once her gaze is off him.
I tuck my stuff into my backpack as Ms. Wilson lets us know about the homework for today, and I’m out the door a few moments later, behind the swarm of kids that are leaving the classroom.
I raise a hand to the side of my face. Still burning hot. Then I’m shaking my head, heading over to my locker and making sure to avoid brushing past anyone.
I’ve always seen history class as a living, walking nightmare. Stu-Co elections are fast arriving and all competition is hashed out in classrooms.
That being said, Brett McWhatever doesn’t necessarily have competition. Not anywhere else, and certainly not in the classroom.
A feathery grin curves onto my lips.
Typical.
cafeteria things
I’ve always seen the hallways as a warzone.
Essentially, a war zone consisting of manicured teens all decked out in vests, blazers and a kilt or pants.
My primary objective is getting through the hallway alive.
The statement might be a slight exaggeration, but in all honesty, there are a multitude of peers willing to trample me if I give them the opportunity to.
So, I spend all my time dodging past anyone and everyone who comes my way. I clutch my books to my chest, speed walking through the hallway, but making sure to weave past everyone like I usually do.
I mean, it’s better than being shoved to the ground, so there’s that.
Here’s the deal with Elkwood Preparatory Academy; if I’m walking through the hallway and I’m walking directly opposite of someone, there’s a 99% chance they’re going to shove past me, or wait expectantly for me to get out of their way.
And yes, the whole shoving thing gets old really quickly. Especially because after they run into me, they push past me, sending me a glare, as if I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was going before we crashed into each other.
Elkwood teens just have that attitude, you know? Some of them just scrunch up their noses like I’m the most insignificant thing in the world, others just blatantly ignore me, shoving me to the side and not looking back for a second.
What can I say? The handbook guidelines of respect for each and every student have been practiced and executed extremely well.
A sardonic smile slips onto my lips as I dodge one of the girls hurtling down the hallway with her best friends, chatting loudly about what went down last weekend.
I have to shove everything into my locker before heading towards the next warzone: the cafeteria.
I make my way to my locker in one piece, and start to unlatch the lock.
The cafeteria is a warzone that puts everything else to shame. Now, I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s as life-threatening as the hallways, because those are a whole other type of chaotic.
My locker unlocks, and I shove my backpack and supplies inside, grabbing my card and locking it up again.
However, I would say that the cafeteria is a different type of life-threatening. It’s the type of life-threatening that messes around with your mind, more so than your physical safety.
I head down the hallways that are almost cleared out by now, swinging the lunch card in my hands. I inhale deeply once I get to the entrance of the cafeteria before letting out a breath and making my way into the chaotic space.
The noise is out of control, but the most disturbing aspect of the entire situation are the eyes that follow your every step.
If it wasn’t clear before, I’m not exactly the most popular being at the school. Elkwood sees me as an outsider, so I easily slide into the role of an outcast. The role consists of going to the furthest table in the cafeteria, and sitting alone at said table after grabbing my cafeteria lunch, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. Safest route to go.
More often than not, it seems like the school has an anti-Amina policy that’s something privy to only the students (and some faculty, but I digress). I’m almost one hundred percent sure that the staff isn’t as oblivious to the whole issue as they like to appear.
I make my way into the lunch line, hands clasped, feet tapping on the tiled floor beneath me. I think the lunch line is problematic for various reasons.
The White Bros™
Card Guy
The girls and the way they talk to the lunch ladies
Let’s start with number 1. The White Bros™ are people you’ve probably interacted with once in your life. They’re essentially the guys that are decent in relation to sports, but not the greatest when it comes to grades. They’re future frat boys, and you can tell by the fact that they don’t have any self control whatsoever.
Exhibit A: Tyler Thompson. He’s ridiculously tall, standing at a solid 5’ 11’’ despite the fact that we’re just getting into sophomore year. Right now, he’s kicking the shins of his friends who are all loitering nearby, harassing each other and being their usual rowdy selves.
The White Bros™ are also the same guys who let each other cut the line, despite the fact that there are people behind them that want to get lunch just as quickly as they do. In a final word, they’re future frat boys, “all american boys”, and every interaction they have with me tends to drip in condescension and the attitude that no matter what they say, they’re inherently right.
Number 2. Card Guy; the guy who swipes our lunch cards. Not going to lie, he strongly resembles a stoner, what with his black beanie, pale skin, shoulder length red hair, and the abundance of piercings and tattoos covering his lanky, hunched-over body.
In all honesty, Card Guy is fairly creepy and the rumours circling him reflect that notion. His eyes are also always puffed up and slightly bloodshot, and I’ve never actually seen his eyes without that sinister look to them.
In simple terms, he’s somewhat sketchy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been arrested before. But only long enough for him to be bailed out and rehired as cashier, staring down students with that not-fully-here expression.
Finally, number 3. The girls are visually appealing. Every billboard I pass by seems to support that notion. They’re also all similar-looking with slender bodies, tall stances, and heart shaped faces. So, they’re imposing in a way, and they use that to their advantage.
While ordering lunch, the Cassandras, Lindseys and Allisons are more than slightly irritating whenever they interact with the lunch ladies.
They’re somewhat condescending, from the way that they barely utter a word to them unless they’re saying “more” or “less” to the patronizing smiles they dish out on a daily basis. Now, it’s not all of the girls, but it’s a good amount of them. It’s also extremely uncomfortable for me whenever they grab their trays and walk away without the simple courtesy of a “thank you.”
