Took me forever to figure out what brings ’em on. I think I finally know. Fear, anger, and desire. Sounds simple, right? Sounds like if I know that much, I oughta be able to prevent ’em, right? I wish.
Typically, this is how it goes: the pain starts behind my eyes, then gradually moves to the base of my skull, and then… then I black out. And time passes like I’ve been in a coma, but in a coma where my body does things that my mind chooses to hide from me.
The first time it got dangerous, I was just about to turn twelve. I scratched this girl’s face so hard she bled. This is what I’ve been told. I have no memory of ever doing such a thing. I did see dried blood under my nails later on, so it must’ve happened. I came outta my daze in the church basement alone with my mother, and that’s when she informed me that puberty would mean a helluva lot more for me than the birds and the damn bees.
But it’s not a hopeless plight. When a bad headache starts, there are two ways I can prevent a blackout. 1) I can nullify it by forcing my mind to focus all of its attention on neutral images. A tomato plant. Hanging laundry. A pair of scissors. Or 2) when it’s too far gone for neutralizing, if I make myself vomit, it goes away. I hope number one works, cuz I certainly can’t do number two right now.
In the midst of my anxiety, somethin’ troubling has just occurred to me. With the Pritchards and that fallin’ tree? Not only did the headache come so fast I didn’t have time to react to it, I was conscious the entire time. I think my powers are evolving, and I can’t imagine that’s a good thing.
“Evvie? You need to sit down?” Clay asks.
I catch sight of the grill and think to myself, Grill. Charcoal. Metal. Spatula. Grill. Tryin’ like hell to go neutral. I start to feel like I’m fading and know my time is running out. I take a step backward, preparing to run, but Clay holds me steady, pulling me even closer, and I’m terrified I’m about to throw up all over him. But I get lost in those eyes of his, and something changes in me. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he squeezes me a little tighter.
And I don’t puke. I don’t black out. I’m here and present, and I feel good.
At that moment a large ball of flame erupts from the grill up into the air with a loud roar. A few people scream and holler, and then it’s gone in a blink. Everybody blames Leon cuz he was the one closest to it when it blew, and he swears he didn’t do a thing. Anne Marie throws salt over the hot coals. Bernadette informs her that baking soda is best, and they bicker about it, but there’s nothing left for them to fight over. All that remains is a shallow flame. I laugh to myself, nervously. I know I did that, and I know it could’ve been a lot worse.
“This party’s goin’ bananas,” Clay jokes.
I look up at him, and despite the chaos around us, we share our own secret laugh. My headache’s gone. I wonder if Clay has something to do with that.
Fear, anger, desire. Maybe cuz my desire has a real flesh-and-blood destination right now that makes me stronger. Wish I could ask Grammie Atti. She’d know, but she and Mama aren’t speakin’, and I don’t think she’s ever liked me much anyway. Don’t help that she’s terrifying.
“What you thinkin’?” Clay asks.
I smile at him and shake my head. “Nothin’ really. Just enjoyin’ the song.”
We start to sway at the same moment. I ignore the perspiration making our skins stick together and focus on the lyric that tells the truth: I only have eyes for him. I lean into his upper chest. Now he takes a breath, a short breath, like he can’t quite keep up with his own breathing. I feel his heart beating like a baby bird’s against my cheek. And I ain’t worried about accidental magic. I ain’t worried about a thing. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect.
3 Juneteenth
LATER IT’S JUST A FEW of us left. The sun’s been down for ages, and we sit around shootin’ the shit. Because he’s got class, Clay’s next to me, but not with his arm around me, tryna show off or nothin’. A few times he brushes my hand by “accident.” The third time he does it, we look at each other, and he raises an eyebrow. I just grin and turn my attention back to whoever’s talking at the moment. That’s about when R. J. finally takes off, which is a relief. Bless his heart, I don’t think I could’ve taken one more second of him staring at me.
Now Anne Marie’s complainin’ about her uncle. He’s always in her business, and now that he’s living in her house, he wants to act like he’s her second father. I tell her to stand her ground and not to let him intimidate her.
“Easy for you to say,” she says.
“Why?”
“Cuz nobody intimidates you,” she tells me.
“That ain’t true,” I say.
“Feels true,” she replies. I don’t know what she means. I get intimidated by people all the time. Only thing is I do my best not to show it. That’s the onliest difference between me and her.
“Well it ain’t,” I say. “I bet you good money if you let him know what’s what, he’ll quit botherin’ ya. He’s just actin’ like a big, dumb dog. Show him he’s in your territory.”
She nods but looks down at the ground. I’m probably sayin’ too much. Sometimes I do that. Besides, it’s always easy to give advice from a distance.
To change the subject, Leon starts tellin’ the cheesiest story about seein’ Wade Hampton’s ghost. We laugh. Nobody here believes him. I don’t, because I know what it is to see a ghost, and it ain’t like what’s he sayin’.
“Quit laughin’! Y’all weren’t there,” he protests.
“What was you doin’ in the General’s Woods anyway? That ain’t nowhere for us to be,” Clay says.
“That’s beside the point. Listen. I swear on my granddaddy’s grave—”
“That ain’t Christian,” Anne Marie points out.
Leon sighs in frustration. “Whatever! I swear on my own life then. Let heaven strike me dead right here if I didn’t see Wade Hampton’s ghost sittin’ on top a his horse in full Klan regalia at the top of a ol’ moss tree. You tell me how the hell he got way up there, and, more importantly, how’s Wade Hampton gonna be ridin’ his horse anywhere when he’s been dead a hundred years?”
“Sixty.”
“What you sayin’ now?”
“Wade Hampton the Third has only been dead for sixty years,” Anne Marie says. She’s always been a history wiz.
For a heartbeat all the fun and silliness desert us. It’s unsettling to think that South Carolina’s own Wade Hampton III—Confederate general and one of the KKK’s most loyal sugar daddies—died only sixty years ago. When we ain’t thinkin’ about it, somethin’ like that feels like forever ago. When we are thinkin’ about it? It was yesterday.
Not that it would matter much if he was still breathing. I’m sure he’d be pleased to know that the Klan is alive and kickin’ without his fat checks.
Leon finishes his story and promises to get proof if he sees him again. I can’t wait to see what kinda “proof” he’ll come up with.