Queen Move

“Go to your room,” Mama says, her voice soft and firm and unyielding.

“Mama, I—”

“Go to your room!” she screams, tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids. “For God’s sake, can you for once just do what you’re told and stay out of grown folks’ business? Go to your damn room, Kimba!”

Mama never curses at me. I fight back my own tears and run up the steps. Their argument resumes downstairs, but muted, deliberately low-voiced and hiding. I run to their room and grab the phone on their bedside table. I could dial Ezra’s number in my sleep. My fingers fly over the keypad without any thought, but the line is busy. I try again and again, but I can’t get through. After a few minutes, I go to my room and flop onto my bed, not even bothering to wrap my hair or take off my dress.

It feels like I’ve lived a year in the span of a night. I don’t know what’s going on between our parents, but I do know what’s going on between Ezra and me. We are beginning. I kissed my best friend and things will never be the same. Whatever happens between our folks, we have each other. And we’ll always be friends.

In the morning, I wake up to sunlight pouring through my open window. My mouth is cottony, my dress is wrinkled, and I’m still wearing the shoes I thought all night were a little too tight. I kick them off, slide from the bed and find my flip flops. I don’t even bother to change, but dash down the stairs and out the front door.

I come to a halt right on my porch. Mrs. Stern stands in their driveway loading suitcases into the trunk of their car. Ezra is tossing a duffle bag into the back seat when he sees me. He stops, glances at his mother and crosses the yard to meet me. My heart see-saws, happy to see him and scared to see him go.

“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says firmly. “We need to go.”

He throws her an angry look, ignores her and comes up onto the porch. “Hey,” he says, his voice subdued.

“Hey.” I lick my lips and ask the obvious question. “W-w-where are you g-g-going?”

The harshness leaves his face and he reaches for my hand. “To New York.”

“New York?” I ask, my chest tightening. “But camp’s not for another t-t-two weeks.”

Each summer, Ezra goes to Jewish summer camp near his bubbe. Even though she passed away, he was still planning to go this year.

“We’re going early.” A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Mama says we need to get away. My father’s not coming with us.”

“Why can’t you stay here?” I ask, my voice plaintive, almost begging.

Ezra shrugs, a frown collapsing between his brows again. “They won’t let me.”

“But y-y-you’ll be back, right?” I bite my tongue until tears prick my eyes. I hate how my words won’t come out when I need them most—when it’s most important.

“I’ll be back.” He glances around. His mother walks into their house, but leaves the car running. No one is out, not even Mrs. Washington. The neighborhood allows us a rare slice of privacy.

Ezra touches his forehead to mine and cups my neck.

The tears overflow, sliding down my cheeks and salting the corners of my mouth. I’m losing something. I’m losing him. I know it. Even though he says he’ll be back. I just know…

“Don’t go.” It’s a wet whisper that I can’t hold back. “Ezra, I have a bad feeling. Like I won’t ever see you again.”

Even saying it, the words corkscrew right through my heart.

“It’s only for the summer,” he says, pulling back and lifting my chin, giving me a smile I know is forced. “I’ll be back before school starts. You think I’d miss our freshman year in high school?”

I hesitate, but shake my head. “Ezra, kiss me.”

He searches my face for a second, looks around, up the street that’s never this quiet, this empty on a Saturday morning, and leans forward to press our lips together, slipping his tongue into my mouth. We’re still tentative, barely sure we’re doing it right, our lips and tongues clinging and wet and sweet. I thought it might have been the music or the decorations, the dance or the moment that made last night’s kiss magical, but it’s none of those things.

It’s us.

That magic is still there when the only music is the distant buzz of someone cutting their lawn one street over. Still there when the mood lighting is nothing more than sunshine.

“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says.

W

e break our kiss and look up. She’s at the car, elbows leaned on the roof on the driver’s side. Her gaze flicks between us, her eyes sad and red-rimmed. “We have to go now, son.”