“What?” Vancouver is just across the Columbia River. It’s practically in my backyard—just a fifteen-minute drive from my house. Most of the black people I know who live there used to live in Portland. “What’s her name?” I ask.
E.J. looks at his phone, scrolling up and down with his finger. “Natasha Ramsey,” he says. “She’s fifteen.” He turns the phone to me so I can see the photo.
I don’t recognize her name or face, but still, she looks familiar. Like a girl I would be friends with. “What . . . what happened?”
“The police beat her bad. She’s in critical condition.” E.J. reads the article, calling out details as he reads. “The police were called to a house party because neighbors complained about loud music. The cops are saying when they came to break up the party, she was insubordinate.” He reads for a few moments, than tells me, “They are saying they didn’t use excessive force. But this girl has fractured ribs and a broken jaw!” E.J. shakes his head and puts down the phone. “We probably wouldn’t even know about this except people had their phones out, recording.”
“I feel like we should say a prayer or something.”
“Why?”
“For Natasha Ramsey. For her family.”
“And what is prayer going to do?” E.J. asks. “Prayer ain’t nothing but the poor man’s drug.”
“What?”
“Poor people are the ones who pray. People who don’t have what they need, who can’t pay their rent, who can’t buy healthy food, who can’t save any of their paycheck because every dollar is already accounted for. Those are the people who pray. They pray for miracles, they pray for signs, they pray for good health. Rich people don’t do that,” he tells me. “Plus, God isn’t the one we need to be talking to. We need to talk to the chief of police, the mayor, and the governor. They’re the ones with the power to make change.”
I stare at the picture, can’t stop looking at her face, at how she looks like someone who lives in my neighborhood. Maybe she used to? I see the time at the top of the screen. “I’m going to be late!” I yell. I’ve definitely missed the bus.
I rush to the door, but before I leave, E.J. stops me. “Be careful today, Jade. For real.”
“I will.”
When I get to school, the tardy bell for first period is ringing. I go to class, and the entire time all I can think about is Natasha Ramsey. Her smiling face. The bell rings, and I go to my locker. Sam is waiting for me. “Thought maybe you were sick and weren’t coming today,” she says.
“Nope, just couldn’t get out the house on time today.” I almost ask Sam if she heard about Natasha Ramsey, but I figure since she didn’t say anything about it, she probably hasn’t. I go to my next class, saying a prayer in my head as I walk down the hall.
48
fantasma
ghost
It is lunchtime. Sam and I are in the cafeteria, standing in line to fix our burrito bowls. All day long I’ve been whispering prayers. Natasha’s name haunts me. No one speaks her name or mentions what happened. It’s as if no one in this school knows or cares that an unarmed black girl was assaulted by the police just across the river.
My stomach hurts. And all I want to do is talk to my mom and Lee Lee and Maxine. Every time something like this happens, I go to accounting for every person I know who also fits the description, who it could’ve been. Feels like such a selfish thing to do—to be thankful it isn’t someone I know. To call people just to hear their breath on the other end of the line.
“Excuse me, young lady. I’m not going to tell you again. Keep the line moving. Step up, step up.” The voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize Ms. Weber is talking to me. She is a short woman with hair to her waist. We’ve exchanged hellos every now and then but we’ve never had a conversation. “You too, Hannah,” she says to the white girl in back of me. Sam is in front of us and has already put her rice and black beans in the bowl.
“God, Ms. Weber, don’t have a heart attack about it,” Hannah says.
I turn to Hannah and say, “I know, right? Is it that serious?” I pick up my bowl and get ready to dish my rice.
Ms. Weber stands in front of me. “You have a problem, young lady?”
“My name is Jade,” I tell her.
“I didn’t ask you what your name was. I asked you if you had a problem.”
I roll my eyes. “You so worried about the line moving and now you’re holding us up,” I say. I try to pass her, but she won’t move.
“You need to adjust your attitude,” Ms. Weber says.
I walk around Ms. Weber. I put a scoop of rice and beans in my bowl.
Hannah is behind me. She laughs. “What is your problem today, Weber? PMS? Didn’t get laid last night? I mean, God, what is it?”
I laugh, and as I put my grilled chicken in the bowl, Ms. Weber says, “Okay, that’s it. Go see Mrs. Parker.”
I don’t think she’s talking to me, so I keep moving down the line. Sam is finished making her lunch and has gone to find us a seat.
“Did you hear me, young lady? Go see Mrs. Parker. Now.”
“My name is Jade, and why do I have to go see Mrs. Parker?”
“Because she’s the only one in this school who can handle you. Come with me,” she says.
She snatches my lunch out of my hands, throws it into the trash can, and escorts me out of the cafeteria. When we get to Mrs. Parker’s office, Ms. Weber says, “Shirley, I need to speak with you.” Then she turns to me and says, “You can stay here.”
I stand against the wall. Mrs. Parker doesn’t close her door, so I’m not sure what the point is of having me stand out here. I hear everything Ms. Weber is saying, every lie and exaggeration. “This girl needs to lose her attitude. I am not going to tolerate all that sass. She was so disrespectful, Shirley.”
I get up and walk toward them. “Did you tell her what you said? Did you tell her that Hannah was being disrespectful too?”
Mrs. Parker turns to me. “Jade, please wait for me. I’ll come out and hear your side too.”
“I’m not going to let her lie on me, Mrs. Parker. I didn’t do anything—”
“See what I mean?” Ms. Weber says. “Young lady, your defiant behavior can get you kicked out of this school.”