Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America. Ibi Zoboi
the slide zooms in, quiet gasps poke the air as people realize the brown of the skin is made up of dozens of sepia-toned scenes, photographs, portraits, and strips of fabric from my sketchbooks.
This collage is all of me.
As I balloon with disbelief that I created this, that everyone is seeing my true world, I can see from where I’m sitting that Ryan crumples.
When the image shifts to the teeth digging into an unmistakable hunter-green scarf patterned with little foxes, Ryan flinches, turning slightly to me. But I don’t have time to watch her sweat over the gift she once gave me as the focus turns to a drawing of a man hugging a little girl in bobby socks and puffballs. Dad leans forward, his attention caught. He straightens his already straight tie, clearing his throat, blinking as if he isn’t seeing things correctly. Then the complete piece fills the screen again. And everyone can see how the moments of my life weave together to create this determined, certain face. Mine. Dad turns to me and I expect to see anger, but a storm is not there. His eyes are soft.
He’s about to say something when Ms. Teresi adjusts the microphone. The music goes low.
“This multilayered piece was left at my door with only a few minutes to spare, but the creator, who is obvious to some of us, still failed to sign it.” Ms. Teresi searches the crowd, and then her eyes lock on mine. “It’d be a shame if this talent remained silent. And this work couldn’t officially be considered.”
Every part of me is shaking, but I know this is the moment I’ve been trying to build my courage up to for so long. I glance at my dad, whose eyes are glued to me. I nod to him. He only blinks, seeing if I’ll fight.
I stand, legs trembling, then I hold my head high and say as loud as I possibly can, “This is my story. This is my truth.”
“We’re going to burn this joint down, my ninja! My outfit is fire.” We were in Foot Locker and DeMarcus popped his collar in the mirror. A floor mirror. The kind meant for checking your kicks, so he was leaning over real weird to do it. DeMarcus did everything weird.
The sharp, slightly toxic scent of fresh shoe rubber and insta-cleaner tinged the air. That fire outfit of his was some Old Navy jeans slashed strategically for the right percentage of exposed skinny leg meat, one shiny black patent-leather shoe, and one blinding white Air Force 1. A Drake T-shirt plus a lavender tuxedo jacket from the Salvation Army topped it off. Total swerve from the visor, polo shirt, and apron he wore daily as Chief Knot Inspector at Auntie Anne’s Pretzel’s.
The metal security grate was lowered, but not locked. Beyond it, in the main mall corridor, foot traffic was low, the only thing still open to the public being the movie theater upstairs. Typical summertime Thursday in Briarwood Mall.
We jumped when multiple somethings crashed in the back room, followed by a bass-heavy “Fuucccck!” A moment later Amir emerged balancing two shoeboxes, peering at us over the top. “Y’all just chillin’ like you ain’t hear that footwear avalanche. I could’ve died back there.”
DeMarcus said, “We would’ve gotten extra teriyaki chicken from the food court in your honor.”
Amir’s face scrunched. He scrutinized DeMarcus, aggravated. “What is that?”
“The chicken samples from the hibachi spot. We can’t drink, no pouring one out for the homey. So we drop some chicken in a trash can in honor of your untimely—”
“Naw, dude. Your outfit!” Amir spotlighted me. “You let him do that, Shawn?”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” I said.
“This Foot Locker, man. Ain’t no dressing rooms in here. He had to change in front of you.”
“Actually,” DeMarcus said, “I went behind the counter. Ducked down in uniform, popped up in swag!”
Amir set the boxes down by one of the try-on benches. “You went by my register?”
“Yeah,” said DeMarcus.
To me, Amir said, “You ain’t stop him?”
I said, “He’s not my minion.”
Amir flopped on the bench, hit us with the Disappointed Dad Sigh. “Fellas. I’m the assistant manager here. I can’t allow y’all behind the counter near the till. It endangers the company’s assets.”
This dude. “You calling us thieves?”
“I’m not gonna dwell. All’s forgiven.” He flipped the lids on both boxes, exposing glossy new shoes. “Jordans or LeBrons?”
“LeBrons,” we said simultaneously.
“Word.” He removed the Jordans from their box, kicked off his workday Reeboks, and tugged cardboard slip-ins from the new kicks.
I said, “Yo. You buying those?”
“Borrowing.” He worked his feet into them.
“That doesn’t endanger the company’s assets?”
“I need to know the product intimately if I’m to increase quarterly sales.” He produced a slim roll of clear tape from his hip pocket, tore off strips, and affixed them to the soles so as not to damage the loaner shoes. “Wanna explain your outfit?”
I gave myself a once-over. “What?”
“There’s a Care Bear on your shirt.”
“Chewbacca.” His ignorance was disgusting. “From Star Wars.”
“You and that dimensional galaxy shit.”
“Dimensions and galaxies aren’t the same—”
“Girls gonna be there, Shawn. Ole girl from Nordstrom gonna be there. She probably suspects you can’t afford nothing from her store already. You gonna roll into the spot looking like a five-year-old at Chuck E. Cheese’s? Dumb. At least DeMarcus can say he’s a musician or something. They’re allowed to wear anything.”
DeMarcus leaned into a sock display, probably checking for one long enough to double as a headband or necktie. “Leave him alone, Amir.”
I said, “How you gonna talk? You’re still wearing the Foot Locker referee shirt.”
“If this was Wall Street, I’d wear a suit. We in the mall, this is my suit.” With his shoes laced and tape applied, Amir threw his hands up, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do it.”
He powered down the store’s lights and hoisted the security gate halfway. We ducked under, emerged on the second-floor corridor. The overhead bulbs burned at approximately one thousand watts, though the walkways were nearly deserted. On busy days, shopper traffic made the place feel like standing room only, but after hours the open spaces felt as wide as an airport runway.
While Amir locked up, I leaned on the polished teak railing and toed the safety glass that kept untold toddlers and Applebee’s drunks from tumbling to their doom. From this angle, I saw the scab-red OP in the GameStop sign below, waiting for me to relight it tomorrow morning. Amir stood, the gate secured.
There we were. The Eccentric, the Sneakerhead, and me, the Nerd. Traversing nearly one million square feet of floor space like Masters of the Retail Universe!
Amir turned to me. “What’s this thing about tonight, anyway?”
“Welcome to Mall-Stars!” Mr. Beneton, a round man with orange skin resembling the finest offerings in Wilson’s Leather Shop, tugged on a braided velvet