Slay: Chapters 12–17

I take a deep breath and begin checking out our system security, moving down my checklist to my list of the Ten Immutable Laws of Security Administration.

I find a quiet spot on a concrete bench by a wall with a trellis of roses leaning against it, out of the way of anyone who might have nothing better to do than hang out in the western garden on a Monday.

My scholarship covers only room and board, and meager food. I have exactly thirty-seven euros in my bank account.

In his mind, I was never supposed to learn computer science beyond how to refresh a browser, because it’s “too dangerous.” Too dangerous for him, maybe. Too dangerous if you dabble in layers of the Internet no one should dabble in.

Too dangerous if you blame the Internet for the consequences of your actions instead of your own hubris.

If I could show her what Emerald and I have built together, and the hundreds of thousands of people who log in every day to watch us, she’d be exponentially prouder.

I think Malcolm wants equality for all people—Black and white—but he thinks Black people are owed more to make up for what’s been done to us, like affirmative action and reparations. I don't know how I feel about reparations.

It occurs to me that I’ve thought of Cicada as a kindred goddess and fellow developer all this time, but never as a sister.

I laugh, basking in the satisfaction.

The Swamp trees—the roots that protrude from the water—are actually duplicates of a commissioned piece from the same artist. They were forty dollars—Claire’s forty dollars.

Cicada’s voice has begun to falter, and I have to tell myself not to cry.

Even now, he’s probably oblivious to the fact that he is the tomfoolery.

Even now, he’s probably oblivious to the fact that he is the tomfoolery.

The Black Love card is so named for its ability to mesmerize and daze your opponent, because love, marriage, and romance in the Black community are ultimately symbols of intangible strength.

The Black Jesus card was a ludicrous invention of Cicada’s one day when she was feeling especially mad scientist. It’s literally an amalgamation of everything epic she could think of mashed into one big ball of godlike awesomeness—or horror, from my perspective.

The Black Jesus card was a ludicrous invention of Cicada’s one day when she was feeling especially mad scientist. It’s literally an amalgamation of everything epic she could think of mashed into one big ball of godlike awesomeness—or horror, from my perspective.

One of the lasers hits me and pink sparks explode across my screen, blinding me. I shriek, startled as Emerald goes careening backward, landing on her back with her green gown flying up over the screen in a green haze.

One Emerald is hit square in the head and lands in a heap on the floor, and I decide to change up my strategy, lifting my hand, pulling a mountain of mashed potatoes from the ground underneath me and pushing it across the ring while I swing my arms as fast and hard as I can, showering Dred and his undead horde in a torrent of french fries.

I hate to be so cut-and-dried about it, but it’s a foolhardy thing to do. Cicada thinks with her emotions a little too much sometimes, and in this case, it might actually get us thrown in jail.

The thing Dred doesn't know about the word “unbothered” is that although the literal definition is “showing or feeling a lack of concern about or interest in something,” it has another implication that Cicada—Claire—brought up while we were sitting in our respective rooms, chatting across the world well past both of our bedtimes.

Wouldn’t it also have an adverse effect on the person dealing blows?

I reach up with my good arm to make sure the back of my head doesn't look like a pancake from sitting against the sofa, but even that motion aggravates my bad arm.

My arm is broken. To be technical, my clavicle is broken, so we were both wrong, but whatever. I don’t get a cast.

“You really haven’t talked to Harper about this, have you? She said her parents won’t let Wyatt sue over something so arbitrary, and since he’s still a minor, he legally can’t on his own.”

He’s taken everything I’ve worked for—nullified all the effort I’ve put into keeping my identity a secret.

According to Malcolm, if Black people are to progress, we need absolute focus, relentless drive, and undying ambition, and that looks like something very specific to him.

The horizon is melting into a warm brown, hinting at the impending orange glow of sunrise, and we drive past Jefferson, where there’s not a car in the parking lot.

If Derek and Jan really want “the Black opinion” on something, they’re going to have to interview all one and a half million SLAYers—up a whole million in the last six weeks—one by one to get an aggregate answer.

“Wow, look at that, Charles!” cries Mom. I don’t think she’ll ever get over the novelty of watching Emerald and Hyacinth mimic on-screen what Steph and I are doing in real life.

“Is that the Fufu card? What even is fufu?”
I bring my hands down hard and flatten Hyacinth with the dough. My points on the Megaboard jump from 1800 to 2300, and the whole arena goes wild with cheers and whoops and hollers.
“It’s a staple food in so many African countries! How have you never heard of it?”

“It’s made of cassava and green plantain flour.”

The same Spade who gave me the mantra I’ve been putting on my cover photos and screensavers and even my phone background for the last couple of months? The You are a queen, and this is your game guy?

She pulls me close, into another hug, and I smell that coconut oil wafting from her hair as she says, “You be whoever you are. Be whoever you are as a strong, beautiful, Black woman, and I’ll be right here. Always. I love you. We love you.”

A card would never fade. It would never get old, and it would pop up every once in a while and remind everyone in the arena of the tragedy that befell one of our own.

Malcolm was about that respectability politics—that BS about some Black people being worthier of respect than others based on education, occupation, or intellectualism. I say it’s Black elitism.