Her words ring with a different kind of importance, and Akilah freezes. She freezes before she sees the spiders—the ones under the couch and from the kitchen and down the hall and over the television. She can’t move even before she sees the spiders moving to form a circle around Auntie, or the couch and folding chair and drapes sharing the same spiderweb glimmer.
Akilah does not turn to look at the walls behind her.
“In the old days,” Auntie says, “I would have been petty. So many young upstarts who think that talent and attitude and rudeness all go hand in hand. Who don’t think about why they want to rush things. I would have said to hell with it—if weaving and braiding is so important to you, you can do it for the rest of your days.” The webbing stops reflecting light and begins to glow. It’s a blessing that Akilah is frozen in place, because otherwise she might collapse to her knees. “But I’ve grown a little wiser in my old age. And there’s better ways for me to deal with youth. You always have a reason for your behavior.” She unfolds her hands. “So instead, I just teach you about yourself.”
Something brushes against Akilah’s side and she screams.
“Auntie!” The body that touches her is Jayleen’s. Akilah’s never seen them as pissed off as they are now. For a second, Akilah can only see Jayleen, their strident, protective anger, the way they position themselves between the two women.
Jayleen’s voice breaks the spell still over Akilah, and she can feel her legs again. She looks past them, back at Auntie. The spiders are gone. The glowing web is relegated again to normalcy in the window. Akilah shudders, and Jayleen puts an arm around her side, pulling her in. Jayleen’s hands banish the crawling feeling that lingers.
“Jayleen.” Auntie doesn’t match Jayleen’s volume, but echoes the angry beats, reminding them they’re talking to their elder.
Jayleen lowers their voice, but the emotion is still there. Does Jayleen know what Akilah saw? “That wasn’t fair.”
“Fair?” Auntie repeats. “She came into my house with that attitude and wanted to see what I do.”
“That’s not what you do anymore.”
“Isn’t it?”
Jayleen lets out an exasperated noise, shaking their head as they turn back to Akilah. “I’m sorry, Lala.”
Akilah’s voice shakes. “You didn’t . . .” She pauses and clears her throat. “You didn’t do this to me. You don’t owe me an apology.” She glances over at Auntie. “What you did”—Akilah gestures—“was messed up, I don’t care what kind of witch or whatever you are—” She catches herself and takes a breath. “You’re not the only one who should apologize to me.” She deserves better than Jamal and Tiana, who cared more about her wallet than her peace of mind.
She thinks about Sonia’s braids and the rush jobs. Of pushing Derek out of her chair so someone else could take his place. How many times she’d done that just to keep her brother and friends smiling back at her.
Jayleen reaches up and touches Akilah’s unfinished cornrows. Akilah braces for a tug, a jerk backward into memory, but instead there’s just the warmth of Jayleen’s fingers. It’s the gentle relief of Jayleen scratching between her parts without messing up what’s already been done. And with that comes a slow blossoming of past senses: the warmth spreads first, and then touch, sound, and then Akilah gently settles into her past.
Akilah is on the couch and a bad rom-com plays on the screen. On the floor, Jayleen leans their head back into Akilah’s lap as they look up at her. It’s a week ago, Akilah knows, a rare moment between hustles. She’s not shocked by this moment, not confused by being suddenly thrust into it. Instead, the room slowly warms, pleasantly snug, as Jayleen reaches up and plays with Akilah’s hands. Massages her hands because Akilah did four heads of hair today, and she’s so ready for a nap.
But . . . “I could just sit here and massage your head, you know?”
“Oh yeah?” Jayleen teases. “And how much for that?” Akilah swats the side of Jayleen’s head. “Ow! Come on, I’m playing with you—but you don’t gotta do that. You need to rest.”
Akilah shakes her head. “I’m not gonna charge you. And you sure you’re good? Because I can get us some food.” Jayleen shakes their head, and that’s the first moment of confusion Akilah feels. It’s an alien reaction, and she runs through the list of other options. “Or you said you wanted to go to the movies. We could—”
“We can just chill,” Jayleen says, and no one says the word chill like Jayleen. No one who talks to Akilah, anyway. “You don’t gotta pay for food, or the movies, or nothing. You can get to snoring, for all I care.” Akilah swats them again, and Jayleen laughs. “I mean it. I’m good. You’re good.”
“You good now?” Jayleen asks. Akilah doesn’t know how to answer that, but nods nonetheless. Jayleen’s hands feel cool, the way Akilah knows it’ll feel when the sun finishes going down.
“I look like a fool,” Akilah says, reaching up and feeling her unfinished hair. Jayleen’s hand touches hers, and she thinks about how many times Jayleen has checked in with her. Told her she didn’t have to do anything. Spend anything. Is surprised when the thought doesn’t trigger another flash, that instead it just feels good. Feels like something Akilah should have noticed a long time ago. Should get to feel with more people than just her partner.
She glances over at Auntie. “No offense, but—”
Auntie waves her off. “Like I said, girl, it isn’t about money for me. I didn’t finish your head, so you don’t owe me money.” She pulls the money from earlier out of her pocket and puts it on the end table, patting it. “Here’s your refund. I made my point.” She glances between the two teenagers. “And I can think of somebody that’ll finish that ol’ head of yours for free.”
Jayleen looks away from Akilah. That soft, kind memory hadn’t been one of Auntie’s tricks, had it? Akilah almost speaks, but her phone buzzes. Two texts from Tiana. She swallows the lump in her throat that threatens to smother how nice Jayleen’s hands felt.
“Could you, please . . . ?”
Jayleen kisses her on the forehead while pulling the phone gently out of her hands—the thing that Akilah hadn’t quite gotten the strength up to asking. “Of course.”
KISS THE SUN
By Ibi Zoboi
The sun is our unrequited love. Every day he lets us know that we are not meant to be together, staring down at us like that from afar. Untouchable. But still, lust burns bright in his eyes. We are the same, you know. He doesn’t see that. He sees our costume of deep brown and black skin, of fiery girl, of reluctant human. He thinks that is all we are—soucouyant, fireball witches—so he doesn’t want us. At dusk, when we are shielded by the waxing moon and we can finally undress out of our human skin to reveal our true selves, he has already retreated to his palace beneath the sea.