The Twelfth Card

building in Harlem, located near Lennox Terrace on 135th Street.
    Like all city schools, Langston Hughes High hadits problems. It was continually overcrowded and underfunded and struggled desperately to get and retain good teachers—and to keep students in class as well. It suffered from low graduation rates, violence in the halls, drugs, gangs, teen pregnancy and truancy. Still, the school had produced graduates who’d gone on to become lawyers, successful businessmen and -women, doctors, scientists, writers, dancers and musicians, politicians, professors. It had winning varsity teams, dozens of scholastic societies and arts clubs.
    But for Geneva Settle, Langston Hughes High was more than these stats. It was the hub of her salvation, an island of comfort. As she saw the dirty brick walls come into view now, the fear and anxiety that had swarmed around her since the terrible incident at the museum that morning diminished considerably.
    Detective Bell parked his car and, after he’d looked around for threats, they climbed out. He nodded toward a street corner and said to that young officer, Mr. Pulaski, “You wait out here.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Geneva added to the detective, “You can wait here too, you want.”
    He chuckled. “I’ll just come hang out with you for a bit, you don’t mind. Well, okay, I can see you do mind. But I think I’ll come along anyway.” He buttoned his jacket to hide his guns. “Nobody’ll pay me any mind.” He held up the social studies book.
    Not answering, Geneva grimaced and they proceeded to the school. At the metal detector the girl showed her ID and Detective Bell subtly flashed his wallet and was let around the side of the device. It was just before fifth period, which started at 11:37, and the halls were crowded, kids milling around,heading for the cafeteria or out to the school yard or onto the street for fast food. There was joking, dissing, flirting, making out. A fight or two. Chaos reigned.
    “It’s my lunch period,” she called over the din. “I’ll go to the cafeteria and study. It’s this way.”
    Three of her friends came up fast, Ramona, Challette, Janet. They fell into step beside her. They were smart girls, like her. Pleasant, never caused any trouble, on scholarship tracks. Yet—or maybe because of this—they weren’t particularly tight; none of them really just hung out. They’d go home after class, practice Suzuki violin or piano, volunteer for literacy groups or work on the spelling bee or Westinghouse science competitions, and, of course, study. Academics meant solitude. (Part of Geneva actually envied the school’s other cliques, like the gangsta girls, the blingstas, the jock-girls and the Angela Davis activist sistas.) But now these three were fluttering around her like best homegirls, huddling close, peppering her with questions. Did he touch you? You see his dick? Was he hard? D’you see the guy got capped? How close were you?
    They’d all heard—from kids who came in late, or kids cutting class and watching TV. Even though the stories hadn’t mentioned Geneva by name, everybody knew she was at the center of the incident, thanks probably to Keesh.
    Marella—a track star and fellow junior—walked by, saying, “What up, girlfriend? You down?”
    “Yeah, I’m cool.”
    The tall classmate squinted at Detective Bell and asked her, “Why’s a cop carrying yo’ book, Gen?”
    “Ask him.”
    The policeman laughed uneasily.
    Fronting you’re a teacher. Hey, that’s def . . . .
    Keesha Scott, clustered with her sister and some of her blingsta homegirls, gave Geneva a theatrical double-take. “Girl, you wack bitch,” she shouted. “Somebody give you a pass, you take a pass. Coulda kicked back, watched the soaps.” Grinned, nodded at the lunchroom. “Catch you later.”
    Some of the students weren’t as kind. Halfway to the lunchroom, she heard a boy’s voice, “Yo, yo, it the Fox News bitch with the cracker over there. She still alive?”
    “Thought somebody clip that ’ho.”
    “Fuck, that debbie be too skinny to hit with anything but a breakdown.”
    Raucous laughter erupted.
    Detective Bell whirled around but the young men who’d called out those words disappeared in a sea of sweats and sports jerseys, baggy jeans and cargo pants and bare heads—hats being forbidden in the halls of Langston Hughes.
    “It’s okay,” Geneva said, her jaw set, looking down. “Some of them, they don’t like it when you take school