The Twelfth Card

perping merch from stores. But Keesh’d never lifted so much as a bottle of fingernail polish or pack of braids. She didn’t even buy street jewelry from anybody who might’ve fiended it from a tourist, and the big girl was fast to whip out her cell phone and 911 suspicious kids hanging around apartment lobbies during “hunting season”—the times of the month when the welfare, ADC or social security checks started hitting the mailboxes.
    Keesh paid her way. She had two jobs—doing extensions and braids on her own and working the counter in a restaurant four days a week (the place was in Manhattan, but miles south of Harlem, to make sure she wouldn’t run into people from the neighborhood, which would blow her cover as the DJing bling-diva of 124th Street). She spent carefully and socked away her earnings to help her family.
    There was yet one other aspect of Keesh that set her apart from many girls in Harlem. She and Geneva were both in what was sometimes called the “Sistahood of None.” Meaning, no sex. (Well, fooling around was okay, but, as one of Geneva’s friends said, “Ain’t no boy putting his ugly in me, and that’s word.”) The girls had kept the virgin pact she and Geneva had made in middle school. This made them a rarity. A huge percentage of the girls at Langston Hughes had been sleeping with boys for a couple of years.
    Teenage girls in Harlem fell into two categories and the difference was defined by one image: a baby carriage. There were those who pushed buggies through the streets and those who didn’t. And it didn’t matter if you read Ntozake Shange or Sylvia Plath or were illiterate, didn’t matter if you wore orange tank tops and store-bought braids or white blouses and pleated skirts . . . if you ended up on the baby carriage side, then your life was headed in a way different direction from that of girls in the other category. A baby wasn’t automatically the end of school and a profession but it often was. And even if not, a carriage girl could look forward to a heartbreakingly tough time of it.
    Geneva Settle’s inflexible goal was to flee Harlem at the very first opportunity, with stops in Boston or New Haven for a degree or two and then on to England, France or Italy. Even the slightest risk that something like a baby might derail her plan was unacceptable. Lakeesha was lukewarm about higher education but she too had her ambitions. She was going to some four-year college and, as a coal-savvy businesswoman, take Harlem by storm. The girl was going to be the Frederick Douglass or Malcolm X of Uptown business.
    It was these common views that made sistas of these otherwise opposite girls. And like most deep friendships the connection ultimately defied definition. Keesh put it best once by waving her bracelet-encrusted hand, tipped in polka-dotted nails, and offering, in a proper use of AAVE’s third-person-singular nonagreement rule, “Wha-ever, girlfriend. It work, don’t it?”
    And, yeah, it did.
    Geneva and Detective Bell now arrived at math class. He stationed himself outside the door. “I’ll be here. After the test, wait inside. I’ll have the car brought ’round front.”
    The girl nodded then turned to go inside. She hesitated, glanced back. “I wanted to say something, Detective.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I know I’m not too agreeable sometimes. Pigheaded, people say. Well, mostly they say I’m a pain in the ass. But, thanks for what you’re doing.”
    “Just my job, miss. ’Sides, half the witnesses and folk I protect aren’t worth the concrete they walk on. I’m happy to be looking after somebody decent. Now, go for another twenty-four multiple choice in a row.”
    She blinked. “You were listening? I thought you weren’t paying attention.”
    “I was listening, yes’m. And looking out for you. Though I’ll fess up, doing two things at once’s pretty much my limit. Don’t go expecting more than that. Okay, now—I’ll be here when you get out.”
    “And I am going to pay you back for lunch.”
    “I told you that’s on the mayor.”
    “Only, you paid for it yourself—you didn’t get a receipt.”
    “Well, now, lookit that. You notice stuff too.”
    Inside the classroom she saw Kevin Cheaney standing in the back, talking to a few of his crew. He lifted his head, acknowledging her with a big smile, and strode over to her. Nearly every girl in class—whether pretty or plain—followed his stroll. Surprise—then shock—flashed