Speak No Evil Read online

  Dedication

  For those who lack voice

  Epigraph

  Finally he said, I have word from—and here he named the dear name—that I shall not come again. I saw the dead face and heard the unspoken words, no need to go to him again, even were it in your power.

  —Samuel Beckett, Ohio Impromptu

  No it ain’t nothing left to say.

  —Oddisee, “Tomorrow Today”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I: Niru 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  Part II: Meredith 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Uzodinma Iweala

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part I

  Niru

  1

  The snow starts to fall just before Ms. McConnell’s Global Literatures class. It is light at first and hangs in the air, refusing to stick to anything, and instead hovers about the bare tree branches shivering outside. I sit down across from the window with my back to the door like the rest of the boys. We all sit close to the door because of the walk across the Cathedral lawn to get to class and because no one wants to be the sole male body surrounded by girls. It never pays to seem like you’re trying too hard. Ms. McConnell watches us remove our jackets and place our books on the desks. After the first week of the semester, she gave up on asking us to settle in quickly. Now she waits with one fist gripping her pen and the other resting on her hip until we’re ready.

  I can’t pay attention because Meredith isn’t paying attention. She always sits directly across from me with her back to the window and the row of pine trees blocking the view to Wisconsin Avenue. Normally she tries to make me laugh with her near perfect micro-impressions of Ms. McConnell’s exaggerated movements, but today she is half turned to the window, her eyes towards the sky. I scan the room. No one pays attention. Some of us focus on the interesting trinkets from Ms. McConnell’s world travels. She has spent time in Kenya and India teaching younger kids and older women how to read so bright-colored Kikoi cloths line her bookshelves, which host Guatemalan worry dolls and rusted iron bangles. My classmates think they’re real, but I have a cousin in Nigeria who sells freshly made antiques to foreigners seeking to collect their own colonial histories. Sometimes Ms. McConnell burns incense and the room smells of sandalwood or cinnamon. It makes my nostrils tickle.

  I see it coming and try to warn Meredith but she’s completely lost. Ms. McConnell is silent as she watches Meredith contemplate the snow outside. Our classmates suppress giggles as Meredith chases snowflakes with small cat-like movements of her head. Earth to Meredith, Ms. McConnell says. Meredith starts and hits her knee against the desk in front of her. She yelps and winces. Everyone laughs, even Ms. McConnell, who asks, what could possibly be more interesting than our riveting discussion in this classroom? It’s really coming down, Meredith says. Ms. McConnell finally looks out the window and says, holy shit, and we all laugh. Everyone wait here for one second, she adds before she slips into the hallway and the class lapses into uncontrolled chatter.

  Adam and Rowan rush to the windows. Fuck yeah, they say almost in sync. I can see the soft flakes falling on the pine branches from where I sit. A strong wind stirs sheets of white in waves and circles. When Ms. McConnell returns, she has a pained look on her face and I know that she’s thinking about what a blizzard will do to her syllabus. Rowan looks at her and says, class is officially over. Rowan, Ms. McConnell shouts, but he is already halfway out the door. I think, how the fuck am I going to get home?

  You can come to mine, Meredith says as we watch the layers of snow build. I call my mother to ask if I should drive home. If you can manage it, she says. I text my father. He says to just wait at school but I don’t want to wait at school. I have spent so many years waiting for people to pick me up from school. Plus I can drive now and the last thing I want is to wait.

  The cars on Wisconsin Avenue move at a snail’s pace with blinking hazard lights. The side streets are worse. Meredith and I watch from across the road as Adam and Rowan try to move Rowan’s car from its tightly wedged spot on the sloping street near the athletics facilities. Its tires spin on the fresh snow before it lurches forward into the car in front with a sickening crush. Adam shouts, Holy fucking fuck! Rowan winds down the window to survey the damage. He drops his head to the steering wheel and screams fuck into the thickening white.

  Or you could be them, Meredith says from behind her mittened hands. I say, lead the way, and follow her up the street as she trudges forward with her tongue stretched out to catch falling flakes. Her hair grows a white coat and then turns deep brown as the snow melts. She wipes her nose on her coat sleeve and sniffles. I think she’s beautiful even if she doesn’t know it yet. She has large lips, a wide mouth and an awkwardly pyramidal nose. She looks like a younger Anne Hathaway.

  You should probably kiss her, Adam said to me once as we walked across the Cathedral lawn. She clearly likes you; and honestly it’s not that hard, you just move her to one corner of the dance floor and then put your mouth on her mouth, problem solved. Adam is super practical about everything. He’s the kind of person who always parks his car in the direction of his house so he doesn’t waste extra time when leaving for home. I said, I don’t think it works like that. Sure it does, he said, that’s how I did it. If she likes me, she should kiss me, I said. It definitely doesn’t work like that, Adam said. Then maybe she doesn’t like me. Adam smacked his forehead.

  A crawling bus packed with miserable-looking people passes us, churning up brown slush in its wake. If the buses are running, there is still a possibility I can take one up to Bradley Boulevard and then walk the last mile home, like I used to do after OJ left for college and before I got my driver’s license. It would suck to walk through the snow, especially in my sneakers, but then I’d be home. I stop. What is it, Meredith asks. Her whole face is pale except for the pulsing red at the tip of her nose. Maybe I should just take the bus home, I say, the buses are safe. Fuck that we’re halfway there, Meredith says, no fucking way. I try to pull away as Meredith grabs me. She slips on the sidewalk and flails her arms as she tries to find her balance. Her momentum pulls us both down and we laugh even though the cold snow sneaks into my pants. Meredith is right. What is the point of wasting hours on a crawling bus when a warm house and possibly hot chocolate are so close?

  Her house is on O Street set back from the road by sloping flower beds filled with twisted brown remnants of fall flowers and decorative grass. They flank steep stone steps. My mother would approve of its understatedness especially because it would remind her of London. My father has never understood the logic behind paying so much money for a small place filled with old plumbing in constant need of repair—even if your neighbors are the senators, cabinet secretaries, and the vast network of unknown but highly influential lobbyists who really run this city. I like the redbrick sidewalks and cobblestone streets better than the large lawns and wooded areas between houses where I live, and it’s much closer to school, but I guess the grass is always greener. Normally these streets are full of tourists and students but today they are empty and quiet as the storm settles over the city. I cover my ears with my sleeves as Meredith searches for her keys. Any day now, I say as she kicks her shoes against the bright red door to clean off the snow.

  Everything is always life-threatening, Meredith says as the meteorologist on television frantically describes the snow that falls around
us. She kneels on the living room couch with her face against the cold window. Her breath fogs the glass. We have eaten turkey and Brie sandwiches because there is nothing else in the fridge and no one will deliver pizza. I understood the turkey, but the Brie with its hard shell tastes of nothing and I have never liked its sticky soft interior. I’ve told her about the things we eat at home, dried fish that I actually like and tripe that I avoid by hiding beneath the lip of my plate and she has made involuntary faces of disgust followed by an unconvincing, that’s cool—I guess. Her parents were supposed to get back from Houston this evening, but all the airports have shut down, says the enthusiastic meteorologist as video of snowplows waiting on the runway at Reagan National Airport streams behind him. Do you want whiskey, she asks before she disappears from the room. She returns with a bottle of amber liquid and she pours a little into her hot chocolate. You can mix it with your hot chocolate, it doesn’t taste any different. She takes a sip and a drop falls from her mug to the couch cushion. She blots it into the fabric and then looks at me. You won’t get drunk, it’s just a drop to help you warm up, she says. I’m not convinced. If we lived in France, she says. If we lived in Saudi Arabia, I say. I don’t drink because I’m not twenty-one and because I don’t feel the need to drink. My classmates talk about getting wasted at so-and-so’s house during their parties on the weekends, but I don’t really pay attention. The risks are too high, OJ tells me. You aren’t like these people, he says, they can do things that you and I can’t do. He never drank and his classmates loved him. He was voted head prefect. He was captain of the soccer team. My teachers still call me by his name. I reach for the bottle and remove the cap. I circle my finger around the rubber stop and touch my lips. The alcohol stings at first and then turns sweet, bringing memories of when I was four and my father had friends over to watch the Nigerian soccer team in the World Cup. I noticed an unattended glass of Coke so I quickly gulped it down, hoping to disappear before someone told me not to. It was more than Coke. It burned all the way down my throat into my belly. I felt my mouth grow hot. I yelped and tried to spit out what I hadn’t swallowed. The whole room froze. My father’s face became an African mask with exaggerated eyes, nostrils and lips. Then he leapt across the room, grabbed me with one arm and clapped me on the back with a flat palm. The sound broke the tension and made Dad’s friends laugh loudly. They stomped and clapped. It drowned out Dad’s shouting at me, who told you to come and drink that, enh, while he pressed my body against the sink and made me swallow round after round of water from his cupped palm until my stomach couldn’t hold anything more. I vomited watery brown bile into the white sink and all over the countertop. I haven’t touched alcohol since then.

  Meredith stands and stretches backwards so that her sweater rides up to show the bright flash of her bellybutton ring. She reaches towards me and says, Come with me. I follow her to a bedroom on the top floor of the house where the low eaves make the space feel much smaller than it is. The street light filters in through a large circular window and quickly disappears into the nooks and tight spaces. Meredith flops down on a bed with white covers colored orange by the outside light. We listen to the wind and icy snow against the roof while the treetops outside sway back and forth, making the room feel like it rocks unsteadily. I hold my arms over my chest and massage my triceps through my sleeves. I have been to her house many times before, but never this late, never just the two of us. I know it’s every teenage boy’s dream, if only for bragging rights in the back corner of the senior lounge, but I hate the way my classmates speak about girls and sex. Their voices sound greedy and untrustworthy.

  Niru? Meredith says my name like a question. She sits Indian-style on the bed with her head tilted to one side. Shadows obscure her face but her fingernails catch the light every time they slide through her hair. You can come in, you know, this is where you’re going to sleep. I step from the wood floor where my toes curl against the cold and my feet relax into a soft warm carpet. I drop to my knees against the bed and lay my head a small distance from Meredith’s knee. Her hand hovers in the space just above my cheek, and my jaw tenses, then my back, then my legs and finally my toes but she doesn’t touch me. She has touched me so many times before, bear hugs, steadying hands, playful slaps while running, but this feels like it will be different. She doesn’t touch me. Instead she tosses her hair to the opposite shoulder and places her hand on her knee. I close my eyes. Why didn’t you kiss me in the Bishop’s Garden, at Homecoming, why didn’t you kiss me, she asks.

  We’d gone to Homecoming together because we just knew we would go together and at some point between twirling around to “Shake It Off” and bouncing to “Jumpman” we left the music thumping behind for some quiet in the gardens at the foot of the National Cathedral. There was no moon and only a smattering of stars above the city as we walked arm in arm across the green. Careful, I said because the high heels she wore with her short black cocktail dress sank into the soft grass. I held her hand while she removed them and we walked with our fingers interlocked across the lawn to a gazebo surrounded by carefully tufted and wilting wild grass. A few yards from the entrance we saw two figures caressing in the shadows, completely unaware of the rest of the world. Meredith slipped her arm in mine and we backed away quietly towards the flagstone paths that twisted through the rose bushes and wildflower beds.

  It’s Ms. McConnell, Meredith giggled when we stopped in the stone nook beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient evergreen. The warm fall weather meant the fountains still gurgled. An oxidized copper sun spat water into a small pool behind a ledge onto which Meredith lowered herself. She pulled me down next to her and swung her legs over mine because she said the stone was too cold against her bare thighs. It didn’t feel cold to my palms. She took my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She said, Oh my God. She was totally tongue fucking that guy. I searched for a place to put my hands. Meredith’s strapless dress threatened to slide down her chest, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. I smiled to relieve the burning feeling of foolishness spread across my face. Meredith tensed her legs. Her breath smelled of the cherry Dum Dums the student council had dumped into large bins outside the dance hall. She’d been sucking on one when we left the building.

  Just put your mouth on her mouth, Adam said, it’s basic biology. I put a hand in my pants pocket and hoped Meredith couldn’t see me feeling around to make sure that all of my parts remained in their proper places. She leaned in closer. Then she snapped away as footsteps echoed off the stone wall around us. I saw Ms. McConnell first and then the man following her, holding her hand. Ms. McConnell’s mouth fell open as she cocked her head. Oh hey Ms. McConnell, Meredith said. She slipped my jacket over her bare legs. You two know you’re not supposed to be in here this late, Ms. McConnell said. She’d released herself from her companion and locked her fingers at her navel. I looked away from the skewed buttons of Ms. McConnell’s blouse and focused on the dark moss in the cracks between the stones. Ms. McConnell quickly folded her arms over her chest. You should go back inside, or you should go home, she said. Meredith stood and finger waved good night. I exhaled.

  Will you kiss me now, she asks as she marches her fingers across the space between us on the bed. She cups my face in her hands and gently tilts my head back. Okay, I say and close my eyes. Her chapped lips scratch mine. Her breath smells like hot chocolate and whiskey. Her hair tickles my nose. I breathe in and can suddenly smell all of her, the underlying damp from our walk through the snow that lingers in her hair, the turkey and Brie on her fingertips. Her tongue searches my lips. It touches my teeth and plays against my tongue before retreating. When it comes back it’s more confident as the rest of her body moves towards mine. Her legs encircle my hips and lock around my lower back. She presses against me and puts her cheek to my cheek before she kisses my neck. I shiver. My hands rise up over her sweater, guided by her hands. Then they are underneath the fabric, my palms against her skin, sweeping up and over her small breasts and hard nipp
les. She breathes in sharply. I feel my heart. I hear the rush of my blood. It is this simple.

  Here, take off your shirt, Meredith says. Her cold hands push away my turtleneck. My skin prickles. She removes her sweater, her bra, and slides her leggings and panties down to the floor. I have never seen a naked woman in real life. Blue veins trace up and around occasional moles and birthmarks on her otherwise pale skin. She’s shaved everything except for a narrow track of brown hair between her legs. Her breasts are larger than I expected but then I’ve only seen her wearing a sports bra beneath her T-shirt. She smiles down at me but her eyes search my face. I feel unsteady in this room of shifting shadows. Snow crackles against the roof. Tree branches beat the siding and scratch the windows. She kisses my neck again. She kisses my chest. Her tongue explores my nipples while her hands fumble with my belt.

  Desire is desire, our Ancient Greek History teacher said once. She is an older woman with wrinkles in wrinkles magnified by oversize lenses that bulge out from awkwardly thin wire frames. She took us to the Smithsonian to see ancient Greek urns painted black with faded orange men and women pleasuring orange men and women under the thrall of Eros further enabled by Dionysus. For the Greeks, pleasure derived from submission to passion, and passion appeared in many forms. Desire had no right. No wrong. It simply was, she said.

  Meredith, I whisper. I step back but her hands follow me, still working against my belt buckle. I grab her wrists and pull them away. No. Something’s not okay, I say. She falls back onto the bed with her legs firmly pressed together. No, she says, this is not happening. Then she is no longer in the room. I wrap my arms around my body. It is suddenly unbearably cold.

  The white kids used to touch me all the time when I was younger, like they owned me. They’d call me Velcro Head and press things to my hair to see what would stick. I let them play around because there were always more of them than me and because back then I didn’t know the difference between ignorance and malice. Then there was that time one of the girls came up to me after school and asked if she could look down my pants, just a peek, you know, to settle a debate they had after sex ed. I pretended not to hear, but I walked around the rest of the day staring at the floor with my fists clenched.