Blackout - Dhonielle Clayton Page 0,1

Can I help you?” the woman asks.

His hard steps sound like the killer approaching. He always wore sneakers that were either too big for him or that he refused to lace, soles slapping the floor, giving a high-five with each stride.

“Hey! How you doing, I’m Kareem . . .” His voice trails off until he yells, “Tammi?”

Damn.

I finally open my eyes and pivot to face him. That brown skin. Those beautiful eyes. It’s not like I haven’t seen him. We’re neighbors and went to the same school, Stacey Abrams Preparatory, on the Upper West Side. But this is the closest I’ve stood near him in the last four months—close enough to smell, and I wish he didn’t smell so damn good.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. It comes out real aggressive but with good reason.

He rolls his eyes, turning to the receptionist as if I were a ghost. “Sorry about that. I’m here to drop off some paperwork for orientation.”

Orientation? No, no, no . . . we can’t work at the same place. No way!

“Wait, you’re both here to drop off paperwork?” she asks.

“No,” we say in unison and glare at each other.

“I mean, yes,” we say in unison, again.

Mortified, I take a step to widen the space between us and clear my throat.

“What I mean to say is, I’m here with my paperwork. I don’t know what he’s doing here.”

He grins. “Guess I’m here for the same reason.”

Her eyes toggle between us, and she quickly opens the folder in her hand, scanning papers. She returns to her computer screen, reading something hard while I steal a quick glimpse of him. He’s wearing his favorite jeans (even in this heat), a black polo shirt, and a fresh pair of Jordans. Probably ones she made him get. Kinda miss his beat-up red Converse and collection of superhero T-shirts.

Stop it, Tammi! You don’t miss anything about this dummy.

“Uhhh, just a second,” the receptionist says, her voice shaky. “You two can have a seat. I’ll be right back with Maureen.”

Kareem and I exchange a suspicious glare as we slowly head over to the waiting area. Hopefully Maureen won’t take too long to come get me . . . and leave his ass here.

I sit on one side of the entrance door while Kareem sits on the opposite, fidgeting.

Just keep it cute, Tammi.

I do a quick selfie-check, making sure all that heat I trekked through hasn’t melted my edge control. I don’t want him, but I don’t want him seeing me looking a mess either.

“Whoa,” Kareem mumbles to himself, staring up at something, and I follow his eyes.

“Whoa,” I gasp. The walls of the waiting area are a mural of old Apollo concert posters. James Brown, Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday—people my grandparents grew up listening to. I didn’t notice any of this before and it hits me—I’m within the very same halls these legends walked through. The warmth of that thought makes me almost forget about the jerk on the other side of the room. Is this what it’s going to feel like when I’m in TV studios and on film lots?

Kareem is still fidgeting, digging through every pocket he has. Does that when he’s flustered or running late, which is almost always. He wouldn’t have made it to school at all if I hadn’t set several alarms on his phone for him. Wonder if he still has them.

Kareem slaps his forehead, cursing under his breath. He must have forgotten something—

Stop it! Stop thinking about him. He’s not thinking about you.

What is he even doing here? Mr. Taylor, our guidance counselor, told me about this position but said there would be only one opening, for one student interested in studying media and entertainment. Kareem said he wanted to major in boring business accounting so he could learn how to “count all his stacks.” Oh, that’s it! The money; he wants that $3,500.

Well, too bad for him, I’m the real deal here. I even sent my film reel with the application (all shot and edited on my phone). This job is mine! Plus . . . I need this. It’s one more step on the road to a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Mom and Daddy still aren’t totally on board with my plan. Only Kareem was. And now . . . he probably couldn’t care less. So I won’t let him take this away from me. He might as well dip and catch that A train back to Brooklyn.

I