Page 42

He looks curious.

Curious about me.

“Humor me, Shae.” His voice sounds stronger, yet still soft.

Intimate.

Girl, you are completely delusional.

I pull out a pack of gum and unwrap a stick. Handing the Wintermint over to Storm, he snags a piece and pops it into his mouth at the same time as I do. I’m glad it can offer him a distraction.

“Well,” I begin, “I grew up as a PK, a Preacher’s Kid.”

“Really? You don’t seem overly religious.” He nods as if he’s taking in everything I’m telling him and committing it to memory.

“I’m not. I mean, when I was a kid, of course. But once I started learning things on my own and realized Christianity is a control tool of the oppressor, I got more into spiritualism instead.”

“I see,” he says. “How do your parents feel about that? Is your dad or mom the preacher?”

“Neither,” I say. “Well, my dadwasthe preacher, but he was…asked to step down.”

The story there is nothing I want to get into, so I leave it at that.

“My mom and dad live in Bronzeville, it’s where I grew up.”

Storm’s attention doesn’t waver from me, and he allows the subject change. Tilting his head to the side, he asks, “Do you like it there?”

I smile softly. “Like it? I love it. A lot of people think of the South Side and have a picture of drugs and gangs and something akin to Fallujah. Sure, we have our issues, but places like Bronzeville have value.” I feel a slight edge creeping into my tone, and I force myself to pull back so I don’t fall into attack mode.

It’s hard to do when I know people like him are the problem. They come into minority communities, exploit their weaknesses, and erase all cultural and historical significance so they can gentrify the community and build a goddamn Whole Foods.

People like Storm Sandoval’s family often are the definition of “Not all skinfolk are kinfolk.”

At least, I’ve made this assumption about them. But now that I’m getting to know Storm? I can tell that is far from the truth.

“Bronzeville was called the Black Metropolis and the Harlem of the Midwest. Did you know that?” He shakes his head, still not drawing his attention away from me. “Not only was money circulated to a point where Black people amassed great wealth, it was a lesson in community economics.”

He nods some more as silence descends between us, but this time the tension there is thick with emotion.

…Emotions I’m desperately trying to ignore.

“People want to exploit places like Bronzeville. Rich folks swoop in for the proverbial pat on the back, but they rarely care that they often do more harm than good. That’s why I want to get into this work. I want to offer cultural literacy to economic growth in areas like Bronzeville and others across the United States. I want to see those who look like me succeed, to build businesses that support the community. A global For Us, By Us movement.”

When I finish speaking, my chest feels tight as it often does when I discuss things I’m passionate about. I didn’t mean to spill all that to Storm—one, because I’m not too sure he’d understand what I’m saying, but also because I am so tired of explaining to people why they should care about those who don’t live or speak or run in the same circles as they do.

But Storm surprises me when he grabs my hand instead, giving my fingers a light squeeze. “You really care, and that will lead to your success more than anything else.”

His eyes lock on mine, and I feel his gaze down to my toes.

“Yes, I do care,” I say. I breathe.

Storm looks down at our clasped hands, and reading into the motion, I pull my hand from his grasp, clutching them between my crossed legs.

You’re from two different worlds, Shae, so stay on your side of the street.

I clear my throat and shift the subject.

“I started volunteering at this non-profit called mPOWER a few years ago. My dad has always been involved, and I’ve volunteered at food pantries and at other awareness events since I was little. So I guess you could say community-building is in my blood.” I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around my legs.