u/Scarlet_Crimson7

JUST WANNA BREATHE

(Act 1)

KEM: CHAPTER I

As I stare out the plane window, the clouds look like big puffs of cigarette smoke.

It still doesn’t feel real.

It doesn't feel right.

Wherever we go to Guyana it's for a family reunion of some sort— well I guess you can consider it a reunion, but not the type of reunion you'd be looking forward to.

The type of reunion you'd dread— unless you're a weirdo.

But I digress.

Seven years since I’ve seen Granddad, and now—boom—he’s gone.

Didn’t tell nobody he was sick, just tried to handle it himself like that made him tough or something.

I mean what was he thinking? Did he really think he could just deal with it himself?

Now just like that—he’s gone. Heart attack. Kept it to himself like it was some kind of secret.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just built differently or something, but I don’t get it.

Why wouldn’t he tell anyone?

Why wouldn’t he want help?

I guess I'm mad that he didn't take care of himself, that he didn't let anyone help him.

And yeah, I know I should probably be more respectful or whatever, but it still feels like his fault.

I love him, I do… but I’m mad at him.

It's always the same thing.

The men in our family don't fall apart.

You handle it, you take it, you deal with it yourself, and you don't, absolutely don't talk about the weak stuff.

That's the code.

My granddad died proving that code, and I know Dad expects the same from us. I just wish someone—anyone—would drop the act for five seconds.

I can only imagine what Granny must be feeling. She didn’t deserve this.

Kae groans, slumping his head against the window, his half-up barrel twists resting gently against the cool pane while the rest of his locs hung loose over his shoulders.

"When is this plane gonna land, man?"

"In less than an hour," Dijah answers without looking up from her phone.

"My feet are killing me," Kae mutters, "Must be nice for Ma and Dad up in first class."

"You really thought you were joining them?" Dijah asks, finally looking at him. "In your dreams."

Before he claps back, someone in the back of the plane starts shouting.

Immediately like immediately—the whole cabin lifts their phones like they’re at a concert.

A guy’s yelling at a flight attendant like he’s auditioning for reality TV.

People are already recording.

Somebody’s grandma holding her phone at chest height like she’s livestreaming to Facebook.

“Everyone is so extra,” Dijah mutters, while literally leaning into the aisle.

The plane drops.

Like a full roller-coaster drop.

My sketchbook flies out of my lap, goes skating down the aisle like it’s late for work, and stops at the feet of some dude who wasn’t filming.

He looks down.

Looks up.

Even in the dim light, you can tell he’s somebody.

Clean streetwear, heavy chain, rings on every finger, and eyes like he’s seen everything.

He looks like he robbed a store called Too Much.

He sees the drawing.

Before he can blink, I unbuckle, launch myself forward, and grab the sketchbook like it’s a hostage.

Slam it shut.

Now the whole plane stares like I’m the drama.

The jewelry dude raises an eyebrow.

“Relax, kid. It’s a good piece. Depth clean. Most people can’t draw like that.”

“Kem!”

Ma appears out of nowhere, face pale.

She sees me in the aisle.

She sees the guy.

She sees the phones.

“What did I tell you about staying in your seat?”She snatches my arm like I stole something.

She stares down the man like he personally caused turbulence.

“Leave my son alone. We aren’t here for this nonsense.”

Phones still filming.

Great. I'm gonna be all over social media.

I’m already seeing the captions:

Kid loses it over a drawing during flight drama. #PlaneCrash #FamilyBeef.

Ma drags me back and pushes me into my seat.

“We’ll talk when we land. Nobody’s getting up again. You hear?”

“Yes, Ma.” We all say in unison, as if we're a choir.

I stuff the sketchbook deep into my bag and exhale the longest breath known to mankind.

Outside the window, Guyana appears through the clouds—patches of green and brown, glittering lines of rivers, sunlight hitting everything like gold.

The pilot starts talking, but I tune him out.

My mind drifts back to Granddad.

Back to everything I didn’t say.

●

The plane lands with a thud that perfectly matches my mood.

I glance at Kae, whose eyes are fixed on some point outside the window.

Customs feel slow and fast at the same time.

When we finally meet back up with our parents, I feel drained—like someone wrung me out.

But Dad? He looked like he was wearing his funeral suit already, even in jeans and a polo—stiff, focused, like he was daring the airport to do something about it.

As we step outside, the heat slaps me in the face like someone just threw a hot towel on me.

The air smells like wet leaves, flowers, and something I can’t name. But it’s kinda nice. Like the lands hugging us. Way better than the dry, recycled air on the plane. Even though I've been here multiple times, the smell never gets old.

Ma wraps her arm around me and kisses the side of my head. Her hand’s warm. It helps a bit.

Dad calls James, and a few minutes later, a little white Corolla pulls up.

"Welcome to Guyana! How yuh all doin'?" James says, with this big o'l smile. Kae just grunts. Dijah waves, like something good is happening.

Dad hops in the front with James and the rest of us squish in the back. No clue how we fit, but we do. The adults talk the whole drive while Ma holds us close, like she’s scared to let go.

Outside the window, the trees are tall, the houses bright like crayons. It’s beautiful, but the heavy feeling in my chest never really leaves.

We finally pull up to a cream-colored house with a big front porch. Auntie Shakira’s place.

"Guess we're here huh?" James says, then looking back at us from the rear view mirror with a forced-looking smile. One by one we exit the vehicle.

James gives Dad a nod and says, “Take care, my friend. And my condolences again.”

I want to roll my eyes. No offense, but I’m tired of hearing that. “My condolences.” It’s always the same. I get they mean well, but it just reminds me. I don’t wanna be reminded.

“Appreciate it,” I mumble as I step out onto the street.

For some reason, the house looks smaller than I remember it.

I guess when you're little everything seems bigger than it actually is.

Ma reaches for the front door and jumps back fast like she touched fire. “Lord, that's hot,” she mutters, waving her hand like it’s gonna cool off the burn.

Then Dijah, of course, tries to touch the same door like she ain’t just seen what happened. Ma snatches her hand, "Wha' yuh doin'? Don’t touch that hot metal. Let one of your brothers do it — or your father.”

Dijah steps back like she suddenly remembered she has common sense, then again common sense ain't that common anymore.

Kae and I look at each other, saying everything with just our eyes. I give him the "You do it." look. He hits me back with the "You closer." face.

Ma sucks her teeth. “Will one of you knock on the door! Please?” she says, sharp. Dad finally snaps out of his daze and knocks like it ain't a million degrees outside.

Inside, we hear the sound of slippers dragging on tile. Then it takes, like, a whole minute of clinking and unlocking before the door finally creaks open.

Ever since the break-in last year, Auntie has been doing extra security measures. She even got two psycho dogs

Milo and Mosquito.

They might be small, but don't let their size fool you. Where you think they got the name "Mosquito" from?

Auntie Shakira grins widely, showing off that signature front gap she’s had forever.

“It’s good to see y’all. Come in nuh. How was the trip?” she says, already guiding Ma to a bright floral loveseat by the window.

Everything in her house is flowers. Flowers on the couch, flowers on the curtains, even the air smells like flowers—mixed with float bake, saltfish, and cookup rice.

It weirdly makes me feel okay.

Just for a second.

“It was good, I guess,” Dijah says, still clutching her gym bag like it’s gonna float away. Auntie Shakira kisses her forehead.

Then she pulls Kae and me into this tight hug, perfume hitting my nose like a punch.

“Mmm, how y’all two doin’? Ain’t seen y’all in a bit—or is it a minute?” she says, squinting like she’s trying to use teen slang right.

The music changes from calypso to old-school soca when my cousin Alessandro comes in from the back shirtless, acting like he’s in a music video.

Pants sagging so low, Ma would’ve had a heart attack on sight if she saw Kae or me dressing like that.

She’d say, “Yuh rass better pull up those pants before I give you a reason to pull them lower,” with the spoon in her hand ready to deliver justice.

“Ay, fam! What’s good? Ain’t seen y’all in a hot minute,” Alessandro says, smiling like he owns the room. His accent’s all over the place—half Louisiana, half Caribbean.

He daps up Kae. “Still playin’ ball?”

Kae shrugs. “Yeah, a little, but I mainly play soccer now."

He looks at Dijah and me. “How the two li’l bucks doin’?”

Li’l Buck. That nickname. It’s been ours since diapers, and no matter what we do, nobody’s letting it go.

“I’m fine,” Dijah mumbles. “But please stop calling me that.”

He grins. “I’ll think about it.”

No he won’t.

Inside smells like too many flowers, too much food, and not enough Granddad.

People acting like everything’s cool. Like this is just a normal visit.

I know the drill.

Smile.

Nod.

Pretend I’m fine.

Everyone buys it anyway.

That’s what I do.

I'm not gonna fall apart in front of everybody.

Not ever, if I can help it.

I just love it for me.

DIJAH: CHAPTER II

“Alessandro!” Auntie Shakira shouts, wooden spoon in hand, a few grains of rice still hanging on for dear life.

" Leave them pickney alone. And go show them the room they'll be sleeping in."

Alessandro raises his hands in mock surrender, he even slightly bows his head, and takes a step back.

"A'ight, a'ight, Auntie. I'll take Kae and the two li'l bucks to the room."

"Alessandro, I said to leave them pickney alone. If I hear yuh teasin' them again, I'll use this wooden spoon on yuh."

Alessandro just chuckles. Then he starts walking ahead of us, assuming we'll follow.

When we get to the room, it screams nineties. Not like any nineties, but the hood nineties. He got his posters of 2Pac, Boyz II Men, Biggie, Backstreet Boys, and the whole nine displayed on the walls. For some reason, he got Tupac and Biggie right next to each other, which is basically a crime but whatever.

Kae drops his duffel bag and starts humming a melody. Of course, he’s humming. The boy acts like life has a soundtrack. Low and smooth. Always humming, even at the most absurd times.

“Yo, Alessandro,” Kae says, eyeing the posters. “You really got the East and West Coast beefing on one wall?”

Alessandro smirks but says nothing.

“I think we all noticed that the second we walked in,” Kem mutters, pulling his sketchbook out.

Alessandro stops at the door, leaning against the frame. "A’ight, I’ll leave y’all to get settled. Don't mind the posters, I'ma man of culture." He winks at me and heads back toward the kitchen.

Alessandro's footsteps fade leaving us in a room that smells like coconut oil and old paper. I wonder if he brings the posters back to Louisiana every year when he leaves for school. Lucky him. He gets to go to Guyana every summer, bouncing between Georgetown sunshine and Louisiana humidity like it’s nothing.

Then again—what else do you expect?

His mom’s from Beverly Hills and his dad’s some big-shot lawyer everybody pretends they don’t Google every few months.

Meanwhile, I’m staring at a room held together by coconut oil fumes and whatever tape Alessandro used to stick Tupac to the wall.

Kae flops onto the edge of the bed like he’s testing bounce levels. “Yo, this mattress is actually kinda decent.”

Kem barely looks up, already sketching something—probably Alessandro’s crime-scene poster arrangement. “It’s lumpy,” he mutters.

Kae shrugs. “So are you.”

Kem’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said,” Kae hums, already drifting into another melody like his mouth and his brain work on two different playlists.

I roll my eyes, sitting on the other bed. “Can y’all chill for five seconds? We just got here.”

Kem opens his mouth—probably to argue—but then closes it like he remembered he’s supposed to be the responsible one out of the three of us. He tucks a pencil behind his ear. “Fine. I’m chill.”

Kae snorts. “Sure.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that feels good, though—not awkward.

Just us settling into the room, the energy, the weird posters arguing on the walls.

I reach down to unzip my bag, and a faint breeze from the window drifts in, carrying the smell of Macaroni pie. And yes, macaroni pie, not mac n' cheese—there's a difference. Auntie Shakira must’ve gone back to war in the kitchen.

Kae sniffs the air dramatically. “Bro, we got here at the perfect time.”

Kem nods absentmindedly. “Food smells good.”

“No,” Kae says, “I mean perfect perfect. Like, before Auntie Shakira starts telling Caribbean stories with three-hour runtimes.”

I nudge his foot. “Watch your mouth. Her stories are good.”

Kae grins. “They’re great. They’re also long. Like—biblical long.”

Kae bounces off the bed.

“Alright,” he announces, full energy, “who’s trying to explore before Shakira calls us to eat?”

Kem shrugs, but he’s already standing.

I grab my phone and follow them toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance around the room one more time. The posters, the old books stacked on the dresser, the coconut-oil smell—

It all feels like the start of something.

Maybe trouble.

Maybe fun.

Maybe both.

Knowing us?

Definitely both.

Kae sneaks out like he’s a super agent on a top secret mission— which he clearly isn't we're just going outside.

Nothing secretive about it.

Outside, there are a few cigarette butts scattered around, and empty beer bottles pushed against the fence.

I spot a Hennessy bottle—still half-full.

Somebody had fun.

I nudge it with my foot.

Bad idea.

The bottle tips, hits the concrete, and shatters loud enough to wake the dead.

—or worse.

Almost instantly, Milo and Mosquito explode into barking like they’ve been training for this moment their whole lives.

“Oh shoot—RUN!” I whisper-yell, already backing up because those dogs do not play.

Mosquito comes flying around the corner first, all four pounds of him vibrating with rage. Milo’s right behind him, teeth out like he pays rent

Kem jumps behind me so fast you’d think he teleported.

“Why would you do that?!” he whisper-screams.

“I didn’t know the bottle was there!” I whisper-scream back.

Kae folds his arms. “Really? You didn’t know glass breaks when you drop it?”

Before I can clap back, Milo launches at the gate like he’s about to bust through it. Mosquito hops beside him, trying to get a better angle like he’s plotting something personal.

Kae finally snaps out of it. “Kem—open the gate. OPEN THE GATE.”

Kem fumbles with the latch like he suddenly forgot how hands work. “It’s stuck!”

“No, you stuck.” I shove him aside, flip the latch open in one smooth motion, and step out first like this wasn’t my fault.

We slip out one by one, and the second the gate closes, they calm down

Milo licks his paw.

Mosquito sneezes.

I swear they did that on purpose.

Kem wipes his forehead. “Those dogs are possessed.”

“That’s just small dogs,” I say. “Tiny bodies. Big anger.”

Kae laughs, the tension melting right off him.

The back street outside Auntie Shakira’s place is warm and quiet, dust dancing in the sunset light. Kids are playing cricket with a dented tennis ball. Somebody’s blasting reggae from a speaker two houses down.

It feels alive.

Kae shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking like he knows exactly where he’s going.

He doesn’t.

“So we’re going to Granny house, right?” Kem asks, adjusting his sketchbook strap like he’s on some expedition.

“Yeah,” Kae says, nodding confidently. “Straight down this road, then right at the mango tree.”

“There are literally fifteen mango trees,” I mutter.

Kae shrugs. “Yeah, but one of them is the mango tree.”

Kem looks around. “And how exactly are we supposed to know which one is the mango tree?”

“You’ll feel it,” Kae says, like he’s some prophet.

I side-eyes him, hard. “Boy, shut up.”

We walk anyway—down the dirt road, past old wooden fences, past a man washing his car with a bucket, past a little girl jumping rope to a rhyming song we don’t know.

Kae hums again—low, smooth, the same melody from the bedroom.

It actually fits the moment, which annoys me because I don’t want to admit he has good timing sometimes.

Kem nudges me. “You good?”

I nod. “Yeah. I just… don’t know what Granny’s gonna be like when we get there.”

Kem’s face softens and he gives me a small hug. “We’ll figure it out.”

Kae slows down, glancing between us.

For once, he doesn’t crack a joke.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little quieter. “We’re together. Whatever Granny’s like… we got each other, yeah?”

I blink.

Sometimes Kae says stuff like that—real stuff—and it catches you off guard, like seeing lightning bugs in the dark when you weren’t even looking.

“Yeah,” I say. “We got each other.”

Then—

Kae points ahead. “Ayo! That’s the mango tree!”

Kem squints. “That is absolutely not the mango tree.”

“It is,” Kae insists. “I remember the forked branch!”

“The forked branch is on every mango tree,” I state.

We argue the whole way to Granny’s street, laughing, pushing, dragging our feet in the heat.

But underneath all that noise, there’s something else too—

something heavy but warm.

Something like… home sneaking up on us.

When Granny’s little blue house finally appears at the end of the road, we fall quiet at the same time.

Kae stops moving.

His humming fades.

Even from a distance, you can see the windows open.

The curtains swaying.

People laughing.

The porch light on even though it’s still day.

And sitting there in her rocking chair—

as small as I remember, but somehow stronger—

is Granny.

Waiting.

KAE: CHAPTER III

The humming doesn’t work.

Usually, if I hum low enough—somewhere deep in my chest where it vibrates against my ribs—I can drown out the noise in my head. Even though it isn't quiet, noise is still silent. The silence is the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. I can feel my pulse thumping in my fingertips.

Like a drum I didn’t ask for.

“Kasi—?” Granny says, her voice like dry leaves. She doesn't get up from the rocking chair. She just reaches out a hand that looks like it’s made of parchment paper.

I step up first. I have to. Kem is busy staring at a potted plant like it holds the secrets to the universe, and Dijah is hovering behind me. Dad always says the oldest has to lead. We’re triplets, born minutes apart, but in this family, minutes are miles.

“Hey, Granny,” I say, a little too loudly.

I let her take my hand. She’s so small. When did she get this small? It makes something hot and ugly bubble up in my stomach. A man is supposed to protect his family, right? But Granddad left her. He just... stopped. He let his heart quit on him and left her here in this quiet house with the curtains swaying like ghosts.

“You've really grown up. You look just like him,” she whispers, squinting at me. “You have his eyes. The way you stand. Just like your Granddad.”

The heat in my stomach flares. I want to pull my hand away. I want to tell her I don’t want to be like him—I don’t want to be a guy who dies because he’s too "tough" to say his chest hurts.

But I don't. I just stand there and take it.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I guess.”

“He was a strong man,” she says, her eyes drifting toward the road. “Never complained. Not a day in his life. A real man.”

I feel Kem stiffen beside me. I don’t even have to look to know he’s clenching his jaw so hard it might crack. And me? I feel like I’m vibrating. The man is dead, Granny. The "real man" is in a box because he didn't want to seem weak.

“Kae?” Dijah’s voice is a warning.

“I’m fine,” I snap.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says quietly.

“You were thinking it.”

The air feels too thick to breathe. I need to move. I need to hit something or run until my lungs burn.

“Calm down, Kasi,” Granny says, using my full name. "You all come get something to eat. Especially you, Khadijah. You look like skin and bones and yuh not even fifteen yet."

A small smile creeps in. She’s still the same after seven years.

I look at Kem. And the smile disappears. He’s staring at me, his eyes blank, his sketchbook clutched against his chest like a shield. He looks so calm. So collected. It makes me want to shove him. Why am I the only one who feels like the house is on fire?

It's not that I hate him. He's my brother, but why does he get to be so calm? So perfect?

I need to get out of here.

But before I can leave Dijah grabs my arms leading me inside.

Inside is more

DIJAH Chapter IV:

An Unknown Rite

The sun here doesn’t rise slow—it just snaps on, like somebody flipped a switch. I’m up before everyone else, which honestly feels like the only quiet I’m getting today.

I sit on the edge of the twin bed, careful not to wake Kem. He’s curled on the other side, still as stone. Usually he sleeps like he’s fighting invisible monsters—kicking, twisting, mumbling. But last night? He didn’t move. Just looked… empty. Or maybe just tired.

I grab my phone.

I scroll past my friends’ vacation posts—beach pics, mall selfies, one annoying “productive summer” story with a stack of color-coded notes. I try not to compare, but it stings anyway. Two chapters left in my reading list. I’m behind. Again.

I close the app before my brain spirals and slide the phone back under my pillow.

I take a breath.

Chapel service at ten. Repast at twelve. After that… who knows. I don’t write it down, because today isn’t a checklist day, no matter how much I want it to be.

I grab my towel and head out quietly.

Ma’s already in the kitchen, spreading butter on float bake with that soft, steady movement.

“Morning, Ma,” I say.

She turns, tired but smiling, and pulls me into a quick hug. “Mornin’, baby. You alright?”

“As alright as I can be,” I say, which is the closest I can get to the truth.

She glances toward the hallway, where everyone else is sleeping. “Look out for your father today. And your brothers. It's a hard morning.”

“I got it,” I tell her.

She exhales, nodding. “Good. Go get clean. And don’t forget the back of your ears.”

I smile a little. There’s something grounding about the way she says it, like she’s tying me back to normal life for a second.

I slip into the bathroom and turn the shower on. The water sputters, then runs warm, steam curling up around me. I watch it fog the mirror and let myself breathe.

The house feels heavy this morning—not just with grief, but with expectation. Everyone waiting for everyone else to be okay.

I’m not sure what today’s supposed to look like.

I know I’m not ready.

But the water keeps running, steady and sure, and I let the warmth settle around me.

Just a minute.

Just enough to gather myself before we step into whatever this unknown rite is supposed to be.

KAE: CHAPTER IV

SLOWLY BURNING

I can’t breathe in this shirt.

It’s too stiff, too tight at the neck, like it’s trying to choke the words outta me before I even open my mouth.

The sun’s a full-blown furnace overhead, pressing down hard. Even the clouds can’t bother to show up today. Sweat crawls down my back like ants. But I don’t move. I don’t even flinch.

We’re all standing in front of the small white chapel in Port Mourant, and it’s quiet — the kind of quiet that feels loud. Auntie Shakira’s holding Ma’s hand so tight, you’d think one of them might float away if she let go. Dijah’s not saying nothing. Just hugging that notebook to her chest like it’s armour.

Kem’s next to me, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides like he’s bracing for impact. I glance at him real quick. His face is blank — too blank. That look he gets when he’s feeling everything but pretending he ain’t.

He’s better at this than me. Better at being what Dad expects.

And me? I’m stuck.

Granny’s dressed in all black, veil over her face, lips tight. But her body’s shaking a little. Not big, not loud. Just small tremors. Like she’s trying to hold in an earthquake.

I wanna do something. I wanna fix something. I wanna grab a shovel and dig up Granddad just to scream at him for leaving.

But I can’t do nothing.

So I stand.

And I clench my jaw so hard I feel it in my ears.

Inside the chapel, the fans are on but they don’t help. The pastor’s talking soft and slow, voice low like a lullaby. People nod and “mm-hmm” here and there, but the words don’t touch me. Not really.

I stare at the casket.

It’s dark brown, polished. Granddad’s favourite colour

I just stood there, thinking:

You didn’t even tell us you were sick.

You just died.

No warning. No goodbye.

People get up to speak. Auntie Bea and her husband. One of his old dominoes friends. Even Alessandro says something, despite not even being related. He's all choked up, voice cracking halfway through a story about Granddad teaching him to play dominoes.

Everyone’s crying.

Everyone except me.

And Kem.

He’s still beside me, breathing shallow like he’s underwater. His hands are in his pockets now. He hasn’t blinked in a long time. Just staring straight ahead like he’s watching something only he can see.

Dad leans toward me. “You guys wanna say something?”

I blink.

Kem scratches the back of his head.

No. No I don’t.

But then I look at Granny. And I think about Granddad in the yard, carving wood with his pocketknife. The way he used to say, “You don’t gotta talk all the time, Kae. Just make sure when you do, it matters.”

So I stand.

Feet heavy. Throat dry. Chest tight.

I don't look at anyone. I just walk up to the mic. Fast

Not Granny. Not Dad. Not Kem. Not even Dijah.

I just look at the casket.

“I wasn’t gonna come up here,” I say. Voice low. Tight. “’Cause I didn’t think I had anything to say.”

Pause. A fan squeaks somewhere behind me.

“But I do.”

Another pause.

“I’m mad at you.”

That comes out louder than I meant.

People shift. A few heads turn. I don’t care.

“I’m mad that you didn’t tell nobody you were sick. I’m mad that you left like that. That you just… dropped outta our lives.”

My hands ball into fists.

“But I loved you. I looked up to you more than anybody.”

My voice cracks.

“I still do.”

I breathe in. Try to pull it back. I won’t cry. I won’t.

“You told me to speak when it mattered. So this is me speaking. It matters.”

And then I step away.

Fast. Like the mic burned me.

Back in my seat, I slump into the wooden pew and stare at the wall.

For some reason I feel... drained.

For a second I feel, quiet.

Like if that speech took all the energy I had.

And finally for the first time for the day, I take a deep breath.

Kem still hasn’t moved.

He shifts just enough to bump my arm. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. Just sits there with his fists pressed against his knees.

His eyes? Dry.

The pastor starts a prayer.

Everyone bows their heads.

I don’t.

I just watch the light hit the top of the casket and wonder if that’s where Granddad is now — up in that light. Watching. Listening. Maybe even partying with the angels, like Alessandro said.

I hope so.

But if he is?

He better know I’m still mad.

As I sit in the pew, the silence seem to crowd me in.

Someone clears their throat and a baby coos in the room and me stomach flips.

I quickly shove my hands back into fists. Shit. Why the hell did I say that? Dad is gonna to kill me.

The sweat that dried on my back suddenly feels cold and heavy.

●

When we leave the church, everyone’s talking about heading to Granny’s house.

Who’s bringing what, who’s riding with who. Like it’s a regular Sunday dinner. Like we didn’t just bury Granddad.

I walk ahead. I don’t wanna talk to nobody. Not Ma, not Dad, not Kem.

"Kae!"

Dijah’s voice cuts through the noise behind me.

I keep walking.

“Kae, wait up!” she calls again, breathless, her dress swishing as she tries to catch up.

I don’t stop. I don’t slow down.

She finally reaches me, huffing.

“Why you acting like I’m chasing you with a weapon?”

I shrug. “Didn’t ask you to follow me.”

She eyes me. Quiet for a second. Then says softly, "You were so angry back there. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay."

I stop walking. Not because I want to, but because I don’t want to explode in the middle of the street.

"We’re at a funeral," I say, low. "What kind of dumb ass question is that?"

She flinches, just a little. "I didn’t mean it like that."

"Then don’t say nothing."

She looks like she wants to argue, but she just says "You can be mad. But don’t take it out on me."

I don’t answer. I just start walking again, faster this time.

I hear her sigh behind me, then fall back toward the rest of the group.

As we head to the car, I keep my head down, but I can feel eyes staring at me.

The car's engine hums low as James turns onto the main road, one hand resting on the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio until old-school reggae fills the silence.

Nobody’s talking. Ma’s leaning into the window, eyes closed, like she can block out the world if she just stops looking at it.

I sit behind Dad, staring out the window. My hands are folded in my lap, but they’re clenched tight. The shame from the mic is still burning under my skin.

Then, Dad adjusts the rearview mirror. His eyes meet mine for a tense second before looking back at the road.

He doesn't need to speak for me to know the lecture is coming.

"Kisasi. You understand the meaning of decorum?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the music like a razor.

"I..." I start, but the word catches in my throat.

"I did not ask for your explanation," Dad continues, his tone even and controlled. "I asked if you understood. What you did today, in that place, in front of your grandmother and your elders... that was a disgrace. Pure, unadulterated indiscretion."

He pauses, then the tone shifts, losing the stiffness for a moment of sharp, cultural disappointment.

"We are not here in Canada, boy. This is not some little show for your little friends. This is your family. When a man is buried, we honor him with respect and dignity. You do not stand up there and shout your frustration like a market vendor who lost his goods."

James, tries to step in. "So," he says finally, trying to make conversation. "Y’all handled the service well. The kids especially. I know it ain’t easy."

Dad doesn't even look at him. He faces the windshield, and the tension in the air gets thick enough to chew.

"You think that was handling it well?" Dad asks, voice sharp.

James glances in the rearview, caught off guard. “What you mean?”

"My son—" Dad starts, then stops, pulling the conversation back from the formal language he’d been using on me. "He got up there and made a whole damn speech about being mad. At a funeral."

My stomach drops.

"Novaro," Ma says softly, warning in her voice. "Let it go."

Dad's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't flinch or look at her. He just stares straight ahead, his hands gripping his knees.

"That’s not how we deal with things,"

he says, low and clipped.

"That’s not how I raised him. You don’t go showing your business to a whole room of people like that."

James lets out a small breath. “He’s grieving, man. Let the boy speak his truth.”

Dad turns his head slightly to face James. "You got kids, James?"

"No," James replies, brows furrowing.

"Exactly," Dad snaps. "Then don’t tell me how to raise mine."

The air goes dead quiet. Tense.

I clench my jaw and shift in my seat.

I feel Kem’s eyes flick toward me from the other side, but I don’t look back.

"I ain’t crying or breaking down or anything," I say louder this time, directing it at the back of Dad's head.

"I just... lost. That’s it."

Dad finally turns his head slightly toward me, just enough for me to catch his profile and his voice

"I told you to be a man, Kae. A man controls his emotions. A man holds himself to a higher standard than yelling in a sacred space. Your intentions were fine, maybe, but your execution was weak." His voice starts to turn irritated "You made your mother and me look like we raised a wild beast! Next time, you keep your feelings to yourself. Learn some damn control." He takes a deep breath, "That’s how young black men are, accused, jailed, or even fucking killed!"

He faces forward again. He doesn't say a word. Just stares out the windshield like I’m not even there.

I hate this part—the silence. The not-knowing. The way he can erase you just by not looking your way.

So I fold my arms across my chest and lean back. Unbothered. Like I didn’t just embarrass the whole family. Like I don’t care what Dad thinks.

The car keeps rolling through the heat, windows fogging just slightly from the tension

I make sure no one sees the sweat on my palms, or the fire still crawling under my skin.

Burning slow. But burning all the same.

Kem: VI

After that car ride, everything is tense.

Dad is grumpier than usual,

Ma is locked in one of the guess rooms with Auntie Shakira, probably talking about what happened,

Kae is giving me the cold shoulder, like I did something to him. And I'm just here in the living room letting Dijah talk my ears off.

"We need to find away for Kae to calm down. Tonight is not going to be enjoyable for anyone if he's low-key fuming." Dijah says, pacing around like detective solving a mystery.

"And how do you think we're going to fix this?" I say, doodling on a page. I'm not really drawing, just letting my hands gui— "Kem!" Dijah says.

"What?" I say, with my eyes glued to the page.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Mmm-hmm"

"You know what?" Dijah says, but before I can say anything, she snatches my sketchbook book from me and closes it shut.

I roll my eyes. "Okay, what do you tell me?"

Dijah clears her throat, "As I was saying, you need to talk to Kae."

Wait what?

"You want me to talk to Kae?"

I ask, as if she asked the most stupidest question— which she did.

"Yes I—"

"When he’s pissed."

"Yes Kem," she says pleading, "You're the only one who he'll listen to."

"No."

The word comes out before I even think about it.

Dijah raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"He's mad."

She stares at me.

And I hate that she does because Dijah has this annoying ability to look at you like she already knows the answer.

"Kem."

I sigh.

"I'm just gonna make it worse."

That shuts her up

I need serious help

I need a little CRUSH help.

What should I do tomorrow?

First Day of school and I'm late!

I need serious comeback help!!!

So when I see her at school on the 8th, what should I say when she starts talking shit.

For those who need context:

Is this a good come back?

Is that a good comeback?

What’s your single biggest regret from your time in high school?

Does all boys do that?

Sophomore year prep

Should I have done that?

Random grade nine stuff (story time!!!)

This is the werid part:

What's your thoughts, advice, ect?

If someone calls you an orphan, what's a good comeback?

Which Portuguese-Guyanese surname sounds best for my character?

I'm a female teen author who needs feedback from my community, to make sure it sense. Some chapters aren't completed. [It’s contemporary YA]

I need to be educated!

I need to be educated!