420 by Kenya Wright, Jackie Sheats Page B

convince me to come to this?” Coco asked.
    I tossed her an innocent smile. “My lawyer advised me not to answer any questions that might paint me in a harmful light.”
    In all fairness, I’d guilted her into putting the clothes on and even coming to this event. She’d missed my birthday and promised to make it up.
    Today I cashed in.
    “I shouldn’t even be at this. . .party,” Coco continued. “What if the cops come and arrest everyone? That’s all I need right now—”
    “Cops don’t rush up to penthouse suites in Brickell and arrest people. When’s the last time you saw some big news report of rich people going to jail in this area? The cops are too busy harassing poor people.” I tucked my red hair behind my ear.
    Although I kept my mask on, there might not have been a need to wear it. Only people in the hood truly knew me. Due to the color of my skin, I told most strangers I was black, although it never explained my green eyes or the blood red waves that fell to my hips.
    Everyone called me Red, so I went with it, sometimes brightening the shade of my hair to the crayon’s color.
    Now more than ever, it was hard to stay under the radar. New York Times had just done a full layout of my life and presented huge color photos of my top murals. The bottom half of my face remained hidden, but walking out in the streets without my disguise sometimes made me nervous.
    I’m glad the host has us wearing masks.
    Coco shook her head. “I can’t believe I listened to you.”
    I held her hand, scared she’d run off and leave me at this place with Mary, who stood on my other side silent and high as a kite.
    Just to make sure she was still mentally with us, I turned her way. “Are you okay, Mary?”
    “The whole place is just vibrating with rhythm,” Mary whispered.
    I nodded. “O-kay.”
    “Like an African drum beating hard like the heart beats of a tribe that has known so much strife. I’m talking death and starvation, maybe even some form of human trafficking and genital mutilation—”
    “Hold on, Mary.” I held my hand up to stop her. “Let’s finish this conversation, once we drag Coco inside of here against her will.”
    “I’m not going in there.” Coco pointed to the door ahead of us.
    I ignored Coco, dug into my pocket book, and gave Mary the small bottle of water I kept for emergencies like this. “Drink, Mary.”
    “I’m not thirsty.”
    “Come on. Do it for the tribe.”
    Sighing, Mary grabbed it with her free hand. The other one was holding her shoes, that she’d apparently thought was okay to take off before walking into a high-end party. They were clear heels with gems that reminded me of Cinderella’s slippers, all sparkling and exuding hope that the owner would go to the ball and catch her prince.
    Too bad Cinderella is already higher than a kite and won’t be able to see Prince Charming or anyone else at the ball this evening.
    She still looked regal that evening. Mary never dyed her strands like mine, and preferred to keep it in pinned up styles that were very reminiscent of the classic 20’s—flapper girls and Great Gatsby fame.
    Mary and I were both unknown mixtures. My mother was white, but I had no idea who my father was. Mary didn’t know her parents at all, and had been lucky to live with a distant cousin. We both had that same light-toned skin, and had grown up together in the Pork and Bean projects, one of the worst ones in our city. The residents had named the area due to the fact that everyone who lived there was on government food assistance, which meant that the kitchen table held a whole lot of meals with pork and beans.
    Our mothers did drugs together, so we raised ourselves. I’d painted my way out of the slums. She escaped through spoken words that drew in large numbers of poetry lovers to any venue she attended.
    “You need to drink water, Mary.” I pointed to her shoes. “And put those back on.”
    “Fine. But why do we even wear shoes?” She dropped