Maurice Broaddus - Unfadeable

TO BELLA

AND WILDSTYLE. AND IMHOTEP.

YOU ALL INSPIRE ME.

I JUMP BEHIND A pillar as soon as I see the police car slow rolling down Clifton Street. I recognize the officer driving it by his trifling mustache, looking like he pasted squirrel fur on his upper lip. Hes busted me a few times for tagging. Only once he rounds the corner and the car grumbles safely out of sight do I creep back around to the front. Middle school might be out, but its not summer until my first tag of the year.

As I inspect my handiwork, I keep shaking my spray can. Not quite a nervous habit; I just like the way it rattles in my hand, like Im a snake warning everyone that Im out and about. The alternating red and green letters have black flames around them, spelling my name out along each pillar on the I-65 overpass, creating a 3D echo of the word. I dont just see colors, I feel them. Colors are all potential. They can be anything. Its all about how you mix them.

My name is Isabella Fades, a little bit of Black mixed with a little bit of white. My friends call me Bella, but out here in the streets, Im known as...

UNFADEABLE!

Not my best work, but itll do for now. Definitely not bad for a thirteen-year-old, if I do say so myself.

On the edge of the wall of the overpass is my main feature. A portrait of a Black woman in profile looking over her shoulder at the passing traffic. Her sepia skin color is darker than my tawny complexionmy light skin is the only trace left behind by my father. Her Afro flares out like the flames of the letters in Unfadeable. She has a way of owning everything about her. Her eyes are my masterpiece. Bronze with gold flecks in them. It took me forever to capture them the way I remember. Sometimes I let myself miss her.

I check the time on my prepaid cell. 1:45 p.m. Clouds crawl across the sky, thickening and darkening because Indianas weather forgot that its summertime not spring. I hope I can make it to the United Northwest Area neighborhood association meeting before it starts raining. Ive never been to one of these before. My rumbling stomach reminds me to pray that they will have have snacks at this thing.

I run my fingers through my hair and tie the bushy mess back with a scrunchie. My Black Girl Magic is REAL T-shirt over black leggings will have to do for this meeting because thats as professional as Im going to get. Besides, Im just about out of clean outfits.

Scrambling down the embankment, I wade though grass that sprouts nearly two feet high, like the yard of an abandoned house. The city hasnt sent out a prison work crew to mow it recently. Im not surprised; it has a habit of forgetting our community. The way the highway carves up the blocks forces me to walk a long winding path from one part of the United Northwest Areaits full government nameto the other. Luckily, Clifton Street is the main corridor that runs through The Land, which is what the folks who actually live here call our neighborhood. Outside of my school, the Persons Crossings Public Academy, The Land is the only world that I know. Its magic. People call it The Land because the whole area used to be farmland. Now I almost twist my ankle walking along the uneven pavement of the cracked sidewalk.

Summer vacations only as fun as you make it, you know? If I cant come up with my own adventures, Id be stuck in a house complaining about how bored I am. That aint me. I figure out what I have to do. I nod to a kidmaybe eight or nine, he stays on the blockfixing his bike, trying to make do with the parts he has. After fishing in the side pocket of my backpack, I hand him a small baggie of bearings.

Whats that? He stares at the bag like Im trying to hand him a cup of wasps. Oily splotches stain his white tank top. His shorts drape past his knees, matching his black socks against his Indianapolis Colts slides.

Bearings for your bike.

But Jared and em snatched them from me. Whered you get them?

I found them. Snatched from the bushes they guard like a bank vault where they tend to hide stuff is probably more than he needs to know. What do you care?

Oooh, he says, like Ive just been called to the principals office. Jareds gonna be mad.

He makes mad sound like it has three syllables.

Thats for me to worry about. I aint scared. I glance over my shoulder, checking for anyone approaching by bike. Jared and em are only one thing wrong with the neighborhood. I cant quite put my finger on whats changed. I heard some dudes were putting together a bike program over on Thirty-Fourth. Why dont you go up there and see if they can help you out?

A still-uncertain look on his facecareful but not distrustinghe takes the baggie and upturns his bike to walk it up the block. He turns around for a second with his silent, Thank you.

I dont even know how to respond to the boy properly. I never got to be a kid. My family has lived in one part or another of this neighborhood all my life. I remember being young, but that ended the day the police knocked on our door and I answered.

Thats what led to me no longer having a home.

This is why I have only associates. Friends are a risk I cant afford. They might find out about my situation. Even a friendly ally, as my teachers like to call themselves, might feel the need to call the Department of Child Services on me. I dont need anybody.

I swear I hear the sound of a bike skipping off the sidewalk around the corner and, fearing that Jared might be closer than I want, I run to the meeting. Still, going to this meeting is more a matter of survival... mostly because I was promised thered be snacks.

I cant say I ever noticed the old Indianapolis Public Library No. 1 building much before the summer. With the number 1906 chiseled onto its cornerstone, it looked like another house overgrown with weeds and ivy. Ms. Campbells on some committee to see about getting it on a historic registry because its the oldest library building in Indianapolis. Since its on our block, the city had forgotten about it, but she organized folks to help refurbish it into a community space. Me being here is her fault. Shes always on me to do more stuff for the community. Im not sure if thats me, though. Were all in this together, she always says like shes the neighborhood cheerleader. If anyone tries to call her by her government name, Essence Campbell, or anything else, they quickly get corrected. Id call her my friend, but like I said, I cant afford those. Friends share their lives, their secrets. But shes low-key, all right. I let her convince me to come to this meeting, but Im really beginning to question her judgment.

For one thing, someones got some poor planning skills. Two oclock weekday meetings dont make sense. Naturally, the crowd outside the library is mostly a blue-hair convention, since the only people who can attend are retirees, the unemployed, and the people paid to be there. This must be how retirees and busybodies mix and mingle to meet people. Riverside community people, from the far side of The Land where my folks used to stay: a handful of businesspeople and property owners. Its like Im walking the hallways of my school. Im invisible. People acknowledge me enough to move out of my way, or not, but thats about it. They dont know me and barely make the effort to see me.