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ARTHEN HIGH SCHOOL

KINGSTON, JAMAICA

SUMMER OF 1976

Irie

There is a war in the streets, and I live on the front line.

* * *

I glance over at Jilly, silently wondering if she understands the battle I must face the moment we part ways. We go in separate directions when we get to the schoolyard gates.

I go east, and she goes north.

Just like always.

I watch as she tucks a loc of her loose brown curls behind her ear. She shoves a compact mirror into her bright pink backpack, completely oblivious to my gaze. There’s a sense of relief to her demeanor as she takes in one final deep breath of this place. She looks out at the schoolyard, grinning so wide it covers her entire face. As the sun grazes her fair, freckled skin, I can feel her anticipation of everything that awaits her in the summer that lies ahead. But even though her excitement is magnetic—it makes me feel invisible.

I find myself trying to read her thoughts—longing to get lost in her world.

Trying my best to feel what Jilly must right now.

As the hot sun beats down, I can’t help but wonder what it must be like to have the world as your oyster—to have so much control over the direction of your life that you could hold your future in the palm of your hand. And at the very least, I wonder what it must feel like to not have to contemplate Life and Death every day on your way home from school.

Because those are not worries for girls who live on Jacks Hill.

“Irie, this is mod!” Jilly laughs as she takes in the excitement around us.

Our classmates rush through the doors as she waves goodbye, blowing kisses and calling out to a few of the girls from our form. She’s closer to a lot more of them than I am.

Popular, even.

I’m just the poor girl who was lucky enough to be called her friend.

For the most part, I kept my head down these past four years at Arthen. And the truth is, none of these girls are going to miss me. I’m just Jillian’s friend—and acquaintances with everybody else by association. But it never bothered me what they think.

Jillian’s always had my back.

As I watch her say her goodbyes, I know she has no awareness of my angst—and if she does, she is seldom to acknowledge it. We’ve done this dance every day for the past few years—the same pretense steps, as if we both don’t know what awaits once I cross the gates. I often wonder how much she understands about my life beyond this school—beyond the time I spent here with her—but I don’t dare ask the question out loud. I keep it buried at the back of my throat and swallow it with every bated breath. Today is our last day of high school, and I’ve already made it this far.

I must do this walk one final time.

The hot sun electrifies the madness as girls run left and right with their schoolbags flung over their shoulders. I watch as a girl with two tight, permed pigtails pulls out an old cloth jump rope. She and a few girls from our form swing it with all their might, giving it one last go as they take turns jumping in and out. Their chanting fills the air, pulling me out of my angst.

Two, four, six, eight …

Dem bod, I think as I watch a girl do tricks with her feet. I fight the urge to jump in when Jilly grabs my hand, pulling me back to reality. Her palms are soft, effortlessly melting into mine—just like they always have.


Copyright © 2023 by Asha Ashanti Bromfield