Coward

I am a coward.

I never really thought myself one before. In fact, I considered myself quite brave. My socials have always been soaked with activism, as post after post rallied for equal rights, for fair treatment, for the destruction of one construct or another. I wrote essays in class on feminism. Debated the racists in my class on how their ideology was harmful. Even corrected my parents and family in their erroneous beliefs about political correctness and things like that. I felt bold. I felt brave.

But not today.

Today, I sat stone still and let an injustice waltz right past me.

Rashael was the first friend I had ever made at college. She lived right across the hall from me, and was the person I ran to when I needed to escape my rowdy roommate and her latest conquest. She had a mini TV and all the streaming services, so movie nights in her dorm became a regular thing. She loved my company, especially when her roommate moved out and left her alone. Rashael hated sleeping alone. I took the empty bed, we'd watch crime shows and fall asleep to the droning of the TV.

It was our last day before winter break. Rashael desperately wanted some Starbucks - "They don't have it in my hometown!" - so we went to the one near campus. As we stood in line, we made plans to meet up over break, to room together next semester, to face-time each other, to not let go. Rashael lived in a small town with her mom and three brothers, and man was she gonna miss me.

"Who's gonna watch true crime with me? All my brothers ever watch is their phones. Plus, my mom thinks that stuff is creepy. She's all paranoid about it."

I nodded. "My parents aren't much into it either. They like those dumb made-for-TV movies. I just hole up in my room and watch my shows on my laptop."

"Right?! Ugh, this break's gonna suck. I'll miss you."

"Me too. You're like my sister."

"Girl, you are my sister."

A laugh came from behind us. Rashael whipped around to see some guy in pink shorts and a button-down staring right at us.

"Something funny?" Rashael was never one to let things slide.

"Uh, yeah," said the guy. "I don't know if you looked in the mirror lately, but Koko and Taylor Swift ain't related."

The blood drained from my face. How could he say something like that? I looked at Rashael, who was righteously getting angry.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me, Shawnquisha. Your little white friend over here ain't your sister."

He kept talking, but my horror drowned out the words. Rashael just raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms.

"What're you gaining from this? Hm? Feel pretty special dontcha? Gonna run and tell all your little Chad friends about how you just really handed it to this Black girl today, huh? What -"

Before she could finish speaking, the guy spat in her face.

Rashael's jaw dropped in horror. She froze where she stood, too in shock to do anything. The guy looked all smug, watching her reaction. I looked around to see if anyone else saw it. I watched faces turn away and thought desperately, Someone do something! But no one moved an inch.

The cashier called out for the next person in line. I looked at Rashael, who was grinding her jaw.

"Next!"

She began to breath heavy.

"Next?"

"That's you, auntie," goaded the guy.

Rashael looked away. "Let's go. I don't want nothing anymore."

She walked past me and stormed out, and I sheepishly trailed behind her. I grabbed napkins on my way out. She didn't stop until we were in her car. She sat behind the wheel, stared off for a second, then slammed her fist into the center, setting off the horn. She was about to put her face in her hands, so I stopped her and handed her the napkins. She took them and looked at me. Her eyes welled up with tears. I watched them drip down her cheek, flowing in a steady stream until they reached the still-wet spit on her face. In rage, she dragged the napkins across her face til the spit and tear were gone and her cheek was slightly raw. Under her breath, she cursed. Her hands were shaking.

"I ain't ever been so mad," she whispered. "But look at him! He's mister money-bags frat-boy lawyer-dad. I lay a finger on him, I'm in a court case that'll break my bank." She sniffed. "He ain't worth it."

I sat, silent for a moment. Well, I had been silent for many moments. When I finally opened my mouth, my tongue was dry.

"Somebody," I cleared my throat. "Somebody should've done something. Nobody even reacted."

"Yeah."

"Somebody should've done something."

"Mhm, somebody should've done something."

"Yeah."

"But no one did. No one ever does."

"What?"

Rashael sighed. "When my brother Andre got the spot on the Varsity football team over some white kid, him and all his friends wrote the n-word in sharpie all over his locker and his uniform. Know what the coach did? Billed my mama for the price of a new uniform. Nobody did anything to those boys. When I was six, my babysitter made me cry unbraiding my cornrows because she thought it made me look 'ghetto.' Mama fired that babysitter, but she couldn't do nothing to her. This guy," she sighed again. "This guy walks clean no matter what I do. Best to save myself the trouble."

I looked down.

She looked out the windshield. "You're right - somebody should do something. But no one ever does."

After Rashael composed herself, she decided to try the local coffee shop on the other side of town. We said our goodbyes after a caramel frappe, and I watched her pull out and begin her drive home. I sat in my dorm for another two hours as I packed, thinking about our encounter. Why hadn't anyone done anything? Why did he get away with it? It hit me like a truck. Brave as I tried to be, I let the guy mistreat my friend because I was scared. I let it go.

Somebody should've done something.

It should've been me.