April Fair was a troubled girl. That’s what they always said. As a child, she stayed to herself, always on the edge of her class, even during recess. She knew why. She didn’t blame anyone for it. Perhaps herself.

          In the classroom, she excelled, but she always chose a desk in the far back corner where she hoped to draw the least attention.

          She mainly did that out of self-preservation, in case someone in class were to mention that cloud of dark swirling gray and black that surrounded her, the being that always clung to her. It.

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          As she grew, some would comment on It indirectly, asking why she stood out, why she was so different. Where It came from. Up until middle school, she’d managed to change the subject or laugh it off (except that first time when a boy had touched her hair, then recoiled in fear from something he didn’t understand), but by seventh grade she was sick of it.

 

          When Becky Chambers pushed her against the lockers, egged on by Sarah Finney and Claire Rutherford, they were delving into a darkness they couldn’t understand. Pale hands shoving her, pinning her back, rifling through her bag. And her darkness, It, came roiling out.
It roiled forward like a mountainous wave of unending pain. A collection of every comment and touch given teeth and claws. A looming figure of light and dark swirled together, tattered wings outstretched to block out the hallway beyond.

 

          Becky realized she’d made a mistake soon enough.

 

          April yelled and let It take over. She shoved Becky to the ground and kicked her once, hard in the ribs. She wasn’t sure what had happened next. She’d let the pain take over. Becky screamed, the other girls ran, and April was suspended. Zero tolerance, they’d said.
April had barely heard the punishment, had mumbled out an apology to the bandaged Becky on cue. But she stayed focused on It. It stood dutifully in the corner of the principal’s office, always lurking, always ready to consume her and rear Its ugly head. She thought it was ugly, at least. She hated It, and what It had made her do.

 

          No one else at school commented on It, for a while at least.

 

          It was a piece of Black life that she’d have to deal with, her mother had said, that urge to fight back intolerance. It was the hidden fire of Jewish women unleashed to hold off more oppression, her aunt had said.

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          It felt unique to April, a burden that only she bore.

 

          Her return to school a week later left her even further ostracized. The story of It had spread on the lips of three who sought attention, any ears for their tale. But always whispered. Always low.

 

          It was a creature that lived inside the different one, the one you mustn’t dare to touch or look upon for fear she’ll sic It on you next. And who knows if you’ll survive. Becky barely had. And she was minding her own business that day in the hall.

 

          The whispers turned back to regular volume conversation when they saw that April kept It restrained now.

 

          April spent high school alone. No friends, no clubs, no teams. She merely existed. If that.

 

          She didn’t dare to let even a bit of Its power loose again, in case she might lose control of It and lose what little of her existed to It.

 

          Her family tried to coax her from under Its shadow, to separate them. They told her she was special, that different was good, that they loved her no matter what, and this thing she saw as a dark cloud in humanoid form, always lurking and clinging to her shoulders like an overbearing ghoul was no big deal. But they didn’t feel It. They didn’t have to bear It every day and night like she did. They didn’t have It breathing on their necks and see Its razor-sharp teeth smiling at them every time they looked in the mirror as a constant reminder of what separated them from everyone else, why they must remain alone. Only she did.

 

          Still, they urged her to try and fight It for college, to give herself another chance.
And that almost worked.

 

          She dutifully attended all her classes, though she still sat far in the back. She still felt a desire to separate herself.

 

          It was only when a professor peaked her interests in an ancestral migrations narratives class that suddenly she saw an outlook where she didn’t need to hate  herself anymore. One assignment on family trees brought up so much for her. So much she could explore, so much depth to her history that she hadn’t realized was history.

 

          It wasn’t just sharing a story of a family meal, she was sharing why her black mother had learned to make latkes for her Jewish father. She learned that her grandparents hadn’t just moved to the North for jobs. They were escaping a past of slavery and sharecropping. Her family was so adamant about education for April because her grandmother was the first in her family to go to college, when her older siblings had saved money for her to go.
She started to see the colors of It blur together, all necessary pieces of her.

 

          She presented her family’s history to the class, and her professor called it captivating. A beautiful collection of pieces to form one ongoing story.

 

          April beamed as she took her seat, happy for the first time in a long while.

 

          Next class she was in the front row.

 

          As she sat there, rapt by the horrific notion of peoples fleeing war and coups, eager for better and safer lives, the door to the classroom flew open.

 

          A gentle young man with dark chocolate skin sat beside her and asked for notes on the first half of the day’s lecture. His face was so goofy that before she knew why, she was laughing. And before she knew how he’d managed, he’d dropped her guard.

 

          They became friends over time, then he kissed her on a walk home from a dinner of burgers and fries and milkshakes.

 

          It was a feeling she didn’t recognize, and the creature inside her awoke with a joyful fury she didn’t know was possible before. Its colors swirled together to create something that fueled her for once. A joyous and kind overlapping of black and white.

 

          Then they went to a party together. As soon as they entered, she felt off. It was ear-rattling loud, the din physically uncomfortable for her. The energy and her lurking shadow clashed, and flooded her with anxiety. Her guy tried to comfort her, and she tried to relax (and soothe the creature) for his sake.

 

          Until they walked into the kitchen and past a young man pouring drinks for other guests. He looked familiar, from one class or another. But she didn’t know his name.

 

          “Oh look,” he said. “The Alabama porch monkey finally got his mute halfie to come out of her cage. How cute.”

 

          He shoved her man with his pale hands.

 

          She didn’t know if it was playful or not, if the spilled drinks were intentional.

 

          Her lurking shadow didn’t care. The words were what mattered to It.

 

          It took control of her, energy flowing through her whole body as she shoved the drunk guest. He bumped the punch bowl and yelled, but she punched him fast in the eye. Then again. She had him on the floor before her man could pull her off the guest to tell her the cops were out front. A noise complaint.

 

          He rushed her out the back door, into an alley, then calmly walked her down the next street over and away from the other escaping guests who headed up the hill toward other parties. He slowed her down. They walked as if they were a couple out for a pleasant stroll in the crisp autumn air. Her breathing hadn’t slowed.

 

          He stopped her at an empty bus stop and sat her on the freezing cold metal bench. She knew the relationship was over. An asshole had revealed the creature inside her to everyone, but mostly to the one person she cared about outside her family. He couldn’t stay with someone so different, so in between, so filled with mixed cultures and identities that she didn’t know herself. Someone so ugly inside and out. He had stopped her here to end it.
That was alright. She could protect herself and continue on, even if it meant that she went on alone for a time again.

 

          He knelt in front of her and held her hands, examining her scraped knuckles as he spoke.

 

          “That guy’s such a jackass,” he said. “But that was unreal. About time someone stood up to him. Are you okay?”

 

          She realized the knuckles on her right hand hurt even under his gentle touch.

 

          But he was smiling, and soon so was she.

 

          “You know, you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

 

          They married soon after graduation.

 

          It was a lovely ceremony, small and simple.

 

          As she stared into the mirror before walking down the aisle, she took in her simple white dress, the flowers in her coily hair. It was easy for her to see what her family and husband-to-be saw now. She was beautiful. Her story was too.

 

          She knew the two sides of her family were out in the audience, waiting for her, along with her fiancé’s all-black family.

 

          As she gazed deep into the murky, ethereal form that had always clung to her, she now saw her mother’s face in It, her father’s, her aunts and uncles. Whole generations mixed together to make her who she was. It was a new and constantly changing thing, but It was beautiful and healthy and important.

 

          It was a mixture of looks, yes, but of immigration and migration tales, foods and habits, traditions and song. It was frantic escapes and deliberate journeys. Soul food. Hearty soups. Laughter at the table. Tears for those no longer here.

 

          It was her people.

 

          It was Her.

 

          As she looked, she pulled it about herself as a suit of armor that suffused her every cell. It contained and enveloped her dress. It protected her now and always would, but It was all of her. There was no separation.

 

          She walked down the aisle with her head held high, and her family gasped, taking in her white dress with the sparkling gray shawl over her shoulders. She had embraced the gift they’d given her after It had haunted her for so long.

 

          When they had kids of their own, she knew she’d pass the gift on. It would hold to them like it had to her.

 

          It might trouble them as It had her, but she’d show them the facets of Its complexities, the lightness in Its darkest depths, and together they would recognize the beauty of Its blend.