Chapter 104
- James -
The day started off with Father clearing his throat as he placed his newspaper down on the table. This typically meant business or disapproval, sometimes both.
"Son, your hair, he said, taking a sip of his coffee, not looking me once in the eyes." You look wild; it's very unkempt and unruly of you. Do you not want to be respected? You'll need to maintain your appearance and present yourself as a gentleman. This is just the way of the world if you ever hope to become a decent man in the future.
But today, for some reason, the critique stung me more than usual. Not because I care about the haircut, but because part of me wanted to keep looking like—well...me, not a version of their legacy.
Still, I sat in the barber's chair quietly and obediently. Twenty minutes later, my calm and undisturbed appearance on the surface must have wavered. My father, I guess, noticed a shift of disappointment. My father agreed to let me keep a bit of length at the top. A compromise. Not a win. Just something in between to allow me to form my own vision of myself, as long as it was within the parameters of his parental expectations.
I looked in the mirror when they were finished. I was neat and clean.
"See, son," my father said, resting a hand on my shoulder. "You look respectable—extraordinary, even. The kind of excellence I would expect from my son."
Something about this new look felt transitional—different to me.
Uncle needs help setting up the festival, so my father dropped me off before heading home for more work. By then, the sun had stretched wide over Wabash Avenue, and the vendors were already setting up and unpacking. I took a deep breath. I wasn't sure why...? It was a mix of relief and resignation, but I felt like it was progress. Like I was stepping into something.
- Micah POV -
I spotted James before she located me.
He was standing by the booth with his uncle, hauling crates and directing volunteers as if he were born into leadership. His posture seemed straighter, his jaw cleaner and smoother, and his hair was trimmed back. It was not short at the top but faded to the bottom, just enough to make me pause. There was something new about him. Not loud or extreme. Just more...present.
It hit me how much he had grown this year.
Not just in the height department or in the way his frame stretched a bit leaner. But it showed his growth, less that of a boy and more that of a man. His quiet command of his presence had always been the stillness in my storms. Now, people noticed it when he walked into the room. He didn't drift to the back anymore. I noticed him. I couldn't help my eyes from lingering, caught between curiosity and something else I don't think I could name.
It wasn't about the haircut. Or the way the sun caught the edge of his cheekbone and jaw. It was the way he moved now, aware as though he had finally stepped into his own skin for the first time and decided to stay there.
I felt something stirring, admiration... Yeah, I had respect. I say that, but my chest is still fluttering otherwise. It felt like this was the first time I had seen him. He was more than just the distant, quiet genius of our group. He was someone I could feel myself leaning on.
He caught my eye across the square and nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching—just barely. Was that… a smile?
It shifted something in me. Like my body suddenly remembered it had a temperature.
I looked away before I could smile back.
But why?
Never mind. I had work to do before—
"Hey, Micah!"
Kaysi's voice snapped me back so much I jumped.
"Jesus, you scared the life out of me."
She grinned, not sorry in the slightest. "Are you okay? You're looking a little flushed."
"No, I'm fine," I said, waving her off. "Just got… sidetracked."
"Uh-huh." She raised an eyebrow but let it go.
I straightened my back and turned toward the crowd. "C'mon. We've got a festival to run."
The downtown streets, now blocked off, bloomed with music and lanterns. It smelled like sizzling garlic and smoked sugars. Paper signs were hung in Mandarin, Spanish, and Cajun, curled against the food trucks. People are dancing playfully. The kids got their faces painted, while others played games with the other children afterwards. It looked like so much joy.
Uncle had pulled off something remarkable in such a short time. A cultural street festival designed to uplift and connect everyone's spirits. It felt raw and ours. Vendors knew our names—strangers who had come shared stories with the others. The Waymakers had a table beside the gospel choir, offering flyers on housing aid and safe spaces, as some are being displaced.
James stood beside the table now, folding handouts with mechanical precision, not batting an eye of focus.
Even when he was done, he didn't notice me watching from afar as he did before. Something is off, I thought. His eyes focused on the ground as if something was underneath. He's troubled thinking of something?
Kaysi appeared again out of the blue for the second time, rubbing her temple as if thunder pressed behind her eyes, as she casually walked by, trying to be undetected.
"Are you okay, Kaysi?" I called her out.
"No... She hesitated, second-guessing her words. "Well, yeah, I think something is here," she muttered. "I feel something aged hiding in the presence of joy. Maybe cloaked in it."
Kaysi's seer senses are always earlier and more sensitive than the rest of ours.
"Sorry, I didn't say anything at first. I was unsure and didn't want to worry you."
"Trust your instincts. I think James is feeling something, too."
I glanced at James. His gaze now scanned the crowd. Sharp and silent.
It started slowly, and the atmosphere shifted. One of the vendors is accusing another vendor of stealing a recipe. A teen bickering at a stranger as if they pushed them on purpose. And a couple that just came off the stage, shouting over misread lyrics. Nothing, unusual when large groups of people gather in public. But today, the cracks widened faster.
James and Evan stepped in quietly, diffusing the arguments one by one before they could escalate into physical violence or cause further disturbance. But something felt like it was crawling underneath the music. Nothing that made the hairs on your arm stand up.
Then came the spark.
A scream about a stolen purse in defense as a man ran the other way was stopped quickly by Evan. But the chaos boiled to the surface. People began to push each other when our eyes were distracted by the thief.
Some people were unaffected. Others are spreading rumors like kindling—some filming.
In the chaos stood a man, unmoving. Too still. Too pleasant, it was unbearable. His face looked trustworthy and gentle, but his eyes flickered.
"There, Kaysi said prudently. Just once, but I saw it. His eyes are his."
Her eyes flared open. "He's not alone. His presence felt multiplied—like he wasn't just one person, but many. He's wearing all of them."
The demon of duplicity.
The air split with whispers of deception.
- There are vendors cheating people.
- There is feeding you unsanitary food.
- Someone is hiding something from you.
The crowd thickened with suspicion. Joy soured.
Uncle took the stage, voice ringing through the tension.
"I learned from my daughter what I loved: sharing her tea parties with others, regardless of the location, even in the dirt, at times; that love grows best where hands are met. Not their cups shone, and napkins were placed. This festival is that—a dirt-born love. Tensions are high with the evictions. But one thing that will never change is each one of us and the hearts we hold. The strengths we pull from one another are like iron sharpening iron, and so do our communities.
James moved and walked into the crowd, picking up a banner that had fallen—a child's painting of the city wrapped in a giant heart. He lifted it high—an unspoken, simple gesture.
People paused.
Kaysi's voice rang out. The voices you hear wear your trust, but you know the truth. Look again to one another; we all know each other here.
With eyes turned, the man slipped out, and all that was seen was his porcelain mask, which was cracked like his heart.
Silence followed.
Then applause—not loud. Not relieved. Just recognition. The festival exhaled, and we returned to ourselves.
James came back to my side, his shirt damp with sweat, his hands steady.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. Then:
"I think I understand the appeal now."
I asked, "Of joy?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted upward, as if searching the sky for something unseen—something beyond words.
After another moment, he spoke softly, almost to himself, "No... of fighting for it."
The words hung in the air—simple, but heavy with the weight of a man discovering a feeling he never knew.