Chuck Berry’s “Nadine” has always been my favorite song of his, ever since my dad first put it on our record machine five years ago. Before this record, my dad would never play a black man’s song in our house (much to my disapproval), but something made him keen on Chuck. In fact, “Nadine” soon became one of his favorites, too. He even swears that the song is about me because the lyrics are a little too relatable. 
So, when I found out that he was playing in the heart of New York City tonight, I nearly lost my head. I convinced my best friend, Charlotte, and the rest of my gals to come with me, and they somehow agreed even though their only association with Chuck Berry was through me playing his songs over and over. It was going to be the perfect summer night, so I planned to wear a special outfit, just for the occasion: a black and white polka dot dress, accompanied by my favorite red satchel, and my mother’s pearl necklace.
We all walked through the park together and I could feel the energy coursing through every single individual. My head seemed to be on a constant swivel, with my eyes latching onto the food carts, amusement rides, and colorful lights from the ongoing concert in the distance. Suddenly, I heard a mass of people roaring from afar, towards what must be the stage, and I took my girls by the hands and pulled them through the masses, eager to hear the Father of Rock ‘n’ Roll.
When we got close enough to the stage where I could nearly see the band, we all stopped and were taken captive by the music. Chuck played through his repertoire with crazy energy that made the whole crowd wig out and some people roar, literally. A couple of groups away, my eyes settled on a group of black boys cheering so loud, I could feel it echoing inside of me. But a few seconds later, I matched their screams as the opening lines to “Nadine” poured out into the July night, my body following later by bouncing and spinning along with the melody.
Right in the middle of the song, Charlotte leaned in to my ear and screamed, “That black guy has been staring at you for minutes now. What’s his problem?” I leaned away and continued to dance, not before giving Charlotte an aloof look and then glancing toward the direction she pointed out before. To my alarm, one of the black fellows from the group hollering up a storm earlier, was looking right at me before he smiled and turned his attention back to the stage.

I thought I was feeling alive before, but when her head spun around, with her champagne colored hair falling against her face, and her glance falling on me, my heart nearly thumped its way out of my chest. She gave a slight smirk and continued dancing and I smiled, forcing myself to focus back on the band. I began to mentally scold myself for being so foolish and careless. Mama always said that publicly looking at a white girl, like I was, would turn sour before turning sweet.
I called to my pals saying, “I’m going to go fetch myself a Coke over there,” pointing in my proposed direction. I began to excuse myself from the close crowds of people, heading towards the closest snack stand. I walked up to a line of about fifteen people, so I accepted that I would be there for a while. I turned sideways in line to look back at the stage, and surprisingly, the hypnotizing gal from the Chuck Berry concert stepped up right behind me in line giving me a sincere grin. I must have looked more shocked than I had planned, because her eyes squinted and her grin turned into a smile that produced a fit of giggles.
She extended her hand and announced herself, “Hello, I’m Laura Green.”

I don’t know exactly what was going through my head, but I saw the black boy leave, so I decided to follow in his direction towards the food.
I bent towards Charlotte, saying, “I’m going to grab something to eat at the food stand,” as I nodded to the illuminated shack about a hundred yards away.
“Okay, do you want me to come with? It might be dangerous for you to go alone, Laura,” Charlotte yelled.
“No, that’s alright!” I shouted back in response. She dipped her head in acknowledgement and continued to dance with the girls.
I carefully wove around groups of people until I arrived at the small food cart, where I spotted the black boy standing last in line. We made eye contact and he looked at me with a dumbfounded face, which I couldn’t help but laugh at. And then I greeted him like I would anyone else, by sticking out my hand and saying my name with self-assurance.
He grabbed my hand and slowly shook it, while his features smoothed from alarment into a deep, pearly white smile, and said in a rich voice, “Nice to meet you, Miss Laura Green. I am James Coleman, but most people just call me Jimmy.”
I smiled as he continued to ask, “Are you a fan of Chuck Berry?”.
I responded with a smile and a more serious answer of, “Absolutely. He is an amazing musician and his songs have so much energy.”
We both grinned, realizing that we shared views on major parts of our lives— music. As the line slowly receded, we continued to talk until Jimmy paid for a Coke and I pulled out fifty cents from my purse for an order of small fries.
I learned that we had the same feelings about the Father of Rock ‘n’ Roll, and lots more, actually. We decided to sit on a bench next to the food stand and sit, where we never broke conversation.
At school, we only have a few colored folks, but we usually stay separated. While I’m talking to Jimmy, I can’t believe by doing that, we are closing ourselves off from new people and perspectives. I’ve always been accepting of rights for black people, many teens have, but people like Charlotte are still stuck in their ways.
Tonight, Jimmy also tells me that he is the same age as I am, 16, though he goes to another high school here in New York City. He explains how he understands that the world is still dangerous for him, but he wants to live life. I can’t blame him.
He also tells me about his family and how they have been especially cautious of him going anywhere lately after his brother was beaten on his way registering to vote. When Jimmy revealed this to me, I was absolutely shocked.
“What?” I exclaimed, “I don’t understand why people are still so prejudiced.” I shook my head with disappointment in the world.
Jimmy’s straight face sunk as we discussed his family’s pain. He exhaled and said, “I know. The voting laws may have changed, but there are still a ton that hate us and don’t want us to have rights.” He shrugged, “Some people are just more violent about it than others, and the police didn’t do anything about the incident. The attackers were let go with no jail time— or charges for that matter.”
I swallow this information and think about all the hate that still surrounds people like Jimmy, when they don’t deserve an ounce of it. Jimmy catches me mid-thought and says, “I don’t want to put a damper on this night, though. Tell me more about you,” giving me that medal-worthy smile.
I tell him about my family and how it’s just my dad and I now, after my mom fell sick three years ago. While telling him of this, my fingers absentmindedly touch my pearl necklace. I find myself telling him about every crevice of my life; I tell him about Charlotte, I tell him about my summer, and I tell him of my dreams for the future. The whole time, Jimmy just listens as if I’m the only person making a sound when there is a cacophony surrounding us.

I cannot believe how much we have in common. All of my life, my family has pounded me with the facts: white folks and black folks just can’t get along in this world. At school, especially, the whole social dynamic of the place revolved around us being separated. Well, they sure as s*** were wrong.
I can’t tell you how long Laura and I have talked, all I know is that I would’ve talked to her for hours more, until Chuck Berry’s voice broke our conversation by thanking the crowd for a wonderful night.
The sea of people begins to disperse as the band clears the stage and a girl with snowy skin approaches the bench where Laura and I sit. From what Laura has told me, I can only assume that this is Charlotte, who seems annoyed as she locks eyes with her friend.
She exclaims, “I have been searching everywhere for you, missy!”, stopping to glance at me, then giving Laura a disapproving look. She pulls her friend off of the bench, and sternly says, “The girls and I were bugging out, you said you were only getting some food.”
Laura whispers, almost beyond my hearing, “I did get food, but then I started talking to Jimmy and I lost track of time, I guess.” While Laura is explaining her whereabouts, her words seem to go in one of Charlotte’s ears and out the other. Instead of listening to her friend, she is more focused on examining me. Her eyes keep scaling me, and her brow is furrowed in confusion.
Her head suddenly turns back to her friend. “Well we all want to go, so c’mon,” Charlotte states.
Laura glances to the side where I am and adds, “Okay, just let me say goodbye to Jimmy.” With this, Charlotte flashes one last harsh stare in my direction and goes back into the chaotic crowd.
Laura sits back down next to me and looks down bashfully, saying, “I’m sorry she was so rude.”
“It’s okay, trust me, that was nothing,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile.
A scowl formed on her face as she said, “That doesn’t make it okay, just because it’s normal.” I nodded. She was right, but for me, people acting as Charlotte had was just another day.
Again from the crowd, Charlotte and three other girls emerged waving at Laura, telling her to hurry up. Laura let a shallow sigh escape from her lips and quietly said, “Well I should get going, but I want to see you again,” and she slid from the bench.
“I live in Greenwich Village, 51 West 10th Street and there is a park right across the street where we can meet,” she added with a grin.
“Okay, well… bye, Jimmy.”
“Bye, Laura. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”
  She swiftly turned and walked to her friends and they all started to walk away together, but not before she turned to glance at me and wiggle her fingers.
I don’t really believe in fate or all that baloney, but I was about to push myself off of the bench, when I noticed Laura’s glossy red purse sitting next to me. I rushed to a standing position with the purse in hand, heading in the direction where I last saw Laura and her friends walk away. I picked up my pace, but halted when they were no longer in sight among the crazy crowds.
Well, I had to return the purse, so I guess I should do it now. I walk out of Central Park towards Greenwich Village, instead of walking towards my neighborhood on the opposite side of town. I pass tall apartment buildings and grand townhouses that are glowing from the interior lights. As I walk, nerves inside me start to buzz. What if I look suspicious? No black people live on this side of town.
I walk for a while more, approaching 10th street, when I hear a low grunts. Soon screams emerge and then a gunshot. I bolt towards the sound not even stopping to think what a sound like that could suggest. The screams subside, but I can still hear whimpering not far from where I am. I try to trace the sound and as I round a corner into an alleyway, I see Laura lying on the warm asphalt with her waxen hand cradling her stomach. I immediately break out in a cold sweat. The white polka-dotted dress she wore was painted with red. My stomach lurched when I saw the source of the wound coming from under Laura’s fingers.
I stood over her, paralyzed. This couldn’t be happening. No, no, no. I could feel the grip on her cherry red purse loosen and fall to the ground. Her tear-soaked eyes focused on mine. Her lips started moving, urging to produce a sound, but only a wet gurgle came out. She grasped for her voice, and sputtered, “He...he tried stealing... my mother’s pearls.” Tears raced down her face like a rainfall in spring. She inhaled sharply, continuing, “...and I… I put up a fight.” Her body shook with sobs, and her mouth produced sounds of discomfort.
I rapidly kneeled beside her and took her hand, frantically whispering, “We need to get you out of here and to a hospital, now.” I cradled her limp body in my arms and tried to stand. But I stumbled, which caused her wheeze and sputter. I looked down at her with desperation, but her eyes drifted shut and her jaw went slack. “This cannot be happening.” I shook her body.  “Laura, wake up! Keep your eyes open!” I wailed uncontrollably, but she was already gone. My knees became weak and I dropped to the ground, with her still in my arms, crying with my head in her golden hair.
I try to compose myself because I know that finding the police will help Laura more than me doing nothing. I smooth her hair out of her face and use all of my force to push myself off of the ground. I stagger out of the alley, and whisper, “I’ll get someone to help you, Laura.”
I run to the nearest police station, the 6th Precinct, which is ruled by white folks. I try not to think of the effect this may have on me, but it’s hard not to. This is the exact police station that responded to my brother’s assault when he was registering to vote. The memory of his attack pains me, and I curse the universe for the irony of me having to be at the 6th Precinct now.
I think about what it will look like to the men working there tonight: a black teenager claiming to be the person who found a white girl lying on the ground shot, later dying in his arms. I don’t even know if anyone else heard Laura’s cries of distress or the slap of the bullet leaving the gun.
As the precinct draws near, my heart thumps, not just from physical exertion, but from the adrenaline that is coursing through me.
When I get to the door of the station, I see my reflection in the glass windows: the knees of my jeans are torn, there are patches of blood down my shirt, and my eyes are swollen and red, traces of tears still on my cheeks. Not a nice sight.
I swing the stations doors open and slowly walk over to the front desk, where an empty chair sits. I ring the service bell that sits on the countertop and wait restlessly while someone comes to the desk. My eyes survey my surroundings and I notice a clock mounted across the room, reading 11:46. As I turn back around to the front desk, a white lady in her mid-50s adorned with reading glasses comes to the desk. “Oh!” she pops out, probably surprised at the fact that I’m in her station, in Greenwich Village, at this hour.
“Oh thank God!” I exclaim in hysterics, “My name is James Coleman. You have to help me, my friend was shot and killed by a man who stole her pearl necklace. She’s in an alley over by 10th Street.”
The lady’s eyes expand after listening to my slew of words. “Sit down. I’ll go get Officer Baker.” She rushes out of the room and through the door to the officers lounge.
I fall on a spongy mauve waiting room chair, and my leg shakes with nervous anticipation, though the rest of me feels numb. I twiddle my thumbs. My right leg is tapping on the cold linoleum floor, absorbing my nervousness.
After minutes that feel like a lifetime, a tall white man with peppered hair and a moustache walks into the waiting room. Officer Baker looks me straight in the eyes. “Come on back, boy,” he says sternly. He turns out of the room and I hurriedly stumble to my feet. I trail him into a bare room that has a table in the center, with two chairs on either side, one for me and one for him.
“Now”, states the officer, “tell me what happened.”
As I repeat the information in a frenzy, he stares at me with a blank face, not even flinching when I explain that she died in my arms. When I end my string of words he asks, “Who is this friend of yours that got shot?”.
I realize how foolish I was. Enveloped in my sorrow and nerves, I didn't even mention Laura’s name. “Laura Green, sir. She was on her way home.” His jaw loosened and his eyes noticeably widened.
“You mean to tell me that the girl you’ve been talking about the whole time is Laura Green, the one who lives a few streets over?” he asks with urgency.
I can only nod in response.
“Where is she?” he questions, “We will send officers to find her right away.”
I tell him that she’s in an alleyway near her house on 10th Street, and he strides out of the room with seriousness.
I don’t know how long I was waiting in the interrogation room, but I didn’t care. My only concern was for Laura. In the back of my mind, I am worried about myself too. But I can’t think about that.
My leg begins to bounce against the floor again and I lay my head in my palms. The events of tonight flood my head and overwhelm me. I keep picturing Laura on the asphalt, with her dress sponged with blood. I pray that they found her and her killer.
Suddenly, Officer Baker stalks back into the room and I rise, ready to ask the slew of questions bouncing around in my head. Did you find her? Do you know who shot her?
Before I could utter a word, however, he spun me around and cold metal cuffs surrounded my wrists. Officer Baker started to recite my rights, but all I could feel were my intestines flipping in my stomach.
I started to panic. This cannot happen to me, not after everything that happened tonight. What about my family? Momma won’t be able to handle her other son being hurt by the police.
As soon as he finished his mantra, I asked, “Sir, what is going on? Why are you cuffing me? The person who shot her is still out there!” The officer spun me back around, and smirked, saying, “No one else has verified your claims, Son. So as far as we’re concerned, you are our number one suspect in the murder of Laura Green.”