Chapter 1
It’s February, harsh wind blowing through the crowd, reddening noses and cheeks. The onlookers do not care though, for they are observing history. And, though the man on stage before them usually despised the cold, he can’t bring himself to care either.
He is being inaugurated into the White House, being told to repeat some mantra that he had already memorized the morning before. He was not going to mess this up, not when there were thousands of people watching in person, and millions watching from the warm comfort of their homes.
He stands with no one but his faceless Vice President behind him. He hadn’t seen the need to perpetuate the family-man image that both his opponents and presidents before him had. It didn’t seem necessary. He was here to run a country, not a family. The newspapers will be talking about his goals for Congress, his tax plans, his gun control legislation, not him taking his kids to see Frozen on Ice.
Once he is finished with the oath, taking his formerly raised hand to shake that of the man who swore him in, he grins, facing the crowd. They cheer with abandon, some with tears in their eyes. They had just observed the first Afro-Latino president be sworn in, but not only that, the first president not born on American soil.
The man who swore him in clutches the bible in his right hand, and motions towards him with his left. “Citizens of this great nation, I now introduce you to the President of the United States, Alexander Ham--”
“Alex, go turn on a fan, instead of sitting there watchin’ all of us drown in sweat! Cha!”
Alexander Hamilton, the very much not President of the United States, is snapped out of his reverie by his boss, Ms. Martha. He scrambles out of the metal chair he was sitting on, grabs the broom leaning against the wall next to him, and moves across the room to turn on the large fan. Once this is done, and he hears a breath of relief from one of the women closest to the fan, he shakes the memory of his daydream out of his head. Soon, he thinks. But, now is not the time.
It’d been a long road from the slums of Haiti, begging on the streets with his cousin, Peter, only a few months after his mother died in bed next to him. Not long after her death had been that horrendous earthquake that had destroyed the entire side of the island. Sometimes, at night, he’d recall being trapped under the wreckage of the abandoned house he and his cousin used to walk past every day. It was as if, in the safety of his own bed far away from the island of Hispaniola, he was still there, unable to breath and with a large gash in the back of his head, the smell of death surrounding him like fog.
He doesn’t exactly sleep much anymore.
Now, he works in a cramped hair salon on the floor below a marriage counseling service. Ms. Martha used to say that it was the perfect spot; after tired wives finally came to terms with the fact that their marriage was in shambles, they could get a new ‘do to feel better about themselves. Though Alex didn't approve of taking advantage of people's emotions, he had to admit, the idea was genius.
His job is to sweep up the imported hair, disinfect combs, clean up the bathroom in the back, and if they’re really, really short on stylists, he occasionally helps with doing the hair itself. The job doesn’t pay much, but it’s a job, and he trusts Ms. Martha. It was she who invited him to live in the US with her after a visit back to her home country a year after the earthquake. She had found him on a street corner, sitting on the curb, waiting to die. Turns out, he and his cousin had worked for a friend of her’s. Though she didn’t have the means to permanently care for the then 11 year-old at the time, giving him a plane ticket, eventually a green card, and a job was the least she could do.
As he sweeps, he observes the stylists as they work their deft fingers through the hair of harried women of all ages. Most of the stylists are Haitian, and proud of it, as a large flag of Haiti hangs over one of the walls, near the back room. Though the half-Dominican side of him doesn't want to admit it, Alex tends to feel more at home in the salon than he does at his actual home, if the group home run by his Asshole of the Year foster father can even be called such a thing.
One of the stylists is speaking adamantly about her foster son, Aaron, to the woman in the chair. She’d been working at the salon for as long as Alex can remember, and even though she’s not Haitian, she can braid hair with the best of them.
“Aaron’s gonna be a senior this year. He’s already started working on college applications, all by himself! Says he wants to go to Columbia. You hear that? My baby’s gonna get into Columbia. Gonna become the next black president, that boy.”
He’d met Aaron before. Tall, deep voice, but didn’t really talk all that much. They’d only ever exchanged a few pleasantries and customary small talk with each other. Alex didn’t know he was into politics.
Aaron’s foster mother works there in the evening on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. The rest of the week, she’s working at a nursing home on the other side of town. Aaron stops by sometimes to give her a Subway sandwich when she knows she’s working extra late. She always gives him the same tired, yet grateful crinkly-eyed smile when he does. Aaron, Alex thinks, is one of the few lucky bastards with a foster parent that genuinely loves them.
Alex, himself, was never lucky.
The woman in the chair starts talking about her own kid, trying to show a picture on her phone when Aaron’s foster mom warns her that she’s about to spray her head with some Shea Moisture. The woman covers her eyes, quickly, allowing the vapor to fall over her head and add yet another scent to the already stifling room. Alex doesn’t mind though. After working there for three years, the fumes of hair spray line his lungs like a coat and he hardly registers the smell anymore.
“Well, look at you!” The stylist hands the woman a hand-mirror, allowing her to see the intricate braids flowing down her back. The two ladies beam at each other through the larger mirror in front of them.
Suddenly, three people walk through the door, looks of confusion on their faces. A man, overbearingly tall and white, grimaces at his surroundings. “You said this was the place, Eleanor.”
The woman next to him scoffs. “It is, Henry. If you would use your eyes for once, you’d see the sign saying it was upstairs.” Her deep brown skin glistens with sweat, and though Alex has never been to beauty school, he can tell her short afro is drying out and needs moisture fast. He couldn’t blame her, though. It had been hot as Hades all day. Nothing like summer in the city, Ms. Martha always said.
The couple get into a quiet, yet heated argument, harsh words gritted out through teeth filling the sweltering air. Everyone else in the room tries and fails to pretend they aren’t straining their ears to listen.
Alex is one of them. He’d never really been the discreet type. However, he seems to be the only one that notices the boy with them. He’s skinny, but nowhere near as skinny as Alex, with mahogany brown dreadlocks pulled back into a long ponytail. He seems to be taking the heat the worst, with a waterfall practically running down his face.
“Son, you stay here, understand me?” The man points at one of the metal chairs that lines the entire room, with a sternness that reminded Alex of his foster father. The boy rolls his eyes and picks the one closest to the fan, plopping into it with a huff.
The woman, noticing this, reaches into her purse and passes the boy a $20 bill. When the boy refuses, she asserts, “You’re cutting yourself off from your father, not me. Take it. Go get a snack or something. Your father and I should be out in an hour.”
As soon as the couple is upstairs and out of hearing range, the salon bursts with conversation, most of it in French.
“Et voilà ce qui arrive quand tu te marie un homme blanc,” one of the hairdressers says, cackling with the elderly woman whose hair she’s twisting.
“Il doit être l'argent . Cet homme ressemble à Donald Trump,” quips Ms. Martha from where she is ringing up a leaving customer.
Letting out another huff, the boy abruptly leaps up out of the chair, the metal scraping against the tile floor. Alex will definitely have to get rid of the scuff mark later. Without another word, he’s out of the establishment, and stomping down the street. Against his better judgement, Alex feels the crippling need to follow him.
Leaving his trusty broom next to John’s chair, he takes a chance to rush out the door the second Ms. Martha is looking away. Once he’s outside, the heat of the sun hitting him like a 2X4, or one of his foster brothers‘ punches, he realizes that the boy hadn’t gotten all that far, and is simply leaning against the brick of the boarded up former insurance office next door. Taking a hot breath, he marches over to the teenager, and mimics his position against the wall. They stand in silence for all of twenty seconds before Alex speaks.
“Why’d you leave like that?”
“Look, man, I’ve been taking French since grade school; I know y’all are talking shit about my parents.”
“They talk shit about everyone. It’s in the hairdresser code." He laughs at his own joke, and only stops when the boy next to him is unresponsive.
“It’s just, they always do this.” Alex can tell he’s not talking about the stylists anymore. “Always make these big scenes, everywhere. It’s fucking embarrassing. Makes you wonder why they don’t just split up already.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t they?”
“My dad’s running for mayor. Last thing he wants is a nasty divorce tarnishing his image.” Another reason why Alex would not be married by the time he inevitably screws Article II, Section 1, Clause 5 of the Constitution and runs for president. Too many risks.
He continues with, “The bastard doesn’t care about me. And, at the end of the day, my ma, bless her heart, will do whatever it takes to keep him happy.”
“Which explains the marriage counseling.”
The boy shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Exactly.” He’s sweating like a pig again, but Alex can’t help but find him absurdly gorgeous. His eyes are light, so much unlike Alex’s own dark ones, and his eyelashes are almost freakishly long. His lips are plump, even as he bites at them, and his face is covered in freckles. Alex feels like he’s looking at the very sun that’s causing their sweaty demise.
He snaps himself out of it. “So, how come you’re all the way over here in the ‘hood? Don’t tell me your parents aren’t loaded because, well.” Everyone had noticed the expensive suit his father had been wearing, and the Tiffany charm bracelet that had been hanging on his mother’s wrist. The whole “running for mayor” thing was just icing on the cake.
“Dad didn’t want anyone snapping photos of him and my ma going inside one of the fancy shmancy couple’s therapy places by where we live, so he reckoned that no one would be able to catch him out here. Not a bad idea, I guess. Just wish they didn’t have to bring me with ‘em.” His face falls completely at this, aging his otherwise youthful features.
In a weak attempt to brighten the mood, Alex decides to change the subject to something he’s used to talking about: hair.
“How long have you been growing them?” He nods at the boy’s locs before he can ask what Alex meant.
“Oh, about four years. Pops was mad as hell when I got ‘em, though. Said they made me look like a ‘dope fiend’,” barking out a humorless laugh, he subconsciously pushes a few locs out of his face. “But I don’t care what he thinks anymore, so.” He rolls his eyes, this time seemingly at himself. “But, forget that. Uh, how long have you been working at this place?”
“Since I moved here in 2012.” He doesn’t have to say where he moved from—it’s obvious from the accent. “All this waiting around must be making you hungry. You wanna stop by the Jamaican place down the street?”
The boy narrows his eyes at Alex, trying to suss him out. Alex couldn’t exactly blame him. He usually wasn’t this nice. He eventually acquiesces, though, and they head down the sidewalk, side by side.
The woman at the counter grimaces at them, as she tended to do, which makes the boys smile. It was a universal truth that the meaner the lady at the counter of a Caribbean restaurant, the better the food. After being told that the wait for spicy beef patties would be around fifteen minutes, the boys decide to take advantage of the free air conditioning and wait inside.
They chit chat for a while, with Alex telling his new acquaintance more about the salon to distract the other boy from his clear inner turmoil. John doesn’t say it, but he appreciates the effort. Once the cashier signals that the beef patties are ready, they go up to the counter to pay for them. The boy quickly hands the cashier the $20 before Alex can even reach into his pockets.
Affronted, Alex whispers, “What the hell, man?” as the cashier begins to make change. The teen simply shrugs. After the change and the receipt are all but dumped into the boy’s hand, the two make their way to a table to enjoy the delicacy.
“So, I never got your name.”
“Oh, it’s Alex. Hamilton. Alex Hamilton.” His stomach growls in both hunger and shame at his sudden inability to speak. “You?”
“John Laurens. Family sometimes calls me Jack, though. What school you go to?”
“Uh, well, I start at Ashburton High in August.”
“Me too! Damn, you’re a freshman?”
“No, a junior. I just transferred.”
“Same. To both, I mean. Parents thought it’d be easier on everyone if and when the divorce happens that I’m closer to the city, or something. Used to go to that private school up north. Where did you go?”
“One of the schools that just shut down.”
“Shit.” Shit indeed. It was a fairly common thing, the shutdowns. It seemed like every year another school in Alex’s side of town was closing for some bullshit reason or another. As if it was easy for poor kids of color to find a school to go to in their district when all of them were dropping off the face of the earth to make way for strip malls.
“I guess we both get to be the new kid, then.” John gave him the first real smile Alex had seen on him, and good lord almighty, it was beautiful. A wealthy family definitely lead to high quality dental work, because John Laurens’ teeth were too straight and too white to be from tooth paste and flossing alone.
They passed the rest of the hour eating, voicing their fears for the new school year, and even discussing their shared activist work after John had observed Alex’s slightly torn “Black Lives Matter” wristband.
“Some old white lady once checked me in the ribs during a protest. I was this close to doing it right back, I swear.” Alex laughs at the memory, and at John’s full-out guffaw in reaction to it, before remembering how bad he had gotten it from his foster father after he had gotten home. He’s pulled out of the memory by John’s impression of Alex, with an exaggerated accent, squaring up to fight an imaginary geriatric adversary.
By the time the hour is up, Alex and John’s stomachs hurt from laughing so much, and they retreat from the restaurant, avoiding the cashier’s glare at all costs. They run back up the street, ignoring the guy that’s always selling cans of soda for 50 cents each by the lamp post, and reenter the salon.
As soon as Alex is through the threshold, Ms. Martha is on his ass, ready to give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime for leaving without any warning for a whole hour. Before she can do that, however, the distinct sound of footsteps from the staircase leading up to the counseling floor are heard.
Mr. Laurens comes stomping down the stairs, sparing a nod to Ms. Martha. His hands are clenched into fists. “Jack, we’re leaving.” The session must have gone well.
“We should go out to eat, don’t you think, Johnny?” Mrs. Laurens’ voice is strained, part of her short afro bunched together, like she had been grabbing her hair in anxiety while refraining from ripping her husband a new one.
“Sorry, Ma. Kinda already ate. But,” he began, seeing the pained look on his mother’s face. “We could catch that movie you’ve been wanting to see, if you want?”
“Yeah, that sounds good, Johnny.” She placed a hand on his back, covering the ends of his locs. As the crumbling family exit the salon, John turns back to look at Alex, giving a small smile. Alex smiles back, mouthing “see you at school”, and watches him walk across the street through the window to a shiny black SUV. Alex feels out of breath, like he does when he thinks back to life before moving to the states. But this breathlessness feels completely different. He isn’t being crushed anymore.
And, Alex knows exactly why.