I didn’t change my clothes, brush my teeth, or do my hair. I rolled out of bed, grabbed my book bag, and took off for school in my pajama pants and Ugg slippers. I’m on a mission: trying to catch Erika before homeroom. I need some bud. I need to smoke a bong the size of my head.
My stomach cramps up. Did I take my pill yesterday? Or today? No more alarms on my phone. Too freaked out. My hands are shaking, sweat dripping down my face. Haven’t been this bad since . . . I don’t even know when. But if I don’t find some bud soon I’m going to need something stronger. And I swore to myself . . . never again. I said the words in rehab, and I meant them. I know no one believes me and I don’t want to give them a reason to be right. All I know is that Piper did this to me. She knew my greatest weakness and used it against me in the cruelest way possible. Don’t know how I’m going to get her back, but I know I will.
Nearly running down the hall, I head toward Erika’s locker but stop short at the sound of her voice coming out of the main office.
“That shit ain’t mine! Yo, you can’t do that!”
Through the scratched glass pane, I see Erika led out of the assistant principal’s office in handcuffs.
“Nah! This shit’s fucked up!!”
A crowd forms around me. The entire hallway of Kings High is at a standstill.
“Make room, back up,” an officer orders, holding Erika’s book bag in a large ziplock evidence bag.
My tongue dries out and I let the crowd swallow me as two officers carry out a screaming Erika.
“That shit ain’t mine! You know it ain’t!”
She lifts her feet, kicking a nearby locker. The crowd flinches.
“E!” Yusef screams from the other side of the hall, running toward her. “What’s going on? What happened?”
“Yo, it wasn’t me! Tell them! Tell them that shit wasn’t mine!” Erika wails, making herself heavy as she dips to the ground, eyes filled with panic tears. I still can’t move.
“What’s going on?” a girl next to me asks in a whisper.
“She got caught slanging,” another girl snickers. “They just searched her locker.”
“Damn, another Fisher up to Big Ville. Is there any of them left?”
The hall is a swarm of voices, hot and sticky breath, shouting over one another as Erika resists.
A shell-shocked Yusef rubs his head, distraught. “What do I do, E? Tell me what to do!”
An officer yokes Erika up with a hard shake, slamming her face into the locker.
“Aye! I said knock it off!” he barks, inches from her eye.
It takes five girls to hold Yusef back from charging at them. They struggle, arms around his neck, chest, and legs. I cover my mouth with my hands, feet glued to the floor.
“Stop it,” I cry, but no one can hear me over the chorus of shouting.
“Get off her,” Yusef barks.
Erika takes a calming breath, nodding, tears rolling down her face. School security holds students back from following as she’s led down the hall, toward the main doors.
“Yo, Yuey, take care of my grand for me, man! Take care of her. Tell her it wasn’t mine!”
The walk home from school is dark and cold, the day a blur. Went to my classes, but I don’t remember much more than moving from one room to the other. Didn’t open a book or reach for a pen while the same thought kept repeating itself: Did she know I was there? Did she see me before they took her to jail?
Even the sentence felt strange in my head: Erika is in jail.
It was a strange déjà vu feeling, watching security comb through her locker, pillage through her things, tossing them in the trash like they didn’t expect her to come back. Reminded me of the way they rummaged through my locker. They didn’t find anything. But it didn’t make me feel any less than a criminal. I put myself in Erika’s shoes. Would I have to be dragged out the school kicking and screaming? I feel sick just thinking about it.
Yusef left school early, most likely to check on Erika’s grandmother. That poor lady, now all alone. It doesn’t make sense. Erika was the one who told me about the Sterling Laws. She knew them like you know every word to your favorite song. No way she would do something so careless.
Unless . . . they purposely planted something on her. But why?
A spark flares in me. Mom covered juvenile cases for the LA Times. She knows lawyers, knows the system. Maybe she can recommend someone. Help her with bail or something.
I sprint in my slippers, eager to make it home and explain everything to Mom. But as soon as I bust in, I’m greeted by the worst welcoming party.
“Ah! Marigold. Wonderful to see you!”
Mr. Sterling must have a billion new black and gray suits in his closet. He stands at the kitchen island, placing his mug of coffee down on the counter.
“Hi?” What the hell is he doing here?
“Hey, baby. You okay?” Mom’s voice sounds . . . off. Why is she nervous?
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
She gives Mr. Sterling an uneasy glance, then smiles.
“Well . . . um. I heard what happened to your friend at school today. Erika?”
Shit.
“Oh,” I mumble, taking off my shoes, trying to find something to do with my hands.
Mr. Sterling smiles between us. “Yes, it’s quite a shame, isn’t it? Such a lovely young lady, with a bright and promising future. Too bad she was caught up in the wrong crowd. As soon as I heard, I decided to stop by here myself and check on the Anderson-Green family. I feel you’re sort of my responsibility, given that I convinced you to move to our fair city.”
“You didn’t have to do that, really,” Mom says sheepishly.
“No, no, I insist. Just want to assure you, these types of incidents will never happen again.” He looks pointedly at me, eyes darkening above a gleaming smile. “Well, unless someone starts snooping in places they don’t belong. Then she could find herself in a lot of trouble and others could be hurt by such careless actions.”
My throat closes so tight, I can’t even gulp.
He knows!
“Well, I’m off! Wife’s cooking her famous roast chicken. Famous ’cause she picks it up from the store.” He laughs at his own joke and nods at me. “Take care. Be safe.”
He steps outside, Mom following, and they talk in hushed whispers on the porch.
Something dark hangs in the air in the words left unsaid. Still stunned, I linger in the hall before meandering into the family room.
He knows! But how? Are there mics planted around the house? Is he tapping our phones?
Still too spooked to sit on the sofa, I pace around the room, Buddy following. Wish I had weed to help me think, ease the scattering of panicked voices in my head. The secret garden . . . it needs tending, which shouldn’t be a priority, but with Erika gone, it’s my last resort. Can’t trust anyone else.
I glance at the clock on the cable box, catching a glimpse of the modem’s label, and gasp, running across the room to grab it—Sedum Cable.
Holy shit. They’re monitoring our Wi-Fi! And Erika . . . oh God. It’s all my fault!
I bring a trembling hand up to my lips, stifling a scream. They took her because of me, because of my snooping, because of something I did.
Mom enters the room with a look on her face that means trouble. I put the modem down.
“I asked Alec to take off early so he can pick up Sammy and Piper,” she says, her voice stony. “It’s just me and you.”
“Okay?”
“And I want you to tell me the truth.”
I frown. “The truth about what?”
She walks into her office, then comes back with a piss cup. My mouth dries.
“Seriously?” Does she know what type of day I’ve had?
“Erika was dealing,” Mom snaps, as if daring me to say she’s wrong. “You knew, and that’s the only reason why you were friends with her. You wouldn’t be otherwise.”
The sharpness of that truth is a fresh coating of gu
ilt I wasn’t expecting so soon.
“Mom . . .”
“We talked about this in group, remember? This is the addiction taking over what you know is right and wrong.”
I cross my arms to hold myself tighter. The word group brings me back to Wednesday meetings inside a church basement. Memories I try hard to block out.
“But I’m clean,” I say with a shaky voice. And it’s true. Well, mostly.
Mom takes a deep breath. “Marigold, I love you. I also know you. And with the kids . . . we cannot have another incident like back home. I won’t put Sammy through it. Again.”
Using Sammy . . . a low blow. But I can’t argue. That’s the thing that happens once you’ve OD’ed. You lose the trust of everyone and it feels impossible to get it back.
With a sigh, I grab the cup and head for the bathroom. The test is going to be negative, but just the thought that Mom felt she had to give it to me cuts deeper than a knife, burning me alive.
Seventeen
THE GARDEN CLUB secured another donation for the beautification project in Maplewood. Today we are planting orange mums by the elementary school, in honor of Halloween. Ms. Fern said it was to inspire trick-or-treaters. The room’s only response was silence.
Yusef attacks the patch of earth with his pick, uprooting and hacking anything in his way. I follow with large garbage bags, collecting trash and weeds. He works fast, trying to dig himself a hole straight to middle-earth. He hits a rock, deep in the soil. The pick rings like a bell, forcing him to stop and catch his breath.
“You okay?” I finally ask.
“Oh, I’m straight,” he says with a sad laugh. “Except for the fact that my mom, dad, brother, and now E are all up at Big Ville and I’m just . . . here.”
“Sorry, Yuey.” And it’s true. I feel so deeply sorry for him. But even more so for E. Mom’s right, I’m only friends with people to get what I want, what I need. Yusef for his tools, Erika for her weed.
Yusef cracks a smile. “Told you not to call me that.”
“Yeah, but I feel the need to fill Erika’s shoes. Not that I ever could.”
“You don’t have to. I like you just as you are.” His mouth curls up into a charming boyish smirk. No longer feeling worthy of his kindness, I turn away. This is all my fault. I cost a friend her freedom. But I can’t tell Yusef that. Knowing what the Sterling Foundation is capable of, who knows what they’d do. I won’t risk his life too.
“It was worth a shot,” I mumble, stuffing more trash into a bag.
He squats down to rip up a handful of ragweed and shakes his head.
“She would’ve never brought that shit to school. I’ve known her my whole life; she wouldn’t do something that stupid.” He sighs. “They planted that shit on her. No question. Not that I can prove it.”
Guilt floods my stomach and I’m ready to vomit anything that will relieve the pressure.
“My mom thinks I’m still an addict,” I say, throwing more trash into the bag.
Yusef freezes, neck craning in my direction. To his credit, he tries his best to mask the shock, but I know this revelation was a sledgehammer to the idea he’s painted in his head about me.
“Well . . . are you?” he asks in a measured voice.
“I haven’t touched the Percs in months, and I don’t plan on it. Problem is no one believes me.”
He stands up, taking off his work gloves, and dusts off his shirt. “Maybe ’cause you keep lying, even to yourself.”
I scoff. “Dude, I’m fine. I’ve changed, seriously, but weed, weed is nothing more than a plant. Like, medicinal therapy. Not even that dangerous.”
“But have you actually tried giving it all up?”
“It’s not that simple,” I say, flustered. “I have these weird episodes and the medication I used to take back in Cali . . . just made me a foggy mess.”
“And weed makes you a lying mess if you have to sneak around to do it.”
It wasn’t intentional, but being called a mess has an icy bite to it, enough to make me shiver.
“Weed . . . it really just stabilizes me,” I start, trying to find a way to explain what feels so hard to put into words. “In, like, a way better way than those meds did. I have really bad anxiety. And if it was legal—”
“But it’s not!” he shouts. “And anxiety? What you got to be anxious about? You have both your parents, ones with good-ass jobs, food in your fridge, a free house . . . no one around here got it as easy as you! They have a real-ass excuse to be strung out!”
I narrow my eyes, breathing flames. “Yusef, ‘I have anxiety’ is a full and complete statement. I don’t have to explain the what and why to you!”
We glare at one another until the anger starts to fade from his eyes.
“You right. My bad, I guess.”
Aside from wanting to smash his face into the ground, I’m pretty proud I stood up for myself, just like my guru taught me. Anxiety is a real thing. I wouldn’t be this way for shits and giggles.
Yusef sighs. “Look, I hear you and all, but that shit locked up my whole family. My whole neighborhood, gone just like that. Folks still ain’t right. We’ve lost everything, and I can’t lose you too, because I like you!”
Heads snap in our direction, the entire garden club zeroing in. My mouth drops open and I quickly swivel away, trying to find something to do with my hands to ease the grossly embarrassing moment.
“Oh, I . . . um . . .”
Yusef winces. “Uh, I mean, not like you like that. I’m saying, you cute and all, but . . .” He takes a breath. “Okay, this is gonna sound . . . weird.”
I snort. “Weird? In Weirdville? This must be good.”
“You’re, like, the first regular friend, that’s a girl, that I’ve ever really had. Well, besides E, and she don’t really count.”
“Imma tell her you said that,” I laugh.
He smirks, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s just that . . . all the girls here, they all want something.”
“Ha! Dude, humblebrag much?”
“Nah, I’m serious,” he says, seeming torn. “You know the statistics here after them Sterling Laws. Fifteen to one. I can’t even look at a girl longer than ten seconds without her thinking we’re together. I’ve even had girls claim they were pregnant, trying to trap me, when it’s just impossible.”
“Well, anything is possible, especially when you’re having sex!” I laugh. “Unless you’re not; then I guess that would explain it.”
Yusef turns away, snatching up the pick. I cock my head to the side.
“Wait, are you seriously telling me you’re a virgin?”
He shrugs, not meeting my eye.
“You mean, with all these girls . . . dude, you are literally sitting in a gold mine with blue balls! Treat yourself! No one would blame you. What’s the holdup?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. I want to wait. For someone special.”
“Yeah, right! I know guys who would kill to be in your shoes.”
He eyes me. “Cali, not all guys are the same. Trust me on that.”
We work in silence for a while and it feels good, just working with the earth, not thinking about school, Erika, Piper, the Sterling Foundation, or our creepy-ass house . . . until I glance at my watch.
“Shit. I have to go! Gotta stop by the library before it closes so I can finish and print my lit essay for tomorrow.”
“Don’t you have a computer?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“I do, or I did.” I let out a delirious laugh. “But apparently Ms. Suga doesn’t like technology.”
I take off my work gloves, throwing them in my book bag with a yawn. The past week of sleepless nights is catching up to me. I turn to say goodbye to find Yusef frozen in place, his mouth gaping, eyes bulging.
“Wh-what did you just say?” he gasps.
“Huh? What I do?”
He gulps, moving closer to me. “How . . . do you know about Ms. Suga,” he whispers.
A sinking feeling
invades my chest. “Me? No, how do you know about Ms. Suga?”
“Shhhhhh! Keep your voice down!” he whispers, scanning around us. He grabs my elbows and leads me toward the corner, out of earshot from the rest of the group.
“Who told you about Ms. Suga?”
“Dude, I was totally joking. It’s just some imaginary friend Piper’s cooked up to blame shit on.”
Yusef brings a fist up to his mouth. “Oh shit. I was just messing with you before, about the Hag and stuff. But now . . . now . . .”
He pales, and whatever I had for lunch threatens to come up.
“Yusef . . . what’s going on?” I ask cautiously. “How do you know about Ms. Suga?”
His eyes dart around the ground, like a cat chasing a toy. “Well . . . maybe she overheard it somewhere. Maybe?”
“Would you just tell me what the fuck is going on!”
“Shhhh! Okay. Just . . . not out here. Let’s go back to my house. I have to show you something.”
Yusef’s room is cleaner than I remember, the music still loud. I keep my distance from the wooden bed.
“You know this?” Yusef turns up his music with a smirk. Tupac’s “Hail Mary.”
I narrow my eyes. “Quit stalling. Tell me. How do you know about Ms. Suga?”
He sighs and turns down his music. “Okay. I’m going to tell you . . . but, damn, Cali. You can’t tell anybody this, okay? Like, not even your folks.”
I give him a sharp nod. “Fine.”
He turns up the music again. “Come on. Follow me but keep quiet.”
We slip out of his room, tiptoeing down the hall. I can see the back of Pop-Pop’s head in his recliner, watching some old TV program. Yusef slowly clicks open the first door on the right and ushers me into a cramped room with baby-blue walls. Inside smells like shoe polish mixed with aftershave. A twin hospital bed sits in the middle of the room and I trip over a pair of orthopedic loafers, colliding into a walker.
Pop-Pop’s room. What are we doing in here?
On a narrow nightstand is an old framed picture of a young Black couple, posing in front of Yusef’s house. This must be Pop-Pop and Yusef’s grandma. On the dresser is one of those classic cameras, the kind you need to load film into and have developed.
White Smoke Page 17