by Lamar Giles
I said, “Real quick, MJ. How’d you fix it with your lady?”
“Next time, guys. Remind me. This topic bears much further discussion.”
The frustration in the room was thick. A mix of no resolution and misunderstanding. The promise of a continuation eased us a bit, though it wouldn’t come.
That was the last Healthy Living session we’d have with MJ.
The school lot was well on its way to empty when I stepped outside and got blasted in the face with a cold gust of wind, surprising me enough so I lost my grip on my keys. They fell in a jingling pile, and when I stooped to retrieve them, I caught sight of a girl in a bright red jacket to the left of the school’s exit. She mopped that hand across her face, smearing tears.
“Shianne?”
Her chin ticked up, and she swiped more furiously at her wet eyes. “Hey, Del.”
“You okay?” I asked, getting closer and making her attempts to disguise her obvious crying more futile.
She threw up her hands, defeated. “Do I look okay?”
I said, “Yeah. Fantastic.”
Shianne huffed a dry laugh. “Oh my God, your face. How did we keep that lie of ours going so long?”
My eyes cut to the school doors, checking for any classmates close enough to hear. I changed the subject. “How’s your daughter?”
“Fussy. Gassy.” She held up her cell. “Mom’s sent me plenty of texts to let me know.”
“Is that why you’re crying? Because you had to leave her?” I’d seen something like that on TV.
“No. I cry when I get mad.”
Once, when we still hung out like that, I’d crushed her in Scrabble and she’d gotten teary-eyed before flipping the board. I wasn’t convinced anger was all there was to it this time.
“Do you know how much work I need to make up to stay on course for graduation?”
We were about eight weeks into the school year, so probably a lot. “They didn’t let you do any while you were, er, home?”
She shrugged. “It’s not the same as being here.” She coughed up another sob. “I can’t mess this up, Del. My parents . . . I can’t mess up anymore.”
This felt like a hugging situation. I would’ve had her in my arms automatically a year ago. But then some cheerleaders burst through the school doors, laughing until they saw us. When their chirpy glee turned to conspiracy whispers, I took a step backward that I hoped Shianne wouldn’t notice.
She fixed on the girls strolling across the lot. They piled into a minivan, carefree. The way she used to be.
A canyon of awkwardness yawned between us, so I worked on words that might end this. Before I could produce them, she said, “Your grades are good, right?”
I nodded. I was rocking a solid 3.5 GPA.
“Wanna be my tutor?”
A 3.5 wasn’t exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson. “I don’t know about that, Shianne.”
I thought, Be strong. You’re busy. You don’t have time to do favors right now.
She said, “Because my dad would be willing to pay you.”
“How much?”
“Whatever is reasonable. He told me to find a tutor, and I looked at the list the school keeps. Only a few people do it locally, and they’re all some judgmental bitches.”
“Whoa!”
“Sorry, but many people have loud, horrible, and public opinions about all of us who had kids recently. I’m sure you’ve seen Taylor’s hashtag, so you know.”
“Okay.”
“Going out of town to one of those learning centers isn’t feasible. Not with my kid at home, and Mom reminding me my kid is at home every fifth minute.”
Her tutoring problem was the same as any modern convenience problem when it came to our town. Lack of Green Creek resources strikes again.
If her dad was paying—Shianne’s people had dough, for sure—this could work, considering I’d been getting zero hours at FISHto’s. “Let’s talk about my rates.”
Chapter 11
JAMEER BRIEFED ME ON WHAT to expect at Harvest Fest the following evening. Our typical Tuesday Purity Pledge class was being preempted so all the PPers could “volunteer” at First Missionary House of the Lord’s answer to Halloween.
Since the typical ghost/goblin/monster vibe of traditional Halloween was deemed unholy by Newsome and the congregation, the church did their own thing every year during the last week of October.
After school, I ran home, ate an early dinner with Dad, showered, changed into what was going to have to pass for a costume, then ran out the door to get over to the church. Before I left my driveway, Tyrell sent me a text asking if I could come in for an evening shift because someone called out sick. I was still pissed from the way he sent me home Sunday, so I didn’t bother responding. The Shianne tutoring gig was about to be a thing, so who needed all that FISHto’s stress anyway?
On a normal evening First Missionary House of the Lord would’ve been obscured by dusk. Barely visible against the evergreens huddled behind the building, or the starless night rising over the trees. Tonight it was domed by fluorescence; the light gushing from every open door and window overwhelmed.
Renaming Halloween to Harvest Fest was an effort to snatch some darkness from an accepted tradition, I got that. The pure wattage beaming from the church felt like an effort to destroy darkness period. The bright parking lot forced me squinty and I pawed for my sunglasses.
The front lot had been transformed into a playland with a blue-pink, alluringly unstable bouncy house as its centerpiece. Wind injected the sugar scent of cotton candy and the salt-butter from popcorn directly into my car vents. I rolled my window down because why not, and sniffed the scorched oak from someone’s far-off chimney. The medley smell imprinted somewhere behind my eyes so that for the rest of my life, whenever I came across any one of those smells, I’d think about all of them and what this night meant.
Rimming the fun attractions were familiar cars parked in a line, trunks open, festive with colorful construction paper, and streamers, and balloons, and, most importantly, economy bags of candy that each child would help empty. This part was Trunk or Treat. Because, as Jameer mentioned, “the ‘trick’ in ‘Trick or Treat’ doesn’t seem very godly.”
Since the only thing anyone might get out of my trunk was tetanus, an orange-vested volunteer directed me to the side lot with the other nonparticipating cars. Killing my engine, I spotted my fellow Purity Pledgers lounging by the wheelchair ramp. Everyone except Kiera.
Jameer, dressed as—I didn’t know what he was, he was in a robe—met me by my ride.
“Where is she?” I said.
“Inside, with her parents.”
Okay, I was staying. Next question. “What are you?”
“Job.”
I blinked rapidly.
“He’s a guy from the Bible. Don’t worry about it. What about you?”
I popped the lapels on my ebony suit, pushed my shades higher on my nose, and did my best Will Smith impression. “I make this look good.”
And he didn’t have a clue.
I said, “Men in Black? Agent J?”
Really, I didn’t have a costume. Hadn’t had one since I was nine. I had a black suit, and sunglasses, so . . .
Jameer said, “It’s science fiction, right?”
“Yeah, real funny and— What’s wrong?”
His frown, though. “They won’t like it if you’re dressed like something from a science fiction movie.”
“Why not?” As strange as all this Halloween-as-Harvest-Fest stuff was to me, I understood. Church grounds, don’t dress the kids like monsters or devils or ghouls. But what was wrong with a freaking Will Smith character? Me and Dad watched all his movies when I was a kid because for a long time he was the only Black Guy Hero, and Dad wanted me watching men who looked like us doing positive things. Will Smith fought monsters in I Am Legend and aliens in that super-old one, Independence Day. How could that possibly be a bad thing?
Jameer gave our immediate vicinity
the I’mma-tell-you-a-secret inspection, twisting all the way around until he was sure nobody but me would hear him. “Pastor got on this thing a couple of years ago about how Hollywood is run by heathens and Satan and all the movies are coded with ways to make families turn their back on God. Like with everything he says, the congregation falls in line. Folks still go to the movies and keep their Netflix accounts, but they don’t bring any of it up around here.”
“What happens if you don’t fall in line?”
“Some adult might pull you aside and lecture you.” He shuffled his feet. “If it gets back to Pastor, it might be worse.”
“Worse how?”
He chewed his lip, and his hands slid up and down his robe, like to wipe off something dirty. “If anyone asks, say you’re a preacher. It’ll be easier for you.”
Jameer’s advice on how to make things easier at First Missionary House of the Lord was creepier than any tiny monster, ghost, or demon wandering door-to-door in other parts of town. Creepier still, I’m not sure if Jameer really recognized that.
Kiera emerged from the church in her Harvest Fest costume, a denim jacket with silver zippers in odd places. Her skirt was plaid, her barely there leggings showed off a little bit of thigh and the sexy curve of her calves, slim thick, still. Red high-top sneakers finished off the outfit. I didn’t know what she was supposed to be, but she was what she always was. Hot as hell.
Mya wore black-framed glasses, a red-and-white knit cap, with a matching striped sweater. I recognized her immediately. Wenda, from the Where’s Waldo? books. Nice. Helena was some kind of mouse. Not Minnie Mouse, though. Her mouse was definitely more of an Every-Mouse. Shanice, Little Red Riding Hood, maybe.
Kiera flicked eyes my way, then quickly focused on her girls.
To Jameer, I said, “Now what? She ain’t even looking at me.”
“First, we’re going to get assigned stations. Then— Oh here we go, follow my lead.”
Kiera’s mom joined us, and Sister Vanessa trailed her. Deaconess Westing wasn’t in costume—I didn’t think. She wore jeans, a Howard University sweatshirt, and focused on a clipboard in her hand. Sister Vanessa had fully embraced the occasion of the Purity Pledge/Harvest Fest overlap. She came as a nun.
“Good evening, y’all,” Sister Vanessa said. “You look so nice in your costumes tonight, and you’re going to help bring a lot of joy to all the younger children who, believe it or not, look up to you as role models. I bet you’ve all been wondering what this has to do with Purity Pledge, am I right?”
Plucky carnival music from a far-off speaker was the only sound in the awkward pause after that question. Even Kiera, who kept answers loaded like ammo, was slow in responding.
“Well,” Sister Vanessa went on, “we’re going to show everyone the kinds of boy-girl interactions that are appropriate for people your age. You’ll be paired up, and assigned a station. Then you work together in a wholesome, holy, family environment.”
“As it was meant to be,” added Pastor Newsome, from behind me. I almost squawked.
Did he come from the woods?
Naw. He wasn’t some witch emerging from the Dark Dimension. His Audi (license plate: PRZ HIM) was parked behind my car, the automatic interior lights only now winking off.
Silence stretched, everyone waiting for more, as they’d been conditioned to do. Newsome let the moment last a beat, then, “Please go on.”
Sister Vanessa said, “Right, assignments.”
Deaconess Westing recited names. “Bobby and Shanice. Ralph and Kiera. Delbert and Mya.”
Mya-as-Wenda shuffled over, and I shot Jameer a look. What part of that plan was this? I was told maximum quality time with Kiera all night. I assumed he’d somehow gamed the list that Deaconess Westing was reading from, but no. I was going to be working with the same girl I worked with all the time.
Jameer got paired with Helena Rickard on cotton candy, while me and Mya would play doormen at the bouncy house. Ralph and Kiera oversaw a prize table near the base of the church steps, topped with the cheap shit kids rarely thought about until they had reams of carnival currency in hand. Slinkys and Wall-Crawlers and Ping-Pong paddles with Spider-Man’s face on them. Deaconess Westing explained there were games set up inside the church—Bible Trivia, Bethlehem Skee-ball, Whack-A-Devil—that kids could play for tickets they’d later trade for the merch. Bobby and Shanice would perform their duties there.
Places, everybody.
A steady stream of vehicles bused in kids dressed like things I didn’t recognize. A lot of flowy gowns and angel wings. A lot of sports jerseys; the pro-athlete dream was always acceptable in every part of our community. The church parents let their children skitter away in all directions like tossed marbles while they angled for apple cider, pizza, and cake from the snack table.
Me and Mya had the most popular attraction. Our bouncy house rocked for a solid two hours of the scheduled three-hour event W-T-F Jameer! So many giddy squeals escaped the flapping nylon entrance, I expected car windows to shatter.
“Socks only,” I chanted at each new bouncy house guest, holding the entry flap wide while little ones shimmied inside. A boy ripped up the Velcro straps securing his Superman sneakers, kicked them off. In the folds of what I thought was a Pick-a-Disciple robe, I spotted a toy light saber dangling off his belt. That had to be a no-no, right?
“Are you a Padawan?” I asked, because what self-respecting Star Wars fan doesn’t want to know another fan’s Force proficiency?
Shoe-free and already jumping in place, he showed me the various gaps in his grin. “Nope. I’m a Jedi Master. May the Force beeee with you.”
Jameer’s warning flashed in my head like the caution lights by train tracks. I checked for nearby adults with the power to shut down the kid’s fantasy, the power to shame him.
The boy followed my gaze. “Are you looking for my mom?” He pointed. “She’s over there and she said I could go in the jumpy house if I want.”
“Naw, not your mom. I was looking for Sith Lords. You know they’re the ancient enemies of the Jedi, right?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t see any, though. I think they’re scared of you.”
That got him giggling. He made VWOOM—VWOOM noises like his light saber was on and sizzling air, then joined the other jumpers inside.
“You’re really sweet with them,” Mya said. “Star Wars, though?”
The disdain in her voice threw me. “Yeah, so?”
“There are like no black people in that franchise.”
I was disgusted. “You’re crazy. Lando Calrissian. Saw Gerrera. Finn.”
“Ummm”—she ticked them off on her fingers—“traitor, dead, goofy footnote.”
“Lando’s getting his own movie.”
“Too little, too late. Plus, that galaxy far, far away is missing some sistahs! Where the black women, bruh?”
“I—what?”
“While you’re thinking, I’ll remind you that Lieutenant Uhura has been an integral part of the starship Enterprise from day one.”
“Oh my God. You’re a Trekkie!”
She rushed close to me, shushing. “Keep it low. You know what it’s like around here.”
So me and Jameer weren’t the only Rebel Scum (yeah, I’m running with that) at First Missionary.
Mya, hushed, said, “And I’m not a Trekkie exactly. I like Uhura from the original series, and Burnham from Discovery, and Maeve from Westworld, and Riri Williams from the Ironheart comics. Like Issa Rae said, ‘I’m rooting for everybody black.’”
Mya Hanson reads Ironheart? This was so unexpected.
I was about to ask about some other comics, when Mya added, “That includes you, Del. I’m rooting for you, too. Get ready.”
“For what?”
There was commotion inside the church. Shanice, her red hood falling back on her shoulders, burst outside. “I think Bobby’s having an allergic reaction.”
A pin-striped Yankee uniform–wearing Ralph
abandoned his post next to Kiera. Yelled, “Oh man, does he have his EpiPen?”
Kiera asked the children thrusting prize tickets at her to hang on. “What’s wrong with Bobby?”
Ralph climbed the church steps to check on his brother. Though . . .
He seemed a little lazy with it. Not the speed and urgency I’d expect from someone whose family member was having a potentially life-threatening allergic reaction. Before disappearing inside the church, Ralph twisted and we locked eyes.
He winked.
Concerned adults angled their bodies toward the building. While they did, I looked to the cotton candy machine.
Jameer wasn’t there.
A quick search, and I saw his Job robe flapping by a spotlight as he tore snaking ropes of prize tickets off a roll for kids who were less-than-scrupulous about how they earned their Harvest Fest currency. He aimed each ticket-rich child toward the table Kiera now manned solo, quickly overwhelming her. When he spotted me watching, he mouthed Go.
Mya nodded. “I’m fine. You should get over there.”
Hustling over to an outnumbered Kiera, I said, “Tell me what to do.”
Her chin cocked like she might object. Then a tiny prize-ticket millionaire demanded she sell him a mini Etch A Sketch. “All the items to your left are either five, ten, or fifteen tickets, depending. The bigger the item, the more it costs. I’ll cover the right side. Try to keep up.”
I did.
Bobby survived.
Shanice gave us periodic updates. Apparently someone came into the sanctuary with a Reese’s Cup, and Bobby thought he’d breathed in peanut butter fumes or something. It got panicky enough where Pastor Newsome thought an ambulance might be needed. People prayed. Miraculously, Bobby’s breathing returned to normal before anyone dialed 911.
“Folks still praying around him.” Shanice aimed a pointed look my way. “Probably will be for the rest of the night until his mom can get back to pick him up.”
“I am very, very thankful that he’s doing okay,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” She shifted her attention to Kiera. “We don’t want to mess up the night for the littles, so carry on.”