After Dion has pulled away, I sit outside in the backyard, under the scarlet plum tree, and wait for answers to fall from its branches. Soon, Smiley will be home. She’ll have heard what happened at school. What if she tells Aunt Patrice? Now, in spite of myself, I long for Grammy’s book, to see her words, to feel her presence. I’m afraid to go inside, afraid my straw bag won’t be there, and even more afraid it will. Did he see the book? If so, what might he do?
In that enormous kitchen, Smiley and I peel veggies over the sink. Out of nowhere, a big black truck screeches up the driveway, stopping just short of Auntie Patrice’s car bumper. I turn to Smiley, but before I can ask who it is, she lets out a shriek, carrot and knife clattering into the sink. Front door flung open and a Smiley-shaped blur hurtles down the driveway, stopping at the truck’s window, jumping up and down, beating the glass.
A man steps out. Not especially tall, not especially good-looking, but he walks with a swagger and he has a killer smile. I can see that, even through the window’s screen and security bars. Quick and full, wide and white, a grin like Smiley’s that makes scowls soften and cut eyes curl up, happy. It slaughters Aunt Patrice’s fury; she comes striding down the driveway, hand on one hip, finger waving, gesturing at her car before she stops, felled by those teeth, and then he says something I can’t hear, and it makes her cock her head to one side, then lunge forward, flinging her arms around him. The onion I was peeling falls slack in my hands as I watch the three of them come back up to the house. As they do, Aunt Patrice makes a strange sound, a kind of gasping and squawking and wheezing. Laughter. She can actually laugh. I glance up at the sky above them to see if goats are flying now too. The door opens again and in comes his voice, loud and delighted with itself, pausing every few words to check that people are still listening delightedly.
“And then I tell her, ‘So what, you’s take me for maid now, ay?’ ” this guy says, sending Aunt Patrice into another fit of cackles, and Smiley joins in. They’re inside, in the front room, then closer, in the dining room. Their laughter is held together by the punch line to a story I haven’t heard. I exist outside this joke.
Finally, they reach the kitchen, the air buzzing around them.
“Mummy, what’s this, you have a modeling agency now? All these domestic divas you have stashed around the house, with the head ties and the latest accessories—I see onions are all the rage this year,” the man says. Smiley giggles, strutting through the doorway. Aunt Patrice’s smile falls a little, but the guy just laughs more, overjoyed with life, with himself. His eyes crinkle up the way Smiley’s do. “I’m Gary,” he says, and it clicks, this is the big brother, the big-time hotel chef, the owner of the room where I’ve just unpacked my one bag of belongings.
Before I can feel fear—Is he moving back? Where will I sleep?—and that guilt you get when you’ve been in the space of a person who seems to still half-live in a house, his hand is extended and he’s looking straight into my eyes. Not up and down the length of me, quick and sneaky or open and slow, the way a couple of Mamma’s boyfriends used to. His eyes are wide, a deep brown, framed with tightly curled lashes. His skin is glowing, the faint outline of his shaved hair beginning far back on his head. He’s maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, but he’s surer of himself than most of Mamma’s skulking boyfriends, and they were always much older. I reach out to shake his hand and he flips it up at the last second. “Too slow!” he shouts, and Smiley explodes into guffaws.
“Smiley, go tell your daddy Gary’s here,” Aunt Patrice breaks in, as though all this merriment needs balancing out with a practical task. “This is Indira.” There’s a touch of laugh left in her voice, but saying my name quenches it. “Your cousin. Remember, from Mariner’s?” she calls, following Smiley out of the kitchen. “Sharice’s child?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I remember.” Gary takes my hand, which I’m still holding out stupidly, and shakes it.
“I put Indira in your room,” Aunt Patrice continues from the front room. “We thought you had left for good.” Gary ignores her, holding on to my hand.
“Sharice’s daughter. Then you’s family. What we shaking hands for?” He pulls me in for a hug.
The hug is a breath longer than it needs to be. Or is that my imagination? Puff of air, as he exhales on my neck. Hand on my waist. Finds a handful of me and quick, so quick I almost could say it didn’t happen, gives a squeeze.
“Stranger!” Uncle’s voice booms from the doorway, and it’s over. The two men jostle and joke as I shuffle myself off to the side, out of the way. Gary has his head in the fridge then, rummaging, and takes out the pitcher of water, filling up a glass. “Man, I thought we got rid of you,” Uncle jokes. Thought you was all grown up, big man. What happen?”
“Didn’t think I’d be back either, but my girl kick me out. You could believe that?” Gary eyes me over the rim of his glass. “Y’all women coldhearted, ya know?”
“Comes at a good time,” Uncle says. “I’m out of town for two weeks. You’ll be the man of the house.”
“Yeah, stay here.” Smiley comes back in, returning to the abandoned carrot in the sink. She wags it at him. “Indy won’t mind. Then we get to share my room.”
But later that night, Aunt Patrice hands me a pillow and two sheets, points to the living room sofa.
“I don’t want you in with Cecile,” she says, as though I’m a bad habit that might rub off on Smiley. “Gary’s only here for a couple nights,” she adds, turning away. Lying down, I try to relax. It’s not so bad. Maybe better than sleeping in Gary’s room would have been. I bring my hand up to the spot he touched. Try not to think of my things in his room. My underwear in the bottom of the straw bag. The book, tumbled into some corner of the closet, behind his clothes. I can hear him moving around in there, jostling things on the bureau, putting stuff away. Then he must turn off the light, because the bedsprings squeak a few times before silence settles all around. I lie there, but sleep won’t come. Even in the quiet, with the rest of the house sleeping, the book haunts me. It’s the same as those slightly-too-big bras, as the nickname Doubles. Made for someone else, but forced onto me.
• • •
I wake up to the sound of Aunt Patrice yelling for Smiley to hurry up before she gets left behind. I’ve slept through them coming home, probably slept through dinner, too. I stand up, straightening out my clothes, and tiptoe to the back door. I’m in luck. Someone’s left it open. The kitchen is empty, but my bag waits for me by the garbage bin. I grab it, relieved. The book is there, near the bottom, and everything else is still in its proper place. I sling it over my shoulder and tiptoe through the dining and living rooms. Smiley’s door is half open. If I can just make it there . . .
“Indira.”
Aunt Patrice’s voice behind me. I try to put on a neutral expression before I turn around to face her.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Where you coming from?”
“I was out in the backyard. I fell asleep.”
“Fell asleep from doing what? And why you ain in your uniform? Again?”
Nothing I say is going to sound right, and the truth is out of the question.
“Where you was today?”
“I—I was at school.”
Aunt Patrice reaches into her jacket pocket, taking out her phone. “At school.” She shoves it under my nose. There’s a picture on the screen. The jeep. Me inside. And Dion, a male blur next to me. “Who is this?”
There’s no point in telling her it’s not how it looks, in saying it’s a friend. I’m sure Gary’s already told her his version of things. I look away.
“You think you could just cut school and joyride with man? Listen. You know how I go. You want boyfriend? You out. You don’t go to your classes? You out. This ain Mariner’s. My name ain Sharice.”
“Neither is mine!”
Aunt Patrice holds my gaze as she puts her phone away. “Lucky for you Gary was the one who saw you and sent this to me. If I had seen you myself, if
I ever see you myself, if I get word again you up to this behavior, you’re out. Understand? Don’t matter what your uncle say. I have my own child to protect.”
I want to take that phone, smash it against the wall. Smash it against her head, knock sense into her. Instead, I mutter, “Yes, ma’am.” She is satisfied, or maybe just done with me. She turns away, heading for the front room. I stay where I am until I hear the door close behind her. Then I push open Smiley’s bedroom door.
Smiley is in there, pulling her hair back in a ponytail. All showered and in a clean dress.
“You going to church with Aunt Patrice?” I ask. No answer. “Hey.”
She straightens up, the usual grin gone from her face.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
Before I can stop her, she’s snatched the bag off my shoulder. In one quick motion, she pulls out the book and holds it up accusingly.
“Gimme that back. If Aunt Patrice see—”
“So it’s true.” She drops the bag and the book like both are diseased. “And you couldn’t tell me?”
“So what, you heard—”
“Everybody heard. Everybody know.”
“Ms. Wilson—”
“Not her, dummy. I mean your whole class know. Karen told her sister in my class. I heard after all those people, even though you my cousin and me and you share a bed. I knew something was up.” Angry as she sounds, her eyes are starting to tear up. “How come you didn’t say nothing?”
“I—”
“You really pregnant?” Her interruption is welcome; I have no explanation. None I can say out loud. I nod.
“How far?”
“Five months.”
“Indy.” And then she’s hugging me as the car horn toots outside. “I thought you was just getting fat.”
“Thanks.” I try to pull away. It’s not the fat comment—I don’t care about that, I know it’s just Smiley, and besides, it’s true—it’s having someone pressed up to me. But Smiley refuses to let go.
“Mummy know?”
“You think I’d still be here if she did?”
“Don’t worry, Indy.” Her voice is muffled by the embrace. “It’ll be okay. I’ll find a way to help you. Promise. I ga fix this for you. You watch.”
“Oww, man, you hurting me,” I lie, squirming away. “Get off me, your mummy ga know something’s up.”
There’s another honk from outside. When I push Smiley away, her face is wet.
“You want me to stay home from choir practice?”
“For what?”
“Never mind. I’m gonna help you.” She reaches for my bag again.
“What you doing?” I ask, pulling the bag away from her.
“Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me.” Smiley gives me that grin, wide and open and empty of harm. I reach into the bag and press the phone into her hand, giving her my passcode. I don’t have anything to hide, at least not on the phone. Just a bunch of old texts to her, and the call to Mamma. She puts it into her pocket, then runs for the car. From inside, I watch them drive away and try to shake that feeling creeping up on me. That feeling of Why me? Why it couldn’t have been someone else? And then, something else, something uglier I push down low. But it pops up again and again. Why not her?
6
IT’S JUST AFTER SIX the next morning when I march out to the garbage with a bag of hotel bread rolls in one hand, another one of those disgusting foil containers in the other. I’m midway through tossing it all in the trash when someone speaks.
“Hey.”
Behind me. A male voice—not Gary. Still, I know better than to make any sudden moves. Be slow, I tell myself. Be controlled. Show no fear. I shove the foil tray deeper into the trash before I turn around. Long body, gangly limbs, light brown skin, low Afro patted down meticulously, white shirt carefully ironed and dark brown pants starched so stiff they could stand up on their own, knife-sharp crease pressed down the front. It takes a moment when you see something familiar out of place; a banana in the box of spinach, a red sock in the flower display. Then it clicks. Churchy. Of course.
“I-I-I I hope I ain scare you.” He gunfires the words, spitting them out like broken teeth.
“What you doin here?”
“I-I-I c-c-came to see you.” He nods, relieved it’s come out so easy, his hairless chin bobbing up and down.
“What for?”
“You f-f-f-forget?”
I settle the wood cover over the garbage. He must be crazy. “Forget what?”
“L-l-last night. Remember?”
“Remember what?”
“You t-t-text me and say to come by early. R-r-remember?”
I look him straight in the eye. I remember Churchy knew me in Mariner’s. He’s the reason Doubles followed me here. I remember he knows, as much as anyone else back home, how Mamma is. I’d bet money I don’t have that I know why he’s really here. What he expects from me.
“So I guess you heard,” I say.
“H-h-heard what?”
“And you thought you could come get your piece too.” I move forward, hands on my hips, forcing him to take a step back; he bumbles into the bougainvillea.
“Wh-wh-wh-what piece you talkin bout?” He wears a wounded expression as he pulls a leaf out of his hair. “You text me last night an-an-an tell me c-c-come by around six.” He takes a few steps toward his bicycle, leaning up against the side of Aunt Patrice’s red car.
“Churchy, don’t play with me. You didn’t hear what happened at school yesterday? You don’t know what they sayin about me?”
“I w-w-was s-sick, I ain b-b-been to school.”
“We saw you at the restaurant, night before.”
He shoots me a guilty look, and I get it. He probably had to work at the restaurant during the day. I realize Churchy’s life might not be perfect either. He might not have wanted to leave Mariner’s himself, with his grammy, fat and cheerful and loud, to go to school where the people who tease you aren’t even the people you know, have always known. Might not want to work in that restaurant. That’s the only reason why I wait when he holds his hand up, pleading. He pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. Want to talk to you. You could come by early before school. I get up at 6. From my number. I open my mouth to protest, I never sent that, then remember Smiley clinging to me. I’m gonna help you. Give me your phone. Just trust me. So maybe he’s not a creep. Doesn’t matter. This still ain going nowhere. I pass his phone back. “You better go. If my aunt catch you out here you ga have to steer that bike home using your mouth.”
He looks at me with the long, disappointed eyes of a potcake that’s been kicked one time too many. “Y-y-you ga be to school today?”
“I dunno,” I say, turning to go. I feel a little bad for Churchy. He must have gotten up at four to be here by now, freshly pressed. But I don’t have time to stand out here mourning for him. The smell of the garbage is already making me want to gag. “Hurry up. If my aunt see you—”
“Y-y-yeah. I kn-kn-know.” He gives me a funny smile, and for a second he’s not just that stuttering kid I’ve always known. “Sh-sh-she like your grammy? She ga come out and b-break off one switch to beat me with?” He swats at the air with his arm, mimicking the motion. I can’t help but laugh, and there’s a second where I’m a normal girl out in the front yard, sharing a joke. Then I glance over at the house and see the curtains fall back into place over the window. My heart skips. Aunt Patrice might be up. Might have seen us talking. If she did, there’s no point delaying her wrath.
“Grammy would make you pick out your own switch,” I tell Churchy, heading for the house.
When I open the door, Smiley jumps back from the front window guiltily. So damn nosey she couldn’t even finish getting dressed before she came to peek out. Her skirt is hauled on but not zipped or hooked shut, and she’s in her bra, blouse in one hand. Her problem’s the opposite of mine; my bra can’t even do its one job anymore, while
hers is about as vital as a diaper on a cactus. “Who that was?”
I could slap her. “What you tell that boy come here for?” I ask, walking into the kitchen. I dig out a box of ginger biscuits and open it, nibbling on one. I’m not hungry, but if there’s any chance Grammy’s trick might help with this morning sickness, it’ll be worthwhile. Smiley blinks at me stupidly, feigning innocence.
“What boy?” She drapes her blouse over her shoulder as she starts rummaging around in the cabinet, then retrieves the iron and ironing board.
“Don’t play with me.”
“I only tryin to help you, you know.”
“Help me how?”
“Well, at least I had an idea. Oh, and I put some minutes on your phone.”
I don’t care about that right now. “What you think he could do for me?”
On the kitchen counter, my cell phone rings before she can answer. Smiley glances at it, then at me, as she starts to press the blouse. “You think that’s him?”
“Him who?” Aunt Patrice says, surprising both of us. She’s come into the kitchen quietly; how long has she been there, listening? “Who’s calling you this kinda time?” she asks, looking over at me.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m not lying; I don’t recognize the number, but if I don’t answer now, I’ll only be giving Aunt Patrice a reason to suspect me. I pick up the call. “Hello?”
“Hi. May I speak with Indira?”
A male voice. It can’t be anyone from school, not using my real name. “Yeah. Yes.” I can feel Aunt Patrice watching, straining to overhear.
“This is Dion. From the yoga retreat.”
“Oh, right.” I keep my voice neutral.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling, I saw this is the number you dialed yesterday. Didn’t think I’d really get you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
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