Envy

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “It’s just the beginning.” I snatched the money from him. “You didn’t expect her to give me everything in her wallet the first time, did you? She don’t know me like that. Plus, she’s not Gabrielle and that’s where I’m going to get the money. We just have to be patient and work this right.” I tucked the money back inside my pocket.

  “I guess.” He shrugged and leaned back onto one of the bicycles. When he crossed his arms, his biceps popped. “So you still going with the plan? You’re gonna get the credit cards?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna try.”

  “You get those numbers, ’cause Que got a new plan,” he said, talking about his cousin. “He’s getting out of drugs and into this. It’s much safer. So you get the numbers and Que can turn that into some serious cash.”

  I didn’t really want to be caught up in any kind of credit card scheme; I preferred cash ’cause there was no trail with dollar bills. That was something Mama taught me. She said all of her johns bought her gifts with cash so that their wives wouldn’t find out. Still, though, I nodded. “And I’ll get as much cash as I can. I’m hoping that even after I come back here, my father will send me money on the regular, and then we’ll be set.”

  He sighed. “Maybe I should come to Los Angeles with you.”

  I laughed. “And how are you gonna do that?” I held up the money. “With this forty dollars? Or are you going to walk?”

  “I’m just saying, with me there, I may be able to help you move things along. I might be able to help you get even more money. You know I always got you, boo.”

  Whenever Buck said that to me, I really did feel safe. He was the only person in my life, besides Mama, who could make me feel like everything was gonna be all right. I said, “No. Your being in LA won’t help a thing. It’ll just make them suspicious.”

  He nodded. “So, when are you leaving?”

  I shoved the strap of my purse onto my shoulder. “Today, tonight. I think Regan is anxious to get back to Los Angeles.”

  “Whoa,” he said. “So this is it? This is the last time I’m gonna see you?”

  “Till I get back.”

  He nodded. “Okay, well . . .” He paused.

  “What?” I frowned.

  He took a deep breath, then looked away from me. “I was just gonna ask . . . since you going away and everything, are you gonna go over to the cemetery before you leave?”

  My eyes widened.

  “Don’t get mad. I just wanna know. ’Cause, you know, I talked to your mama a little about that before she died, and she said I was gonna have to help you through because you still haven’t gotten over what happened and . . .”

  I punched him square in his chest. And over his moan of pain, I shoved my finger into his face. “Don’t you ever bring that up again.”

  “What? I was just asking . . .”

  “Don’t you ever . . .” I shouted.

  And then I heard, “Keisha?”

  I whipped around, ready for a fight.

  “Are you okay?” Regan asked.

  Even though there were tears in my eyes and rage on my face, I said, “Yeah!”

  “Okay,” Regan said, looking first at me and then turning to Buck. “So . . . who’s your friend?”

  Buck took a step toward us, but I said, “He’s nobody.”

  That made Buck take that step back.

  I turned and glared at him. “Nobody. Just somebody I thought I remembered from high school.” I hardly moved my lips when I added, “But I don’t remember anything from high school.”

  And then I stomped away, praying the whole time that Regan would just follow me and not say a word to Buck, who, right now, didn’t feel anything like my boyfriend. He felt like a traitor, an enemy of my heart who was trying to take me places where I wasn’t strong enough to go.

  By the time I got over to the clothes section, I’d calmed down a bit.

  “Are you all right?”

  I breathed. At least Regan was behind me. “I’m cool. I just wanna pick up a few things,” I said, even though now I didn’t want any clothes. What I wanted was to get on the plane and get out of White Haven.

  “Okay,” Regan said, giving me another one of those glances that let me know she didn’t believe me. “Well, there are a couple of things I have to do, so I’ll meet you back at the hotel . . . at two.”

  “Nah. I’ll be back there as soon as I finish here. In like fifteen minutes.”

  She squinted and looked at me like I was a science project. But then she nodded. “Well, if you’re heading back to the hotel now and you’re ready to go, I’ll change our plans.”

  Oh, no! “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll fly out of Fayetteville instead of Little Rock. It’ll be a better flight.”

  I didn’t know what she meant by that, but if it got me out of White Haven now, I was all for a better flight.

  She stared at me for another moment, then nodded and walked away. I was glad my tears cooperated until she was gone because I didn’t want to explain anything else to her.

  When I walked into this store, I couldn’t wait to go shopping. But I didn’t care about clothes anymore. All I could do was think about what Buck had said.

  Why did he ask me about the cemetery? Why did he want me to go there when he knew that my heart would never beat again if I did that? Why did he want to take me back all of those years?

  Shaking my head, I headed to the cash register. Now, all I wanted to do was get out of White Haven as fast as I could. And if Buck kept talking that way, I might never come back.

  14

  Keisha

  I was still thinking about Buck, and the cemetery, and the reason why I could never go there as I followed Regan onto the airplane. We were like the third and fourth people to get on, even though there was a line waiting when we got to the gate.

  Inside the airplane, we passed like only two rows before she said, “These are our seats. Why don’t you sit by the window?”

  I scooted across one big seat, sat down, then snuggled my butt into the leather. It kinda felt like the little leather sofa Buck had in the bedroom he shared with four of his brothers at his mama’s house. With the way it felt, I was thinking this was gonna be a good ride—and then I got a glimpse of what was going on outside the window. There were men and women working all around the plane on the ground. That made me think . . . this thing was really about to go up in the air. Dang, maybe being back at Walmart and talking to Buck about things I didn’t want to talk about wasn’t so bad, because now I had too many questions: like how was this big ole thing even going to get off the ground? And if it got into the air, how was it gonna stay there? Suppose it just fell down? Suppose it just ran out of gas? All of those questions crashing around inside my head made me moan out loud.

  Regan said, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” But that was all I said because this chick was always trying to read me. Like when I met her back at the hotel—she had all kinds of questions about Buck even though I had told her he was someone that I thought I knew but didn’t. But like every other time, she looked at me like I was a liar.

  So that was why I wanted to stay quiet. But I guessed Regan was still doing her best to catch me not telling the truth.

  She said, “This is your first time on a plane, right?”

  I thought about it for a second, wondering what she was really trying to find out. Then I nodded, though I didn’t look at her; I kept my eyes on the window. That would give her the hint.

  But this chick didn’t catch my clue, and she had the nerve to say, “Well, you don’t have to worry. Airplanes are safer than cars.”

  Now I had to look at her. Because I had to figure out what she was trying to say. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “More people die in car crashes than in airplane crashes.”

  “What?”

  “You’re more likely to die in a car than on an airplane.” Then she smirked, looked down at her tablet, and pressed
a couple of keys like she hadn’t just been talking about all the different kinds of ways to die.

  People were passing by us, loading up the plane, but I hardly noticed. All I could do was glare at Regan. She was trying to scare me. This chick was a witch.

  “Would you like something to drink?” the flight attendant asked me, taking my attention away from Regan.

  I shook my head, and Regan ordered a sparkling water.

  Then Regan said to me, “You may want to lean back and try to go to sleep. It’s a smooth ride; you won’t even feel like we’re moving, and I’ll wake you up when they start serving dinner.”

  I did what Regan said, but only because I didn’t want to talk to her. And it probably was a good idea, since it would be better if my eyes were closed when this big ole plane tried to get up in the air.

  So I leaned back, and imagined what it was going to be like in Los Angeles. But as I tried to sleep and wanted to dream, my mind did what it did to me all the time. It made a left turn and took me back to hell. Maybe it was what Buck had said earlier that made me remember that Thanksgiving weekend in 2009. That weekend when I was just fourteen. That weekend that changed my whole life:

  By the time it got to be noon on Friday after Thanksgiving, I was a little excited. I’d been stuck in the house doing nothing except watching TV since we got out of school on Tuesday, so I was ready to do something else. And that something else was meet up with Mr. Stanley.

  Right before three o’clock, I stood at the opening to the park where Mr. Stanley dropped me off every day. This was the time Mr. Stanley had told me to meet him, and I didn’t want to be late. Plus, I wanted to get out of the house while Mama was still asleep, before she woke up and started asking questions.

  My heart was pounding with excitement, and started beating even harder when I saw Mr. Stanley’s Ford pickup round the corner. But when he stopped and leaned across the truck to open the door, I didn’t move. ’Cause right then, what happened on Tuesday with Mr. Stanley at school came to my mind. That picture was stuck—Mr. Stanley’s hand on my breast.

  He shouted out the window, “Hey, Keisha,” and the way he smiled reminded me that he was my friend—who was helping me find my father.

  So I hopped into the truck.

  Mr. Stanley said, “Ready for some good hamburgers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s get this road trip started.”

  When he grinned again, I relaxed a little more. It helped that I was in his truck because I loved riding up high, feeling like I was the princess of the road. With the windows open and the wind, I was sure that if I spread my arms, I would be able to fly. When I grew up, I was gonna have a truck like Mr. Stanley’s.

  When we hit the interstate, Mr. Stanley pushed a cassette into his system and I rocked to the music. I jammed all the way to Lipton with Drake and Beyoncé and Ne-Yo. It was a shock that Mr. Stanley liked the same music I did; it was a cool trip.

  By the time we stopped in front of the diner with big red letters proclaiming “Bubba’s Burgers,” I felt like Mr. Stanley was my best friend.

  “This is it,” Mr. Stanley said and turned off the ignition.

  Inside, I thought red must’ve been Bubba’s favorite color ’cause everything in the place was red: the floor, the chairs, the tablecloths, and the walls were red-and-white striped. “Wow,” I said when we sat down and the lady handed us red menus.

  “What?” Mr. Stanley said.

  “This place is so . . . cool.” That was the only word I could think of, because red was a color that made me feel happy.

  “It’s gonna be even better when you taste the hamburgers.”

  Mr. Stanley ordered two double cheeseburgers with french fries, and two vanilla shakes. When the lady walked away, Mr. Stanley got right down to business. “I talked to a couple of men at the truck stop.”

  “Already?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Yeah, didn’t I tell you I was gonna make this happen for you?”

  “Yes.” I squeezed my legs together, trying to hold in my excitement.

  “I’ve narrowed it down to one man. His name is Elijah Wilson.”

  I repeated Mr. Stanley’s words in my mind.

  “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  I shook my head. “Is he my daddy?”

  “I don’t know yet, but there’s one thing you can know for sure—I’m gonna find out.” He put his hand over mine.

  For a couple of seconds, I looked down at our hands—his pale white one over my chocolate brown. Didn’t seem like it was a good mix.

  Right then, the lady came back with our hamburgers, and before I took my first bite, I knew Mr. Stanley had been right. These were the biggest hamburgers I’d ever seen, with a whole lotta stuff, like lettuce and tomatoes and pickles. But when I finally bit into it, I knew Mr. Stanley had been wrong—this hamburger was better than the best, if there was a word for that.

  “Look at you.” Mr. Stanley leaned over and wiped the hamburger’s juices from my lips with his napkin.

  I was a little embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I told you these were some good hamburgers.”

  For the rest of the meal, Mr. Stanley and I just talked—about school and how I wanted to be a hairdresser when I graduated.

  He asked me, “Do you wanna get married one day?”

  I’d never thought about that. I wasn’t sure I even knew anybody who was married. “I don’t know.”

  “Get out of here,” he said. “As pretty as you are, I know you have a boyfriend.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I told you I can’t date till I’m seventeen.”

  “Well, that never stopped the girls at Clinton. Lots of them have secret boyfriends. You can have a secret boyfriend, too, if you want one.”

  “No way.” I shrugged. “I don’t have a boyfriend nor a lot of friends. I kinda stay a lot to myself.”

  “I noticed that.”

  When we finished with the hamburgers, Mr. Stanley ordered dessert—two slices of cheesecake, even though I told him I was full. By the time we finally stood up to go back to White Haven, it was dark outside. As he walked up to the counter to pay the bill, Mr. Stanley said, “Why don’t you go use the restroom.”

  I frowned. “I don’t have to go.”

  “We have a long ride back, and it’s harder to find a place to stop at night. So go on, just to make sure.”

  No one had told me to do that since I was a kid. But Mr. Stanley probably knew what he was talking about.

  It didn’t take me long—since I didn’t have to go—and when I came out of the bathroom, Mr. Stanley was already outside. He was in front of his truck, crouched down, looking at his front tire.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Damn it. I have a flat.”

  I leaned over his shoulder, but I couldn’t see anything with the way Mr. Stanley blocked my view.

  He said, “And I don’t have a spare. I took it out when I was loading some timber for my friends.” He slammed his hand on the hood. “Damn.”

  I stood there, not wanting to make him any more upset.

  He shook his head. “I called Triple A.” He held up his flip phone. “But they’re talking ’bout it may take a couple of hours. Maybe not even till morning.”

  Not till morning? I hadn’t told Mama where I was going, and even though she wouldn’t be home, I needed to be. “They can’t get here any faster? What are we gonna do?”

  He glanced across the street, and when he did that, I did, too. He said, “We can sleep in there until someone can come and fix this.”

  I looked at the motel, then back at Bubba’s Burgers. “Can we just wait in there?”

  “They’re ’bout ready to close.” I sighed and he continued, “Don’t worry.” Then Mr. Stanley grinned the way he always did when he wanted me to feel better. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

  “But my mama . . . I didn’t tell her I was coming over here with you.”


  “I’ll call her. Tell her you’re on a school trip or something.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, even though I wasn’t going to let him call her. But he didn’t need to know that right now.

  I wanted to sit in the truck and wait to be rescued, but I didn’t want to sit out here by myself. So when Mr. Stanley started walking, I followed him across the four lanes to the motel. He told me to wait outside while he talked to the lady at the front desk.

  As I waited, it began to feel colder and seemed even darker. And it felt empty, too. There were only two cars in this lot, and when I glanced across the wide street, everyone seemed to be leaving Bubba’s Burgers. By the time Mr. Stanley came back outside, I was so ready to go inside.

  “Our room is right down here.”

  Our room.

  Just about four doors down, Mr. Stanley stepped in, and when he clicked on the light, the first thing I saw were two beds and a chair. I rushed inside and bounced down on the green flowered chair as if I were claiming that space as mine.

  Mr. Stanley handed me the remote. “You can watch whatever you want.”

  “Thank you.” When I flipped through a few channels, and found the best show on TV—Martin—I felt better. And it was one of those episodes with Sheneneh, so that made me feel doubly better.

  I snuggled back into the chair while Mr. Stanley sat on the bed next to the window. After a couple of minutes of Gina, Pamela, and Sheneneh, I didn’t even remember Mr. Stanley, I was cracking up so much.

  Right when the second episode of Martin came on, Mr. Stanley said, “I’m going to check on the truck.”

  “Okay.”

  He said, “You should go ahead and sit on that bed.” He pointed to the one by the bathroom. “It’s more comfortable than that chair.” And then he walked out of the room.

  I waited a couple of seconds, then got up, crossed the room, and peeked out the window. It was so dark, I just turned away. For a second, I stared at the bed, then I did what Mr. Stanley said—I lay down.

  By the time the third episode of Martin came on, Mr. Stanley still wasn’t back. So I closed my eyes just during the commercial. But I guess I fell asleep. I could kinda hear the TV, but it wasn’t until I felt something move behind me on the bed that I realized that I wasn’t by myself. Was I dreaming?