I blink and nod. Everybody knows Kenny, of course—he’s one of the most likable dudes from the Ducts, despite the mixed company he keeps. And JT is also one of Javon’s boys. One of the crazier ones, who once knocked out a dude’s two front teeth for smiling too much. Both Kenny and JT got promoted to deal in areas with more foot traffic.
“Only today, I didn’t see Kenny. Didn’t see him Friday, either, but didn’t think much of it. Today, JT was there with someone new.”
I’m careful to not let any part of my face flinch. Keep up the game, especially with Slim and Quan clowning it up a few feet away from me. “And?” I ask.
“And . . . this new dude didn’t earn his promotion, so to speak. They needed someone else there since Kenny’s been MIA.”
I nod, try to connect the dots. But still, the largest one is missing.
As if reading my face, Riley squeezes me even tighter. “Kenny’s been missing since Thursday night, Jay. The last time anyone saw him was driving away from some huge party . . .” She leans forward like she’s going to kiss me but grazes her lips against my ear instead. “And your sister was with him.”
I blink—two, three times. Try to get it all to make sense. “Kenny always gave Nic rides when Javon couldn’t, so—”
“So my classmate at Warwick was also at that party. Said that Javon and Nic got into this fight to end all fights. Right before Nicole ran off with Kenny.”
The air’s too thin, so I pull away from Riley again. Ran off with Kenny? There were too many ways to take that sentence. Past scenes run through my head like a montage in a movie, except I’m seeing them in HD now. Kenny in the passenger seat, eyeballing Nic right after Javon called me dopey. Kenny playing tag with the neighborhood kids, only pausing to crack a smile at Nic that broke his face in half. Pooch outside my window, bumping his gums about Nic and Kenny.
Javon and his rage. Tackling me to the ground, almost like he wished I was someone else.
Nicole ran off with Kenny. How could I have been so blind? Kenny’s into Nic. Hell, he’s probably always been into Nic. But did Nic feel the same way?
“Word is that Kenny was a little too accommodating,” Riley continues, reading my mind. “And that Nicole was . . .”
“Nicole was what?” I step closer to Riley. “Some thirsty chick that messes around with her man’s best friend?”
“What? No. No.” Riley shakes her head a little too eagerly to refute me. “I heard she was just really happy to see Kenny. Like relieved. Jay, I don’t think your sister was two-timing Javon. At least, not on purpose. Sometimes . . . you can’t help who you fall for.” She looks down at her hand, pulls at her fingers.
I glance at Javon’s stoop again. See the smoke from his Black & Mild curling out of his window and evaporating before it hits the sky.
If that’s true, if Nicole really fell for Kenny and booked it with him, I had to find them before Javon did.
“Are you okay?” Riley asks, reminding me she’s here. “Whatever’s going on, Jay, we’ll figure it out.”
My head snaps back in her direction. “You mean me. I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough.”
Riley’s face crumples in confusion and I immediately know that my words spilled out all wrong.
“I mean, thank you,” I try again. Saying those words to Riley was like speaking Mandarin. Felt so foreign to my tongue. “But I’ll take it from here.”
“But—”
“I’ll wait for you to order an Uber.” I glance back at Javon’s building and Slim’s and Quan’s eyes are on me now. On Riley. I was right—she’s done enough. No way a preacher’s kid could handle the pending shitstorm if word about Nic and Kenny reached Javon. So, I wait with Riley for her ride, stand real close to her to block her from Slim’s and Quan’s gazes.
Eight
THE THING ABOUT RUNNING OFF WITH SOMEONE IS YOU don’t think about leaving clues behind. No goodbye notes, no breadcrumbs. Because when you take off with someone, you bring all the good stuff with you and leave all the bullshit behind. And that’s what I find in Nic’s bedroom. Bullshit. Just random puzzle pieces that don’t even make a complete picture when you put it all together—unless that picture is a typical seventeen-year-old girl’s bedroom. Nic’s place to slumber was all scented lotions and scented hair products and scented ChapStick (which, what the hell?). Those, on top of her clothes—her scantily clad looks hidden underneath her regularly clad looks—were all I could find when I raided Nic’s room. Twice. First, right after Riley spilled the wax she got from her classmate—and then again after dropping off MiMi’s things at the hospital. At least I got good news there. MiMi’s stable now, but they got her under a microscope just in case. I try not to think about the just in case.
Even though both raids were complete busts, I couldn’t help but feel like there was something I was missing. Yeah, Kenny was crushing hard—I finally saw what everyone else had already seen. But I’m not sure if that crush was reciprocated. Nic went hard for Javon—so hard that she once told me that they were thinking about getting matching tattoos. After telling Nic that walking around with a tattoo on her ring finger of a rose winding around a knife might send MiMi to an early grave, Nic reconsidered. She did other crazy shiz for Javon instead, like skip school or smoke bliss, or talk back to MiMi about skipping school or smoking bliss. Hard to imagine she’d go through all that drama just to hightail it somewhere with Kenny. But where were they? And why was Javon so pissed? I still can’t shake that last phone call from Nic. All ellipses and em dashes with not enough words in between.
Those questions haunt me as I sweep up the dining area in Taco Bell. Bad enough that I had to actually work in the middle of MiMi’s stroke and Nic’s vanishing act, but can a brother at least make a chalupa? Neither Joshua nor the other clown-in-command, Maurice, felt I was ready to handle the cash yet. Hell, maybe I wasn’t ready, either, since I just found out I got the job yesterday. I came in today to meet Maurice and they handed me a broom. Guess when you come to the interview looking banged up, people assume you’re thirsty for whatever job they’ll offer.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Just as my hope builds, I see it’s a text from Bowie.
You got the rest of Meek’s paper??? He’s trippin HARD.
I smirk. Meek Foreman and his forearms are the least of my worries right now. I’ve seen those forensic shows. If someone’s missing beyond forty-eight hours, the prognosis gets grim. What did it mean if the police didn’t care enough to even consider someone missing?
A shoulder jolting against my back jostles an answer out of my head—and sends me stumbling over my broomstick.
“My bad, bro.” A tall, white guy stands behind me with a shit-eating grin scribbled across his face. He wears a hoodie with Greek letters on his chest, some kind of triangle with horns. Spins a key chain with a Cadillac emblem around his index finger. I take it the dark mocha Escalade eating up two parking spaces in front of the dining area belongs to him. Wow. What a dude bro.
“Didn’t see you there,” Dude Bro continues, leaning toward me. He smells like he went running through a Christmas tree lot. Probably some high-end cologne, but the stuff MiMi mops the floor with smells better. “But check this out . . .” He points somewhere behind me. “You missed a spot.”
That’s when I notice the two white guys behind him, cackling like he’s the star of some Seth Rogen movie. They’re pretty nondescript—just Lackey No. 1 and Lackey No. 2. Both wearing the same hoodie as their douchey ringleader. The earthy smell of bliss seeping out of their pores, almost overtaking the Pine-Sol cologne. They probably scored in my neighborhood. Guys like them always perch in front of Javon’s building, not willing to step outside of their fancy cars and walk in their fancy shoes to the stoop. Instead, they demand full service like they’re ordering burgers at a Sonic Drive-In. Most don’t bother to look my way, but the ones that do give me the same you-must-bow-down-to-me head nod like these corn nuts. Great. Now I have to catch an extra dose of that condescen
sion working the night shift at Taco Bell. Fick my life.
I snatch up the broom from the floor and give Dude Bro a look that I hope will haunt him during his sleep later. He cocks an eyebrow, amused, and even takes a step toward me. Daring me—naw, begging me—to ram my broomstick right in between his eyes. I grip onto my cleaning utensil. Think about all the wonderful ways I could turn it into a weapon. How I could take out all my sadness, my frustration . . . hell, my rage on this Alpha Phi Asshole right in front of his fan club.
Someone clears their throat. I look over my shoulder and Joshua Kim’s behind the counter, stacking up trays, his eyes firmly and decidedly on me. I feel like I’m in a Western, but instead of drawing guns, Joshua’s drawing a silent warning: Any funny business and I’m calling the cops. Doesn’t matter that I’m the guy in here trying to work. My popping melanin makes me the aggressor in every situation. I loosen my grip on the broom handle, step around Dude Bro and his boys to clean up the crumbs underneath a table behind them. Their laughter is the salt in my wounds as they make their way to the counter.
This is for MiMi, I tell myself. After going through what she’s been through this week, she’s earned that retirement in Florida. I sweep up every crumb, every scrap that’s ever been in this Taco Bell before I even stepped foot in it. If this is what Joshua and Maurice need to see before they give me a promotion and up my pay, then I’ll be an Olympic Broom Pusher. The quicker I can get those duckets, the quicker MiMi and me can leave this neighborhood behind. Hopefully with Nic tagging along with us.
Just as I dump all my handiwork into the trash bin, Bowie hits me up again:
Bowie: You alive???
Really? It’s probably only been ten minutes since he sent his last message. He acts like I don’t have a life outside of him. Like I’m not dealing with moms in prison and missing sisters and grandmothers in the hospital. Not like he knows all those things, but still . . . I wish I had so little cares in the world that my main concern was making sure Meek Foreman graduated.
“I said all right!” Dude Bro’s voice booms throughout the dining area as he and his two friends squeeze into one of the booths. He pauses, as if the rumble in his vocal cords is a power that he just discovered. On some real Harry Potter shiz. He leans across the table to one of the other white guys. “Not here, man. Not here,” he says in his attempt to be hushed.
Lackey No. 1 or Lackey No. 2—not sure which one—nods about five too many times as he stirs his straw around his cup. His basic friend sits next to him, slaps him in between his shoulder blades to console him. Two times, brief. All: even though we’re sitting together, we’re not together. As if anyone truly gives a damn.
“No phones while you’re on your shift,” Joshua Kim says, walking up behind me. I jump, almost drop said phone. His work Skechers are no joke. It’s like he’s walking on squeak-free clouds. “You could leave it in the breakroom if it’s going to be a problem.”
Oh really? He better kill all that noise. “My grandma’s in the hospital,” I say instead. “I need to keep it close for updates.”
Joshua’s jaw flinches ever so slightly. He wants to tell me and my phone to shove it, but grandmas are a sensitive topic for everyone. “Just try to limit checking it to your breaks, ’kay?” He gives me a pat on the back like a caring and empathetic manager is supposed to, then walks away to annoy someone else.
A crash comes from the frat guys’ table. Dude Bro’s out of the booth, has one of his lackeys in a headlock. An actual damn headlock. They spin around as the lackey tries to pull away from him, crunching piles of nachos underneath their feet. The third idiot leaps up about five seconds too late to pry them apart.
“Chill out, Liam!” Third Guy pleads, finally detaching his friend from the blissed-out clutches of their leader.
Dude Bro pushes his hair out of his pink and sweaty face. He scopes out his friends, who huff and puff across from him. Fists clenched at their sides like they don’t know what he’s going to do next. Dude Bro shifts his eyes down to his pulverized food, then smirks up at me. Smugness washes over any anger on his face as if he was just reminded that he’s the one with the power—and I’m the one with the broom.
“I’m not hungry anymore. Let’s get out of here,” he orders. He makes sure to step on another pile of nachos before heading out to his obnoxious ride. Lackey No. 1 and No. 2 glance at each other, asking a hundred silent questions. Still, they follow behind Dude Bro like they’re supposed to.
“Glad they left before things got out of hand,” Joshua Kim says from behind me.
I stare down at the rubble of their order on the floor. Before things got out of hand?
“Make sure to clean that up before more guests come.” He slaps me on the back to motivate me.
I take a deep breath and push my broom over to their booth. Try my best not to push it up his ass.
Forty-five dollars. That’s how much money I made for my five-hour shift at Taco Bell. That’s not including what Uncle Sam was going to take from me by the time payday rolls around. I had to spend five hours of sweeping up taco shells and plunging toilet bowls and dodging smirks from high frat guys with too much time on their hands to not even crack fifty dollars. Now it’s creeping toward eleven o’clock and instead of climbing into my bed, I have to cram for a Math Analysis test.
I yank off my polo shirt as soon as I unlock my front door and hurl it onto the couch. I reach for it to clean up my mess before MiMi gets here, but then the memory of her unconscious in her hospital bed hits me like a fist. So, I take my actual fist and ram it into the couch pillow. It barely leaves a dent, which pisses me off even more. I’ll show this goddamn couch. I use all the breath in me to grab the couch by one of its ends and attempt to flip it over, but the wall’s in my way. A grunt rips out of me as I ram the couch against the wall, over and over again until they both feel my anger. Until I feel anything but anger. Soon, my arms start to buckle, so I release the couch. It slams against the floor and I slam down right next to it. I rest my back against it and scrub at my hair. Wish I had dreads or something I could grip onto just to pull it all out. That’s what I need. To just let everything out.
There’s a loud knock at my front door. I blink and climb to my feet. It’s late as hell. Probably Miss Claudine asking me to quiet it down. Her boys have to sleep for school after all. Never mind that they play Fortnite loud enough for the neighborhood to hear every weekend. I snatch the door open, ready to tell her just that if she comes at me the wrong way. The girl standing outside my door wears a red-and-gold track suit with matching Converse sneakers.
“Riley?” I say, frowning so hard that I give myself a headache.
She gives me a meek smile. “Hey, Jay. Somebody order a pizza?” She laughs and a snort escapes her mouth. “That was a joke. I mean, obviously I don’t have a pizza—though that does sound good right about now.” She looks me up and down. “Did I . . . did I catch you at a bad time?”
I look down at myself and remember that I’m only in my white tank top. That I had partially stripped down during my temper tantrum. I fold my arms across my chest, suddenly feeling naked. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it past your curfew or whatever?” I peek out in the hall and nobody else is there. Riley Palmer showed up to the Ducts, after dark, without any backup. Brave girl.
“I may have . . . embellished my whereabouts. And by embellish, I mean I waited to hear my dad snore before tiptoeing out the back door.”
“Wait—you snuck out?” Okay, what’s a word more impressive than brave? “Why?”
“Okay, I know you told me to stay out of it, but I couldn’t sleep, Jay. You seemed so surprised by Nicole taking off with Kenny, that she had to have left you something, right? Some kind of hint of where she took off.” She pushes past and enters my living room.
I blink after her. “Sure. Come in.”
Riley scopes out my living room and if I didn’t feel naked before, I certainly do now. I close the front door behind me, hug my bare arms again.
“Were you searching for clues out here?”
I glance over at the couch cushions strewn across the floor and scratch my ear. “Yeah. Yeah I was.” Shove my hands in my pockets. “Didn’t find anything, though.”
“What about her room?”
I smirk. “Of course I checked out her room.”
“I tend to do better on papers after someone else takes a look at them. Fresh eyes can catch more, you know? Where’s her room?”
“Riley, I told you. I looked in there more than once. I’m her brother. I’d know where she’d hide something.”
Riley starts making her way toward the bedrooms as if she has an all-access pass.
“Ay! I didn’t say you could go back there!”
“What’s the worst that could happen, Jay? I find nothing, you prove me right. I find something, you get an answer. You win in both situations, right?” She points to the closed bedroom door with a picture of Lizzo taped on it. “I take it this is her room, right? Unless you like them BBW.”
I frown at her again. My chin almost hits the floor.
“Big beautiful women,” Riley says to me, all slow like she’s explaining the theory of relativity.
“I know what it means. I’m just trying to figure out how you do.”
Riley shrugs. “I rarely ever get enough credit.” She pushes Nic’s bedroom door open, and I reach out to stop her. But my hand never connects. Maybe she’s right. There could be something I missed because I keep looking in all the same places. Maybe looking in the same places got my eyes all bleary.
So far, though, Riley covers the same territory. Nic’s drawers, Nic’s closet. Under Nic’s bed. The same areas I’ve scoped out so much that I could draw a sketch of what’s in them.
“See?” I say, after a couple of minutes past. “Nothing.”
Riley lifts up Nic’s trash can and another snort leaves her mouth. “Obviously, you weren’t thorough enough. Check this out.” She bends over and picks up something off the floor. A wrapper. A small one, like it used to cover a sucker or something. But the picture on it’s all artsy and custom, some smiling face with a tongue hanging out. Not the standard Blow Pop I could grab from the corner store. I look up at Riley, whose smile looks like she ate one too many Blow Pops.
When You Look Like Us Page 8