When You Look Like Us

by Pamela N. Harris

  I shrug. “So? Nic’s not the tidiest person in the world.” One time, MiMi found a paper plate with a half-eaten PB&J sandwich under Nic’s bed. And they say boys are the messy ones.

  “Don’t you get it? Everything means something.” She puts the wrapper into her pocket and pats it. “I’ll keep it just in case.”

  Trash? We’re resorting to trash now? I could’ve spent these minutes studying, not building false hope. “Okay, you got to go,” I say. Riley was having way too much fun with this. Like she was Dora and exploring some big mystery. But my life isn’t a cartoon. Far from it.

  Riley blinks at me. “But . . . but I’m just getting started.”

  “Why are you breaking curfew for someone you hardly know?” I ask. “Nic barely said two words to you at church.”

  “That’s not true,” Riley says under her breath, so low that I almost miss it. “And it seems like someone should care that she’s gone.”

  I frown at her. “Was that shade?” Does she know how many sleepless nights I had to deal with since Nic’s last phone call? How the guilt clawed and chewed away at me until I wake up barely hanging on and painting a smile on my face just not to worry MiMi any further. MiMi still hasn’t come to yet, but I know that my stress would keep her under. So, I smile and rub her hand and tell her everything’s going to be okay even though my gut says the opposite.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Jay. I just meant—”

  “Bye, Riley.”

  Riley studies me for a second or two, then gives me a slight nod before walking past me.

  My legs follow behind her on autopilot. My dad always said you’re never supposed to let a lady walk alone. He was old school like that. Sometimes he’d get stuck holding the door at 7-Eleven for a good ten minutes for every woman that needed to walk through.

  Riley glances back at me and holds up her hand. “I’m good, Jay. I’m good.” She repeats it like she means it, so I let her find her way out. Probably for the best. She’d try to say something else to get my hopes up. I look around at Nic’s lopsided mattress. The partially open dresser drawers. The closet light spilling out onto her bed. The same paths I traveled earlier, but Riley had to do the job again. As if I was some kid helping out their mom in the kitchen but couldn’t be trusted to peel the potatoes correctly.

  But dammit, Riley had a point. She saw an opening and went for it, consequences be damned. I was tired of sitting around, waiting for phone calls or text messages. Or the cops to actually do their job. If I wanted to find Nic, I had to take more action. And if Javon’s crew didn’t know anything, maybe Kenny’s crew did.

  Nine

  BEFORE KENNY STARTED PUSHING BLISS AND CRINKLE FOR Javon, he was a pretty good baller. So much so that high school varsity teams were recruiting him when he was still in eighth grade. For some reason, he still came to Youngs Mill. Something went foul at the start of Kenny’s junior year. Nobody really knows what. Some people say he blew out his knee running from or after someone. Others say his dad blew out Kenny’s knee after hitting the bottle a bit too hard one night. Either way, Kenny’s hoop dreams faded and he grew even tighter with Javon.

  Still, basketball was an itch he never fully scratched. Every now and then when I walked a neighborhood dog for one of my side hustles, I spotted him on the court at the Boys and Girls Club on Bland Boulevard. I head there after school, each step filled with purpose. I spot some of the usual suspects. Not part of Javon’s squad, but Kenny’s boys from the team—more varsity than vandals. It’s less intimidating to get answers from them than from the thugs on Javon’s stoop.

  The guys on the court whoop and holler as one of them dunks the ball during a play. “You see that shit?” he bellows, still dangling from the hoop. “Tell me that wasn’t a Lebron move right there.”

  “Man, Lebron’s trash,” some guy with beads dancing at the end of his corn rows says. I haven’t seen beads on hair since my mom showed me pictures of herself in elementary school.

  “Yeah, says the guy who just ate the bottom of my sneaker!” The Lebron wannabe finally hops down from the hoop and plucks one of the other dude’s braids. The beads shiver and make music from his scalp.

  “Man, whatever.” He smirks and swats Fake Lebron’s hand away as the other guys laugh. That’s my cue. I force out a laugh and clap my hands.

  “Nice. I see you got some skills,” I say, still applauding. “Mind if I join in?” I point down at my sneaks, as if to prove that I have the right gear to play. Sometimes I wonder how I even have one friend at school.

  The guys look at me, then at each other. “Yo, get your cousin, Rico,” one of them says to the guy with beads.

  “Man, I don’t know this fool,” Rico insists. Frowns at me to prove we’re not related.

  “I do.” Lebron looks me over, tucks the ball into his armpit. “Kind of. You go to Youngs Mill, right? And don’t you walk around here with that mutt with scabies?”

  I wince. Not necessarily the way I want to be remembered. “You mean Titus? Yeah, he had mange, but he’s good to go now. Or so his owner tells me. I just help out from time to time.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Jay.”

  Fake Lebron peers down at my hand, his face pinched like a nerve.

  “I wash my hands every time I’m done walking them. Plus, I haven’t handled Titus in weeks,” I insist.

  Lebron gives in and slaps me a five. “DeMarcus,” he says. Points at a guy with bright red Jordans. “That’s Xavier.” Points at a dude with his stomach hanging over his gym shorts. “Chip.” Finally, the guy with beads. “And you already know your cousin Rico.” The guys laugh again, except Rico.

  “Y’all keep playing with me,” he warns, fiddling with one of his braids.

  “So, can I ball with you guys or naw?” I ask again. Brothers usually don’t spill the wax all willy-nilly. You got to keep them preoccupied. Catch them with their guard down. Usually when they’re doing something they love. For instance, spot me when I finish the latest Jason Reynolds novel, and I’ll tell you all about my mom, dad, and my drunk uncle Kevin who’s slept on every family member’s couch at one point or the other.

  “Naw,” Rico says. “We already got our teams. You’d make us all uneven.”

  DeMarcus smirks at him. “Fool, didn’t you just say your ankle hurt?”

  Rico smirks right back. “And? I could ride it out.”

  “Yo, that’s what your moms said to me last night,” Xavier says, and the guys whoop and holler again. Everyone, of course, but Rico. He rolls his eyes, like jokes about his mom happen every Wednesday afternoon. I need to keep these guys on track. If one of them gets too salty, then the whole squad might crumble.

  I look around as if I’m looking for someone. “Figured we could play a little three on three. Where’s your boy?”

  The laughter dies. “Who?” DeMarcus asks.

  Okay. Fake Lebron is obviously their spokesperson, so I have to appeal to him. “Dark-skinned brother?” I continue. “Little bit taller than me? I think you guys call him . . .” I snap my fingers, try to conjure up some random-ass name, “Curtis?”

  The guys look at each other again. It’s so quiet you can hear someone’s stomach growling. Despite it being after school and the elementary-aged kids are slowly making their way onto the playground next to us, all wired and ready to go after seven hours of sitting on their asses.

  “Why you tryna play us?” DeMarcus asks. “I think you know his name is Kenny. Just like I think you know that your sister kicks it here with him from time to time.”

  I blink a few times at him. Nic. He knows Nic. Enough with the bullshitting then. Good thing, because my balling skills are on the same level as my self-defense skills. “So, you know Nic?”

  “Of course we know Nic,” DeMarcus says. He looks at his boys and they nod in agreement. Even Rico. Not before curling his lip at me, though. “And we know you all are from the same hood. So what’s up with this ‘pick me, pick me’ shit. You trying to ball with us for real? Trying to
pick up some more game for the ladies?”

  “Little dude probably ain’t got no game,” Chip says, and it’s the first time I heard Rico laugh since I’ve been out here. Didn’t even think he knew how.

  “Okay, so if you know all of that, you know that Nic and Kenny faded about a week ago,” I say. The cordiality drops from my tone. If they wanted me to get to the marrow, I will. “You hear from either of them?”

  DeMarcus scratches his chin as he studies me. A few seconds later, he points at me. “Matter of fact, I did. Kenny hit me up about two days ago.”

  “He did?” I ask. Two days ago? That recently? Holy shit! If Nic’s with him, that means they’re good. That means when I visit MiMi I’d actually have some good news for her. Some answers. “Where is he? What he say?”

  “I’m trying to remember . . .” DeMarcus rubs his forehead, concentrates. “I think . . . I think he wanted to tell me what he had for breakfast that day. Cheerios, I believe.”

  “Original or Honey Nut?” Xavier asks.

  “Nigga, is that even a question?” DeMarcus scoffs at him. “Honey Nut. Then he told me that he needed to get some more gas for his ride. Then, the most important part of the call, he asked if I could come over and wipe his ass later that night.” That does his friends in. They hang all over each other, laughing at me—the loser who can’t ball and points at his sneakers and walks dogs with skin diseases.

  Heat rises to my face and it takes everything in me to not snatch that ball from DeMarcus’s armpit and hurl it at the back of his big head. But there’s four of them and one of me. I didn’t need a hospital bed right next to MiMi’s.

  “I’m serious,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “I am, too, bruh,” DeMarcus insists, wiping tears from his eyes. “Kenny’s cool and all, but I don’t keep dibs on him like that. Ever since he got all tangled up with Javon we see him when we see him. We don’t ask any questions. Got too much riding on our futures to know the answers, know what I’m saying?”

  I know exactly what he’s saying. They all got free rides out of here just because they know how to toss a ball into a hoop. Maybe if I didn’t spend the past few years stressing about everyone else, I could’ve picked up a skill, too. Do something with my hands that’d make me stand out in a crowd. But MiMi needed me and Nic as much as we needed her. And as long as Nic keeps playing this vanishing act, I’ll be anchored to the Ducts until I’m able to get MiMi out of there.

  I glance one more time at the guys on the court. The laughter has died down again and they all stare at me, eager for me to say or do something else to give them their next round of chuckles. I’m not anyone’s clown, though. I head back the way I came. These guys didn’t know shiz, anyways. Too busy chasing their own dreams over Kenny’s nightmares.

  “Hey! Sherlock Homeboy!”

  Like an idiot, I turn around. I expect more laughter, but DeMarcus stares at me like I’m a little kid wandering the hood after the streetlights come on. One eye filled with worry, the other one telling him to mind his own business. “Your sister’s good people,” he says. “Smart as all hell. She’ll find her way back home.”

  I let his words sink in and nod. I hope so. But I’ll do everything I can to guide her back in the meantime.

  “Here, MiMi. I got it,” I say as I take the applesauce off her tray and pull the chair right next to her hospital bed.

  “I can feed myself,” she says, the words leaving her mouth in tiny clots. “I’ve been feeding myself for almost sixty years. Heck, I even fed you your first solids.”

  “Well, relax. Let me return the favor.” I spoon some of the unsweetened applesauce and place it to her lips. She gives me a tiny smirk and I raise my eyebrows at her. Finally, she gives in and lets me feed her. “See? Not so bad, right?”

  “Hmph.” She twists in her bed. I hand her the remote and she adjusts the bed setting, gets it right where she wants it. “I bet you’re not eating applesauce for dinner.”

  “Imagine it’s a juicy steak,” I say as I feed her a bit more. “With a side of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy. Your greens on the side, pieces of ham all swimming in it.”

  “Turkey,” she says after swallowing. “I gave up pork a while ago.”

  I pause midair with her next serving. “Since when?”

  “Since forever ago. You’re just so busy inhaling whatever I put in front of you that you don’t stop to ask what you’re eating.” At that, she looks at me, eyes in full-on grandma mode. “You have been eating, right? What you have for dinner tonight?”

  “I’m good, MiMi. I’m good,” I insist. No point of telling her that my last few meals have consisted of whatever wasn’t sold at Taco Bell at the end of my shift. And that’s when I remember to actually put something in my mouth.

  “Okay then.” She settles back against her pillow. “I already have one grandbaby to worry about.” She closes her eyes and I hold my breath. I was hoping we’d get through at least five minutes without talking about Nic. I told MiMi about Nic running off with Kenny. I thought she’d be relieved that it was Kenny and not Javon, but all she knew was that Nic was there (wherever there is) and not here. Here is safe. Here is home. She reopens her eyes and they’re dotted with tears. “You have to find a picture for Deacon Irving. A nice one, now. Not one of them silly ones with you and her making faces in your phone.”

  “I know,” I say. The good Deacon called me yesterday. Talking about he’s praying for my family. Talking about the members of the congregation wanted to put out flyers and get Nic’s face out there. The gesture would be more genuine from a man who didn’t ditch his sick wife in another state to do whatever’s he’s doing with MiMi. And now that MiMi’s sick, I’m not sure if he stepped one foot in this hospital to see her.

  “Now you got to put something in your stomach. We’re almost done,” I say as I feed her more applesauce.

  “Can’t wait ’til this place gives me some real food,” she grumbles. The doctors say MiMi’s doing better, but not great. The stroke was pretty severe and they want to keep an eye on her to see if it’s done anything to her fine motor skills. Even swallowing might be a new challenge. Hence, the applesauce.

  I start coming up with another dinner for MiMi to imagine—lasagna with just about every cheese you can think of packed in each layer—when there’s a knock on the door. “Expecting someone?” I ask MiMi.

  She gives a weak shrug. “Just President Obama.”

  I shake my head as I stand. “He’s not the president anymore, MiMi.”

  “He’ll always be my president.”

  I laugh and go answer the door. Javon stands on the other side, hand extended. I suck in a breath and automatically ball my fists. But there’s not a weapon in his hand—only a bouquet of flowers. Bright pink and yellow ones at that. The fick?

  “’Sup.” He nods at me all casual-like. Like he isn’t the neighborhood drug lord. Like he didn’t bump and grind my face against the pavement almost a week ago. “Ms. Murphy awake? Thought she might like these.” He holds up his flowers even higher, all bright and sunny against his cloudy disposition.

  “Who is it, baby?” MiMi asks behind me.

  “Uh, one of the nurses needs to chat with me. Hold on.” I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. Javon stares at me and I stare right back.

  “There a reason you calling me one of the nurses?” he asks.

  “There a reason you bringing flowers to my grandma?”

  Javon stumbles back a bit, as if he has a reason to be shocked by this whole encounter. “You bugging, right? The whole hood’s worried about Ms. Murphy. She’s like the neighborhood grandma. The OG, for real.”

  I smirk. “MiMi don’t even like you.” I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth. Something about being surrounded by white folks in a hospital has made me stupidly bolder. But hey, in case Javon doesn’t care about all these professional eyes on us, at least I’m in the right place to get immediate medical attention.

  The flowe
rs drop to Javon’s side like they just died right there in his hand. He stares down at his feet for a second too long then shrugs. “She never acted like it. At least not to my face.” He finally looks up at me and shoves the bouquet into my hand. I grunt from the impact. “Could you give those to her? Let her know it’s from me? Or not. I don’t care. As long as she has something nice to look at.”

  I frown at Javon as he starts to walk down the hall. Wait for him to reach for his face, pull off the mask and reveal whatever alien is hiding underneath. He pauses in his tracks and looks at me over his shoulder. I hold my breath for the big reveal.

  “Say . . . you haven’t heard from Nic, have you?” he asks. Almost like it’s a test. Almost like he wants to see how much I know.

  I chew the inside of my cheek, keep my face as steady as possible, and shake my head. “Nope,” I finally answer.

  “Huh.” He scratches at the stubble on his chin and disappears down the hall. Huh. Not a question, just a noise. Not the noise that would come from a worried boyfriend. Hell, not the nonchalant noise that would come from the dude that played whack-a-mole on my face last week. That huh was strategic. A way to see just what I knew.

  Javon did pull off his mask. But instead of revealing an alien, he showed me who I thought he was this whole time: the guy who’s heard the streets talking about Nic and Kenny. The guy who’d do damage once he got his hands on them.

  If he hasn’t already . . .

  Ten

  FUNNY HOW WHEN YOUR LIFE GETS TWISTED INSIDE AND out, you’re still expected to do normal shiz. Like remember to eat. Like brush your teeth. Like even going to school and pretending to care about multiplying matrices to solve an equation. No, I’m not sure what the hell that means. Yeah, I’m sure I would, had I had time to study for my test earlier this week. But I had several good reasons to flake on it. Not that Mr. Branch cares. He still asks me to come to his classroom during homeroom so he can’t tutor me. The good news is that I get to avoid the curious glances from Bowie and Camila, who I’m pretty sure think I’m a complete and utter spaz right about now. The bad news is that I have to be lectured to about matrices on an empty stomach and a head full of questions. Questions about Javon and what exactly he knows.