And then there’s me. Nic and I may have drifted a bit after her hookup with Javon, but there was nobody else on this earth who lived what we lived through. Dad dying, Mom basically killing herself with dope. Getting herself locked up because she couldn’t handle the single parent thing. We could share a thousand words with one look. Nic could send a text with one or two emojis, and I could transcribe her whole side of the story to MiMi. We just got each other even when we thought we couldn’t. So for her to just drop off the face of the planet like that? Something isn’t adding up.
I slightly turn up the music on the car radio, let Kendrick Lamar drown out my questions—if only for a few minutes. Riley stirs in her seat and I quickly turn the volume back down. She rubs her eyes then peeks over at me.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “You were just so knocked out that I figured a little bass wouldn’t bother you.”
“Where are we?” Riley asks, peering through the window.
“You’re almost home.” I sigh. “Not sure if I can hang out with you anymore. MiMi’s not too fond of me spending a lot of time with blissheads.” I smile over at her.
Riley groans and covers her face with both hands. “I thought I dreamed about that. Ugh.”
“Nope, you took that bliss to the head, for real,” I tease. “You did a little shimmy for me. Gave me a little compliment.”
“Compliment?” Riley drops her hands and looks at me again. “What kind of compliment?”
I feel heat rising to my cheeks. I crack the window some to relieve them. “I don’t remember. Something about my lips . . .” I peek over at her. See if the memory will wash over her face. But Riley frowns and shakes her head.
“I don’t remember any of that,” she says. “I guess that makes me lucky.”
A draft comes through the window and what the hell am I doing? It gets too chilly at night to crack the window open even an inch. “Yeah. Guess so,” I say. I close the window and shift away from her. It’s good that she doesn’t remember. It would make this car ride a hell lot more awkward. Still . . . maybe a small part of me liked Riley looking at me like that.
Ugh, stop, Jay. Stop! I roll down the window again.
Riley raises her eyebrows at me. “Can’t make up your mind, huh?”
I shrug. “I’m just as confused as Virginia’s weather.”
Riley smiles at me as I pull up in front of her house. “You really didn’t have to drop me off first. How are you going to get home?”
I swat my hand at her. “I haven’t been driving all my life. I always find a way to get around. Besides, I’m not sure I trust you behind the wheel yet.”
“Good point.” Riley rubs her eyes again.
“But thanks,” I say. For some reason, wanting to prolong these seconds in the car with her. “For getting the car. For driving me to Richmond. For turning into Snoop Dogg back there.”
Riley laughs.
“Really . . . not a lot of people have my back like that. So . . .” So what? I have no more words to express how grateful I am for everything Riley’s done for me. If she has some ulterior motive, I don’t want to know. I just like feeling about her the way I do right now—next to her in the car.
Riley locks eyes with me and she has tiny freckles of green in her eyes. I never noticed those before. Like tiny flecks of emeralds buried in sand. I blink and unbuckle my seatbelt. “It’s late. I should head to the bus stop.”
“Jay.” Riley’s hand is over mine again. Still soft, still the right temperature. “I . . . I remember.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“The compliment? About your lips? And . . . I meant it.”
My other eyebrow raises, too, along with my pulse. Holy shit. Riley Palmer thinks I have kissable lips. And I think I care about Riley Palmer thinking I have kissable lips. Soon, her body sways toward mine—like a magnet pulling her to me. And my body sways to hers, too, like they both know just what to do without us telling them. Like they were supposed to be doing this all along.
Her mouth comes closer to mine and—holy shit. Holy shit. I’m about to kiss Riley Palmer.
A thud on the window sends us both jerking back against our seats.
Fifteen
MRS. PALMER GLARES AT US THROUGH THE PASSENGER SIDE window, her face covered with green slime. I’m sure that she’d look just as scary without the face mask—her glare is enough to slice me in two.
Riley takes a deep breath and rolls down her window. “Hey, Mom,” she says.
“Don’t just ‘Hey, Mom,’ me. We specifically told you to be home by ten,” Mrs. Palmer snaps. I glance over at the clock on the dashboard. 10:03. Guess the Palmers didn’t give a damn about traffic. “And why is he behind the wheel?” Mrs. Palmer lasers in on me again and I want to bury myself under my seat. “Do you even have your license, Jay?”
“Yes,” I say. Mrs. Palmer’s eyes narrow at me. Reminds me of the time she caught me pocketing an extra cookie during Christmas service years ago. “No,” I correct. “But I do have my permit.” I give her a weak smile. All see, I didn’t completely break the law.
Mrs. Palmer pinches the bridge of her nose, green gunk oozing between her fingertips. “Riley, you know the rules.”
“Yes, ma’am. But you know how I feel about driving in the dark, and Jay was kind enough to—”
“You shouldn’t even be hanging out with Jay!” Mrs. Palmer flinches, just for a second, as if remembering that I could hear her. Too late. Heat rises to my cheeks again, but not the good kind. This one scorches in a different way. This one feels like shame. “I mean, you shouldn’t be hanging out with any boys after dark. You know the rules.” Even with her paraphrasing, I get it. She tries making it all about what Riley did wrong, but all I hear is that the wrong is me. I guess I’m good enough to teach Sunday school, but not good enough to be out at night with their only daughter.
“Mom, can we not right now?” I think Riley nudges her head at me. I’m too busy staring down at my hands on my lap. My head feels too heavy to look up.
Mrs. Palmer sniffs Riley then lets out a gasp. “What’s that smell? That better not be what I think it is.”
“It’s not . . . it’s incense. The bookstore was having a Caribbean night featuring West Indies authors.” The lie comes out of Riley’s mouth so smoothly that I should be scared. But nothing’s more fearful than Mrs. Palmer at the moment.
“I’m going to stop you right there, Riley Faith, before you get yourself into even more trouble. Get out of the car and get into the house. Now.” Mrs. Palmer directs her wrath toward me again: “The Reverend and I will have a word with you tomorrow, Jay.”
Great. As if Sunday service isn’t suffering enough, now I get to have a private sermon from Reverend Palmer. He’ll find some godly way to tell me to go to hell. I nod and get out of the Palmers’ car. I don’t even say goodbye to Riley because my throat’s too tight to let the words come out. Shove my hands in my hoodie’s pockets as I trudge down the street toward the city bus stop. Riley and her mom are on the sidewalk behind me, exchanging a few heated words that I can’t quite make out. Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t know how many more times I can hear Mrs. Palmer tell her daughter how much of a loser I am.
“Jay!” I look over my shoulder and Riley’s jogging after me. “Hold up!”
I shake my head at her. “You shouldn’t be out here still, Riley. You’re in enough trouble.”
“It’s okay. I told her to give me a minute and that I had to grab the keys from you.” She looks behind her to make sure her mom’s disappeared into the house, then turns back to me and sighs. “I’m so, so sorry about that.”
I shrug, even though it feels as if my shoulders have weights on them. “No worries. I’m used to folks thinking I’m trash. Par for the course when you live in the Ducts.”
Riley’s face falls as she shakes her head over and over. “No. No. It’s not personal. Jay, my parents love you. They just don’t want me hanging around any guy. They think I’m supposed to
live at school and church. School and church. That’s it. They’re always talking about how they want more for me.”
Her words sting more than her mom’s glare. “Yeah. Exactly,” I say. Of course they want more for Riley. More than Bad News. More than a guy from Bad News. Hell, more than me. Period. No matter how proper I speak or how groomed I keep my hair or how I smile at old folks when there’s not much to smile about, my own people still look at me like I ain’t shit. MiMi’s right—can’t win for losing. “Look, you’ve been mad cool, Riley. Way cooler than I deserve. But maybe we should chill out.”
If Riley’s face went any more slack, it’d be a puddle on the sidewalk beneath us. “Jay . . . don’t do this.”
“Later, Riley.” I turn back around and continue toward the bus stop. I don’t check to see if Riley’s watching me. If she were, it’d be even tougher to say goodbye. Cutting her loose before she got even more tangled was for the best. Now I just have to find a way to untangle Nic.
“Hold on, pass me that mirror,” MiMi says, sitting up in her hospital bed. One of the nurses helped her plait her hair into halo braids. Let her borrow some lipstick to make her feel more presentable. Deacon Irving had arranged it so that the local news station would visit me and MiMi in the hospital. Talk about Nic to get the word out. I should be grateful for all his help, but MiMi still hasn’t mentioned him paying her an actual visit. Guess he doesn’t want the folks in the hospital running their mouths as much as the ladies at church.
I hand MiMi the mirror perched on one of the side tables, buried behind the latest flower arrangement from someone from Providence Baptist. “You look good, MiMi,” I insist.
“Like you’d really tell me. One morning you let me go through a whole service with lipstick on my teeth.”
“I told you, I didn’t notice.” Okay, really I was salty about her not letting me go to the movies with Bowie the night before. There had been another shooting so, of course, she kept me on lockdown.
MiMi checks herself in the handheld mirror, then examines me. I had to find one of my button-downs in the back of my closet. The ones I keep on hold for family funerals or Easter service or some other reason that we’re in church more than just to see Reverend Palmer prance across the stage. MiMi motions me over then refolds one of my cuffs. “You could’ve at least run an iron over this.”
“I did.”
MiMi shakes her head. “I should’ve shown you better. But you’re spoiled, so . . .” She nods, pleased with her fold. “I hope you didn’t wear this all day. How was service this morning?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Try to keep my face as neutral as possible. “I was feeling under the weather when I woke up. Thought I’d rest up so I could feel better to do this later today.” Truth is, I couldn’t face Reverend Palmer after getting his precious daughter high last night. Even scarier, though, was seeing Riley again. I didn’t know what to say to her after telling her we needed to cool it. And I think it would’ve hurt even more to see Riley going back to business as usual after the week we had.
MiMi gives me a look, not buying even an ounce of what I’m selling. Thankfully, we’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Before I can reach the door to answer, a white older guy with thinning hair and glasses pokes his head through it.
“I’m looking for a Ms. Murphy,” he says.
“Came to the right place, darlin’,” MiMi says, smoothing out her hair and sitting more upright in her hospital bed.
“Yeah, it’s a good thing she was decent,” I say to the intruder.
“Excellent.” The white guy pries the door all the way open, as if my words didn’t reach him at all. A small crew spills into the room, carrying lights and cameras and cases with God knows what, but I’m sure it’s needed to make that TV magic.
“Price Bullock,” the white guy says, crossing over to MiMi to shake her hand. “Correspondent with WVZY Evening News. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” MiMi says, giving her dainty church-lady chin tilt. “Especially if it means you’ll get my baby back home.”
Price breathes loudly through his nose and clutches his heart, like he’s just been struck by an arrow or something. “I have to tell you, Ms. Murphy. Your story’s completely compelling. When Deacon Irving called our station and shared it, I just knew I had to be the one to help tell it. We’re going to get thousands of pairs of eyeballs out there looking for your Nicole.”
For some reason, the way he says Nic’s name makes me want to gag. Her name sounds hollow in his mouth, like one of them dud plastic Easter eggs that has jack-squat in it after cracking it open. This Price dude must feel me burning a hole in the back of his head, because he swivels on his heels and plasters on a smile for me.
“And you must be the grandson . . . Jackson, right?” He extends his hand.
I just look down at it. “Jayson.”
“Jayson—that’s right.” Instead of leaving his hand dangling, he reaches out and slaps me on the arm. “That’s great for you to support your grandmother like this.”
I shrug. “Didn’t really have much choice.” It’s true. MiMi gave me the time to be at the hospital, then reminded me that she wasn’t too weak and I wasn’t too old to take a switch to the butt.
Price throws his head back and laughs. His voice bounces off the walls. “I love your community. The toughest-looking guys are always afraid of their moms and grandmoms.”
I look down at my button-down shirt, navy slacks, and black loafers I got from Goodwill. If this is tough, then I don’t even want to know what he’d think of me in my dad’s hoodie.
“Okay, let me give you the rundown,” Price continues. “I’ll start off in the hall—give my brief intro. Then we’ll cut to you and your grandmother sitting together in here. We’ll pull your chair right up next to her bed, make the lighting just right for both of you. Then I’ll cue you to talk about the last time you’ve seen Nicole, as well as share some endearing stories about her. I’ll be asking the questions but won’t be in the shot with you, so make sure you both look straight into the camera. Sounds good?”
“What kind of questions are you going to ask?”
Price stops midway as he heads for the door. I guess he wasn’t figuring that I’d actually need clarification. Me just being a tough guy and all. “You know, standard stuff about your sister.”
Standard stuff? That seems mighty vague—vague enough to make my stomach jazzy. “All good things, though. Right?” The rare times that I’ve seen stories about black youth on the news, it’s never really been in a positive light. Even when they’re talking about a black kid winning the state science fair, they have to show a picture of him with his pants sagging a little too low.
“Jesus, Jayson, of course.” He presses his whole palm against his chest, almost like he’s trying to shock his heart back into action. “By what the Deacon says about your family, you have strong values. A lot of love for each other even through thick and thin. I really want to shine a light on that. Appeal to everyone’s heart to see if we can’t get her home.”
“I think that sounds lovely,” MiMi says, then swats a lady’s hand away from her face. “Baby, I told you. I already put on makeup.”
“It’s just a little powder, Ms. Murphy,” Price explains. He cradles one of MiMi’s hands with both of his. “Your spirit and beauty just shine so brightly, we don’t want to blind the camera lenses, that’s all.”
MiMi giggles and gives Price a playful tap on the arm. Price chuckles then winks his eye at me. That wink sends me a thousand red flags, but before I can get through them all, the cameras are ready to roll.
Sixteen
AS SOON AS I ENTER YOUNGS MILL HIGH THE NEXT MORNING, the air feels different. Thicker almost. Like a dark cloud hangs so low in the halls that I can barely breathe. Students walk through the halls with trepidation, like they’re wading through honey. Not the usual Monday morning blahs, but something else. Something that makes it seem painful for most of them to ta
ke a step. Punctuate that with the group of girls sobbing and hugging across from my locker, the teachers whispering all solemn-like to each other with their hands folded across their chest. Something’s off. Something’s way off.
“Yo, what I miss?” I ask the lanky dude pulling out books from the locker next to mine. He told me his name once. Twice, maybe. But I had no need to remember it since we didn’t have any of the same classes and he never was a customer.
The lanky guy closes his locker and shakes his head. “A former student got popped over the weekend, I think.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Damn, another one? Who was it this time?”
“No clue, man. I just transferred here this year.” No wonder I didn’t really remember him. At least, that’s the excuse I’ll give myself. He gives me a subtle head nod before walking away, because that’s what you do when you pay respect for the dead—even when you don’t know who they are. I think about asking one of the somber-looking teachers for deets when the sound system beeps everyone to attention:
“Morning, Lions,” Principal Gilbert begins, speaking slowly like he just downed a couple of Benadryl. “As some of you might know, we lost one of the Pride recently. The counselors will be available in the media center all day if you need extra support. You will not be penalized for missing some of class to grieve. In the meantime, let’s all pause and give a moment of silence to our dear friend, Kenny Boyce.”
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