When You Look Like Us

by Pamela N. Harris

  “You have a collect call from . . .”

  I suck in a breath as the automated voice on the other end lets me know that Javon Hockaday is calling me from the city jail.

  “Would you like to accept this call?”

  My thumb hovers over the red phone icon, itching to hang up. But it won’t cooperate. Neither will my vocal cords as the word “Yes” scrapes up from the pit of my throat. I don’t know, maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. This day has already gone to shiz with that vigil looming. At least I might get some kind of satisfaction from hearing Javon wallow to me from behind bars.

  “I didn’t think you were going to pick up,” Javon says. He’s only been in jail two nights, but he already sounds hardened. Hoarse. Like he has enough stories to tell that would keep any black guy up at night.

  “You have two minutes,” I say. I don’t even squeak the words. Remember how Officer Hunter said Javon played me. I can’t let him do it again.

  He takes a breath. “I know you heard some crazy shit about me. Especially because I took off like that the other night. Left you and your girl in the dark.”

  I wince at Javon referring to Riley as my “girl.” Whatever she was, she isn’t anymore. Especially after all those awful things I said to her.

  “The cops, though. They wouldn’t listen to me. They never do. So, I’m hoping you can pick up where I left off. We both owe it to Nic.”

  I put a chokehold on my phone. “Owe it to Nic?” Repeating his words makes them sound even crazier. “You know what Nic deserves? To sleep in her own bed tonight. To finish high school. To go out and change the world. Or not. Maybe she wanted a regular nine-to-five, but guess what? She no longer has that choice because she had a jealous-ass boyfriend.” I sling out every syllable with so much fervor that I imagine each one clocking Javon right across the head. I want him to feel my rage. I want him to feel Nic’s pain.

  There’s a pause on Javon’s end. I try to imagine what he’s doing. Rubbing his forehead with regret? Wiping away a tear? But that’s impossible. The cops finally arrested Javon—which means they have to have something on him. Which means that he killed Kenny and did God knows what to Nic. If he’s crying, it’s because he’s finally caught.

  “I get it,” Javon says finally. “And look, you can think what you want about me, but at least hear me out. I think I know where she is. I think . . . I think I know who has her body.”

  My stomach tugs at Javon’s final word. Body. Nic’s body. That’s the closure I need. That MiMi needs. Hearing it, though, doesn’t make it go down any easier. Javon’s throat makes a noise on the other end and, for a moment, I think he laughs. But the snort is too guttural, too harsh. Almost like he’s fighting against his own body. Wait—can Javon be really crying?

  I swallow even though my throat is dry. “I’m listening,” I croak. I grip the phone tighter. Brace myself for whatever Javon has to say.

  “These white guys. Punk-ass frat dudes who think they’re down with the culture because they listen to Childish Gambino or some shit. They’ve come by my stoop a few times to . . .” Javon takes a breath, like he’s catching himself before he stumbles. “. . . hang out. The night Kenny and Nic went missing, I sent Kenny to their spot to hang out with them.”

  I frown, confused, but then everything hits me in the face like a shovel. He sold drugs to these dudes, but he doesn’t want to out himself on a recorded line. Even when he tries to help me, he can’t help but help himself.

  “What the hell does this have to do with Nic?”

  “You know Nic rolled with Kenny after she got pissed at me that night. So, they went to the spot together and then I didn’t hear anything. Which means something went down with those boys. The night I was arrested, I was heading to them to find out what.”

  He played you, kid. Officer Hunter’s words slice through our conversation again. Shakes the fog out of my head until I see Javon clearly again. Is he seriously saying some doofy frat guys attacked Kenny? Killed him? For what? Talking shit about Donald Glover on a bad bliss trip? And what about Nic? She always knows to steer clear of any deals. Though Javon got her all twisted most of the times, she kept her head straight enough to never be around for any of those exchanges. At least MiMi did something right with raising her.

  “And you told the cops all this?” I ask.

  “Come on, bruh. Without evidence, they don’t listen to guys like us.”

  My jaws clench. Javon boxed me in with him, too. But I’m not the guy who tried cracking another dude’s nose against the pavement or jacking me up in a church. I’m not the guy who let a blisshead score in exchange for an alibi. I’m definitely not the guy who won’t admit I sell drugs in order to do right by my girlfriend.

  “I’m not like you, Javon.” I don’t even shout. I speak clearly, calmly, so he takes in every word. “And your two minutes are up.”

  Javon tries to say something else but my thumb twitches and I hang up. I hang up on Javon with a million questions floating above me, but one answer. Javon seems certain that Nic is dead.

  I toss my black shirt on the bed. Grab the one with the most lint. Need to save the better one for Nic’s funeral. My fingers tremble as I button up my shirt. I go all the way up to my neck until the collar chokes me.

  It had only been a few days since Kenny’s service, but the dreariness lingers at Providence Baptist Church. Makes sense since we’re not here for a joyous occasion. Reverend Palmer and some of the congregation went all out for Nic’s prayer vigil, though. Damn near every candle they could find lights up the aisles of the nave. Maybe if the prayers don’t work, Nic can find her way back home from all the flames. That is, if she’s still alive.

  I know I should be grateful for all the support. For all the faces from the church and even from the Ducts that came out to show us love. Man Boo ushers people inside, helps them find a spot to park their prayers. Mrs. Jackson from the next building brought us a freshly baked apple pie to go along with her hope. The Armstrongs from upstairs wanted MiMi to hold on to their Bible because apparently it brought them good luck after praying over it every night when they were trying to conceive a baby. Now they have three. Even Lil Chuck showed up with his parents, giving me a solemn high five as his parents greeted MiMi and me. Told me he hoped Nic comes back because she’s nicer than me. Can’t argue with that one.

  Javon’s phone call eclipses it all, though. He sounded so sure about these mythical white dudes having something to do with Kenny. With Nic. There were moments when he even sounded sad. Broken about everything that’s happened. But Officer Hunter had seemed sure, too. The cops were never able to pin anything on Javon, even when everyone and their mama knew what he did to make ends meet. Now he was finally behind bars, so that must mean something. Right?

  Deacon Irving slides his slithery self next to MiMi in our pew. He grabs one of her hands and massages it. Because that’s what MiMi needs right now. A fickin’ masseuse.

  “How are you holding up?” he asks MiMi.

  MiMi nods. “Better now—especially after seeing all this love that Nicole has. Warms my heart. Isn’t that right, Jay?”

  I look up from my hand, which holds on to my phone. I keep glancing at the clock. Seeing how long this vigil will last. “Uh huh,” I say.

  Deacon Irving leans forward over MiMi to get all up in my business. “You’re taking care of your grandmother during this time, right?” It’s like he took a bath in mouthwash and aftershave. His rigorous hygiene regimen assaults all my senses.

  “I always take care of her. No one does it better than me,” I say. Hope he feels my not so subtle dig for him not making an appearance at the hospital. By the way he quickly leans back in his seat, I know he catches my drift.

  “I’m going to lead the next prayer after the Reverend says a couple of words,” Deacon Irving says to MiMi, conveniently avoiding eye contact with me. “You want me to grab something for you in the meantime? Cup of water? Deviled eggs?”

  I make a face. Nothi
ng like mourning over a plate of stinky boiled eggs.

  “You’ve done enough.” MiMi smiles and pats his hand.

  Deacon Irving squeezes MiMi’s shoulder before sliding out of the pew, slithers his way over to the Reverend to talk about his prayer, I guess. He’s probably requesting a spotlight, a wireless microphone, and anything else to make his prayer extra and all about him. Reverend Palmer nods at Deacon Irving, then turns to pass along a message to . . . Riley.

  I suck in my breath when I see her. I don’t know why I’m surprised she’s here. Why wouldn’t she be here? It’s her father’s church. Plus, she said that Nicole was her friend. Nicole was her friend and I mocked her about that. What kind of friend was I? We lock eyes for a few seconds. Finally, Riley blinks and makes her way behind the pulpit. I wait for her to peek back at me, but she doesn’t. I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t give me a second glance, either. Not after I took everything out on her. I’m not sure if she’ll ever forgive me.

  “Hi, Ms. Murphy.”

  My eyes pull away from Riley’s direction and Pooch hovers over us. My head snaps back at his appearance. He isn’t wearing his trusty Cowboys jersey. Instead, he tucks a black T-shirt into black, holey jeans. He has his same dusty white Keds, though. I still have to applaud his effort. He put some thought about showing up here tonight. Looking decent for MiMi.

  MiMi scans him over. “How are you feeling, Pooch? Everything going well with you?”

  Pooch shakes his head over and over. Looks like he’s malfunctioning. “Don’t even worry about me, Ms. Murphy. This is all about you guys tonight.” He peeks over at me, then looks down at his hands. Almost like he’s embarrassed at something. Proves Officer Hunter right—he did take a payoff from Javon to pretend like he had Nic’s phone. The nerve of him for showing his face tonight.

  “I just wanted to say that . . . that I’m really sorry about Nic. That’s a sweet girl right there. Never let anyone rag on me. Never let me go hungry. Always willing to loan me some change to grab some nuggets or something.”

  “Yeah,” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow at him. “She really deserved better.”

  At that, Pooch chews on his bottom lip. “Didn’t mean any disrespect,” he mumbles. “Just wanted to send my well-wishes, that’s all.”

  “And we appreciate your well-wishes, Pooch,” MiMi says, nudging me with her elbow. “Why don’t you sit down and join us for the next prayer?”

  Pooch shakes his head again. “I gotta . . . you know . . .” He grunts something else that doesn’t sound like it belongs in the English language and then scurries down the aisle. The guilt really seems to be eating away at him. Good.

  MiMi nudges me again. “What did you say to that man?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. You heard me.”

  MiMi smirks at me as she stands. “Sit here and fix your face. People went out of their way to be with us tonight.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going after Pooch.”

  I roll my eyes and groan. “But MiMi, he—”

  “Needs just as much prayer as Nicole.” She pinches my chin. “When I get back, you better be a brand-new Jay.” She shuffles out of the pew and heads in the same direction as Pooch.

  A brand-new Jay? That’s what got us all in the situation in the first place. I pushed Nic away when she called, thinking that this New and Improved Jay would stand his ground. Stop covering for his big sister so she could grow up and get on track. Help her be more than what others expected her to be. But I didn’t think I was pushing her away forever. Now the last thing Nicole probably remembered about me was that I hung up when she needed me the most.

  I clutch my phone again. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can squeeze out the minutes to make the time go by faster.

  “Hi, Jay.”

  Sterling stands over me, a sniffling, sobbing mess. Her face is pink and soggy, and her mascara drips down her cheeks, leaving dark trails of sorrow.

  “Hey,” I say, though it comes out more like a question. She has some nerve stepping foot into our church after covering for Javon. She’s supposed to have been Nic’s best friend, but she probably just used her to get closer to him.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice breaks as she pulls out a handkerchief, blows her grief into it. “You came to me about Nic weeks ago and I kept shooing you off. I just figured she was going through the motions, you know? Had I known . . .” She cries into her handkerchief again. I would reach for her hand . . . but that handkerchief looks mighty damp. And so does her attempt at sorrow.

  “I’m sure she knew you cared.” The words come out flat. My throat won’t even allow me to lie for Sterling.

  “Oh God, you’re speaking about her in past tense?” Sterling flinches. “Oh God, and now I’m saying the Lord’s name in vain in a church. Ugh, I did it again!” She pops herself on her hand. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know how to do this.”

  I sigh. “Neither do I.” It’s the most truthful thing I’ve probably said all night.

  Sterling gives me a sympathetic nod as she points next to me. “Can I sit with you? I really don’t know anyone else here.”

  Before I can even say no, Sterling slides next to me. Trapping me inside the pew just as Reverend Palmer takes center stage again. I peek behind me. Pretend to search for MiMi, but really I’m just looking for an escape. Some place close enough to show MiMi I’m supporting her, but far away from phonies like Sterling.

  “Such a beautiful turnout,” Reverend Palmer says into the mic. “But that’s how our community has always been—beautiful. Black and beautiful. Our black is what makes us beautiful, can I get an amen?”

  Several folks give him what he wants at full volume. Sterling looks at me, eyebrows raised. Asking permission for something I didn’t have a right to grant her. Instead, I turn back to the Reverend and try to give him my full attention. So at least I didn’t have to explain the rules of a black church for Sterling.

  “And this is despite what the mainstream media tells us,” Reverend Palmer booms, his voice trembling in all the right spots like a fine-tuned instrument. “This is despite how they want the world to see us. Fatherless. Motherless. No future. No direction.” Between every example, every beat, the crowd shouts out in agreement. His words driving them home. “They tried to turn us against our sister. Our daughter. The beautiful Nicole Marie Murphy. But everyone in here knows everything they need to know about that young lady. She’s smart. She’s driven. She loves her MiMi.” Yes! “She loves her brother.” Yes! “She loves God! And she is black . . . and beautiful!” Amen!

  Feet start pounding throughout the nave as people catch the spirit, rejoicing in agreement. Even Sterling presses a hand to her chest, as if all the joy and hope in the room is too much for her heart. Reverend Palmer goes on and on about Nicole defying the odds. Defying the stereotypes. But my head is on the phone call I had with Javon again. He wanted me to pick up where he left off, he said. And I dismissed what he had to tell me. Because all I saw in Javon is what everyone else wanted me to see about him. Fatherless. Motherless. No future. The same shiz people probably think about me. I know how I feel having the doors close on me, and I basically did the same thing to Javon.

  My guilt makes me leap to my feet. Sterling blinks and copies me, like she assumes I have the Holy Ghost so she should too. And I do catch something, but it’s not the spirit. It’s the need for clarity. I squeeze past Sterling, push past the celebrating until I find who I’m looking for. Pooch is in the corner of the room, going to town on a dinner roll. He pauses midchew when he scopes me heading his way.

  “Your grandma left with Sister Gladys,” he tells me, crumbs spewing every direction. “She told me I could take a plate home.”

  Pooch could take ten plates home, for all I cared. There were more pressing issues at hand.

  “We need to talk,” I say to him. Get up close enough to smell the gravy on his breath. “About that night in Deer Park.”

>   Pooch swallows down the rest of his roll. Stares down at the plate in his hand like he plans on stuffing more in his mouth just to keep it full and busy. “Nothing more to say,” he says instead.

  “Be honest . . . did Javon pay you off?”

  Pooch’s head jerks back like I just shoved it. “Pay me off? For what?”

  “To pretend like you had the phone on you.”

  “But I really did have the phone on me. And after that clown shoved me around in the park, now I don’t.” He pushes the food around on his plate with his finger. “Really, though. I wouldn’t have tried to sell it if I knew it was Nicole’s.”

  The way the words leave his mouth all slow and measured makes me believe him. “So, where did you find it?”

  Pooch shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Some white boy.”

  White boy. Just like Javon mentioned. “Yeah, but what white boy?” My voice is shrill. Desperate.

  Pooch tries to take another bite of his roll, but I cover it with my hand.

  “Pooch, please,” I say. I beg. “Whatever you remember. Just let me know.”

  Pooch sighs but then twists his mouth to one side. Puts on his thinking face. “Never really saw him around or anything. Him and his friends wore these corny sweatshirts with Greek letters. Oh, and he got out of this really sweet Escalade. Guess with a car like that, you can toss an iPhone out like leftover takeout, know what I’m saying?”

  My hand automatically covers my mouth. I did know what he was saying. I knew exactly what he was saying. I’ve seen those corny sweatshirts before, too. I’ve seen an obnoxious Escalade eating up the entire Taco Bell parking lot. Those frat boys. Just like the ones Javon said over the phone. The ones that swing into the Ducts, looking to score . . .

  I dart past Pooch and scurry up the rest of the aisle, only to collide right into Bowie.