THERE WERE FOUR OF THEM. CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK cutting through the night, like a drummer having a jam session with the raccoons and cicadas. The screeching tires that followed let the neighborhood know that it wasn’t just a couple of assholes setting off firecrackers. Only bullets could cause that frenzy.
“Just got off the phone with Roberta,” MiMi says to me as our shoulders graze each other in the hallway. “She said they’re having a good deal on strawberries at the farmer’s market.” She stares down at the phone in her hand, strawberries the last thing on her mind. MiMi always gets jittery the day after shots are fired—especially when they’re so close that the smell of gunpowder does the hustle with her morning cup of coffee. And especially when Nic’s still drifting.
“For real?” This could be my out. My way to pound the pavement, scope out some of Nic’s stomping grounds to catch wind on where she might’ve blown. “I could ride my bike there and pick some up. Need to get some air anyway.”
MiMi’s eyes snap up at me. “Boy, the only air you’re getting today is a draft from the window. Now park it.” She points to the couch and I do what I’m told.
MiMi makes another call but heads to her room and closes the door behind her so I can’t hear. I also can’t just be idle. Those bullets had a destination and I need to be sure that Nic wasn’t a pit stop. I open up Snapchat, see if Sterling’s signed on again. No luck. I scroll through her followers. Maybe one of them is online and knows if Sterling’s really kicking it with Nic. I need to find someone that Sterling follows back. Someone not quite in the same circle as Sterling, but at least on the outskirts. They might give me the answers I need.
Before I narrow down my options, there are three sturdy knocks on the front door. Urgent ones. The kinds that if not answered within a few seconds, hinges will be broken. Those knocks could only mean one thing: the bullies with the badges are on the other side.
MiMi comes scurrying out of her room, gives me a warning point to stay put. Stay quiet. Don’t give them a reason, Dad would say. Cops around here are always looking for reasons. Reasons to lay hands on you, reasons to put cuffs on you—but for the most trifling things. Pooch once got his face smashed against the hood of a squad car for complimenting a cop’s shades. Took most of the neighborhood to convince the cop that Pooch was just being Pooch—that he wasn’t pulling a fast one. After about an hour of being cuffed in the backseat of a squad car, Pooch was released. But when it comes to Javon and his crew, the cops are a little less handsy. Almost like Javon has them in his back pocket.
Two of them are at my threshold now, one smacking on gum every other word to punctuate his smugness.
“So, you didn’t see or hear anything last night?” the one without the gum asks, scribbling away in his notepad despite MiMi not giving him anything yet.
“I see and hear something every night. You have to be more specific, honey,” MiMi says, leaning against her door. She can cut someone down with one look, but it’s much better when she uses her words.
“A kid from Warwick High got killed early this morning. Right outside the security booth.”
A sigh seeps out of my pores. I almost immediately regret it. Yeah, if it’s a kid from Warwick High, that means Nic’s in the clear. Still . . . someone’s not coming home for dinner tonight. Their family will have to look at their empty dining room chair forever. The good thing about moving in with MiMi is that the table is different. I don’t have to look at the head of it and not see Dad sipping on his morning coffee. I don’t have to see the tiny dent in the wood where Mom dropped her hot plate. I see Mom and Dad everywhere else. In the permission slips they’re supposed to sign. In the birthday parties where they’re no longer swaying to Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday.” In the mirror when my mom’s eyes and thick nose and full bottom lip stare right back at me. At least I could eat a bowl of cereal in peace.
“Why aren’t you speaking to the security guard, then?” MiMi asks.
“He was patrolling the neighborhood by foot when the incident occurred,” the cop with the gum adds.
“Shame.” MiMi’s voice, though, is anything but shameful.
The cop takes two more smacks of his Big Red and then leans around MiMi, eyeballs me sitting on the couch. “And where were you early this morning, young man?”
MiMi shifts her hips to the other side of the doorway to block me. “He hasn’t left the house since dinner last night.”
“Can he answer for himself?”
“He’s sixteen. I speak for him until I say otherwise.” MiMi places a hand on her hip. In the streets, this move is just as ruthless as taking off your shoes and earrings before a brawl. “Now, neither of us can help you. You may want to move along, stop wasting your time. I’m sure that baby’s mama wants answers.”
The cops mumble a few words back and forth between each other. MiMi places her other hand on her hip, eating up more space in the doorway. She’s getting all biblical like Edom, not letting any jackass pass through. It works. One of the cops hands her a card.
“In case you remember anything else,” the one with the notepad says.
“Mmm hmm,” MiMi mumbles before closing the door in their faces. She looks down at the card and rips it in half.
She trudges to the kitchen. “They always do this. Put on a big show like they care enough to do their jobs, but then forget about these babies a minute later.” She tosses the card into the trash in the kitchen, and then plops down on the other end of the couch. “I’m sick of it. Sick of it, I tell you.”
MiMi sinks back into the couch as if her whole body exhales and begins channel surfing like her thumb’s on a mission. She stops on some black-and-white TV show and peeks at me. “I don’t like Nicole out on them streets when madness is going on,” she finally admits. “You would think that she would call, let me know she’s at least breathing.”
I wish I could bury myself under the couch pillows. It’s been almost thirty hours of calling her phone only to get her voicemail. Thirty hours of what-ifs and now-whats. But I couldn’t show MiMi I was worried, too. Not when all the pieces haven’t been put together. I need to wait and get more answers from Sterling. Until then, I need to slip into Old Jay’s skin.
“It’s all good,” I say. “Nic texted me. She’s still with Sterling. Shopping, getting their nails done, the whole nine. You know how Sterling likes to spoil Nic to flash her money.”
MiMi gives me a look, and I turn to the TV. Nod along to whatever hijinks the fat white guy and his tall lanky friend are getting into. No clue what’s going on, but I’ll put up a front to stop MiMi from asking more questions. Seconds of her staring at me stretches into minutes, and soon I’m trying to find something to do with my hands.
“You need to put something on that lip,” she says. “Don’t want you heading into church tomorrow looking like whodunit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’m on my feet before I get the second word out. I head to the freezer, grab a bag of frozen chopped broccoli and press it to my mouth. Then I go ahead and stick my whole head inside the freezer. Wait until my brain becomes numb, hope it reaches my heart.
As soon as I wake up on Sunday, I open my texting window for Nicole. Press the shrugging emoji three times, but then delete them. If I want to get a response from Nic, I have to keep it real.
Me: I’m not mad. Just worried. Come home.
I don’t even wait for her response. I try calling again but . . . straight to voicemail. Her phone’s still not on, and I can’t help but wonder if she cut it off, or someone cut it off for her. On cue, the scab on my lip itches—reminding me of Javon forcing me to eat concrete. I can only imagine what could happen to Nic if he got his hands on her.
But I can’t shake MiMi to figure it out, especially not on a Sunday. The Lord’s day. Me and MiMi always arrive at Providence Baptist about an hour before service begins. She fiddles away in one of the offices with a calculator and spreadsheet—and does what she does with Deacon Irving when the office door is closed. MiMi and Deacon Irving are the talk of Providence, but only in whispers since the deacon still has a wife who he may or may not be separated from. All I know is that she lives somewhere in South Carolina, and the only time I’ve seen her is in a picture that the church keeps framed in the banquet hall. Ironically, she sits right next to MiMi in the picture, along with a few other notable ladies of the church. The deacon’s wife’s smile is wide and oblivious, whereas you could trace MiMi’s straight smile with the end of a mechanical pencil.
As for me? About a year ago, MiMi roped me into spending the hour before service co-teaching Sunday school for five- and six-year-olds with Riley Palmer. The church figured the best way to reach the youth was to have the youth teaching them. MiMi said it was something good to put on college applications, but we both know that it was a way for her to keep tabs on me. To make me continue coming to services after Nic started playing hooky. And having Riley as an extra pair of eyes for her was even better.
Riley’s the preacher’s daughter, which basically means she’s obligated to dress like it’s winter even if it’s ninety degrees outside. She also has Converse sneakers in every color. The only thing dopier than seeing a girl wear a turtleneck with overalls in the summer is seeing her wear them with a pair of white Converses. She goes to Warwick High, which is down the street from Youngs Mill, but Warwick has the IB program. Even though we have a few nerds at my school, the sentiment is well known: we don’t fick with the uppity mofos at Warwick—even though some of them try to slink into my hood from time to time to get cool points. Yet here I am, rubbing elbows with one every Sunday morning.
You don’t get any more uppity than Riley. We met when we were eight, and her first words to me were: “What’s that?” as she pointed to my jacked-up flattop, which leaned a little more to the left than I would have liked. It was right after I moved in with MiMi. I no longer had access to the barber Dad and I went to all the time. MiMi got a discount from this old dude named Man Boo who had a shop around the corner from the Ducts. I soon found out that old dudes named Man Boo weren’t really keen on the latest styles, so I kept my fade low ever since. Still, every moment with Riley has been a perpetual string of What’s thats as she calls me out on everything, from the generic soda brand I sip on to the masking tape I use to hold my headphones together until I get a new pair.
I enter the conference room where our Sunday school class takes place. Riley’s at the whiteboard, tracing the kids’ hands with a dry erase marker. Today she graces me with a pair of lime-green Converses to go along with her flannel shirt and jean skirt that reaches her ankles. Didn’t even know they sold skirts that long.
Malik, one of the smallest kids in the class, spots me and jogs over. “What it do, Jay? We’re all giving high fives to Jesus.” He holds up his tiny hand, and I slap him one. Malik pauses after really taking in my face. “Dang, what happened to your lip?”
I swat my hand, indicating it’s nothing. “I just fell off my bi—”
“Y’all, Jay got into a fight and broke his lip!” Malik announces to the rest of the class. At that, seven little heads swivel around to get a look. A chorus of oohs erupts in the room. Riley looks at me and folds her arms across her chest. If she cussed, I’m sure she would’ve mouthed something unholy to me.
I bob my hands up and down, up and down. Encouraging them to quiet down. “Jay didn’t get in a fight,” I say over their inquisitive voices. “Jay fell off his bike, just like most of you still do. It’s nothing.”
“Did you fall off your bike because you was fighting?” Keosha asks me, questions spilling out of her eyes like the plaits and barrettes spilling out of her head.
“There was no fighting,” I repeat. I say it loud enough so that the words could stick to Riley’s ribs. Riley chews at the end of her dry-erase marker, studying me. I raise my eyebrows at her, pleading for her to do whatever magical thing she does to get the kids back on task.
Finally, Riley claps her hands three times, and the kids repeat after her as they all take their seats at the round table. “Okay, I think we’ve heard enough about Jay and his clumsiness, right?” she asks.
Some of the kids snicker. I let out one loud ha ha. Phony enough. Hope that sticks to her ribs, too.
“Who remembers what we were supposed to read about today?” Riley questions the kids in the same high-pitched voice as a Disney princess. Several hands fly up, but Riley turns to me. “Jay, do you remember? Or did your tumble from your bike cause amnesia?” She laughs and a snort follows, because Riley’s full of swag.
“What’s amnesia?” Malik asks.
“It’s when people don’t believe what you’re saying, so they attempt to be cute in front of a group of kids,” I say. The kids look at one another, blink, and shrug. I force a smile at Riley. “I think I’d much rather scope what the kids remember. Since it’s their class and all.”
Riley’s face falls, probably realizing she’s not as funny as she suspected. “Of course,” she says. She points to Daysia, whose arm is going to snap off if she isn’t called on in two seconds.
Daysia folds her hands perfectly together on top of the table. “We were going to talk about David and Gollum.”
I choke out a laugh. Just a quick one. But long enough to make Riley step in front of me to block me from Daysia.
“Very close, Daysia. But we’re learning about David and Goliath. I think someone still may be in the running to get a sticker at the end of the day,” Riley says, and Daysia nods—eyes lighting up at the possibility of a new smiley face sticker to paste on the back of her hand. “Okay, let’s all go to the reading nook. Remember, crisscross applesauce.”
The kids march over to the blue gym mat that serves as Riley’s reading nook.
“You up for this today?” Riley asks me, under her breath.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” I say.
Riley opens her mouth like she wants to say something else corny, but I turn away from her. Chitchat over. We get through David and Goliath’s story from the Children’s Bible Stories book that was used in my Sunday school class back in the day. The pages smell like stale bread and cough drops, but it always takes me back to a time when I cared more about missing recess than missing sisters. The story only lasts about five minutes, but the seconds drip away like molasses as I mime the actions of the characters.
“Okay, back to the table so you can all draw me your Goliath,” Riley instructs. “What’s something scary that you were able to beat, or are still trying to beat?”
The kids get to it and I retreat to a chair in my corner. Snatch my phone out of my pocket like Hot Pockets fresh out the microwave. Check it for updates. I reached out to, like, three of Sterling’s followers on Snapchat last night, but . . . nothing. I do get a text from Camila, though. Kind of. More like a string of question marks for being all MIA this weekend. My thumb hovers over the texting window, conjuring up some energy to give her a satisfying response.
“Okay, spill it.” Riley leans against the wall next to me and I shove my phone back into my pocket. Pretty hard to sweet-text Mila when there’s a Riley next to you. “What really happened to you?”
I roll my eyes. “Told you. Fell off my bike.”
“You’re sixteen, Jay. There’s no way you’re still falling off your bike.” Riley gives a smile to one of the kids who holds up his paper to show off the blob he’s calling a dog.
“Maybe I’m clumsy. Just like you told the kids.”
“Come on, Jay. Do I really look that stupid?” Her perennial ponytail is tucked up into a bun, making her eyes bigger and more prying.
“Don’t make me answer that.”
“Got into a tiff with your crew?”
I give her the side eye. “I have a crew now?” I don’t know what offends me more—her assumption, or that she’s tossing words like tiff at me without cowering in embarrassment.
“For real. Was it a scuffle over money? Someone step on your sneakers?” Riley snaps her fingers, points at me. “A girl, wasn’t it? You threw down over a girl because one of your friends got her pregnant.”
And this is exactly why I couldn’t tell Riley about Javon. Even though Javon did the slinging, she’d put me in the same category as him. To Riley, both me and Javon strut around with our pants hanging a little too low and the music from our cars a little too loud. Not that I had a car, but if I did have one, rest assured that Riley would ask me why I still used the CD player instead of XM radio.
“Okay, who’s ready for our sing-along?” I ask the kids before I say something to Riley that would blow the bun off her head.
“We’re not done with our pictures yet,” Malik tells me as he holds up his half-empty drawing for proof.
“We’ll finish them next week. Do we have any requests?” Never any point asking. We always end with “I’ve Got the Joy.” The kids love pretending to be the Devil sitting on a tack. Three requests for it later, and we’re all singing, bouncing up and down, covering our butts like we sat on something pointy.
After two rounds, Riley and I stand on opposite sides of the door, slapping fives to the kids as they file out of the classroom. When the last one leaves, I follow suit. Double-time it to get away from Riley and pull out my phone to check Snapchat again.
“Something really exciting must be happening on your phone,” Riley says, catching up to me.
I jump from her presence. Those Converses are irritatingly squeak-free.
“Is it the pregnant chick? Don’t tell me she needs you to take a paternity test.” She snickers under her breath. Interrupts it with her snort.
I stop walking and Riley crashes against my arm. “You ever notice that you’re the only one who laughs at your jokes?”
Riley’s laughter dies down. “Lots of people think I’m funny.”
“Yeah? The five-year-olds in our class don’t count.”
“Ugh. Who peed in your Mountain Lion today?”
I groan. Of course she assumes that I drink Mountain Lion instead of its name-brand cousin, Mountain Dew. I do, but still. “You do know that Lion and Dew taste the same, right?”
She snickers again. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of consumers agree that Dew is better than Mountain Lion.”
“Only you would have time to research that.” I glance down at my phone. No new alerts.
“You would have time too if you weren’t—”
I frown back at Riley. “Let me guess. Out on the street with my crew? Busting heads and taking names?”
Riley raises her eyebrows as if that thought hasn’t run laps around her brain before. “I was going to say if you weren’t always on your phone. Seriously. Who died?” She gasps and clutches her chest. “Wait—did someone die?”
I give up. Riley’s like that fly you can’t just swat away at a cookout. The one that makes you cover your soda with a napkin in case it wanted to take a dive. “If I tell you what’s up, will you stop being so extra?”
She holds up three fingers, scout’s honor style, in all her extra glory.
I pause. Riley’s the last person I’d spill my wax to, but the pressure’s been building so much that I have to let some of it seep before I explode. I step closer to her in case anyone overhears. “My sister’s been missing since Thursday night. I have no idea where she is.”
Riley covers her mouth with both hands. “Jay,” she says in between her fingers. “Jay, I didn’t know. Why are you and Ms. Murphy even here today?”
“MiMi doesn’t know anything.” I ram my fists into my hoodie’s pockets. “Don’t want to scare her for no reason.” My hands tremble at the thought of having a reason to scare her.
“No reason?” Riley’s hands drop to her sides. “Jay, your sister could be missing missing. She has a right to know.”
“I don’t know if she’s missing missing.”
“You just said she was.”
“Look, you don’t know Nic. She does this . . . thing. She tries to break free, but then shows back up at our doorstep like a stray, remorseful kitten. I can’t freak out MiMi over one of her dizzy adventures.”
“This time is different, though. I can see it on your face.”
I step back. Riley’s been studying my face enough to see a difference?
“If you’re not going to tell your grandma, you at least have to go to the cops.”
I’d laugh in Riley’s face if my throat wasn’t so tight. “Cops don’t listen to guys like me—and they damn sure don’t care about girls like Nic.”
“Not all cops are like that, Jay.” Riley blinks at me with all the sincerity in the world. Her eyes are open to possibilities, not muddied from seeing cops laughing at blissheads like Pooch instead of lending a helping hand.
I’ve said too much. I move away from Riley before I say any more. She calls after me one more time. I pause, glance at her over my shoulder.
Riley squeezes and pulls at her fingers. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
This time, I do let out a laugh. A small one just under my breath. “You and me both.” But not as sorry as Nic will be after we exchange a few words when she gets home.
If she gets home.
That tiny word haunts me all throughout Reverend Palmer’s sermon. If, if, if. Over and over like the chorus of a hymn. I need to reach Sterling, get some answers, to make this somber song end.