IT’S A SMALL ACHE, BUT ONE THAT KIND OF LINGERS. I can’t forget what happened. In my catalog of worst things, its rank is very low. But still.
I’m sitting on the wall, waiting for Emmalee and Patrice. I start to hear the whistles from the guys at the corner before I even see Cherry coming. She’s wearing a knee-length dress cut low and tight. Shades that hide half her face. Hair all round and tall. A dainty purse. High heels, of course. She’s swinging. The basketball boys start to trip over themselves turning to watch her do that walk across the playground.
There’s all kinds of power, I guess. Raheem’s kind, Jolene’s kind, Leroy’s kind, Cherry’s kind. I’m going to find my kind. Make them see it. I just don’t know how yet.
I hold my ground as she approaches. It’s the high ground, the place you want to be before a fight. Emmalee’s been reading to us out of The Art of War. Not like I’m at war with Cherry, but she does have something I want, and what’s even better is, she probably thinks it’s the other way around right now.
“Hey, Maxie.” Cherry reaches me, braces one wrist against the wall near my hip, facing me. “I think you have something of mine.”
I smile. “I guess I do.”
“I’m going to need it back, okay?”
“Sure.” But I sit without moving, without reaching for it.
Cherry shifts her hips, impatient. “So, where is it?”
“I’m not sure if I should tell you.” I try to sound grown-up and aloof.
Cherry raises her shades and plants them in the front of her Afro. “Look, I appreciate it, okay?” She squeezes my arm. “I was in a bad place, and what I was doing was messed up.”
“You all right now?”
Cherry smiles. “Never better.”
There’s an edge to it, though. Like there’s an edge to everything these days.
“Okay.”
“Thanks, kid. I owe you.”
I grin. “Really? Will you do something for me? I need some help.”
Cherry steps back and surveys me. “Sure. I know a lipstick color that’d be perfect for you.”
“What?” I’d been gearing up to ask the real favor. Now I’m a little bit thrown. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean . . .”
She waves a hand. “Lots of people ask me. It’s no big deal. I’ve seen you watching me. You’re pretty enough as is, I think, but if you want to know more about makeup and clothes, I’ll take you downtown.”
Cherry thinks I’m pretty? “Really?”
“Sure.” She reaches into her purse and takes out a cigarette. Lights it. The sunlight is so bright, I can barely see the tip glowing, but still I’m reminded of the shadow edge, the dark side of things.
“No.” I fumble for what I was supposed to say. “I mean, that would be great, but . . .” I take a deep breath. “Please, could you tell Leroy and Jolene that I’d be a good Panther? They won’t let me in, but I know I’m old enough. I already work at the office every day. I’m responsible and I follow the rules.”
Cherry shakes her head. “What makes you think they’ll listen to little old me?”
They’ll listen. I know it. “You’re smart. People pay attention to you.”
She picks a fleck of tobacco off her tongue. Stares at me. “Hmm. Well, sure. Yeah. I’ll say something.”
I sigh, relieved. “Thanks.”
“So, about the other thing. I really need it back,” she says. “Where’d you stash it? Is it at home? Let’s go get it.”
I reach into my bag. Extract the gun, rest it in my lap.
Gasping, Cherry lays her hand over mine, covering it as best she can. “Maxie, what are you doing?” She glances around to see who’s watching. “You can’t be running around with that.”
The cigarette drops to the ground as Cherry fumbles to open her purse and slip the gun inside. I can see that I’ve scared her, the woman I thought was unshakable. She slides the purse back onto her arm, puts her back to the wall, and looks around, trying to seem casual as she toes the cigarette to dust. I can’t help but track her gaze.
People are watching. Of course they are. It’s Cherry. Someone who’s used to being noticed. Me, it’s starting to seem like I could wave a shotgun in the middle of the street and no one would notice. Least, no one who matters.
“Sorry, Cherry.” I mean it.
She repositions her shades, slides her cool calmness back over her face. “Don’t sweat it, sugar. You want to live on the edge? You got it.”
Then she’s walking away.
“Maybe the lipstick, too,” I call after her. She raises a hand in a half wave as she fades back into the corridor of catcalls.