Not sure if it’s anticipation of what we’ll find at the address or pure weirdness between us, but neither of us says much on the long drive over.
We’ve been on the highway for a solid twenty minutes when I peek over at him. His eyes are glued to the road.
And now I’m having a flashback of how that jawline felt against my collarbone when he scooped me up in that insane hug last Tuesday.
What do I do with all this? He can’t possibly really like me, can he? All signs point to yes, he can, dumbass, but…we’re too different.
Aren’t we?
And if he did like me, he would say so, right?
“You’re awfully quiet over there, Danger.”
I clear my throat. “Look who’s talking—well…not talking either.”
He chuckles. “For real, though: Are you okay? You seem…different.”
So he did notice (was I thinking he wouldn’t?).
Question is, what do I tell him? “Different…how?”
He clears his throat. “You didn’t wait for me after school.”
Why does he sound wounded? And why is it infuriating me and making me want to hug him back to happiness simultaneously?
What is happening?!
“What’s the number on that mailbox?” he says like he didn’t just turn the air in the Jeep to emotional soup. We’ve pulled to a stop and he points to the house on the corner of the adjacent street. It’s one story and buttercup yellow with white shutters, and there’s a FOR LEASE sign with the name of a realty company sticking out of the immaculate front lawn.
“Looks like…” I squint. “Twenty-seven twenty-one.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s the house linked to the PO box,” he says.
“Oh.”
During our brief moment of unintentional silence, the soupy air solidifies into something much heavier. I know he and I are thinking the same thing in this moment—if this is really Ethel Streeter’s house, and it’s for lease…
I mean, she was pretty old.
But what if she just like…retired to Florida or moved into one of those swingin’ senior communities or something? It says for lease, not for sale, which means someone wants to maintain ownership of this place even if someone else is living in it.
Right?
“I’m gonna pull up a little closer so we can get the number off the sign,” Zan says.
And now I sigh.
Which melts the smile right off Zan’s face. “You okay?”
What do I tell him? That every curveball in this “quest” makes me wanna quit for the sake of avoiding more disappointment? That my family is going to be one hundred and eight dollars in the red on March 1 unless I manage to pick up twelve extra hours over the next three days? That I should’ve grabbed an extra shift today instead of coming here?
Do I tell him I feel like I currently owe him way more than I could repay in any near future?
Do I tell him I’m not even comfortable sitting next to him right now?
And yet I don’t want to move.
All I know for sure: I can’t go back.
“Get a little closer,” I say. “I can’t quite see it from here.”
A ginormous smile erupts up into Zan’s cheeks. “Rico?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Okay…”
He takes my hand and fixes me in that green-eyed stare.
“I really like you,” he says.
I really am Ethel Streeter’s house, by the way. She moved outta me and in with her son Bartholomew just a few weeks ago.
It’s been lonely as all get-out without her here. And they recently “redeveloped” the area—you should see the monstrosity they tossed up next door mere months ago—so the black folk who have populated this neighborhood for as long as I can remember can’t (or maybe won’t) pay the exorbitant rent price Ethel’s financial advisor suggested so she’d be “competing with the surrounding renovated homes also listed for lease.”
Guessing I’ll be occupied by some strange white people like the ones I see jogging with their mini-dogs in strollers soon.
Oh, and just so you’re aware—Rico’s currently thinking about this as we speak—that thing she’s looking for? It’s not anywhere inside me.
I really like you too, Zan.
I still cannot believe I said that. Out loud.
Now it’s Friday and I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror feeling like a friggin’ idiot because I just poked myself in the eye with a mascara wand. And there are dark tears running down my cheeks.
Looks like I’m weeping dirt. Rico Reneé Danger, Goddess of Filth—
“Rico?” Mama opens the door.
Too late for me to splash water on my face to get rid of the mess, but you know what? That’s fine. She should see the results of her failure to teach me these things, dammit.
“Hon—whoa,” she says. There’s a mocking glint in her eye. “Struggling a bit?”
“Not helping.”
She looks me over. My hair is curled, and I’m wearing a low-back houndstooth pencil dress I stole from her closet with tastefully ripped black tights. Haven’t decided on shoes yet, but no matter.
“So I just got called into work for a few hours,” she says.
“Okay…”
She sighs. “Señora Alvarez can’t babysit.”
According to the watch staring up at me from beside the sink, Zan is gonna be here to pick me up in precisely twenty-one minutes.
This is not happening.
“You’re telling me this now?”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Unless your little date is planning to pay our rent, I suggest you readjust your priorities,” she snips.
“It’s not a date. We’re just going to a movi—”
“Great! You can take your brother with you then.”
Is she for real?! “But, Mama—”
“Either that or call it off.” She looks at her watch. “I have to go.”
And then she’s gone.