“What’s up with all the questions about my ex?” I ask, following him.
Yusef shrugs. “No reason. Just wondering what you were like, back home. Feels like I don’t really know anything about you. You’re like a big-ass lockbox.”
“So, is this some Mission: Impossible–style quest to try to open me up?”
He squints. “See? You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Deflecting. Every time anyone gets a little close, you freeze up with Dad jokes.”
“Hey, that joke was good, my dad would be proud. And why are you trying to get close to me anyways?”
“Because . . . we’re friends!”
“Friends?” I catch the hurt in my voice and clear my throat. “I mean, right. We are friends.”
Yusef nods as if to say “duh” and walks ahead. It’s not like I wanted Yusef, or any boy, for that matter. But I’m not going to lie, it felt good knowing he wanted me. Nice stroke to the ego. Who knew reverse friend-zoning would come with such a sting.
“All right,” he says, stopping at an archway made of hay bales. “Ready to pick your pumpkin?”
The pumpkin patch is massive, the size of at least two football fields. We walk through the endless rows, sipping our cider, inspecting pumpkins along the way.
“Are you sure we’re even allowed to have one of these? We’re not going to get arrested bringing it home?”
He shakes his head. “You so extra. What about this one?”
Yusef lifts a narrow-shaped pumpkin up in the air.
“That looks like Mr. Potato Head.”
“Okayyyyy,” he says, and huffs. “How about this one?”
“Bumpy face? Dude, no way!”
“Yo, don’t be disrespectful. Bumpy face got feelings! He can hear you.”
We laugh, maneuvering through the rows, the sky a gorgeous baby blue, the fresh air sweet. I can spot the apple orchard in the distance. Maybe Mom can make her famous vegan apple crumble or a pie. This was just what the doctor ordered, a normal Saturday afternoon.
“Yo, you hear that the Sterling Foundation is trying to tear down the library?”
I nearly trip over a vine. “Uh, no. Didn’t hear anything about that.”
Yusef nods and keeps moving. I don’t know why I lied. It seemed easier than telling the truth. And the truth: there’s no stopping what’s already in motion. Yusef just has no idea.
“Ain’t that some shit,” he grumbles, inspecting another pumpkin. “Instead of them fixing shit, they just want to tear everything down.”
“Well,” I start, trying to keep my voice light. “Would that be so bad?
He whips around. “What?”
“Okay, not to shit on your home or nothing . . . but Maplewood is a bit of a mess. Our high school alone could use some serious upgrades. Maybe it’s time for some changes in the neighborhood.”
He stares at me, his eyes growing harder by the second, then crosses his arms. “Yo, you ever watch that show Midnight Truth?”
“Yeah! It’s one of my faves!”
“Okay, remember when they replaced the actor that played Logan with some new guy, ’cause the original Logan kept coming to set drunk?”
“Ugh! Don’t remind me. New guy was so blah-looking.”
“Right, the show went on, but it wasn’t the same. That’s what ‘change’ sometimes be like. Take the whole soul out of something. Not all change is a good thing.”
Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.
My breath catches and I’m not sure why I feel so exposed. Nervously, I dunk the last of my doughnut in the apple cider.
“So you rather the Wood stay like it is now? A mess?”
“No! I never wanted the Wood to be this way. No one did. I’m just saying, they didn’t throw away the Sistine Chapel because the paint started to flake. They renovated that shit! Took them some years and some serious cash, but they got it done. Why can’t our city do the same for us? They got all that money for the Riverwalk but can’t spare a dime to fix the pothole in front of Ms. Roberson’s house.”
I stop to glance up at him. “Okay, not going to lie, I’m hella impressed with your Sistine Chapel knowledge.”
He smirks. “Heard someone say that on one of those stupid baking shows.”
“Told you, sugar over dirt!”
“You right, you right,” he laughs. “Well, Unc and I, we’re thinking of starting a Maplewood historical society.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We have to start saving our legacy before it’s all washed away. Pop-Pop took lots of pictures growing up. We can maybe raise some money for a museum or something.”
I smile. “I love how . . . passionate you get about Maplewood.”
“It’s my home, why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Guess I don’t really feel attached to much of anything . . . anymore.”
“Why not?”
Because my old town is full of jerks, and my old house kept the memories of bedbugs, my ex-boyfriend, and my parents’ divorce alive. Plus, there’s the whole nearly dying on my bedroom floor thing. But I didn’t want to get into all that.
“No reason,” I say with a shrug before spotting the perfect pumpkin right by my boot.
“There! Got one.” I lift it up in the air. “And I shall name you Sweets and I shall carve out your eyes and smile with a steak knife.”
He shakes his head. “Well, that ain’t creepy at all.”
Yusef offers to carry Sweets to the car as we head back. Sammy waves at us from his horse, practically moving in slow motion.
“Yo, we should’ve brought your sister,” Yusef says. “She would’ve loved this too.”
I roll my eyes. “Dude. That little bitch is not my sister. Besides, I would’ve been too tempted to tie her to a scarecrow.”
“Whoa,” he says, face turned up. “Yo, do you talk like that around her? Not cool.”
“You don’t know what’s she’s like. She makes life . . . miserable. More miserable than it has to be.”
He rolls his eyes. “She’s a kid!”
“She’s ten,” I snap back.
“She’s. A. KID! Give her a break. She ain’t got it easy.”
“How would you know?”
“Come on now, it’s the Wood. Everyone knows everything about everybody. Word is nobody talks to that girl. She’s straight-up canceled. Think of all the looks you be getting at school, multiply that by a hundred. That’s what she’s dealing with.”
Guilt starts to eat at my hard candy shell. I didn’t know she had it that bad. Didn’t seem like she cared either way if she had friends or not and totally fine staying up under Alec. But maybe that’s her defense mechanism, pretending everything’s fine and she doesn’t give a damn.
That’s at least one thing we have in common.
“Still don’t give her the right to take her issues out on us,” I mumble.
“Girl ain’t getting no love at school, no love at home . . . seems like there’s nothing left to do but be a little asshole. But even assholes got a heart and a turning point. Just got to give her a chance. I’m sure folks given you second chances when you’ve fucked up.”