Eight
THE THING ABOUT RUNNING OFF WITH SOMEONE IS YOU don’t think about leaving clues behind. No goodbye notes, no breadcrumbs. Because when you take off with someone, you bring all the good stuff with you and leave all the bullshit behind. And that’s what I find in Nic’s bedroom. Bullshit. Just random puzzle pieces that don’t even make a complete picture when you put it all together—unless that picture is a typical seventeen-year-old girl’s bedroom. Nic’s place to slumber was all scented lotions and scented hair products and scented ChapStick (which, what the hell?). Those, on top of her clothes—her scantily clad looks hidden underneath her regularly clad looks—were all I could find when I raided Nic’s room. Twice. First, right after Riley spilled the wax she got from her classmate—and then again after dropping off MiMi’s things at the hospital. At least I got good news there. MiMi’s stable now, but they got her under a microscope just in case. I try not to think about the just in case.
Even though both raids were complete busts, I couldn’t help but feel like there was something I was missing. Yeah, Kenny was crushing hard—I finally saw what everyone else had already seen. But I’m not sure if that crush was reciprocated. Nic went hard for Javon—so hard that she once told me that they were thinking about getting matching tattoos. After telling Nic that walking around with a tattoo on her ring finger of a rose winding around a knife might send MiMi to an early grave, Nic reconsidered. She did other crazy shiz for Javon instead, like skip school or smoke bliss, or talk back to MiMi about skipping school or smoking bliss. Hard to imagine she’d go through all that drama just to hightail it somewhere with Kenny. But where were they? And why was Javon so pissed? I still can’t shake that last phone call from Nic. All ellipses and em dashes with not enough words in between.
Those questions haunt me as I sweep up the dining area in Taco Bell. Bad enough that I had to actually work in the middle of MiMi’s stroke and Nic’s vanishing act, but can a brother at least make a chalupa? Neither Joshua nor the other clown-in-command, Maurice, felt I was ready to handle the cash yet. Hell, maybe I wasn’t ready, either, since I just found out I got the job yesterday. I came in today to meet Maurice and they handed me a broom. Guess when you come to the interview looking banged up, people assume you’re thirsty for whatever job they’ll offer.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Just as my hope builds, I see it’s a text from Bowie.
You got the rest of Meek’s paper??? He’s trippin HARD.
I smirk. Meek Foreman and his forearms are the least of my worries right now. I’ve seen those forensic shows. If someone’s missing beyond forty-eight hours, the prognosis gets grim. What did it mean if the police didn’t care enough to even consider someone missing?
A shoulder jolting against my back jostles an answer out of my head—and sends me stumbling over my broomstick.
“My bad, bro.” A tall, white guy stands behind me with a shit-eating grin scribbled across his face. He wears a hoodie with Greek letters on his chest, some kind of triangle with horns. Spins a key chain with a Cadillac emblem around his index finger. I take it the dark mocha Escalade eating up two parking spaces in front of the dining area belongs to him. Wow. What a dude bro.
“Didn’t see you there,” Dude Bro continues, leaning toward me. He smells like he went running through a Christmas tree lot. Probably some high-end cologne, but the stuff MiMi mops the floor with smells better. “But check this out . . .” He points somewhere behind me. “You missed a spot.”
That’s when I notice the two white guys behind him, cackling like he’s the star of some Seth Rogen movie. They’re pretty nondescript—just Lackey No. 1 and Lackey No. 2. Both wearing the same hoodie as their douchey ringleader. The earthy smell of bliss seeping out of their pores, almost overtaking the Pine-Sol cologne. They probably scored in my neighborhood. Guys like them always perch in front of Javon’s building, not willing to step outside of their fancy cars and walk in their fancy shoes to the stoop. Instead, they demand full service like they’re ordering burgers at a Sonic Drive-In. Most don’t bother to look my way, but the ones that do give me the same you-must-bow-down-to-me head nod like these corn nuts. Great. Now I have to catch an extra dose of that condescension working the night shift at Taco Bell. Fick my life.
I snatch up the broom from the floor and give Dude Bro a look that I hope will haunt him during his sleep later. He cocks an eyebrow, amused, and even takes a step toward me. Daring me—naw, begging me—to ram my broomstick right in between his eyes. I grip onto my cleaning utensil. Think about all the wonderful ways I could turn it into a weapon. How I could take out all my sadness, my frustration . . . hell, my rage on this Alpha Phi Asshole right in front of his fan club.
Someone clears their throat. I look over my shoulder and Joshua Kim’s behind the counter, stacking up trays, his eyes firmly and decidedly on me. I feel like I’m in a Western, but instead of drawing guns, Joshua’s drawing a silent warning: Any funny business and I’m calling the cops. Doesn’t matter that I’m the guy in here trying to work. My popping melanin makes me the aggressor in every situation. I loosen my grip on the broom handle, step around Dude Bro and his boys to clean up the crumbs underneath a table behind them. Their laughter is the salt in my wounds as they make their way to the counter.
This is for MiMi, I tell myself. After going through what she’s been through this week, she’s earned that retirement in Florida. I sweep up every crumb, every scrap that’s ever been in this Taco Bell before I even stepped foot in it. If this is what Joshua and Maurice need to see before they give me a promotion and up my pay, then I’ll be an Olympic Broom Pusher. The quicker I can get those duckets, the quicker MiMi and me can leave this neighborhood behind. Hopefully with Nic tagging along with us.
Just as I dump all my handiwork into the trash bin, Bowie hits me up again:
Bowie: You alive???
Really? It’s probably only been ten minutes since he sent his last message. He acts like I don’t have a life outside of him. Like I’m not dealing with moms in prison and missing sisters and grandmothers in the hospital. Not like he knows all those things, but still . . . I wish I had so little cares in the world that my main concern was making sure Meek Foreman graduated.
“I said all right!” Dude Bro’s voice booms throughout the dining area as he and his two friends squeeze into one of the booths. He pauses, as if the rumble in his vocal cords is a power that he just discovered. On some real Harry Potter shiz. He leans across the table to one of the other white guys. “Not here, man. Not here,” he says in his attempt to be hushed.
Lackey No. 1 or Lackey No. 2—not sure which one—nods about five too many times as he stirs his straw around his cup. His basic friend sits next to him, slaps him in between his shoulder blades to console him. Two times, brief. All: even though we’re sitting together, we’re not together. As if anyone truly gives a damn.
“No phones while you’re on your shift,” Joshua Kim says, walking up behind me. I jump, almost drop said phone. His work Skechers are no joke. It’s like he’s walking on squeak-free clouds. “You could leave it in the breakroom if it’s going to be a problem.”