I shrug. “So? Nic’s not the tidiest person in the world.” One time, MiMi found a paper plate with a half-eaten PB&J sandwich under Nic’s bed. And they say boys are the messy ones.
“Don’t you get it? Everything means something.” She puts the wrapper into her pocket and pats it. “I’ll keep it just in case.”
Trash? We’re resorting to trash now? I could’ve spent these minutes studying, not building false hope. “Okay, you got to go,” I say. Riley was having way too much fun with this. Like she was Dora and exploring some big mystery. But my life isn’t a cartoon. Far from it.
Riley blinks at me. “But . . . but I’m just getting started.”
“Why are you breaking curfew for someone you hardly know?” I ask. “Nic barely said two words to you at church.”
“That’s not true,” Riley says under her breath, so low that I almost miss it. “And it seems like someone should care that she’s gone.”
I frown at her. “Was that shade?” Does she know how many sleepless nights I had to deal with since Nic’s last phone call? How the guilt clawed and chewed away at me until I wake up barely hanging on and painting a smile on my face just not to worry MiMi any further. MiMi still hasn’t come to yet, but I know that my stress would keep her under. So, I smile and rub her hand and tell her everything’s going to be okay even though my gut says the opposite.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Jay. I just meant—”
“Bye, Riley.”
Riley studies me for a second or two, then gives me a slight nod before walking past me.
My legs follow behind her on autopilot. My dad always said you’re never supposed to let a lady walk alone. He was old school like that. Sometimes he’d get stuck holding the door at 7-Eleven for a good ten minutes for every woman that needed to walk through.
Riley glances back at me and holds up her hand. “I’m good, Jay. I’m good.” She repeats it like she means it, so I let her find her way out. Probably for the best. She’d try to say something else to get my hopes up. I look around at Nic’s lopsided mattress. The partially open dresser drawers. The closet light spilling out onto her bed. The same paths I traveled earlier, but Riley had to do the job again. As if I was some kid helping out their mom in the kitchen but couldn’t be trusted to peel the potatoes correctly.
But dammit, Riley had a point. She saw an opening and went for it, consequences be damned. I was tired of sitting around, waiting for phone calls or text messages. Or the cops to actually do their job. If I wanted to find Nic, I had to take more action. And if Javon’s crew didn’t know anything, maybe Kenny’s crew did.
Nine
BEFORE KENNY STARTED PUSHING BLISS AND CRINKLE FOR Javon, he was a pretty good baller. So much so that high school varsity teams were recruiting him when he was still in eighth grade. For some reason, he still came to Youngs Mill. Something went foul at the start of Kenny’s junior year. Nobody really knows what. Some people say he blew out his knee running from or after someone. Others say his dad blew out Kenny’s knee after hitting the bottle a bit too hard one night. Either way, Kenny’s hoop dreams faded and he grew even tighter with Javon.
Still, basketball was an itch he never fully scratched. Every now and then when I walked a neighborhood dog for one of my side hustles, I spotted him on the court at the Boys and Girls Club on Bland Boulevard. I head there after school, each step filled with purpose. I spot some of the usual suspects. Not part of Javon’s squad, but Kenny’s boys from the team—more varsity than vandals. It’s less intimidating to get answers from them than from the thugs on Javon’s stoop.
The guys on the court whoop and holler as one of them dunks the ball during a play. “You see that shit?” he bellows, still dangling from the hoop. “Tell me that wasn’t a Lebron move right there.”
“Man, Lebron’s trash,” some guy with beads dancing at the end of his corn rows says. I haven’t seen beads on hair since my mom showed me pictures of herself in elementary school.
“Yeah, says the guy who just ate the bottom of my sneaker!” The Lebron wannabe finally hops down from the hoop and plucks one of the other dude’s braids. The beads shiver and make music from his scalp.
“Man, whatever.” He smirks and swats Fake Lebron’s hand away as the other guys laugh. That’s my cue. I force out a laugh and clap my hands.
“Nice. I see you got some skills,” I say, still applauding. “Mind if I join in?” I point down at my sneaks, as if to prove that I have the right gear to play. Sometimes I wonder how I even have one friend at school.
The guys look at me, then at each other. “Yo, get your cousin, Rico,” one of them says to the guy with beads.
“Man, I don’t know this fool,” Rico insists. Frowns at me to prove we’re not related.
“I do.” Lebron looks me over, tucks the ball into his armpit. “Kind of. You go to Youngs Mill, right? And don’t you walk around here with that mutt with scabies?”
I wince. Not necessarily the way I want to be remembered. “You mean Titus? Yeah, he had mange, but he’s good to go now. Or so his owner tells me. I just help out from time to time.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Jay.”
Fake Lebron peers down at my hand, his face pinched like a nerve.
“I wash my hands every time I’m done walking them. Plus, I haven’t handled Titus in weeks,” I insist.
Lebron gives in and slaps me a five. “DeMarcus,” he says. Points at a guy with bright red Jordans. “That’s Xavier.” Points at a dude with his stomach hanging over his gym shorts. “Chip.” Finally, the guy with beads. “And you already know your cousin Rico.” The guys laugh again, except Rico.
“Y’all keep playing with me,” he warns, fiddling with one of his braids.
“So, can I ball with you guys or naw?” I ask again. Brothers usually don’t spill the wax all willy-nilly. You got to keep them preoccupied. Catch them with their guard down. Usually when they’re doing something they love. For instance, spot me when I finish the latest Jason Reynolds novel, and I’ll tell you all about my mom, dad, and my drunk uncle Kevin who’s slept on every family member’s couch at one point or the other.
“Naw,” Rico says. “We already got our teams. You’d make us all uneven.”
DeMarcus smirks at him. “Fool, didn’t you just say your ankle hurt?”
Rico smirks right back. “And? I could ride it out.”
“Yo, that’s what your moms said to me last night,” Xavier says, and the guys whoop and holler again. Everyone, of course, but Rico. He rolls his eyes, like jokes about his mom happen every Wednesday afternoon. I need to keep these guys on track. If one of them gets too salty, then the whole squad might crumble.
I look around as if I’m looking for someone. “Figured we could play a little three on three. Where’s your boy?”
The laughter dies. “Who?” DeMarcus asks.
Okay. Fake Lebron is obviously their spokesperson, so I have to appeal to him. “Dark-skinned brother?” I continue. “Little bit taller than me? I think you guys call him . . .” I snap my fingers, try to conjure up some random-ass name, “Curtis?”