“Jay . . . Jay!” I look over my shoulder and Mrs. Pratt is click-clack, click-clacking toward me. Her dangly, exotic earrings shimmy along with each step as she shuffles in my direction. I exhale through my nose. What the hell is this? Save a Jay Day?
“I stopped by Mr. Booker’s class looking for you,” she says once she reaches me. “He told me you were getting help with math during first period.”
“Yep,” I say. Glance at the clock over her head. I had better things to do than have Pratt recap my steps. Like call the hospital before the next bell to check in on MiMi. Like try to find Sterling to see if she’s heard anything.
“That’s good, Jay. Glad you’re taking charge of your grades like that. Speaking of which . . .” She gives me a smile and, fick, I know this can’t be good. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Chung about the literary magazine yet? First meeting is coming up real soon.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek so I won’t let out a groan. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to reach out to her. I have this new part-time job that’s been keeping me busy, though.” Hell, if I knew that having legit work could be my excuse for everything, I would’ve tried to nab one much sooner.
“Work? That’s good, Jay. Real good. As long as you balance your time well. And Mrs. Chung understands that students are busy. She’d work with your availability when it comes to the magazine.”
Dammit, she’s really not letting this go. I scratch the back of my neck. “Mmm,” I say. That’s all I can say. Anything else and I’m pretty sure she’d scope out my irritation.
“Besides, it might be good to take your mind off things.” She glances around the empty halls and takes a step toward me. “I heard about your grandmother . . . and I know that Nic hasn’t been around lately,” she says in a lower voice. “You know my office door is open if you need to talk. I’d hate for the truancy officer to show up at your door asking questions about Nicole when your grandma—”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say. Last thing I need is for her to pry even more about Nic and ambush me in the halls with her so-called concern. Kind of like now. The bell rings and students start spilling into the hall. I point to wherever the bell sounds from. “I need to get to my next class, so . . .”
“Say no more. I have a meeting to get to myself.” She backs away and points at me. “Oh, Jay! SAT registration is right around the corner. Stop by my office to get more info.”
I nod and plaster on a smile as I wave bye to her. “Leave me alone, lady,” I say through my clenched teeth, still keeping up my grateful charade. As soon as she turns around, my hand and smile both drop. SAT registration? Really? I can’t even pass a math test this week. How in the hell did she expect me to do well on the SATs with all I have going on? Now, if they asked questions about how to be the worst brother and grandson out there, colleges would be knocking down my door. But I’ve never been that lucky.
I reach my locker. Grab my books for next period and double-time it to my next class. I’m a few steps away when a boulder knocks against my back and sends me propelling down another hall. After regaining my footing, I spin around and Meek huffs and puffs at me. His fists balled. Ready to give me that ass whooping I deserved a week ago.
“Hey, Meek,” I say. I check my surroundings for an escape. We’re in the corridor that leads to the living skills classrooms. The ones with all the ovens and sewing machines. The ones that are rarely used except for some of the special needs classes that are held at the end of the day. The ones that are absolutely empty now. Something tells me Meek has been planning this for a while.
“Don’t ‘hey, Meek’ me, bruh!” His voice shakes the ground underneath me. Unless my knees are just giving out on me. “I told you I needed the rest of that paper. I can’t ask for another extension. And if I don’t turn that shit in, that means I can’t play this weekend.”
Fick. His paper. Bowie tried to warn me. But just like I haven’t had time to study or even eat breakfast today, I certainly didn’t have time to find what the hell I did with the rest of Meek’s paper. I was so worried about everyone else’s well-being that I didn’t think about mine.
“And if I can’t play this weekend . . .” He takes a step toward me. I take a step back. Bump into a wall behind me. “That means you’re not playing, either.”
I blink. Okay, he’s pissed. When you’re pissed, you don’t pay attention to whether or not the trash you’re spewing makes any logical sense. I’ll give him that. “I got you, Meek,” I say. “Let me talk to your teacher. I can tell her that you used my computer to type it up. That I’ll grab it for you tonight and you can hand it in first thing in the morning.”
“I told your dumb ass no more extensions!” he hisses in my face. I wonder if he spots the irony in his statement. That if I were the dumbass, why would he want me to write his papers? But if Meek even knew what irony was, we wouldn’t be in this situation. “I’ve about had it with your slick mouth! It’s time for someone to shut it.”
Meek raises his meaty fist over my head and he doesn’t need to say anything else to prove he’s the one who’s going to shut my mouth. I swallow and squeeze my fists as tight as I can. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging, dammit. If I fend him off enough, maybe a teacher could spot us before I’m completely black and blue.
Meek takes a swing at me and I duck. His fist collides against the wall as I flee under his arm.
“Fuck!” he shouts. I see the opening to the main hall but he grabs at the back of my shirt, flings me backward. I’m on my ass in point-two seconds. Before I can climb back to my feet, Meek’s on top of me. He straddles me, pinning his knees on top of both of my arms. Cutting off the circulation until I feel nothing but static in them. He takes his hand and covers my entire face. Seriously. He presses down so hard that I wait to hear my nose crush under the pressure. I can’t let that happen, so I pull the biggest bitch move I can think of. I bite down on one of his fingers.
Meek cries out and yanks his hand away. I can breathe again. I can see again. And unfortunately, I see his fist come barreling down toward me.
Before his fist makes a landing, someone collides against the side of Meek and knocks him off me. I blink a few times to return to my senses and Bowie hovers over me, holding out his hand. “You good?” he asks.
I blink again, make sure it’s him. The purple hair pokes out of his Steelers cap. I grab his hand and he pulls me up.
“The fuck, Bowie?” Meek demands, climbing to his feet. Bowie steps in front of me.
“Hold on, Meek. If you got problems with Jay, then you got problems with me,” Bowie says. I frown at the back of his head. Does he have some kind of death wish?
Meek looks at me, looks at Bowie, then shrugs. His fist flickers away from him and jabs right at Bowie’s face.
“Gah!” Bowie cries out, covering his nose. I flinch for him. Grab his shoulder.
“You cool, man?” I ask.
“No!” Bowie bellows through his hand.
Meek could care less. He takes another step toward us. I pull Bowie behind me and prep my fists again. This time, hoping to at least land one blow.