I shrug. “She’s . . . you know.” I shrug again for good measure. Truth is, I don’t know how she’s doing. Never called to give her the deets about MiMi like I was supposed to, but I’m sure MiMi filled her in by now. Every time I pulled out my iPad to email her or whatever, my fingers locked up. Froze. As if they didn’t know what to type. I didn’t know which was worse: drafting a letter to let Mom know how twisted our family had become or seeing that I had a response from her. Even if she sent a sentence or two, I’d read so much more in between the lines—none of which would fully scratch that itch I get when I think about her.
Man Boo nods at me again, eating up everything I was feeding him even though it’s just crumbs. But he’s cool like that. He always knows the fine line between chopping it up and keeping it moving. Too bad his barbering skills aren’t just as on point.
A black Lincoln Continental pulls up to the curb in front of us. Man Boo lets out a whistle and I look down at my shoes. Check my laces in case I have to take off booking. Fancy car like that in a neighborhood like this usually spells trouble. The passenger window rolls down and I bend my knees, prepare for takeoff.
“Hey, Jay!” Riley leans over and pokes her head out the window. “Hop on in.”
I blink. I don’t remember the Palmers rolling in a ride like this to Sunday services.
“Fancy friend to take you to your fancy haircut?” Man Boo asks, raises an eyebrow.
“Something like that.” I slap him a five and slide into the passenger seat. “I’ll tell MiMi you said hello,” I call out through the window.
Man Boo gives me a salute and lets out another whistle as we pull away.
“Seatbelt,” Riley says like a mom in training.
“Yes, ma’am.” I snap my seatbelt into place. Peek into the sideview mirror to make sure Man Boo got back into his shop without any drama. Most folks around here know better, but there’s always some clown from the next town over who thinks they can shake up someone in this neighborhood for some quick cash.
“Who’s your friend?” Riley asks.
My smirk comes out as a laugh. “Friend? It’d be kind of creepy for me to be friends with an old dude.”
Riley lifts one hand into a shrug, keeps the other on the wheel. “I don’t know. You two looked friendly together.”
“He just used to cut my hair, that’s all.” But that doesn’t feel like a hundred percent the truth, especially after saying it aloud. Yeah, he cut my hair until I outgrew his high fades, but he also spotted me a few dollars to sweep up hair or clean his windows. He let me chill out in one of his chairs whenever MiMi’s shift ran a little late and Nic was too distracted with her phone to distract me. If he wasn’t just a barber, but wasn’t a friend, I didn’t know what the hell to call him. So instead, I look around the car. Leather seats. Navigation system. Some kind of clip on the vent that makes the whole car smell like lavender. My knee bumps against the dashboard as I continue my snoop fest.
“My mom usually sits there. She’s way shorter than you. You can adjust the seat if you need to,” Riley explains.
I reach in between my legs and under the seat for some kind of handle. Nothing’s there.
“No. It’s on the side. Just press it toward the back—it’s automatic.”
I find the button on the side of the seat, press it, and, like magic, the seat glides backward. The transition is seamless, like a private jet landing on a runway. Don’t think I’ve ever been in a car as fancy as this. The fanciest, probably, was the back of the hearse escorting my dad to his final resting place, but I’ve always tried to push out that memory.
“We don’t drive this one to church,” Riley explains, almost sheepishly. “We just use it for trips.”
“You have a car specifically for trips?” I ask. “La-di-da. And Reverend Palmer entrusted you with the vacation vehicle for our trek to Richmond?”
“Weeellll,” Riley begins. Okay, that was one too many l’s to not be a little suspicious. “They don’t necessarily think we’re going to Richmond.”
I look at her. “Where do they think we’re going?”
“They might think we’re just going to the bookstore to check out a few more books and stuff for Sunday school. And by we, they mainly think me.” She peeks over at me. “I’m not allowed to have other people in the car.”
I grab my chest. “Riley Palmer. First sneaking out and breaking curfew, now lying to your parents. What’s next? You gonna get a face tattoo?”
Riley shrugs. “I’ve always been a fan of unicorns.”
I laugh at the image. The day I see Riley Palmer with a tattoo is the day you’d see me with a full ride to Harvard. “Unicorns, huh? For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m full of surprises.”
She has a point there. If somebody would’ve asked me even two weeks ago, I would’ve never guessed she’d step foot into my neighborhood after dark—let alone without a can of mace or guard dog. But these past few days have been like a Tootsie Pop. Going through layer after layer without truly getting to the core. Like Riley still has some things she wants to share with me, but I need to put the work in first.
“Whereas with you . . .” she continues, “complete open book.”
I scoff at her. “Lies. I’d like to think I’m dark and mysterious.”
“Just because you think it, Jay, doesn’t mean it’s true.” She holds up a finger and I know she’s about to count off a few things. “One, you always have a book with you, which means you love to read.”
“Sharp detective skills,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“But your books never really have creases in them. Which either means you only carry the books for show, or you treat books like precious things you need to handle with care. I’m going with the latter since it doesn’t seem like you care too much about what people think.”
That last part’s not quite on the nose, but still, I nod, somewhat impressed. “Okay. What else you got?”
“Two.” She continues counting with her fingers. “You wear the same hoodie almost all the time.”
I shrug. “I live in the Ducts. Money’s tight.”
Riley shakes her head. “That’s an excuse. Ms. Murphy makes sure you look sharp. Even if you’re not wearing labels, you have a variety. Which tells me that your hoodie must hold some sentimental value.”
I hold my breath. Damn. She’s good. I run my thumb along the zipper of my hoodie. It gets caught from time to time. I remember having to help Dad get it up to his neck sometimes, when he got too weak to fight with it. Think it took me five months before I let my mom wash it for the first time after he passed. His scent is long gone, but if I close my eyes tight enough when resting my forehead on the crook of my arm, it’s almost like he’s still right here.
“And three . . .”
I almost forget that Riley’s in the car, even though she’s the one driving.
She finally rests her hand back on the steering wheel and gives me another quick glance. “I’m really sorry about you and your girlfriend.”