I hand MiMi the mirror perched on one of the side tables, buried behind the latest flower arrangement from someone from Providence Baptist. “You look good, MiMi,” I insist.
“Like you’d really tell me. One morning you let me go through a whole service with lipstick on my teeth.”
“I told you, I didn’t notice.” Okay, really I was salty about her not letting me go to the movies with Bowie the night before. There had been another shooting so, of course, she kept me on lockdown.
MiMi checks herself in the handheld mirror, then examines me. I had to find one of my button-downs in the back of my closet. The ones I keep on hold for family funerals or Easter service or some other reason that we’re in church more than just to see Reverend Palmer prance across the stage. MiMi motions me over then refolds one of my cuffs. “You could’ve at least run an iron over this.”
“I did.”
MiMi shakes her head. “I should’ve shown you better. But you’re spoiled, so . . .” She nods, pleased with her fold. “I hope you didn’t wear this all day. How was service this morning?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Try to keep my face as neutral as possible. “I was feeling under the weather when I woke up. Thought I’d rest up so I could feel better to do this later today.” Truth is, I couldn’t face Reverend Palmer after getting his precious daughter high last night. Even scarier, though, was seeing Riley again. I didn’t know what to say to her after telling her we needed to cool it. And I think it would’ve hurt even more to see Riley going back to business as usual after the week we had.
MiMi gives me a look, not buying even an ounce of what I’m selling. Thankfully, we’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Before I can reach the door to answer, a white older guy with thinning hair and glasses pokes his head through it.
“I’m looking for a Ms. Murphy,” he says.
“Came to the right place, darlin’,” MiMi says, smoothing out her hair and sitting more upright in her hospital bed.
“Yeah, it’s a good thing she was decent,” I say to the intruder.
“Excellent.” The white guy pries the door all the way open, as if my words didn’t reach him at all. A small crew spills into the room, carrying lights and cameras and cases with God knows what, but I’m sure it’s needed to make that TV magic.
“Price Bullock,” the white guy says, crossing over to MiMi to shake her hand. “Correspondent with WVZY Evening News. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” MiMi says, giving her dainty church-lady chin tilt. “Especially if it means you’ll get my baby back home.”
Price breathes loudly through his nose and clutches his heart, like he’s just been struck by an arrow or something. “I have to tell you, Ms. Murphy. Your story’s completely compelling. When Deacon Irving called our station and shared it, I just knew I had to be the one to help tell it. We’re going to get thousands of pairs of eyeballs out there looking for your Nicole.”
For some reason, the way he says Nic’s name makes me want to gag. Her name sounds hollow in his mouth, like one of them dud plastic Easter eggs that has jack-squat in it after cracking it open. This Price dude must feel me burning a hole in the back of his head, because he swivels on his heels and plasters on a smile for me.
“And you must be the grandson . . . Jackson, right?” He extends his hand.
I just look down at it. “Jayson.”
“Jayson—that’s right.” Instead of leaving his hand dangling, he reaches out and slaps me on the arm. “That’s great for you to support your grandmother like this.”
I shrug. “Didn’t really have much choice.” It’s true. MiMi gave me the time to be at the hospital, then reminded me that she wasn’t too weak and I wasn’t too old to take a switch to the butt.
Price throws his head back and laughs. His voice bounces off the walls. “I love your community. The toughest-looking guys are always afraid of their moms and grandmoms.”
I look down at my button-down shirt, navy slacks, and black loafers I got from Goodwill. If this is tough, then I don’t even want to know what he’d think of me in my dad’s hoodie.
“Okay, let me give you the rundown,” Price continues. “I’ll start off in the hall—give my brief intro. Then we’ll cut to you and your grandmother sitting together in here. We’ll pull your chair right up next to her bed, make the lighting just right for both of you. Then I’ll cue you to talk about the last time you’ve seen Nicole, as well as share some endearing stories about her. I’ll be asking the questions but won’t be in the shot with you, so make sure you both look straight into the camera. Sounds good?”
“What kind of questions are you going to ask?”
Price stops midway as he heads for the door. I guess he wasn’t figuring that I’d actually need clarification. Me just being a tough guy and all. “You know, standard stuff about your sister.”
Standard stuff? That seems mighty vague—vague enough to make my stomach jazzy. “All good things, though. Right?” The rare times that I’ve seen stories about black youth on the news, it’s never really been in a positive light. Even when they’re talking about a black kid winning the state science fair, they have to show a picture of him with his pants sagging a little too low.
“Jesus, Jayson, of course.” He presses his whole palm against his chest, almost like he’s trying to shock his heart back into action. “By what the Deacon says about your family, you have strong values. A lot of love for each other even through thick and thin. I really want to shine a light on that. Appeal to everyone’s heart to see if we can’t get her home.”
“I think that sounds lovely,” MiMi says, then swats a lady’s hand away from her face. “Baby, I told you. I already put on makeup.”
“It’s just a little powder, Ms. Murphy,” Price explains. He cradles one of MiMi’s hands with both of his. “Your spirit and beauty just shine so brightly, we don’t want to blind the camera lenses, that’s all.”
MiMi giggles and gives Price a playful tap on the arm. Price chuckles then winks his eye at me. That wink sends me a thousand red flags, but before I can get through them all, the cameras are ready to roll.
Sixteen
AS SOON AS I ENTER YOUNGS MILL HIGH THE NEXT MORNING, the air feels different. Thicker almost. Like a dark cloud hangs so low in the halls that I can barely breathe. Students walk through the halls with trepidation, like they’re wading through honey. Not the usual Monday morning blahs, but something else. Something that makes it seem painful for most of them to take a step. Punctuate that with the group of girls sobbing and hugging across from my locker, the teachers whispering all solemn-like to each other with their hands folded across their chest. Something’s off. Something’s way off.
“Yo, what I miss?” I ask the lanky dude pulling out books from the locker next to mine. He told me his name once. Twice, maybe. But I had no need to remember it since we didn’t have any of the same classes and he never was a customer.
The lanky guy closes his locker and shakes his head. “A former student got popped over the weekend, I think.”