I sigh. “Neither do I.” It’s the most truthful thing I’ve probably said all night.
Sterling gives me a sympathetic nod as she points next to me. “Can I sit with you? I really don’t know anyone else here.”
Before I can even say no, Sterling slides next to me. Trapping me inside the pew just as Reverend Palmer takes center stage again. I peek behind me. Pretend to search for MiMi, but really I’m just looking for an escape. Some place close enough to show MiMi I’m supporting her, but far away from phonies like Sterling.
“Such a beautiful turnout,” Reverend Palmer says into the mic. “But that’s how our community has always been—beautiful. Black and beautiful. Our black is what makes us beautiful, can I get an amen?”
Several folks give him what he wants at full volume. Sterling looks at me, eyebrows raised. Asking permission for something I didn’t have a right to grant her. Instead, I turn back to the Reverend and try to give him my full attention. So at least I didn’t have to explain the rules of a black church for Sterling.
“And this is despite what the mainstream media tells us,” Reverend Palmer booms, his voice trembling in all the right spots like a fine-tuned instrument. “This is despite how they want the world to see us. Fatherless. Motherless. No future. No direction.” Between every example, every beat, the crowd shouts out in agreement. His words driving them home. “They tried to turn us against our sister. Our daughter. The beautiful Nicole Marie Murphy. But everyone in here knows everything they need to know about that young lady. She’s smart. She’s driven. She loves her MiMi.” Yes! “She loves her brother.” Yes! “She loves God! And she is black . . . and beautiful!” Amen!
Feet start pounding throughout the nave as people catch the spirit, rejoicing in agreement. Even Sterling presses a hand to her chest, as if all the joy and hope in the room is too much for her heart. Reverend Palmer goes on and on about Nicole defying the odds. Defying the stereotypes. But my head is on the phone call I had with Javon again. He wanted me to pick up where he left off, he said. And I dismissed what he had to tell me. Because all I saw in Javon is what everyone else wanted me to see about him. Fatherless. Motherless. No future. The same shiz people probably think about me. I know how I feel having the doors close on me, and I basically did the same thing to Javon.
My guilt makes me leap to my feet. Sterling blinks and copies me, like she assumes I have the Holy Ghost so she should too. And I do catch something, but it’s not the spirit. It’s the need for clarity. I squeeze past Sterling, push past the celebrating until I find who I’m looking for. Pooch is in the corner of the room, going to town on a dinner roll. He pauses midchew when he scopes me heading his way.
“Your grandma left with Sister Gladys,” he tells me, crumbs spewing every direction. “She told me I could take a plate home.”
Pooch could take ten plates home, for all I cared. There were more pressing issues at hand.
“We need to talk,” I say to him. Get up close enough to smell the gravy on his breath. “About that night in Deer Park.”
Pooch swallows down the rest of his roll. Stares down at the plate in his hand like he plans on stuffing more in his mouth just to keep it full and busy. “Nothing more to say,” he says instead.
“Be honest . . . did Javon pay you off?”
Pooch’s head jerks back like I just shoved it. “Pay me off? For what?”
“To pretend like you had the phone on you.”
“But I really did have the phone on me. And after that clown shoved me around in the park, now I don’t.” He pushes the food around on his plate with his finger. “Really, though. I wouldn’t have tried to sell it if I knew it was Nicole’s.”
The way the words leave his mouth all slow and measured makes me believe him. “So, where did you find it?”
Pooch shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Some white boy.”
White boy. Just like Javon mentioned. “Yeah, but what white boy?” My voice is shrill. Desperate.
Pooch tries to take another bite of his roll, but I cover it with my hand.
“Pooch, please,” I say. I beg. “Whatever you remember. Just let me know.”
Pooch sighs but then twists his mouth to one side. Puts on his thinking face. “Never really saw him around or anything. Him and his friends wore these corny sweatshirts with Greek letters. Oh, and he got out of this really sweet Escalade. Guess with a car like that, you can toss an iPhone out like leftover takeout, know what I’m saying?”
My hand automatically covers my mouth. I did know what he was saying. I knew exactly what he was saying. I’ve seen those corny sweatshirts before, too. I’ve seen an obnoxious Escalade eating up the entire Taco Bell parking lot. Those frat boys. Just like the ones Javon said over the phone. The ones that swing into the Ducts, looking to score . . .
I dart past Pooch and scurry up the rest of the aisle, only to collide right into Bowie.
“Whoa!” he says, steadying me. He carries a bouquet of flowers in one hand. “I knew I was running late, but is it over already?”
“Gotta fade,” I say, pushing past him. But Bowie grabs my arm.
“Hey. I know you’re pissed at me. I mean, I’d be pissed at me, too,” he says.
I blink at him until his words connect and make sense. They never do—and my patience is getting skinny.
“I didn’t know all those idiots would come out and talk trash about Nic like that,” he continues. “Obviously, none of them knew her. I deleted all the comments. Doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start.”
Everything snaps into place. He’s talking about his Instagram post. With everything starting to come to light, that post seems a thousand years old.
I nod more times than needed. “Yeah. It’s all good.”
Bowie tries to say something else, but I pull away from him. No time for apologies when you’re on a mission. I think he calls after me. I think MiMi does, too. But the exit has answers and it calls me even louder, so I listen.
Twenty-Six
I TAKE AN UBER TO JOHN RATCLIFFE UNIVERSITY. SCROLL through Greek letters on my phone to shake my memory. Triangle with horns . . . triangle with horns . . . Those jackasses were wearing DU hoodies at Taco Bell. Delta Upsilon. The driver has no clue where the DU fraternity house might be, so I get her to drop me off at the student union, hope to bump into someone that could point me in the right direction.
My head’s so full of steam as I storm through the campus that my eyes get foggy. Why did these white guys have all of Nic’s stuff? Did they know she was my sister when they showed up at Taco Bell, or were they in their usual douche mode? It’s not adding up. But the answers were so close right now that I could end a drought with all the sweat I have pouring from me.
I bump into some white guy with a bun. He tells me where to find the DU house. All the frat houses are throwing “major ragers,” he says, to raise money for the Special Olympics. Because nothing says altruism like a bunch of frat guys playing beer pong. As I make my way down what the students call Frat Row, I hear the competing bass lines from the houses creeping their way up the pavement.
Thump-a, thump-a, thump-a.
The throb gets louder with every step I take, the bass sending tremors to my soles. I check the pulse in my neck just to be sure. It could definitely rival whatever’s going on in those DU Douchebags’ house, but it’s not the culprit of the loud tempo. I finally reach the spot. Some kids fart around in the front yard—dancing to the music leaking out the house, laughing at some guy who spits up his liquor in the bushes. All just living their best lives on a Saturday night.