Nicole and Sterling have been Frick and Frack since they both joined the track team during their freshman year. Of course, Nic got kicked off once her grades started slipping like her mind, and everyone knew that Sterling only latched onto Nic to give the middle finger to her ultra conservative, ultra–Confederate flag supporting parents. Otherwise, Sterling would just kick it with the other bougie white girls at school. The ones who eat their ramen in fancy broths and not from a twenty-cent packet.
She’s currently active on Snapchat, so I send her a private message: You with Nic??
She takes her sweet time to respond to me. I drop the phone on my bed, yank off my interview clothes while I wait. I don’t think I ever shook Joshua Kim’s hand. The right kind of handshake seals the deal, Dad always told me. He used to take my hand, squeeze it the right amount, and have me copy him. Sometimes he’d show me the street way—a gliding of the palms punctuated by a half hug. Both handshakes showed respect, but linger too long or squeeze too limply, and folks’ll look at you funny. I was so eager to check my phone for any missed messages from Nic that I never got the chance to extend my hand to Joshua. Maybe, just maybe, that would’ve salvaged the interview. Now I have to go back to walking neighborhood dogs and other side hustles to give MiMi her due.
My phone dings and lets me know I have a new Snapchat message.
Sterling: Who this??
I smirk so loudly that I hope she can hear it. Forget the fact that my handle is literally JayMurph. Sterling has to prove that she is in a higher social stratosphere than me.
I stab a response: Nic’s brother.
Bubbles appear then disappear on my screen. Appear and disappear. Over and over as if Sterling is trying to perfect her response for little old me.
Sterling: Nope
I groan in frustration. All that waiting for a one-word response. A possibly deceitful one-word response at that. A simple no would’ve taken a second to type. Sterling was too deliberate with her message, like the breath a sax player takes before leaking out the final, seductive note.
Me: You sure?
More bubbles. Finally:
Sterling: Think I would know. Come find me Monday morning at school, tho.
I frown at her last message. If she hasn’t seen Nic like she’s claiming, why would she need to see me? Sterling has always spoken to me in clipped sentences, as if she’s saving her adverbs and adjectives for somebody that counts. Now she’s scheduling meetings with me? The only explanation is that there’s something she wants to tell me that she doesn’t want in writing.
Me: You good?
The blue dot in our chat window disappears. Sterling’s no longer active. What the hell? I open the contacts on my phone until I remember that I don’t have Sterling’s number. Nic has always been our link, and without her, the assemblage is rusty.
“Jay! Nicole!” MiMi’s voice booms from somewhere in the front of the apartment. I didn’t even hear her get in. “Wash your hands and come eat dinner!”
I shove my phone in the pocket of my jogging pants, wipe the creases out of my old T-shirt as if I’m having dinner with the president instead of my grandma. Finally, I strut toward the front, try to keep the same cadence in my steps as usual. If I double-time it or take my time, MiMi may notice the absence of Nic’s footsteps sooner. When I get to the dining area, MiMi’s humming a hymn in the kitchen while she pours sweet tea into empty jelly jars. She sucks on her bottom lip, an indication that she is reaching the good part of the song. I grab two plates out of the cabinet, place them in front of my and MiMi’s chairs. My subtle way of letting MiMi know that Nic won’t be joining us for dinner tonight.
“Hey, baby,” MiMi says when she notices me. “You would not believe the sale going on at Picadilly’s. Ten-piece chicken meal, two sides, biscuits—all for twenty bucks.”
“Mmm,” I respond. Hard to focus on fried chicken wings when Nic is out there doing God knows what. Has to be something trippy if Sterling doesn’t even want it in writing. How the hell is the New Jay supposed to get the Old Nic out of this one?
“Work was rough today. All I want to do is stuff my face, find something on Netflix, and fall asleep. Where’d you leave my blood pressure meds, baby?”
I grip onto the back of the chair that I was pulling out. Dammit. I was so caught up in my feelings after that interview that I forgot to swing by the pharmacy. Plus, I wanted to rush home, see if Nic made it back. Between her drama and getting my ass handed to me by Javon—
“I ficked up.” I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth, even though MiMi probably thinks that what I said was as harmless as LOL. “I forgot,” I try again. “I can run out now and grab them.”
“Don’t be silly. Eat your dinner. I have enough pills to get me through tonight. It’s okay.” MiMi exhales and I know from her sigh that it’s not okay. She’s tired and I’m doing the tiring. She walks over to the dining table with the jars of tea and pauses when she sees only two plates. She looks up at me and doesn’t even have to ask the question. It’s written on the faint lines trailing across her forehead.
I rest my elbow on the table, tuck my chin into my hand to cover my busted lip. I wish I had something to tell her, but I don’t even know what to tell myself at this point. And with me dropping the ball on her meds like that, she can’t afford to get all worked up. I have to protect her as best as I can.
“Nic stopped by real quick,” I say from behind my fingers, each word scratching at my throat. “Said she’s eating at Sterling’s tonight.”
At that, MiMi clicks her tongue. “Shouldn’t I have a say? I’m the one paying the bills around here.” She shakes her head after setting the jars down with a thud. Tea sloshes out of them, bronze tears dripping onto the table. MiMi mutters a few other things as she snatches the food out of the paper bags. I watch her hands. Knuckles a little large, permanently swollen. Slightly chapped in that space between her thumb and index finger, no matter how many times she soothes it with Vaseline. Her hands are badges of honor, proof of hard work. Still, I look forward to the day when she can rest them.
“Sit down, MiMi. I got it.” I rush to her side, take the plastic platter of chicken from her hands. Our pinky fingers graze against each other, but MiMi’s in no hurry to move hers. Instead, she rests her head on my shoulder. I let her, taking in the soothing smell of cocoa butter in her hair. Two, three years ago, it was my head on her shoulder. Now she barely reaches my chin.
“You’re a good boy,” she says. “Always been a good boy.”
“Well, I was raised by the best.”
Something gets caught in MiMi’s throat and she pulls away. “Ya damn skippy,” she says, bumping her hip against mine before taking a seat at the table. I laugh. MiMi cusses once every blue moon, but when she does, it’s always worth it.
“You going to sit here and play dumb,” MiMi begins as I take my seat across from her, “or you going to tell me what happened to your lip?”
Fick. I forgot to keep covering up the lip. I touch it, and then raise my eyebrows as if I forgot it was there. “Oh, yeah. Chewing on it, then BAM. Bumped right into someone during class change. Tooth almost went clear through.” I take a bite of my chicken, crunch unnecessarily loud for distraction.