“Can he answer for himself?”
“He’s sixteen. I speak for him until I say otherwise.” MiMi places a hand on her hip. In the streets, this move is just as ruthless as taking off your shoes and earrings before a brawl. “Now, neither of us can help you. You may want to move along, stop wasting your time. I’m sure that baby’s mama wants answers.”
The cops mumble a few words back and forth between each other. MiMi places her other hand on her hip, eating up more space in the doorway. She’s getting all biblical like Edom, not letting any jackass pass through. It works. One of the cops hands her a card.
“In case you remember anything else,” the one with the notepad says.
“Mmm hmm,” MiMi mumbles before closing the door in their faces. She looks down at the card and rips it in half.
She trudges to the kitchen. “They always do this. Put on a big show like they care enough to do their jobs, but then forget about these babies a minute later.” She tosses the card into the trash in the kitchen, and then plops down on the other end of the couch. “I’m sick of it. Sick of it, I tell you.”
MiMi sinks back into the couch as if her whole body exhales and begins channel surfing like her thumb’s on a mission. She stops on some black-and-white TV show and peeks at me. “I don’t like Nicole out on them streets when madness is going on,” she finally admits. “You would think that she would call, let me know she’s at least breathing.”
I wish I could bury myself under the couch pillows. It’s been almost thirty hours of calling her phone only to get her voicemail. Thirty hours of what-ifs and now-whats. But I couldn’t show MiMi I was worried, too. Not when all the pieces haven’t been put together. I need to wait and get more answers from Sterling. Until then, I need to slip into Old Jay’s skin.
“It’s all good,” I say. “Nic texted me. She’s still with Sterling. Shopping, getting their nails done, the whole nine. You know how Sterling likes to spoil Nic to flash her money.”
MiMi gives me a look, and I turn to the TV. Nod along to whatever hijinks the fat white guy and his tall lanky friend are getting into. No clue what’s going on, but I’ll put up a front to stop MiMi from asking more questions. Seconds of her staring at me stretches into minutes, and soon I’m trying to find something to do with my hands.
“You need to put something on that lip,” she says. “Don’t want you heading into church tomorrow looking like whodunit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’m on my feet before I get the second word out. I head to the freezer, grab a bag of frozen chopped broccoli and press it to my mouth. Then I go ahead and stick my whole head inside the freezer. Wait until my brain becomes numb, hope it reaches my heart.
As soon as I wake up on Sunday, I open my texting window for Nicole. Press the shrugging emoji three times, but then delete them. If I want to get a response from Nic, I have to keep it real.
Me: I’m not mad. Just worried. Come home.
I don’t even wait for her response. I try calling again but . . . straight to voicemail. Her phone’s still not on, and I can’t help but wonder if she cut it off, or someone cut it off for her. On cue, the scab on my lip itches—reminding me of Javon forcing me to eat concrete. I can only imagine what could happen to Nic if he got his hands on her.
But I can’t shake MiMi to figure it out, especially not on a Sunday. The Lord’s day. Me and MiMi always arrive at Providence Baptist about an hour before service begins. She fiddles away in one of the offices with a calculator and spreadsheet—and does what she does with Deacon Irving when the office door is closed. MiMi and Deacon Irving are the talk of Providence, but only in whispers since the deacon still has a wife who he may or may not be separated from. All I know is that she lives somewhere in South Carolina, and the only time I’ve seen her is in a picture that the church keeps framed in the banquet hall. Ironically, she sits right next to MiMi in the picture, along with a few other notable ladies of the church. The deacon’s wife’s smile is wide and oblivious, whereas you could trace MiMi’s straight smile with the end of a mechanical pencil.
As for me? About a year ago, MiMi roped me into spending the hour before service co-teaching Sunday school for five- and six-year-olds with Riley Palmer. The church figured the best way to reach the youth was to have the youth teaching them. MiMi said it was something good to put on college applications, but we both know that it was a way for her to keep tabs on me. To make me continue coming to services after Nic started playing hooky. And having Riley as an extra pair of eyes for her was even better.
Riley’s the preacher’s daughter, which basically means she’s obligated to dress like it’s winter even if it’s ninety degrees outside. She also has Converse sneakers in every color. The only thing dopier than seeing a girl wear a turtleneck with overalls in the summer is seeing her wear them with a pair of white Converses. She goes to Warwick High, which is down the street from Youngs Mill, but Warwick has the IB program. Even though we have a few nerds at my school, the sentiment is well known: we don’t fick with the uppity mofos at Warwick—even though some of them try to slink into my hood from time to time to get cool points. Yet here I am, rubbing elbows with one every Sunday morning.
You don’t get any more uppity than Riley. We met when we were eight, and her first words to me were: “What’s that?” as she pointed to my jacked-up flattop, which leaned a little more to the left than I would have liked. It was right after I moved in with MiMi. I no longer had access to the barber Dad and I went to all the time. MiMi got a discount from this old dude named Man Boo who had a shop around the corner from the Ducts. I soon found out that old dudes named Man Boo weren’t really keen on the latest styles, so I kept my fade low ever since. Still, every moment with Riley has been a perpetual string of What’s thats as she calls me out on everything, from the generic soda brand I sip on to the masking tape I use to hold my headphones together until I get a new pair.
I enter the conference room where our Sunday school class takes place. Riley’s at the whiteboard, tracing the kids’ hands with a dry erase marker. Today she graces me with a pair of lime-green Converses to go along with her flannel shirt and jean skirt that reaches her ankles. Didn’t even know they sold skirts that long.
Malik, one of the smallest kids in the class, spots me and jogs over. “What it do, Jay? We’re all giving high fives to Jesus.” He holds up his tiny hand, and I slap him one. Malik pauses after really taking in my face. “Dang, what happened to your lip?”
I swat my hand, indicating it’s nothing. “I just fell off my bi—”
“Y’all, Jay got into a fight and broke his lip!” Malik announces to the rest of the class. At that, seven little heads swivel around to get a look. A chorus of oohs erupts in the room. Riley looks at me and folds her arms across her chest. If she cussed, I’m sure she would’ve mouthed something unholy to me.
I bob my hands up and down, up and down. Encouraging them to quiet down. “Jay didn’t get in a fight,” I say over their inquisitive voices. “Jay fell off his bike, just like most of you still do. It’s nothing.”
“Did you fall off your bike because you was fighting?” Keosha asks me, questions spilling out of her eyes like the plaits and barrettes spilling out of her head.