Once again, I pause outside a bedroom door, but this time it’s Nic’s. MiMi’s distracted, clattering away in the kitchen, humming to a hymn that Reverend Palmer insists the choir sings every Sunday. I’ve lost count of how many times I had to be reminded that Jesus’s blood saved me. My hand lingers on Nic’s doorknob before I take a deep breath and twist it, peek inside her room. I deflate just a little when I notice that her bed is fresh to death, not a crinkled sheet or rumpled pillow in sight. She probably crashed at Javon’s last night. He’s an ass, but at least he won’t let her roam the streets when she’s off the chains like that. I slink into her room, pull her comforter and sheets down. Plop down on it and make it look real lived-in for MiMi. The last time MiMi found out that Nic had crashed at Javon’s, the second civil war almost got started here in the Ducts. I’m talking tears, threats, and lamps busting against the walls. Our plaster couldn’t take another argument. Nic’s favorite rapper, Travis Scott, glares back at me from the poster next to Nic’s dresser. I glare right back. Why the hell is he so pissed? I’m the one that’s losing shower time to cover Nic’s ass. Yet again.
“Jay!” MiMi booms from the kitchen. “I don’t hear any water running!”
I close Nic’s bedroom door behind me and make my way to the bathroom. Take a five-minute shower, knowing MiMi would twist if I take any longer. Once I dry off, I put on my threads, top them with my favorite gray hoodie, then head to the kitchen. MiMi has two plates of eggs and a fried bologna sandwich sitting at the table, waiting for me. Waiting for Nic. If my sister gave me a dollar for every time I had to lie to MiMi for her, I wouldn’t have to consider this Taco Bell gig.
“Milk or orange juice?” MiMi asks, her head buried in the fridge.
I curl my lip. “Can’t I just munch on some Cap’n Crunch? My stomach gets all jazzy this early in the morning.”
MiMi pokes her head out of the fridge, two rollers eating up half of her forehead. “Your stomach gets jazzy because you like eating junk for breakfast. Now sit down. You got five minutes.” She decides for me and pours a glass of orange juice, sets it down in front of my plate. “Check on your sister?”
“Yeah.” I take a huge chomp of my bologna sandwich, way more than needed. But a full mouth is a muffled mouth, and a muffled mouth can sell lies to MiMi. “She got picked up early. Grabbing breakfast on the way.” I take a swig of orange juice to swallow down my fable with the fried meat.
MiMi shakes her head and sits across from me, smoothing out any wrinkles from her khaki pants, pressed and ready to go for the packing plant. “I better not get another call from that school telling me she’s a no-show.” She slides the plate meant for Nic in front of her. “Can’t win for losing with that child.” She pokes at her eggs with her fork, eyes on her plate but mind somewhere swaying with Nic’s. What little bit Nic has left.
Pretty sure Nic lost most of her mind three years ago. I know the exact moment. It was the summer before I started high school. Nic had a full year on me, so she felt it was her duty to make sure I didn’t walk into school looking like a sucker. We took the city bus to Ross to buy name-brand threads on the cheap. Nic spent most of her allowance on me but made sure to buy a pair of red mini shorts to beat the summer heat. She insisted on wearing them on the way back home.
“I’ll take them off before MiMi gets home,” Nic told me.
“What if she wants to see what we bought?” I asked.
“I’ll just hold them up real swift-like for her. She won’t even notice how short they are.”
I raised an eyebrow as I scanned her shorts. She’ll notice all right, I remember thinking. Javon Hockaday noticed, too.
No sooner than we stepped out of Ross to head to the bus stop, he happened to be leaving the Verizon store, picking up the latest phone that took pictures when you blinked your eyes. Or something nifty like that.
“Ms. Murphy’s people,” he said to us, but not really. He spoke to Nic’s legs. His eyes traced every muscle and curve that my big sister wasn’t supposed to have.
Nic giggled, made some kind of noise to affirm him. I stared down at my shoes. We weren’t supposed to bump gums with the likes of Javon Hockaday. MiMi made that very clear when she rolled up her car windows every time we drove past his building.
“If y’all heading home, I can give you a ride.” Again, this was directed at Nic. Hell, not even sure if he knew I was there.
Nic looked at me, bit on the cross dangling from her necklace. I knew she always thought Javon was cute. Most of the girls in the neighborhood do. He has the look of one of those rappers who knows how to bang out both party anthems and baby makers—high yellow skin, good hair, and enough tattoos to make him look dangerous. Only thing, I heard enough stories to know that Javon really was dangerous. I shook my head at Nicole. She chewed her cross even more and I shook my head three more times. Finally, she dug in her pocket—handed me some change for the bus. “Don’t talk to anybody,” she said. “Go straight home and lock the door behind you. I’ll be there in a few.”
Before I could even protest, she was trailing behind Javon toward the parking lot. She glanced at me one last time before entering his car. Straight home, she mouthed. She went her way and I went mine. We haven’t been on the same path ever since.
“Can’t Win for Losing,” I say to MiMi at the kitchen table. “Isn’t that the name of one of those plays on the chitlin’ circuit?”
MiMi looks up and tries to hide her smile with a smirk.
“Not to be outdone by my personal favorite, Mama, I Want to Twerk. Coming to a concert hall near you.”
MiMi laughs and reaches over to smack one of my hands. “Boy, you are too much.”
I take one last swig of orange juice and leap from my chair. “Gotta fade. Can’t miss the bus, right?” I peck MiMi on the cheek, then snatch my backpack from the floor by the front door.
“Jay, when you see your sister, tell her to—”
I close the door behind me. I have lots of things to tell Nic once I see her. Like this is the last time I cover for her. Like it’s either the bliss and Javon, or me. Like I’m too scared to know who she’d choose.
The thing about Youngs Mill High is that there is no thing about Youngs Mill High. You got students that come from the shitty parts of Newport News like me, and you got students who live in the bougie neighborhoods. Three-car garages, white picket fences, fireplaces in master bedrooms. All the jazz that would run cats close to a million dollars, but costs half that in Newport News because who wants to live in Newport News? Even the Youngs Mill football team isn’t special, but fools will still sell their first-born child to get and keep a spot. Feels good to have a purpose in this hellhole. Plus, it’s the golden ticket out of here for some of us. Exhibit A: Meek Foreman.
“How it do, Jay?” He presses his broad frame against the locker next to mine, eclipsing my view of the rest of the hall.
I give him a nod. “Meek.” I pull out the books I need for the first two periods, real crushed ice–style. Thing is, you can’t let clowns like Meek see you sweat, no matter how much they resemble a bouncer in a ratchet hip-hop club—all biceps, no brain. Meek and his kind run the school, and guys like me just try to stay in the race. My hustle at Youngs Mill keeps me in the game, but only if I feign power. So if this deal is going to go down, I need to keep my cool and keep it brief.