Meek pounds fists with a couple of fans. Spottiest record for a running back in Youngs Mill history, but still has fans. That takes real talent—or lack thereof. “Thought I’d wish you a good morning before running off to English.”
I slide my red folder from my backpack. The most obvious color, hence why I chose it. People never dwell on the obvious. “Right on. Hope you did your homework.”
Meek digs into his pocket, coughs into the baseball mitt he calls a hand, and then reaches inside my locker—leaving a crumpled twenty-dollar bill on top of my binder.
I cock my head, stare down Andrew Jackson’s wrinkled face. He stares right back. I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep it from twitching. To keep myself from blurting out: “Twenty dollars? Do you know how long it took me to type this up and pretend you actually know the difference between allegory and metaphors?” I don’t because: A.) Smart businessmen don’t crack under pressure, and B.) Meek is anything but meek, and having my ass whooped in front of my peers is definitely not on my To-Do List for the day.
“He’s missing a friend,” I say to Meek, slowly and measured. As if his girth doesn’t make me want to crawl into my locker and hide until the coast is clear.
“Bowie told me I’d get a discount. Being a first-time customer and all.”
Fickin’ Bowie. First spilling my wax to Camila, and now making deals behind my back? He and I need to have a conversation that doesn’t include many words. “Is Bowie the one doing the actual work?”
Meek shrugs his mammoth shoulders and the world shrugs right along with him. “Seems like you and Bowie don’t understand the art of communication, but that’s not my problem. The bell’s about to ring, so . . .” He takes a step closer to me because that’s what big guys do when they want to make a point.
I nod. Point taken. I slide Meek’s English essay out of my red folder and rip away the final three pages. I shake out my hand to keep it from shaking on its own. Try to pass the rest of the essay to Meek with my you-can’t-rip-out-my-spleen-in-public smile.
“The fuck, Jay?” Spit flies from Meek’s mouth and lands dangerously close to my upper lip.
It’s my turn to shrug. “Third of the price, third of the work. Better than nothing, right?”
Meek’s nostrils flare in and out, in and out—keeping time with my heartbeat. I think about the desert, sandpaper, Nic’s meatloaf. Anything dry enough to stop me from melting right at Meek’s feet.
Alarms go off in my head, telling me to flee. Run for cover. Except Meek seems to hear them, too, and takes a step back. Thankfully, it’s the warning bell, letting everyone in the hall know to carry their asses to class now. I’ve never been so appreciative of Youngs Mill High’s tardy system. “We’ll chitchat later, Jay.”
“Any moment with you, Meek, is always a pleasure.”
Meek swings his bulky body away from me and sideswipes some kid minding his business, trying to get to class. The kid tumbles against a locker, but still feels compelled to apologize to Meek. Meek’s too pissed to even respond with a grunt, which means I won’t be taking the bus home today. He’ll be waiting for me near the bus ramps, and then everyone will have a video of him stomping my face in. I’ll have to keep it low-key until Meek blows off steam on some other unassuming punk. No offense.
I head toward first period, make sure to take a swift sip of water at the fountain right across from the girl’s restroom. Nic’s usually in there every morning when she decides to show up to school. She sheds MiMi’s approved attire and squeezes into something that barely covers her ass. “Javon likes when I show off my legs,” Nic always throws out as an excuse. Apparently, Javon also likes when his girlfriend is late to school because I’ve had too many gulps of water and Nicole and her legs are nowhere to be seen. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and take one last look at the bathroom door. The New Jay wouldn’t be worried, I think over and over until I believe it. So New Jay moves his feet toward first period.
“Clock’s ticking, Jay,” my Math Analysis teacher, Mr. Branch, says to me outside his classroom door, sipping from his Black Power coffee mug.
“Wouldn’t be a problem if y’all would let us sprint to class,” I call out to him.
“Coach Vines told me your mile-run time last year. You’d get to class quicker with a powerwalk, homey.”
I pretend to duck from the shots he just fired. Mr. Branch is one of the only teachers I’d let bust my chops like that. He always finds a way to quote Jay-Z, even when preaching about distance formula. Who knew math class could be so turnt?
The final bell rings just as I slide into US History class. Mr. Booker’s at his desk, nodding along to whatever Missy Johnston’s complaining about this morning. I can tell from his hooded eyes that he hit the town too hard last night and hasn’t yet had his first sip of coffee. Camila’s at her usual seat by the window, already jotting down Mr. Booker’s icebreaker question like a good little student. I linger a beat at her desk, gauge her temperature toward me.
“Hey,” I say.
Camila peeks up at me through her bangs, then shifts her whole body to the window.
“We’re doing this today?” I ask.
She continues scribbling a response in her notebook, pretends I’m not there.
“Come on, Mila. I said bye before I hung up.” At least, I think I did. I had so much Red Bull running through my veins that my fingers were still twitching this morning.
Camila smirks and looks up at me again. “I’m trying to get my work done. Don’t you have other people’s work to do?” At that, she raises her hand and flutters her fingers at me, sending me away. Okay, she’s salty about my side hustle—which means instead of answering Booker’s time filler of the day, I’ll be drafting my epic apology note to her. Camila’s old school, likes to watch old Boyz II Men and Jodeci music videos on YouTube. She’ll want to see my sorrow in handwriting. I’ll lay it on extra thick.
“Yooo,” Bowie says as I take my seat in the back next to him. “Cold front this a.m., am I right?”
“I wonder why.” I slam my binder onto my desk, hope he feels it.
Bowie strokes his cheek on cue. “She still mad you skipped out on helping her babysit her sisters last weekend?”
“Among other things.” I pause as the principal’s voice crackles through our shoddy PA system. Know I have about a minute to speak my mind before Booker does his job and makes us keep quiet for the Pledge. “You have a big mouth.”
“The ladies aren’t complaining.”
“The ones in your dreams who never talk to you in person?”
Bowie rubs his fist across his chest. “I am wounded, friend.”
I lean in real close so he catches every syllable. “I pulled you in to help me franchise. Get the word out. Not to snitch to Camila, and definitely not to negotiate prices.” Over the speaker, Principal Gilbert reminds us that the AC’s busted in the cafeteria.
“You pulled me in because I’m business savvy. Giving discounts to first-time customers is business savvy.” Bowie jabs his finger on his notebook, as if his shitty business practices are written down. “As for Camila . . . thought she was a potential customer.”