As expected, two of Javon’s goons, Slim and Quan, are perched outside of Javon’s building, ratchet hip-hop music spilling out of one of their Bluetooth speakers. They both crack up as they check out something on one of their phones. Slim even pounds one of his chubby feet against the pavement, punctuating the hilariousness of whatever he’s watching. Usually Nic’s on the stoop laughing right along with them. Other times she’s holed up somewhere with Javon. I prefer her out in the daylight though, that way I can check to see if her eyes and head are clear. When she’s off with Javon, no telling how cloudy she might be when she makes it home.
No lie, Old Jay shows up when I don’t spot Nicole with Slim and Quan. Maybe I should try calling her before my interview. But she did text that she was all good . . .
“Ay yo, come here!” a voice booms.
The air around me freezes. I turn around and Javon stands at his stoop. His platinum chain rivals the sun for light. Even Slim and Quan know that staring directly at him will scorch their eyes. Half of Javon’s hair is zigzagged into crisp corn rows, while the other half is full on ’fro. He chews on a Black & Mild cigar, face warped with irritation.
I point to myself like an idiot, and Javon frowns at me to validate I’m an idiot.
“Nah, the dopey nigga behind you,” Javon says.
Do not look behind you, I think—knowing if I do his crew will start clowning me for at least two minutes. I walk back over to Javon’s stoop, but make sure not to walk up the steps. No one walks up there unless they live in the building, and even residents take pause.
“Ay,” Javon continues, “where’s your sister?”
His question hits me in the gut. I peek at the window that, based off my own floor plan, leads to Javon’s living room. Expect to see Nic peering back at me. “What do you mean? She’s not with you?”
“Wouldn’t be asking if she was.” Javon flicks away his cigar and I jump to my right to dodge it. “Haven’t seen her since last night.”
Last night. Last night, Nic was tripping hard, talking so much nonsense over the phone that she must’ve smoked up whatever Javon didn’t sell yesterday. Figured she was coming down from her trip with him this morning, like usual. But if Javon’s lost in the sauce, where the hell could she be?
“I don’t know where she is,” I admit. Saying it aloud makes it even truer, and the fried bologna sandwich I had for breakfast crawls up my chest.
“You wouldn’t have a reason to lie to me, would you?” His question isn’t just any question—it’s a warning. And I hear it loud and clear.
“Why would I lie?” I ask.
Slim and Quan both suck in a breath and I wince. My attempt at sincerity was seen as a dig. Dig too deep with Javon and someone will have to dig you up. Or so they say.
My biggest fear comes true as Javon steps off his stoop, approaches me. “Fuck you just say to me?” I can still smell the smoke from his cigar on his breath. See the smoke seeping from his nose and ears. I swallow so hard that I taste the burnt vanilla remnants.
“Huh?” I ask, knowing damn well I heard every syllable. But “huh” was the only thing my throat would let me squeeze out.
“Bruh,” Quan calls out from the stoop, scratching the angry scar across his eyebrow. “I think he’s clowning you.”
My throat gets even tighter. “What?” I practically squeak. I clear my throat as much as I can and take a stab at articulation. “I wasn’t clowning anyone. Just trying to get home.” I take two tiny steps back from Javon in case he doesn’t believe me.
With one large step, Javon eats up the space between us. “You playing me?”
“Huh? No. No. That was the exact opposite of what I just said.”
“Now he’s saying you can’t hear, Von!” Slim says. He buries his hand in a bag of pork rinds and then passes the bag to Quan. My impending death is much more amusing than whatever they were cracking up at on their phone.
“Nigga, if you’re covering for Nic, I’m going to find out.” Spit flies from Javon’s mouth and lands inside mine. I’m too frozen with fear to gag.
“Javon . . .” I speak to him slowly, calmly. Just like I do with Nic when she’s floating. “I promise you, I’m not covering anything. I haven’t spoken to Nic since—”
Javon’s palm eclipses my face and I’m knocked off my feet. My mouth and nose are against the sidewalk and I’m munching on concrete. My arms flail. I try to push myself up for air, but Javon’s hand is glued to the back of my head. Pushing me down so hard against the pavement that I wait for my nose to crunch.
Slim and Quan whoop and holler in the background, egging Javon on. “Kill that nigga!” one of them says with a laugh. Kill? For asking a question? The fick are these guys on? I slap my hands against the sidewalk to show Javon that he wins the game I didn’t know we were playing. I feel more pressure on the back of my head, and then Javon’s mouth is right next to my ear.
“When you see Nic . . .” he begins in between breaths, like punking me is his cardio for the day. “Tell her to hit me up. Immediately.”
At that, he loosens his grip. My head snaps up and I gulp so much air that I almost choke from it. Tiny drops of blood fall from somewhere on my face and kiss the sidewalk underneath me. My self-respect spills with each drip. I scramble to my feet, don’t look back as Slim and Quan cackle at me like black folks at a Kevin Hart movie. Javon hisses more words in my direction. Something sharp and dangerous. But the words never stick because something else runs through my head: Where the hell is Nicole?
As soon as Joshua Kim slides into the booth across from me, his managerial facade goes to shit. He pauses, cocks his head, and furrows his eyebrows so hard that they basically shout: Dafuq?
I get it, though. My face looks like it just made out with a cheese grater. My dance with Javon’s palm left me with a busted lip and enough scratches to form their own constellation. I thought about rummaging through Nic’s drawers, finding makeup to cover the nicks—but I know as much about makeup as I do about self-defense. So, I made sure to wear the crispest button-down in my closet. Tucked it into my pants like a productive citizen. My dad was all about appearances and passed that eager-to-please gene down to me. I even push my bottom lip into my mouth to hide the cut as much as possible, play it off like I’m serving severe thinking face.
Joshua finally remembers the reason we’re sitting together and flashes a quick smile before shuffling through papers. Can’t imagine what else he has in his hand aside from my application, which was nothing but two sheets with my contact information and my answers to a few math problems. It’s hard to imagine anything else, actually, aside from where the hell Nic could be—and why the hell Javon seemed so pissed when he mentioned her. I only remember her getting into it with Javon one time. It was just this past Halloween. Nic came home early in short shorts, a white tank top, and heels. Beyoncé from her “Crazy in Love” music video. I’m assuming Javon pulled out his best Yankees fitted cap to be her Jay-Z. I was lounging on the couch, committing to my yearly Halloween tradition of being a loser at home watching some Michael Jackson movie about ghosts.
“You’re home early,” I said to Nic.