by Alyssa Cole
“Back in the day people didn’t take romantic walks over here. It was a good place to chat with people who didn’t understand civility, and make them understand.” He laughs, as if he’s reminiscing about something benign. “But I guess that’s the stuff people call brutality these days. People who don’t know what it takes to keep a community safe.”
I’m digging in my purse for my keys. I’m gonna have to jab one into his neck on the right, and then reach past him on the left for the master lock. I am not dying in a motherfucking Uber, at the hands of a Sox fan no less.
I slide the keys between my knuckles and flex my fingers around them, my heart thumping and my hands tingling, preparing myself to strike, but then the car pulls to an abrupt stop and I jerk forward and then back.
My keys puncture the leather at the back of the driver’s seat, leaving two small rips.
Drew looks back over his shoulder at me. “Location is a block over but this street is one-way. Hope you don’t mind walking a little, Ms. Green.”
The doors unlock and I push out of the car and jog off on wobbly legs, not bothering to close the door.
Up ahead, I see the flow of human traffic on Fulton Street and jog toward it. When I stumble out into the middle of the sidewalk, stopping short of one of the subway grates, people look at me funny but flow around me without saying anything.
I fumble with my phone, trying to take a screenshot of the frozen page with Drew’s info, but when I look at the screen, it shows the message letting me know that Terrel canceled the ride.
Shit. Shit.
I look behind me and the street is empty.
Did I imagine that whole ride? No. I can’t have. A wisp of seat stuffing is still clinging to my keys.
I think about Seattle, and Marcus looking at me quizzically when I asked him about the texts I’d seen pop up on his phone and telling me he had no idea what I was talking about.
I shake my head and compose a text message to send to Drea.
Just had a wild ass Uber ride. I thought the motherfucker was gonna kill me. He knew my last name somehow?
I look at the last message Drea sent me, in the middle of the night when I’d texted to see if she was awake after my latest nightmare.
I know you’re not feeling therapy after what happened in Seattle and everything else, but I can’t be the only one carrying this with you. I love you, but I’m stressed, too.
I delete the message I was about to send her and pull myself together. Okay. The car ride was scary but I have no evidence and nothing happened in the end—I don’t need to worry Drea, and it’s not like I can get the police involved. I’ll send a report to Uber and be more careful in the future.
I’m okay.
I’m not okay.
I call Mommy and feel a bit of relief go through me when her voicemail message plays. I don’t hang up after the beep.
“Something scary just happened,” I say as I begin to walk. “I was ready to use my keys how you taught me, though. He really had the wrong one. I’ll—I’ll see you soon, okay?”
I get to the shop and stand in front of the window covered with glossy posters of Black women of all shades sporting different braided styles, and see myself reflected, phone pressed to my chest to still my racing heart, expression wild and unfamiliar.
Breathe, Sydney. Get it together.
A white couple walks past behind me as I take deep breaths while pretending to choose a style.
“Uh yeah, guess we’re never going in here,” the dude says as their reflections pass behind mine. “Can you imagine?”
“What are you talking about? Maybe I’ll get some of those Kardashian braids,” his girlfriend says. They laugh, and then their reflections are gone.
Survival of the fittest.
I go inside.
FOUR AND A half hours later, Sandrine, my hair braider, taps me on the shoulder for probably the fifteenth time and I jerk awake.
In the background, the low shouts of drama as a Real Housewife of Somewhere flips over a table on the television filter through the small, clean three-chair salon.
“Here.” Her Malian accent softens the r in the word. She presses a cup of coffee from the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts into my hand. “The mailman who always flirts picked it up for us. Yours is light and sweet with hazelnut flavor.”
“Thank you.” I lift the cup to my mouth to cover my yawn, then work at the plastic lid. “I’m sorry I keep falling asleep and making it harder for you.”
I take a sip and let the impending sugar crash flood my taste buds. I’d vaguely mentioned not sleeping and having a bad experience with my driver when she’d noticed how shaken I was earlier. I’d fallen asleep because I was tired, but also because I had kind of shut down after the adrenaline rush.
She laughs softly as she separates some strands from the pack of brightly colored hair I picked up. “If you’re so tired you can sleep through getting your scalp pulled, then you must need the rest. I’m almost done.”
I raise my brows dubiously. “I’m not falling for that. You’ll have me getting all excited to get out of this chair, then start splitting the same one-inch tuft of hair into fifty braids.”
She sucks her teeth playfully, which doesn’t ease the pain as her knuckles dig into my forehead as she starts to braid one bit along my hairline. I wince and send up a prayer to the god of edges that she doesn’t fuck my shit up.
When my teeth are no longer gritted I say, “Thanks again for fitting me in.”
“It’s all good. But I have to give you my new number because next week I’m moving to a new shop.”
I glance at her reflection in the mirror to gauge whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. Her fingers move with a rapid efficiency that’s its own art form as she weaves the Kanekalon hair with my own, forming thick braids that ombré from black at the roots to teal at the tips. Her expression is tight and her lips are pouted out in a frown that isn’t her usual expression of concentration.
“Is it the rent?” I ask, already knowing.
She nods. “Landlord suddenly wants us out. He’s selling the building, and the new owners don’t want any tenants to deal with. I believe they’ll knock it down and make one of those ugly condos.”
“Doesn’t he have to give you time?” I ask her.
“Probably. He told me if we had a problem with it, he could call ICE to do the job for him. I’m still waiting for my green card and I don’t want any problems.”
I pass my coffee cup from hand to hand. “I’m sorry, Sandrine.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to rent a chair at the barbershop around the corner. They have a little room for me to work in, so that will mean you don’t have five dudes in your face watching you get styled.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out more of a sigh. “How’s your mother doing? Did you ever call my friend, the home health aide?”
I regret how much I used to share with Sandrine during the hours and hours I passed in her chair.
“We actually decided on an assisted living home,” I say, the words heavy in my mouth. “It hurts, not seeing her every day, but it’s what she wanted. I visit her as often as I can.”
“You made the choice that was right for you both. Don’t feel guilty.”
I take in a shaky breath and dab at my eyes.
“Need a tissue?”
“No. You know I always tear up when you do my edges. I’m fine.”
Sandrine is quiet after that, and there’s nothing but the sound of rich people acting up for the reality TV cameras until the shop doorbell rings.
Sandrine pauses to look over her shoulder, sighs, then says, “Can you push the button?”
I press the unlock button on the underside of the counter in front of me and hear the jingling bells hanging from the door, followed by the scrape of flip-flops as someone shuffles into the room slowly without lifting their feet.
“Hey, Sandrine. And is that Ms. Green’s daughter?”
I see why Sandrine sighed. “Hi, Denise
.”
Denise knows my name is Sydney. She just likes trying to start mess and has for years.
“Girl, you look like shit.”
“Did you wash your hair this time, Denise?” Sandrine asks, in a tone that’s much different from the one she uses to speak with me.
“My appointment is in half an hour, I’m going to wash it now,” Denise snaps. “I popped in because—”
Sandrine sighs. “I’m almost finished with Sydney. How long do you think I will wait?”
Denise draws her head back to look down her nose at Sandrine. “You’ll wait just like I have to wait for you every other time I come here.”
I can’t argue with that, even if she does get on my nerves.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Sandrine loses and goes back to focusing on my braid.
“Anyway, I popped in before washing my hair because the police swarmed up on Gifford Place a little bit ago.”
My hands grip the edge of the seat.
“Is that what all those sirens were?” Sandrine asks casually. She doesn’t live there. Only knows me and a couple of people who are her clients.
“Yup. They rolled up to Jamel and Ashley Jones’s house and stormed in. Pulled up the floorboards in Preston’s room. The boy was moving weight, apparently. Felony weight.”
My stomach turns. “Preston Jones? That doesn’t make sense.”
I’m not gonna pretend I know anyone’s secrets, but his family is solid, does all right for themselves, and he seems to have a very definite idea of how he wants his life to turn out.
I can’t reconcile “moving felony weight” with the nerdy boy who regularly showed up at my door over the winter to see if I needed help shoveling, and who always has his face in his books. It isn’t that he’s “too smart” to sell drugs, but if he is involved in that, he’s too smart to be holding an amount that would jeopardize his future or put his parents in danger.
Denise shrugs. “Not a bit of sense. And no one was in the room when they found the drugs, either. Don’t change the fact that they arrested him a little while ago. He was crying like a baby. His mama is a mess.”
Part of me wants to get up and swing on her, going around telling the Joneses’ business to anyone who’ll listen. But when I glance at her in the mirror and see the red flush under her light brown skin and her wide eyes darting back and forth, the urge fades away. What is the proper response to seeing a child arrested? Another child, the umpteenth child, when you’ve lived here long enough. And worse, arrested for something you can’t be sure they actually did, even if they get found guilty?
Denise and Sandrine continue talking, but their conversation fades into the background as my breath starts to come fast and shallow.
The police came for Preston.
The knowledge that it can happen just like that, that they can show up and ruin your life, feels like an itch in the middle of my back that I can’t reach.
Sandrine rests a hand on my shoulder, stilling me. When she speaks, her voice is gentle. “I’m almost done.”
After what seems like eternity but is likely about twenty minutes, I’m out of the chair and marching back to Gifford Place.
When I get there, people are congregating in front of Mr. Perkins’s house.
“Do we know where Preston is?” Gracie Todd asks in her crisp Masterpiece Theatre accent. She’s pushing eighty and wearing a simple blouse and slacks, but with her elegant gray bob and fine bone structure, she looks like an aging Black starlet. “There’s no more cash bail, right? I saw that on the morning news show. Shouldn’t he be home soon?”
Mr. Perkins shakes his head. “They can still add bail for what they call major traffickers. And apparently whatever they found makes him a major trafficker, being held at major-trafficker bond amount.”
Rumbles of anger and disbelief roll through the small crowd.
“Were they wearing body cams?” I ask.
Mr. Perkins sighs heavily and Count whines at his feet. “Apparently, they forgot to turn them on.”
“Preston didn’t mess with no drugs, John,” Ms. Candace says, fury in her voice. “We all know that.”
“Yes, we all know that. Maybe the police know that, too. Doesn’t change a thing.” Mr. Perkins’s lips press together.
“How will they pay the bail?” I ask. “Can we raise money or something? GoFundMe?”
“When I left, they were on the phone with someone talking about the equity of their house.”
“That’s why 223 sold, you know,” Gracie says. “The husband got caught up in some charges, assault or something, before the bail reform. He was exonerated eventually, but they had to sell the house to pay for all the legal fees.”
Goose bumps rise on my forearms even though the midday sun is scorching and the humidity is strangling. I rub my palms over my arms as I worry my bottom lip. Something about this whole thing nags at me, but grief is running interference on my thought processes. Preston hasn’t died, and people are already coming together to figure out what to do, but this very well could be the wake for the boy’s future.
My chest hurts and my head is pounding from the tight braids and the sadness. Without saying anything, I step back from the crowd and head back to my apartment, wondering whether it’s too early to have some wine.
The answer is no.
Gifford Place OurHood post by Josie Ulnar:
I am not going to post about this again. Not picking up your dog waste is a fineable offense. I’ve filed reports and the police say they will be patrolling the area to keep an eye out for offenders.
Candace Tompkins: We have bigger issues in the neighborhood right now, like young men being falsely arrested. Why don’t you talk to your husband about this at home and keep it offline?
Josie Ulnar: I don’t need to talk to him. I know Terry feels the same way.
Candace Tompkins: smh
Asia Martin: welp
(17 additional comments . . . see more)
Chapter 6
Theo
WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, I LIE IN BED ONLY slightly hungover but mostly wondering if the night before, after the meeting, was a weird dream. Kim, Terry, and Josie’s paranoia, the attack outside the old hospital.
One thing I didn’t dream was seeing Kim get into an Uber with an overnight bag. I should care where she went, but I really don’t. A relationship on the rocks is one thing, but paranoia that Mr. Perkins and the rest of our neighbors are plotting against us is entirely another. I can’t exactly use my mom’s technique and run off to a new town with this house partly in my name, though, so for now I have to wait and hope that this is just some weird phase Kim is going through, like when she became obsessed with hot yoga.
When I look out the window, there’s a cluster of people in front of Mr. Perkins’s house. This isn’t unusual, but their somber mood is. There aren’t any kids playing on the street, though at this time they might be at day camps or doing whatever else it is kids do at home in the summer. I spent most summers watching TV and waiting for my mother to get home from work.
I slip on shorts and a shirt, grab the duffel I usually take with me on my night walks, and shove my shower stuff into it with a change of clothes after placing the flashlight and gloves under my bed. I bypass Kim’s portion of the house without checking to see if she’s inside.
Instead of participating in the shower of shame, I decide to walk over to the local YMCA, where the annual membership I bought when we first moved in has been languishing for months.
When I cross the street to say hey to the group of neighbors, which includes several older people I’ve seen around the block but haven’t ever spoken to, the conversation goes quiet. Mr. Perkins gives me his usual hello, but his gaze isn’t as bright as it usually is, and worry brackets his eyes.
I leave.
I spend an hour on the treadmill, watching the various people in the gym: young kids heading to the pool for lessons, middle-aged guys lifting weights with friends,
a group of older women heading into a fitness class. The guy on the treadmill next to me forgets his iPhone X, and jogs back to grab it right as my treadmill cooldown finishes.
I have to wear flip-flops when I head into the shower, but I also don’t feel as if the pounding spray is reminding me what a loser I am. If I needed a reason to start hitting the gym daily again, I guess I’ve found it.
Or maybe you’re trying to lose the dad bod for a certain neighbor.
I ignore inconvenient thoughts of Sydney while showering in public, then towel off and head to my locker. The elastic of my boxers has just snapped around my waist when I whip my head to the right, my body reacting to some disturbance in the force before my mind does. There’s a guy sitting farther down on the bench where I’ve laid out my clothes, looking up at me with a goofy grin—he has trendily messy hair and thick stubble that makes me itchy just looking at it.
I look away from him and grab my gray sweatpants.
“Hey, bro,” he says. “You live on Gifford, right?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and realize I’ve seen this big head and square jaw before. “Yeah. You worked at the real estate place, right?”
“Right.” His smile grows wider. “I was just office staff back then. Made copies of your papers and stuff while you were closing on the house. Full-fledged agent with all the benefits now, though.”
I slip on my T-shirt, partly to mask what is probably a look of pure WTF on my face. That was one of the things Kim had liked about me at first that had later grown to annoy her when we went to her fancy work parties. “Can’t you even pretend to be interested? You’re so bad at faking! Like, god, have you ever even won a poker game?”
I’d turned my face away from hers without answering, and she’d assigned her own personal meaning to that, as people generally do. Who needs pretending when people do your work for you?
“Um, good for you,” I say to my weird locker room buddy who’s making me reassess my newfound fitness goals. “Congrats.”
