“Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but”—she leans in—“Ava’s been telling people you thought he’d ask you out even though everyone knows he’s dating Belle now. Of course, I told people that it’s just a rumor…”
Ava listened to me talk about Jamie while knowing all along he was dating Belle? I should have known better than to talk to anyone about anything personal. I feel really out of the loop, like there’s so much going on that I should know about but don’t. This past summer, I was so caught up with Yale prep, I must’ve missed this. I must’ve missed everything.
“Did you know he was dating Belle?” I ask.
Ruby’s smile fades a little. “Just found out.”
I nod. Ruby’s always been a terrible liar.
“Thank you, Ruby. I can always count on you,” I say, thinking of ways to get back at Ava.
“You know I’ll always have your back, Chi.”
These girls are as loyal as scorpions. As I glance up, I see Ava walking toward us. She looks as white as a sheet, fear written all over her features. Sometimes the lingering threat of plotting to get someone back is better than actually carrying anything out. I smile at her and wave.
“Hi, Chi—” Ava starts, but I cut her off.
“Tell Sam I say hi,” I sneer, before marching down the hallway toward Jamie’s locker.
Ava has problems trusting her boyfriend, Sam, to keep his dick in his pants. Not only that, she’s always been wary of the fact that Sam and I hooked up during freshman year, way before they started dating. I told her it was meaningless, but I know me bringing up Sam will eat away at her. I might even text him, knowing she’ll be checking his phone all day now. It’s not nice, but she tried to make me look desperate in front of everyone. So it’s only fair.
“Hey, Jamie.” I reach his locker as he turns around, revealing Belle behind him. They’re holding hands.
“Hey, Chi.”
My eyes linger on her. Her beauty is like a punch to the gut. I’ve seen her in some of my classes before, but never really looked at her …
I blink, crossing her out and ignoring the fact that she’s here, with him.
“Why do people think I got rejected by you?” I throw in a playful smile, letting everyone listening in around us know I don’t care and that I definitely wasn’t rejected by anyone.
Jamie looks a bit confused, but I’m hoping he reads my mind through the best-friend telepathy channel and plays along. He’s good at burying secrets, so what’s one more to add to the pile?
“That anonymous texter, Aces, they … said you were,” Belle answers.
Aces? The person who sent those messages about Devon and Scotty?
I stare at Belle again—blond hair held back by a blue headband that coordinates with our uniform, clear bright skin, pink lips. I hate how perfect she is, and how she’s apparently the One.
“Oh … well, it’s a lie—isn’t it, Jamie?”
“Yeah,” Jamie confirms, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I’m sure it’s just some lowlifes making up stories,” Belle adds with a smile. I mentally roll my eyes at her. I don’t need her input.
I wonder who this anonymous person—or people—is, sending messages to everyone. If they’re smart, they won’t say anything else about me.
“Hi, Chi,” a girl says, holding out a tall Starbucks cup. “Here’s your cinnamon latte.” It’s the sophomore from yesterday again.
“Thank you, Miranda,” I say, bringing the drink up to my lips. She opens her mouth, then closes it like a fish. I almost feel bad for not letting her know that all of this—the kissing up, getting me coffee before school—is worthless. If you want to be known, you have to claw your own way up, not get people cold lattes every morning.
But who am I to turn down a cup of coffee? Especially after the stressful morning I’ve had.
The sophomore leaves just as the first warning bell sounds. Jamie leans in and kisses Belle. I look away; even if it makes me look like I do like him, I don’t care.
“I’ll see you later?” Jamie says to Belle.
“See you,” she says softly, before leaving his side.
I force a smile, nudging him. “Someone’s in like.”
“I’m so much in like!” he shouts. I shush him, and he zips his mouth but grins.
“Let’s go to class, boy in like.”
I’ve always been great at playing the role of best friend: I pull on my clothes; I give him a smile; I leave his bedroom, his house; and I come to school the next day and pretend with him. That was always my role. The best friend who pretends.
But this year, I will get everything I want, and Belle will soon be a thing of the past. I just need a chance to show Jamie how wrong she is for him.
I take my phone out and scroll down my list of contacts, landing on Sam. I tap out a message, something about his new haircut suiting him.
Within seconds, I get a response.
With a grin, I walk through the hallway with my head held high.
Like I said, I always get my way.
* * *
“Sweet-and-sour licorice or sugar mushrooms?” Jamie asks, holding up the two packets.
It’s after school, and Jamie and I are in the candy store that’s a few minutes’ drive from Niveus grounds, where we always go on Tuesdays, before making a stop at the twenty-four-hour Waffle Palace across the street. It’s like yesterday at the benches never happened.
“Sugar mushrooms look weird…”
“And licorice?”
“Licorice is begging God for diabetes,” I say without thinking.
He puts the licorice down and silently moves toward another section of candies.
“Didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” He pauses to survey what seem to be tiny candy pizzas.
I bite my lip, feeling bad. It’s been a few months since his diagnosis, and I always forget to stop myself from saying insensitive things. He was really depressed when his doctor told him, thinking it meant no candy ever again—which was, of course, the thing that bothered him most. When he realized it didn’t mean he had to stop it altogether, he went out and got this tacky tattoo of candy wrapped in red foil on his ankle.
Tuesday has become the day when he allows himself to indulge a little.
“Don’t feel bad or anything, I’m fine,” he says, the smile returning to his face. “If you want to feel bad, feel bad that they’ve run out of candy canes.”
“What a shame,” I say, which he playfully swipes my head for.
I can’t stand candy canes.
“I think I’m gonna get some licorice and one of those tiny pizzas.” He shows me his options like they are as important as college choices—which, knowing Jamie and his love of candy, wouldn’t be a surprise if they were.
“You do you,” I say, just wanting to get out of here. The days of me craving candy all the time ended in sophomore year, but this tradition makes Jamie so happy, and I like it when he’s happy.
I glance around the shop. It’s mostly filled with parents and their kids and elderly people. I look up at the walls, bursting with jars of candies. Licorice of all colors, glistening like jewels from the sugar that coats them, and others that appear dull in comparison. There are cola bottles, big and small, real and fake; egg-shaped candies; lollipops with bright wrappers.
“Let’s pay,” I say.
We walk up to the counter, and Jamie places the packets on the surface in front of the shopkeeper who, rather than concerning himself with Jamie’s candy and the twenty-dollar bill, stares at me, then my uniform, and then my face again.
His lips curl as he shifts to grab something—his phone—placing it on the counter next to Jamie’s unpurchased candy.
“What did you take?” he asks, and at first, I think I’ve misheard him.
“Sorry?”
“What did you take?” he repeats, pointing his index finger at me.
I glance behind me. Nobody’s there.
<
br /> He is talking to me.
“I didn’t take anything—”
“I saw you!” he yells, which startles me. “What did you take?”
“I took nothing,” I say, raising my voice too.
There’s a pause, and then he’s moving from behind the counter. My legs shake a little, ready for flight.
“Show me your pockets!” he shouts.
How dare he treat me like I’m a thief?
“I did not steal your fucking candy. If I wanted some, I would just buy it.”
Jamie pulls at my arm and I turn to stare at him. His eyes look doubtful. My heart pulses faster; I can hear the sound of it in my ears.
“Just show him your pockets, Chi.”
I swallow, shifting to look at the shopkeeper.
He moves forward, roughly reaching into my coat pocket.
“See—” I start, but I’m silenced by a crinkling sound and a pack of licorice in his upturned hand.
“I’m calling the cops,” he says, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the other side of the counter.
My eyes water.
“I didn’t take it. I don’t know how it got there,” I say weakly, my voice breaking in a pathetic way I wish Jamie didn’t have to hear. How did it get in there?
The guy presses nine.
“I didn’t take it,” I repeat.
One.
“I’ll pay for it all, okay?” I hear Jamie say, pushing his twenty across the counter.
The man dials one again.
“Please, you can keep all the change,” Jamie persists.
The guy pauses, looking between Jamie and me, before putting the phone down and grabbing the twenty from the counter. The shop is silent now, the bystanders watching the scene unfold. My face feels hot as I watch the shopkeeper examine the bill.
“Thank you, sir,” Jamie says.
The shopkeeper looks at me and points again. “I’m tired of you people thinking you can get away with this shit. Don’t come back here, you hear me?”
I nod and rush out of the shop, followed by the sound of the twinkly nursery rhyme ringing as I open the door. Jamie pulls my shoulder as I run down the stone steps, and I turn to look at him, blinking away any tears that want to fall. What just happened?
“Let’s go home,” he tells me with a sigh. His face crumples as he shoves the candy into his pockets. “I’ll just go to Waffle Palace another day with Belle.”
I feel a blow to my chest.
“Okay,” I answer.
“Okay,” he replies.
I don’t know why I say it again after saying it so many times in the store, but I feel compelled to. I didn’t like the look on his face when the shopkeeper accused me.
“I didn’t take the licorice.”
Jamie says nothing, just nods without making eye contact, then walks ahead with his phone in his hand and his head down, typing into it.
Why is he acting like I did something wrong?
I take one look back at the candy store. The shopkeeper’s still watching me through the glass window. Shadowy figures move around in the shop, faces I don’t recognize. Someone must’ve put the licorice in my pocket. I glance at Jamie, who walks on slowly.
But who? And why?
7
DEVON
Wednesday
In this home of worn leather sofas, tabletops with cracked edges, mismatched chairs, and exposed pipes, there is so much love.
Even if that love is for a version of me that isn’t real.
I feel it whenever I stare at my ma in the morning, as I eat my toast and she gets ready for her first job down at the local school, where she cleans. I watch her confidently pray to God for answers, before warming her oatmeal in the microwave.
I finish my last piece of toast and I hug her from behind, hoping it tells her everything I think about her. I hope that if she finds out about the picture, this hug reminds her that I’m still me, still someone who loves her.
“I’m gonna go to school now, Ma,” I tell her, moving back toward the chair I left my backpack on.
“This early?” she asks.
The microwave beeps.
I unzip my bag, pretending to put something inside, turning away from her before I lie. “Yeah, meeting Jack for some schoolwork.”
She gives me a one-armed hug, kissing my forehead. “So proud of you. I’ll see you later,” she says, sitting down on one of the lawn chairs that double as dining room chairs. Ma’s been telling me she’s proud of me since I showed her my badge on Monday after she got back from work. I thought she was gonna cry, but she didn’t. She wiped her face and hugged me, whispering, I’m so proud of you, Von.
“See you,” I say, guilt weighing me down as I rush out, slamming the door behind me, then cringing when I think of how loud it was and how Ma will probably give me a lecture on that later.
But that’s later, and this is now, where I have more important things to think about.
I walk past other homes like mine—crooked, paint peeling, doors barely hanging on their hinges—and into a part of my neighborhood most people avoid. The part where a huge apartment block stands, with boys whose skin is as dark as mine chilling outside. Some have twists or cornrows in their hair—both styles I’m not allowed to wear at Niveus—and pants that hang off their backs effortlessly. A few are seated in the torn-up green car in front, some are on the roof of the car, and others lean against the outside walls of the block. I wonder when they sleep. They always seem to be up, waiting, whenever I come over, no matter the time of day.
I walk past all of them, legs shaky as I approach a big guy with cornrows and arms folded, leaning by the door. I can’t tell if I know him from middle school or whether he’s just a guy who I know works with Dre. I don’t remember much from middle school, because the bullying was really bad toward the end, so Ma pulled me out. Plus, I visit Dre so much, the faces have started becoming more familiar as time passes.
“I’m here to see Andre,” I tell him. Even though he’s probably seen me before, the guys always act like I’m not here several times a week.
He stares me down, making me feel small, before kissing his teeth and pushing off the wall.
“Watch him,” he tells some other guy, who nods and takes his place as he enters the block.
Behind the door, I can hear his heavy footsteps, then the slam of another door inside. I try to stay still, not draw any attention to myself. A few moments later, the guy yanks the front door open and tells me to enter. I walk into the low-lit hall and up the carpeted staircase to the second floor, where Dre’s apartment is.
Dre’s apartment matches his personality: quiet and homey; it’s spacious, decorated in browns, greens, and reds. Like normal, I push open his door, then walk through his living room and into his bedroom, where he’s seated behind a desk. His head is tilted up and his eyes are shut. For a moment, I just watch him. His cropped black hair and shaved face surprise me. He had a beard last week. Without it, he looks like an actual eighteen-year-old. Like the boy I grew up with.
I close the door loudly, and his eyes open lazily. A smile creeps onto his face.
“Von,” Dre mumbles, pushing himself out of the chair and swaggering toward me slowly until we are inches away from each other.
In the silence, my palms sweat, and my heartbeat goes wild like it always does whenever I’m near him.
And then, like always, he kisses me. I wrap my arms around him and I feel him smile into the kiss, eagerly bringing his hand up to cup my face, moving me toward his bed. I ease my arms away and pull back, resting my head on his gently.
“I came to talk, Dre, not do that.”
“But I like doing that,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I try not to smile. “I have school, and I need to talk to you about something else.”
He nods, moving back now. “The picture of you and that guy? Scotty, right?”
His words catch me off guard, making my heart stutter. Dre knows all about the
rich kid from my school who broke my heart. But how did the photo travel so fast? It’s barely been two days. I was going to ask him if he could try to bury it before anyone else saw it. He’s good at burying skeletons. I think it’s partly why no one bats an eyelid at the fact that I’ve been coming around three or four times a week for the past couple of months. He tells his boys to mind their business, and they do.
I nod. “How did you find out?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me.
“I got a message about it…”
What?
“From who?” I ask, my words tumbling out.
Dre shrugs. “I just got the picture with the text, nothing else. There was no ID.”
I start panicking, thoughts spiraling. Is Dre the only person outside of school to get that message, or does everyone in the neighborhood know about it? Are they talking about me? Planning to get me like they did before—
Andre takes my hand and squeezes it, pulling me in again and away from the mental hole I was falling into.
“I think I’m the only person who got it. No one else is talking, so you’re good.”
I’m not convinced. News that can travel from Niveus to my neighborhood this quickly could still reach people here. My ma could easily find out, and I can’t have that stress right now.
“I’ll deal with it,” he says.
“Deal with it how?”
Deal with it could mean anything. It could mean finding a way to get rid of problems—including Scotty, who for some reason I’m worried about now. Dre and his gang like sorting things out with their fists; it’s how you get respect around here most of the time. You fight, someone films it, word spreads, then people back off—probably the reason I was such an easy target in middle school. I couldn’t fight anyone, even if you paid me. My arms and legs are practically noodles.
I’m scared for the day Dre fights someone to prove a point and he’s the one who gets hurt in the end.
He rolls his eyes. “Not gonna hurt your ex, don’t worry,” he says.
“Okay, thanks,” I tell him, pulling back, but he stops me.
“Just—” He looks at me seriously. “Don’t let anything else get out. I have a boss to answer to—he won’t like you being here if he finds out.”
Ace of Spades Page 5
