by Lamar Giles
I’d told the truth. That shouldn’t be wrong, but the truth could be a weapon depending on who used it.
That wasn’t Bible, but it was the kind of thought that would fit right in.
What was the worst Newsome could do with that info I gave him? In English class the next day, I got my answer.
We had a substitute. MJ never showed. I was too scared to ask anyone if they knew why.
In the gym, there was a sign posted on the classroom corridor: HEALTHY LIVING POSTPONED, DRESS OUT FOR YOUR REGULAR GYM CLASS.
It could be coincidence, right? Maybe MJ was sick.
Then why would the girls’ Healthy Living class be postponed, too?
Get real, Del. How could anything you said during a conversation with Pastor Newsome last night have this much of an effect less than twenty-four hours later? You are not responsible for this.
But for someone who’d pulled off such a thrilling lie to get Kiera to dinner this Friday, I sucked at lying to myself.
Chapter 14
AS AGREED, SHIANNE MET ME by my car after the final bell for the first of our tutoring sessions. She climbed in with a crumpled Red Bull can and alarming wide eyes. None of the school vending machines sold energy drinks, but I knew who the caffeine plug was. “You copped from Kent Oster. You really are flaunting your wealth now.”
“His one hundred and fifty percent markup only seems steep when you aren’t desperate. I so needed this. Home, Jeeves!”
We did the slow crawl out of the school lot. While we inched along, I said, “You haven’t heard anything about MJ today, have you?”
Her face crumpled. “Mister Jay? Why would I hear anything about him?” She jerked forward, snapping her seat belt tight across her body. “Oh, he isn’t a Baby-Getter Dad, is he?”
“No! That’s not what I meant. Never mind.” Though that wouldn’t have been too far off from escalating BabyGetterToo drama. Last I heard, a couple of the previously anonymous dads were getting sued for child support, or were going on the offensive by asking for DNA tests. Maury Povich shit I didn’t care that much about, if I was being honest.
I hoped MJ was okay.
It was silly asking Shianne. Mom would’ve said this was my guilt talking. I turned up the music, focused on that.
There was virtually no traffic headed in the direction of Shianne’s house. She lived in Green Creek’s oldest-money neighborhood, Poplar Estates. These were houses built a long time ago, like over a century. Dad said my great-grandparents wouldn’t have been allowed to live in this part of town, because back then you had two barriers to overcome: money and skin color.
Now it was mostly just money, which the Griffiths family had plenty of. Shianne’s dad was some executive for the meat-packing company that ran a big plant in the neighboring town. Her mom helped start some software firm in college that she and her partners sold for big dough when Shianne was a kid. Now she worked on various apps and coding projects at her leisure. Their neighbors were the lawyers and doctors and bankers of our community. I knew all this from the times I used to bike to her place and eat Hot Pockets while doing homework in her family room.
I hadn’t come to this side of town since I last visited her, way before Baby Zoey. It always struck me how the sky seemed wider and bluer over the rich part of town.
On her street, we passed Tanisha Thompson’s house, location of our imaginary sexcapade. Tanisha and friends had gotten out of the school lot before us, and were in her driveway, exiting Tanisha’s new Chevy SUV. At neighborhood speed limits, me, my car, and my passenger were easily recognized, and I saw the speech bubbles hovering over their scowling heads like a comic book panel: Is that Shianne in Del’s car?
Shianne responded with a rock-steady middle finger that got Tanisha and crew popping their necks and angrily gesturing in my rearview as we cruised past.
I said, “Y’all are closer than ever, I see.”
“I can’t wait to get out of this town, Del.”
We turned a corner and approached Shianne’s distinct home, which reminded me of a mini version of the White House. It was pale, close to gray, with these columns bordering the front door. I parked in her driveway and she led me inside, triggering such a strong sense of déjà vu that the crying baby confused me a minute. Like, whose kid was that?
Missus Griffiths met us in the foyer, with a fussy little Zoey on her hip. “Shianne, this baby has been cranky all day and I couldn’t get anything done.” She’d been laser focused on Shi, and only seemed to recognize my presence after she spoke her piece. “Del, what are you doing here?”
“I’m going to help Shi get caught up on some schoolwork.”
“Lovely. I hope you two can work with Zoey in the room,” she passed the baby, who began shrieking like she saw evil spirits, “because I had to move all of my conference calls to late afternoon.”
Shianne bounced her daughter lightly while flinching from her screams. “Are any bottles ready?”
Missus Griffiths was already backing into her home office. “In the fridge.” The last word was clipped by her slamming door.
Shianne said, “You remember where the family room is?”
“Of course.”
She motioned in the general direction, and broke off to get Zoey’s meal.
I delved deeper into the house, making familiar turns while cataloging changes. A thick hallway runner now covered what were once bare floors. The walls were a different color, pale green. It smelled different, some strong, cotton-y air freshener plugged into the wall.
The family room was pretty much the same, with the exception of a newer, wider television. I fell into my old preferred seat at the corner of a plush sectional sofa and turned on ESPN.
While random highlights played, my phone buzzed. I slipped it from my pocket, read.
Kiera: Del, I’ve been thinking of our final presentation. I have a couple of ideas, but maybe we should loop in Jameer? He’s always got good input.
My head got airy, like the time me and Qwan spent way too long making our voices funny off the helium tank at the school carnival. I’d pulled a Qwan move, deliberately avoided texting Kiera first since we exchanged numbers. Risky, but important to sell the “Pastor wants this” part of the plan. I couldn’t seem too eager. That she wanted to include Jameer didn’t bother me much—I’d kind of expected it. He was on my team, so I could work that, too. I responded with giddy speed.
Me: Cool. Should I pick y’all up on Friday?
Kiera: I’ll ask my dad to drive me and J. Less complicated that way, trust me. Six o’clock?
Me: Yep
I knew this went against Qwan’s mandate to not show too much interest, but I couldn’t resist adding:
Me: Can’t wait
“Why you looking so goofy?” Shianne asked, suddenly beside me, her baby quiet now that a bottle was in hand. She leaned over my shoulder. “Who you texting?”
My phone went facedown on my thigh. “Nosy.”
“Whatever.” She went for the far end of the couch, began to sit, then stopped, scanning the area. “Crap. Left my books in the kitchen.”
She lunged at me, thrusting the baby forward. “Hold her a sec.”
I damn near somersaulted over the back of the chair. “Hell no. She’s tiny.”
“She’s tougher than you think.”
“I don’t know how, Shi.”
Huffing, she said, “You make a cradle with one arm, let your chest be like a backboard. Keep her head up, and hold her bottle with your other hand.”
Running wasn’t an option because, apparently, new mothers had cheetah speed. Before I could protest further, little Zoey was wedged into the crook of my elbow, only squirming in the moment her bottle left her lips while Shi made minor adjustments to my hold technique. Then the feeding resumed, with me tilting the bottle at an angle the child was happy with.
“Shi!” I pleaded.
“It’ll be thirty seconds, Del.” She was halfway around the corner. “If she doesn’t make
it we’re both going to jail, so don’t mess up.”
Zoey’s eyes pinned me, big brown marbles that expressed mild curiosity over her new food supplier, though no objections. When my initial adrenaline rush tapered, I realized my terror was unwarranted. Me and Zoey were doing fine.
Shi returned, slung her backpack onto the middle couch cushion, but did not reclaim her child. Instead she flopped, with her arms spread wide and head angled toward the ceiling, eyes closed, groaning. “Red Bulls do not last like they used to.”
I said, “Do you want her back?”
“In a sec. Let her finish the bottle.”
I did, observing what could only be described as ecstasy on the girl’s face as her belly filled. With her bottle nearly empty, I asked, “What are we studying?”
Shianne did not open her eyes when she said, “Del, so, real talk . . . I don’t need you to tutor me. My grades were always better than yours.”
What? “Why am I here, then?”
“My parents don’t trust me to do things on my own anymore. ‘You’re still going to college! You’re still getting a degree! In spite of your self-sabotage!’ It’s like they’re mixing punishment with proactiveness. I don’t know. They said get a tutor. You’re the only person I can stand at that school right now, and they like you. So I got you. I’m sorry if that sounds shitty. Since Zoey was born, I don’t have much of a filter.”
That was unexpected. I tried to decide if I should be offended. “Am I still getting paid?”
“Yes.”
I was not offended.
Though, I did wonder. “None of your other friends?”
“I don’t have any other friends these days.”
The baby drained the remnants of her bottle and squirmed. “What now?”
Shianne stretched toward me. “Hand her over. Gotta burp her.”
That was definitely beyond my pay grade, so I walked Zoey to her mother, and let Shianne get about the business of baby gas. This did bring to mind all the subconscious warnings MJ’s Healthy Living lessons were hammering into us. My guilt-soaked questions about MJ’s whereabouts tried to resurface, but I forced them back down. Focused on Shianne’s problems, her worries.
She was always well liked in school. Now she had to pay me for company? No friends? “How is that possible? What about the other Baby-Get—” Shit.
She leaned toward me, patting Zoey’s back lightly while her lip twitched. “Go on. Say it to my face. You wouldn’t be the first.”
I heavy-sighed. “The Baby-Getters.”
“Right. To answer your question, why aren’t I friends with them? I wasn’t friends with them before, despite what News Channel 12 wants everyone to think. Besides, if the town’s treating us like a coven of witches when we never really hung together, what would it be like if we all started mass playdates?”
“I didn’t think about that.”
She swiped a hand my way, slow, no energy. “Why should you? It’s not your problem. I don’t mean to take it out on you. Let’s get to ‘work.’” She made finger quotes with one hand.
It wasn’t a total scam. Shianne didn’t need my help with school stuff, but an extra set of arms for Zoey didn’t hurt. I played with the little girl while Shi did pre-calc problems. When the room got suddenly fragrant in a way that made me think of despair, Shianne took Zoey for a diaper change while I texted Jameer about Friday’s dinner with Kiera. Basically telling him we needed a good way for him to make an exit at some point in the evening. He didn’t respond right away, but I’d be thinking on it for sure.
When Mister Griffiths arrived home, he greeted me warmly (“Del, long time!”), paid me my fifty bucks promptly, then quizzed Shianne on all the responsible things she’d done today. My cue to leave.
“See you in school tomorrow, Shi.”
Glum: “We can only hope.”
At home, there was no family dinner. Mom and Dad left a note about catching a movie, and I rummaged in the freezer for microwave sesame noodles. While my meal cooked, I caught sight of the ever-present car insurance bill sitting on the counter. I supposed I could’ve left the fifty bucks I’d earned being Shianne’s study buddy on the envelope as a down payment, but, if I did that, I might come up short at dinner with Kiera on Friday. Unthinkable.
I slept rough again, my worries about Healthy Living and MJ attacking my defenseless subconscious. So I can’t overstate the relief I felt the next day when I walked into English class and found MJ back behind his desk, prepping his teaching materials.
“MJ!” I said upon seeing him. As enthusiastic as a First Missionary Crew! high five.
His response crushed my delight like a hydraulic press. “Del, have a seat, please.”
His voice was flat, emotionless. Very un-MJ-like. It was worse than if he’d yelled, “Del, you snitch.”
I folded into my seat, as did my other classmates, and spent the rest of the lecture measuring MJ’s every word, every movement. His energy was low, the lecture had a going-through-the-motions feel. At the end, I toyed with the idea of slipping out quietly. Probably would’ve been for the best. Instead, I lingered. When the class was empty, I said, “MJ?”
“Del, I have to tell you, if you have more questions like the kinds we’ve discussed over the past few weeks, I can no longer entertain them.” It sounded rehearsed, and robotic.
“I—” I almost apologized, before recognizing that would be an admission of guilt. I didn’t know this had anything to do with me. So, I said, “Is something wrong?”
He answered too fast. “No. There have been some directives passed along to me about what is and isn’t appropriate subject matter on school grounds.”
“Is that why Healthy Living was postponed?” It felt like a safe question to ask. Everyone saw that note.
“Healthy Living is canceled, Del.”
That landed like a blindside slap. “For . . . good?”
He looked past me to the open classroom door, checking for spies. Waved me closer, and I moved to him reluctantly, halfway expecting a punch.
“Del, you haven’t told anyone about me answering those questions for you outside of class, have you?”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone about that.”
“What about the Q and As at the end of Healthy Living?”
I swallowed hard. “Nope.”
“Well, someone has.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, there are people in town who are dead set against any discussion of sex, biology, really anything even close to human reproduction—despite all of the real-world examples we’ve seen lately. I got called into a meeting yesterday morning about some of those parties being outraged over a strict curriculum being altered on the fly. Or something. I’m still not clear on what the exact issue is. It was enough for an already reluctant council to pull the plug on Healthy Living, so we can ‘revisit the focus of the course.’”
There was a question I dreaded, but needed to ask. “Are you in trouble?”
“Naw. Not for real. A lot of people talked at me yesterday, but it’s nothing that’s going to cause me problems. I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” Had he seen through my guilt? My lies?
“You students. The information from Healthy Living was super basic, I’ll admit. But it was better than nothing. This whole community has seen what ignorance gets. Yet, year after year, the adults who are supposed to know better think that if we hide all the sex talk from you, you’re not going to do it. It’s something about getting old, particularly around here, that makes people forget they were teens once too.”
It felt like he was talking to a wider audience than me. His usual lecture energy had returned.
Too bad the guy who betrayed him was the only one around to hear it. “I should get going, MJ.”
“Yeah, of course. Sorry to unload on you like that. Enjoy your lunch.”
He went back to the whiteboard, scrawling notes for his next class. I could tell he’d already moved on from the disman
tling of Healthy Living. He’d washed his hands of it.
Somehow, I knew I’d have a much harder time.
In that Thursday Pledge session after my conversation with MJ, and before my night with Kiera, everything felt too fragile. I kept watching the door of the Pledge room, expecting Pastor Newsome to swoop in at any time and cast me out of the Lord’s House for my impropriety. He got the scoop on Healthy Living from me. He didn’t need me anymore.
We never saw Newsome that evening, though I kept looking over my shoulder even on my way out the door. When someone called my name, my brain turned that person into Newsome. I spun around, queasy.
It was Mya. “Hey, Del, wait a second.”
“What’s up?”
She fished something out of her bag, handed it over. “Here.”
A comic book. Shuri, issue #1. Black Panther’s sister in her own standalone book. This was unexpected.
“It’s about a black woman by a black woman, so I bet you haven’t read it.”
That sounded harsh. I’d been meaning to pick it up. “This is what we’re doing now? Trading passive-aggressive recommendations. If so, you should read—”
“Please don’t say Batman. All you boys love Batman.”
“Have you given Tower of Babel a try? Batman’s plans take down the whole Justice League!”
She groaned, pointed at her gift. “If you read that, I might consider a Batman book. Maybe. I want a book report on my desk by Monday.” She kept on to her rust-bucket car.
“Mya! For real, why you give me this?”
“Good conversation the other night. Don’t necessarily like what you said, but figured I might show you the light. See you in school.”
Then she was gone, and I was driving Jameer home, that issue of Shuri resting on my backseat. For later.
Off church grounds, I started to relax a bit.
That wasn’t the truth. I was getting excited.
“You know the plan?” I asked Jameer, wanting no confusion over the explicit instructions I’d given him.
