Sweet 16 to Life

by Kimberly Reid

  I leave her at the table, grab my bag and coat, and ignore her when she asks where I’m going as I slam the front door behind me. She’s super cop. She’ll figure it out.

  I couldn’t have told her where I was going anyway, because I have no idea. I only know I can’t be within talking—or screaming—distance of my mother right now. I start by going across the street to Tasha’s, only to have her dad tell me she’s working at the movie theater tonight. I even go two doors down to Michelle’s place, but her mom tells me she’s on a date. Of course she is—it’s Saturday night. Michelle would never be home, dateless, on a Saturday night. There’s MJ, but she’s got her own problems to deal with, so I just sit in Lana’s car, parked in front of the house.

  I know Lana watched me the whole time I was walking up and down Aurora Ave looking for someone to talk to, and that she’s watching me now. The blinds on the front window close shut and a second later she steps onto the porch. I swear to God if she comes out here I’m running down to Center Street to catch the first bus that shows up. She must know I’m thinking something along those lines because she only gets as far as the top step before she turns and goes back into the house. I guess she’d rather me freeze in the car where she can see me than be somewhere else.

  I surprise myself when I grab my phone from my bag.

  “Hello?”

  When I hear Marco’s voice, I feel better before he even says another word.

  “Do you have a second?”

  “Yeah, what’s going on? You sound—”

  “It’s my mom. She’s making me crazy right now.”

  “Tell me.”

  And I do. I tell him about the conversation with my mom and the phone calls from my father who never knew I existed and everything that is making my life suck right now. The minute I finish, I wish I can take it all back. He already thinks I’m a drama queen; this will just confirm it.

  “Better?” he asks. That’s a good sign. He’s still there—didn’t hang up on the crazy girl.

  “Yeah, better.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In front of my house, sitting in my mom’s car. I can’t go back in there yet.”

  “Isn’t it cold in the car?”

  “No. Lana has all her surveil—I mean, she has a bunch of blankets and stuff in here. You know, winter driving preparedness and all that. I’m okay. Can we just talk for a few minutes?”

  “We can talk for as long as you need. I can come there if you want.”

  “That’s okay. Just talking to you is enough.”

  And it is—for nearly an hour, until his call waiting beeps.

  “Damn,” Marco says. “I forgot about her.”

  “Who? Oh no, did I keep you from something?”

  “It’s just um . . . well, I was going to see a movie with, um . . . Angelique and I was supposed to pick her up twenty minutes ago. Let me just tell her I can’t make it.”

  “No, you should go. I’m fine now, really. You’d better go or you’ll miss her call.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll call her right back.”

  Angelique interrupts one more time with the last call-waiting beep, and we’re both quiet for a second. I almost wish he’d clicked over. How do you gracefully end a call that started with you ranting about your mother?

  “You sure I won’t be reading about you and your mom in the news tomorrow?” Of course Marco knows what to say, and even manages to make me laugh.

  “I’m not as mad at her as I was an hour ago, thanks to you. I’ll be all right.”

  “Okay, but call me if you need to. I’ll keep my phone on vibrate at the movie.”

  After we hang up, I sit in Lana’s car a few more minutes, soaking in the crazy that is my life. First, I need to help out a friend who is being extorted and threatened by some seriously dangerous people. Next, the one person on the planet I thought I could trust with anything just told me she’s been hiding the biggest lie I can think of—for sixteen years. Then I have the sweetest, most perfect conversation with Marco that, for at least an hour, convinced me I can deal with the big fat lie that made me hate Lana for the first time ever. And just as I thought it really will get better, I’m reminded that Marco is not mine to make it all better. I seriously hate call waiting.

  Chapter 17

  I’m still not ready to see Lana yet, so I walk over to see MJ, the only person I know whose problems are bigger than mine. If nothing else, it’ll give me some perspective.

  “Did you come up with some ideas on how to get rid of Lux?” MJ asks when she opens her door. The smell of something Italian greets me—maybe marinara sauce—reminding my stomach I never had a chance to eat the dinner I made.

  “No, but we can do some more brainstorming. And maybe I can get some of whatever smells so good.”

  “I found some leftover lasagna in the freezer, but I ate it all. I thought you and your mother had some big dinner and talk planned.”

  “We did—well, we had the talk, but I didn’t stick around for the dinner. That’s why I’m here. My mother is tripping and I just can’t be at home right now. Can I hang out here for a little while?”

  “Yeah, no problem. But I have to run down to the bodega for a second. I forgot to sign my timecard for the week and I ain’t trying to hold up my paycheck. I’ll be back in a few.”

  MJ leaves me in her house alone, a sign she either feels sorry for me because of my parental drama or she trusts me more than I thought. I hope it’s the first reason so I won’t feel so bad about what I’m about to do, even if it’s in MJ’s best interests. First I peek out of her front door and watch MJ until she’s almost made it to Center, and then I run to the basement. I figure I only have about five minutes, maybe more if Eddie is working tonight and MJ spends a few minutes talking to him, so I check my phone and allow myself four. If Big Mama’s basement is anything like ours, I expect Lux’s box to be hidden under mounds of clothes no one in the house ever plans to wear again, boxes full of books no one ever plans to read again, second grade art projects, and a bunch of other crap no one remembers putting down there.

  But Big Mama is no Lana, who is the messiest person on the planet. This basement is organized. The few boxes down there are neatly sealed and clearly labeled, except for one in a corner that I find hidden behind some well-used suitcases that have probably been carried by a few generations of travelers. They’re so old-fashioned they don’t even have wheels on the bottom. The bag check tags are still wrapped around the handles of all three bags. They belong to MJ and have the Denver airport code on them—probably from the flight that moved her to Colorado and Big Mama’s house after she got out of jail. The large box behind the suitcases is marked MJ’s Stuff and isn’t sealed at all. The box flaps are just folded into each other to stay closed.

  I check my phone and see I have about two minutes left. This can’t be the box. The one I’m looking for should be hermetically sealed with wires and a bomb attached to it considering how afraid MJ is of whatever booby trap Lux has rigged. Then I realize the handwriting on the box isn’t MJ’s. I’ve spent too many nights helping her with her GED homework not to recognize her handwriting. And it doesn’t match the formal cursive handwriting on every other box in the basement, writing that must be Big Mama’s. The only disguise this box is wearing is MJ’s name, probably meant to keep her grandmother out. Seems like a pretty lame disguise.

  Well, at least until I see what’s in the box, which is not at all what I expected. After I memorize how the flaps are folded, I stretch the long sleeves of my tee into makeshift gloves to carefully open the box. I doubt Lux will be dusting for prints, but I’m being extra careful—MJ doesn’t need any more trouble from Lux than she already has. I move as slowly as my ticking clock will allow because a lack of sealing tape on the outside doesn’t mean Lux didn’t put some kind of booby trap on the inside. He didn’t though. I also don’t find any drugs, cash, diamonds or any of the other things I’d expect to find in the secret loot of a gangster. It’s a b
ox full of movie DVDs.

  I don’t want to disturb the box, but I do look at the top three layers of the neatly stacked DVDs and find they’re recent movies, big box office titles. Most still have the cellophane wrap on them, but a few don’t. Careful not to leave prints, I open a couple of the unsealed cases to make sure there’s nothing but a DVD inside and I’m surprised to find that’s all there is. No slim packets of cocaine hidden under the disk, no secret codes written on slips of paper. This is what Lux was willing to burn down MJ’s house to destroy? With a minute left on my timer, I carefully fold the box flaps closed the way I found them and run back upstairs.

  I plop down on the sofa and turn on the TV just seconds before MJ comes through the front door.

  “I brought back some tamales they had left over from yesterday’s Freebie Friday. I know you love ’em.”

  “Thanks, MJ. As good as that sounds, I may be a little too stressed to eat right now, but I’ll take the tamales home for later.”

  I’m starving, but realize I’m too worked up about my mother’s big reveal and from sneaking into Lux’s stash for anything to feel good in my stomach right now. I know I’ll have to deal with my mother eventually, but I’d rather it be later than sooner, so while pretending to watch TV, I focus on MJ’s problem instead. I’m thinking if Lux lied about rigging his box and had MJ afraid enough to leave it alone, he might also be lying about the dirt he has on her that he claims proves she set up Tragic. For that matter, it’s always safe to assume that anything a crook says is a lie and work from there.

  “Speaking of home, that’s where you have to be at eight o’clock. Hope that’s enough time for you and your mom to cool off.”

  “What happens at eight?”

  “Lux is coming by to check on his box. It’d be best if you ain’t here.”

  Wow. Glad I was careful to leave the box the same way I found it. Now that I know what’s in the box, I’m really curious why Lux is all the time coming over to “check on” it. You’d think it was a live plant he had to water. Or at least a cache of drugs he had to periodically shoot up or sell.

  “MJ, what evidence does Lux claim to have on you?” I ask as I follow her to the kitchen. “Photos, incriminating emails or texts that prove you set up Tragic? Have you actually seen any of the evidence?”

  “No, because it isn’t the kind of evidence you can see.”

  “So it’s invisible evidence?”

  This part of the mystery—whether Lux really has any proof MJ is a snitch—may be easier to solve than I expected.

  “I may not be an Einstein like you, but I’m not stupid either,” MJ says, reading me almost as well as Lana. “I had this friend in juvie. You know how it is—in there you need somebody you can trust to have your back.”

  “Yeah, I actually do know thanks to you,” I say, recalling last summer when MJ’s gang dealings got us both arrested.

  “We weren’t even in there four hours. And I had your back, right?”

  True. MJ saved me from a serious butt-kicking, but it was also her fault I was there in the first place. I nod.

  “Most people need a full crew, but together me and Mya were tough enough to take on just about any gang in there, so we didn’t bother running with a whole gang like most people inside do.”

  I can believe that if Mya was as scary as MJ.

  “Mya was fierce in a fight. I can handle myself in your basic street-fight technique, but this girl knew all that martial art crap, like karate and that Israeli army fighting thing, um . . .”

  “Krav Maga,” I offer to keep the story going.

  “Yeah, that’s it. She moved to the States from Israel when she was a kid, and her father had been in the military over there. He taught her to fight, or at least that was the story she gave me. But now I really know why she was so badass. She was a cop.”

  “You mean a former cop?” I ask, even though I know it doesn’t make sense. No former cop is under eighteen, and even if she was and went bad before her eighteenth birthday, they wouldn’t put her with the general inmates.

  “No, she was in there undercover.”

  “I’ll check with Lana, but I’m pretty sure cops don’t go undercover into gen-pop prison, even in juvenile correction. That would be a death warrant, not to mention even the best undercover cop can’t fool a building full of cons. One or two at a time on the street maybe, but not hundreds of them.”

  “Lana can’t know about any of this, Chanti. You promised.”

  “Okay, okay. So she was in there investigating what exactly?”

  “Lux never said what, but it all makes sense. He ain’t lying about it.”

  MJ puts her plate of nuked tamales on the table next to a big glass of milk. That’s a surprise. I’d expected MJ to pull out some illegally gained beer from the bodega since her boyfriend wouldn’t card her. No, not beer—a forty ounce of malt liquor. I guess even friends can profile.

  “So what did Lux tell you to convince you Mya was a cop even though up until his claim, you had trusted her with your life for two years?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me nothing, I figured it out myself once he pointed out a few coincidences. What the hell?” MJ says, putting down her fork.

  “Huh?”

  “The basement door is open.”

  Oh snap, Chanti.

  “Barely. More liked cracked than open. So what?”

  “So I know it wasn’t open earlier today. I checked.”

  “That happens all the time in the winter. Big Mama does keep it pretty warm in here and you just came in from the cold.”

  “What’s that got to do with the basement door being open?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t closed all the way, and then the convective air flow created when cold air followed you into this really warm house drew the basement door open a crack.”

  I guess science isn’t really MJ’s thing because she’s looking at me like I’m speaking Urdu.

  “Look, I don’t know what all you just said, but that ain’t what happened. Damn if I ain’t ready to hurt somebody. I gotta eighty-six this game right now.”

  All right, it’s finally here—the day MJ Cooper gets so tired of my snooping she gives me the beatdown that ends our friendship. I’m preparing to take a hit when MJ says, “Lux must be breaking into Big Mama’s house when I’m gone. What if Big Mama was here? Uh-uh, I ain’t having it.” She grabs her coat off the hook near the back door.

  “Wait a minute, MJ. Don’t get all crazy,” I say, glad she’s ready to get all crazy on Lux instead of me. “Lux will be over here soon enough. Let’s keep talking this out rationally so we can come up with a plan that doesn’t involve you possibly getting killed.”

  “Ain’t nobody dying in this here situation but Lux.”

  “I believe it, but let’s just keep talking anyway.”

  MJ reluctantly puts her coat back on the hook and returns to her tamales and milk.

  “Okay, so you were talking about these coincidences with Mya. Tell me some of them.”

  “Well, like I said, the girl was damn near lethal in a fight. She knew a lot about the law and was always asking questions.”

  “Except for that lethal-in-a-fight part, you just described me.”

  MJ doesn’t look convinced. “She also followed all the rules and never got in trouble. She was like the guards’ pet. They loved her.”

  “Just because she followed all the rules doesn’t make her a cop. And they loved her because she was a model prisoner.”

  Now I can see the doubt starting to shade MJ’s face.

  “Did you ever tell Lux about Mya—I mean before he arrived with his box and started blackmailing you?”

  “Cons always talk about friends and cellmates, ain’t nothing strange about that. We traded stories last summer, that night when . . . I mean, yeah, I told him. So?”

  “So you gave him all the information he needed to concoct this story that your prison BFF was really an undercover cop who betrayed your every secret about
the Down Homes.”

  “Huh?” MJ says, now looking totally perplexed. It’s true what she said about her not being Einstein, but she’s also not stupid. MJ is, and has been since the day I met her, the most gullible ex-con who ever lived.

  “I’ll bet you everything Lux is storing in your basement that he’s lying about Mya being a cop or you being a snitch. Tragic is in jail for the same reason most crooks are—he eventually got stupid and got caught. No offense.”

  MJ doesn’t seem the least bit offended. She seems relieved. “You really think so?”

  “I really do. I think he just ran that game on you to convince you to hide the box. He needed to put it somewhere safe and you provide the perfect storage unit. He trusts you because he can hold this alleged “dirt” over you, and your commitment to not violating parole means you won’t be letting other Down Homies anywhere near it. Whatever is in that box must be either really valuable or really incriminating,” I say, though I can’t imagine how a box of DVDs could be either.

  “That makes me feel a little better.”

  “We’re going to figure this thing out. We’re also going to catch Lux in his lie so he can leave you alone.”

  “Thanks, Chanti. Now I won’t have to kill Lux for breaking into my grandmother’s house.”

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, I wake to a massive dose of sunshine when Lana comes into my room and opens the blinds. It must be long past seven o’clock for it to be that bright.

  “I overslept,” I say, barely coherent. “I’ll be late for school.”

  “No school—it’s Sunday.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, trying to get my bearings. Nothing like being startled awake to confuse the hell out of me. “Then why are you up so early?”

  “I have to take my friend’s surveillance shift again this morning. But I promised myself I would stop sneaking out of the house before you wake up.”

  Last night was my first good sleep in a while so at first, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Then I remember The Talk last night, and how we haven’t said a word to each other since. When I finally came home from MJ’s house, Lana was in her office. I went straight to my room and closed the door, expecting sleep to take forever to come, but I barely remember my head hitting the pillow.