by Nic Stone
It works…briefly. Just as I hit that spot between wakefulness and the edge of a dream, there’s a loud thump.
I sit up and look around.
Then I hear the yelling.
The voices are muffled so I can’t make out the words, but there are definitely two of them. Another thump; what sounds like glass breaking; a shout; another shout; then a door slams so hard, the walls of my apartment shake.
After a few seconds of silence so loud I wanna cover my ears, there’s a knock on my door, and I stop breathing.
Do I answer? Surely Jessica’s at cheer practice or student council or something…could that be her mom? Who does she even live with?
Another knock.
I take a deep breath and go to the door. Look through the peephole…
Pull back. Puzzled.
“Hey,” Jessica says as I open. She’s got her purse on her shoulder and keys in her hand, but her eyes are super red.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She sniffles. “Not really. You, umm…you busy?”
“No.” I peek over my shoulder at our overworn carpet and dingy furniture. “You wanna come in?”
She shakes her head. “I’m gonna go out.”
“Okay…” So why is she here? Which must be written all over my face because the next thing she says is:
“I want you to come with me.”
“You do?”
“Yes, please. Grab your stuff and meet me at my car?”
I look her over—Nike from head to toe beneath her North Face puffy coat. No idea how she affords that stuff when she lives here, but at any rate, I’m wearing a plaid shirt over a black tank and high-waisted ripped Levi’s from like the eighties—all thrifted—with my secondhand Doc Martens, which are looking particularly grungy. “Should I change?”
“What?” She looks dumbfounded. “Are you kidding? You look perfect. Come on.” And she turns to head down the stairs.
After standing in the doorway, staring out into space for a few seconds, I go back in and scribble a quick note so Mama won’t worry: Went out with a friend. I toss on my trench coat, shove my wallet in my pocket, and step out to lock the door.
Then I jab myself in the palm with my key.
It hurts.
So not dreaming then. Okay. Down the stairs and around the bend to the parking lot I go. Jessica is sitting in the red two-seater Honda that’s rarely here (or so it seems). When I get in, she’s wearing a sweatshirt she didn’t have on before, zipped all the way up to her chin.
Odd.
“Cute car.” I fasten my seat belt.
She snorts. “Thing’s a deathtrap.” She pets the dashboard. “Pepper’s my baby, and I’m thankful for him, but one crash in this thing, and I’m a goner.”
“Ah. Comforting.”
She laughs. Hard. “Are you always this funny?”
“Not sure I’m the right person to ask?”
Now she’s smiling at me. Which makes me feel very warm. And also confused.
As I feel the corners of my own mouth lift, I look away.
“I totally see why Macklin’s into you,” she says.
And then we’re off.
I expect the silence in the car to be heavy, but it’s not. There’s something disarming about Jessica Barlow. Which catches me off guard considering she’s the prototypical hyperpopular high school homecoming queen (literally).
And now my wheels are spinning as fast as the ones on her car. Because why am I here? In the car of a girl I clearly know very little about. Going who the hell knows where. Just like Macklin, she didn’t exactly ask me to come with her. She…beckoned. (Though she did say please, at least.) And I went with it. Is it because she’s pretty and popular and rich-looking? Is it because she’s white?
I’ll admit I’m increasingly curious about her the more we interact—and fine: flattered she “wanted” me to join her—but like what am I actually doing here?
I don’t know how to navigate any of this.
She sticks a cord attached to the face of her radio into her phone, then holds the phone up to her face. “Migos, Rihanna, old-school ’NSYNC, or the Hamilton soundtrack?”
“Mmmm…you pick.”
She taps the screen, and we hang a left out of the complex as Justin Timberlake says, Dirty pop! And then my head is bobbing.
“I love this song,” I say.
“God, yes. Timberlake’s old now, but I’d totally have his babies if I weren’t so bent on having Ness’s. Can you grab the wheel for a sec?”
I do, and she reaches into her purse and pulls out…a shower cap?
Once she’s got all her luscious blond hair tucked into it, she rolls her window down and then reaches across me to pull a pack of Marlboro menthol cigarettes—I recognize the box from restocking them at the Gas ’n’ Go—out of the glove compartment. “You smoke?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Mind if I do?”
“No.” It’s her car, isn’t it?
“I don’t do it often because Ness won’t touch me if he can smell it, but after these fights with my mom I like…need the buzz, you know?”
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
This is almost an out-of-body experience.
“You mind rolling your window down? I’ll crank up the heat so we don’t freeze.”
I do as she asks, and she lights up. Takes a deep puff and blows the smoke out her window.
“She just like…God. You ever have moments when you wonder how you could possibly be your mother’s child?”
I shift in my seat. I’ve never talked to anyone about Mama and our issues, but the truth is, “Yeah. I have.”
“I know raising me by herself has been hard, but I’ve done my part, you know?” she goes on. “I’m a National Merit Finalist and on track to be the goddamn salutatorian. And that’s on top of being cheer captain, class prez, and holding down a part-time job since I turned sixteen.”
“Dang…”
“Right? But it’s like…not enough for her.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“She’s gotten into this thing where she’s always asking me for money. Says I have to start paying rent when I turn eighteen next month,” she says. “We got into it today because she found this bag of clothes I bought at work, and she went off about how I waste too much money on unnecessary things. First of all, it’s my money that I work for, and second, she doesn’t seem to get that I have to wear the brand.”
Her take on money is fascinating to me: I’ve been working a year longer than she has, but I’ve never even considered doing what I want with what I earn. “Where do you work?” I ask.
“Nike.”
Well, at least the apparel makes sense.
“It’s just like…like it’s not my fault she drinks away most of her paycheck, you know? I’m not the cause of her dissatisfaction with how her life has gone, and I hate when she makes me out to be the problem.”
Alcoholism aside, that does sound familiar.
Though why she’s spilling her guts like this, I’m not sure. “I know what you mean,” I say.
We take the left at the YMCA that will lead us past the middle school to the richer part of town. Still no clue where we’re going, but this doesn’t seem like the time to ask.
She takes another deep puff of her cigarette, which is almost down to the orange part. “She’s always yelling at me, and then she wonders why I won’t ‘spend any time’ with her. I can’t even tell you how ready I am to graduate and get the hell outta here.”
“Where are you going?”
Now her whole face lights up. “Ness and I are both headed to UGA. We have to live in the dorms freshman year, but we’re getting our own apartment next summer. I can’t even wait, Rico.”
That…does something to me. And deep down, I know the must be nice thing doesn’t work here—Jessica doesn’t come from any more money than I do. There’s no younger sibling for her to worry about, but that aside, our situations are virtually the same.
Space Camp was one thing, but being around Jess makes me wonder when I stopped dreaming.
Next thing I know, we’re turning into Wellington on the River, and I have an intense flashback of being in fifth grade and new to the area. This subdivision was under construction, and me, Mama, and Jax (who was a toddler at the time) would drive through and explore the houses as they were still being built. Mama would relay to me what furniture she would put where, and I would close my eyes and imagine it.
Back then, I actually believed there was a chance we’d eventually live in a massive house like the ones we’re passing.
Now, though?
I wipe my eyes quick before Jessica can see me crying.
We pull into the driveway of a gorgeous cream-colored brick house. Jessica, as she just insisted I call her, takes off the shower cap and sweatshirt before using the visor mirror to reapply her lip gloss. She pulls a little bottle of perfume out of her purse and spritzes a little on each wrist, and then rubs it behind her ears. “Do I smell like smoke?” she asks, sticking her swan neck in my face.
I sniff. She smells like magic. Mermaid sweat with a splash of bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. It’s unfair, really. “You smell great.”
“Good.”
We get out, and when we reach the front door, she isolates a key on her ring and slips it into the dead bolt. When she pushes the door open, I almost pass out.
This house is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
The entryway has a soaring ceiling, adorned with what I’m guessing is a crystal chandelier, based on the prisms that appear when light hits the delicate pieces. The hardwood floors are spotless, the open room to the right features a huge fireplace and a stunning grand piano, and there’s jazz music floating through the air like it’s leaking from the walls.
Wherever we are, I instantly feel unworthy of being here.
Whose house is this, and why does Jess have a key?
A vaguely familiar brown-skinned girl appears at the top of the staircase. “Oh joy,” she says, wrinkling her nose at Jess. “It’s you.”
“Hi, Sincere! You look pretty today!”
“Whatever.” The girl rolls her eyes and disappears.
“Sincere’s not a huge fan of my whiteness,” Jess says. “Coat?” I pass it to her, and she deposits it into a closet. “Follow me.”
We walk down a short hallway into a spotless kitchen. There’s a beautiful black woman standing over the sink washing what look like collard greens.
“Hey, Mama,” Jess says, going over and kissing the woman on the cheek.
The woman smiles. “Hey, baby girl!”
Then, “Jessie!” comes a thunderclap voice from behind us. I look over my shoulder as a tall, dark-skinned man steps into the room with his arms spread. “Get over here and gimme my hug, girl!”
As she complies, Jess says, “Parents, this is my good friend, Rico.”
Good friend?
“Oh ho! Surname Danger, correct? We’ve heard about you, Miss Rico.” The man spreads his arms in my direction, and I’m drawn into them by some strange gravity. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance! You’re more stunning than Alexander described! I’m Barry, and that’s Cresida,” he goes on. “You make yourself at home, all right?”
This is getting weird, but I force a smile. “Thank you.”
“Are the guys downstairs?” Jess asks.
Cresida snorts. “Where else would they be?”
“I’ll make sure he comes up to say good night,” Jess says.
Barry gives Jess another squeeze. “Don’t know what we’d do without ya, kid. You ladies have a nice evening, and tell those numbskulls we’ll order some pizzas.”
“Will do.” Jess grabs my hand and pulls me toward a closed door.
“It was nice to meet you!” I call out over my shoulder.
As we descend the stairs, I’m more confused than ever. “Jess, sorry if this seems like a dumb question, but who are those people?”
She laughs. “If you really don’t know, you’ll figure it out in about three seconds.”
And she’s right. Because as we step into the open space of the basement, who’s on the couch watching the largest, sharpest, highest-definition TV I’ve ever seen but *Alexander* Macklin and Finesse Montgomery.
Now I feel like a dumbass.
Doesn’t last long: when Mack-Daddy Zan sees me, his mouth drops and he shoots to his feet. Looks at Finesse. “Did you know—?”
“Nope.”
Focus shifts to Jessica, who blows him a kiss before she starts making goo-goo eyes at Finesse.
It’s a few looooooong seconds before Zan finally turns his attention to me, but when he does? “RICO!” And he rushes over and scoops me up in what I can only describe as The Hug. Snatches the breath right out of me.
Once I’m back on the ground, he holds me by the shoulders and basically eats every inch of my face with his gaze.
Wildly uncomfortable, I turn to Jess hoping for help.
But Jess has entered the zone. She’s locked in on Finesse like he’ll disappear if she looks away.
Zan is still staring at me.
This is all a bit much.
Jess takes Ness’s hand and pulls him up and toward a dark room at the opposite end of the basement. He wiggles his eyebrows at us in passing, and once they’re in with the door closing, a light goes on, and then there’s music playing.
Feeling a little awkward now. (Which is definitely a step up from like a filthy blight on the pristine Montgomery home…but still.)
Zan sits back down, so I follow suit. The leather couch is so deep that if I sit all the way back, my feet won’t touch the floor. I look over my shoulder at the door, then at Zan (who’s still staring at me with a goofy smile on his admittedly glorious-in-this-moment face). “Are they, uhh—”
“Yep.”
“But Finesse’s parents are—”
“Yep.”
“Ah.”
He laughs. “I’m glad you’re here so I’m not alone this time.”
Oh. “So this is a frequent—”
“Yep.”
“Okay then.”
He smiles, and we lapse into silence, but he doesn’t stop glancing over at me.
It’s strange: now that I’m in it, I think this is totally what I’ve secretly wanted—being a normal teenager with friends that I hang out with in basements on Saturday nights—but it’s so much new, unexpected stuff at once, none of it feels real.
It makes me wonder what Wally Winkle felt when he realized he was holding over a hundred million bucks on a little slip of paper. Surely that was the fulfillment of one of his deepest longings…but it had to be surreal.
What about when he bought his house(s)? Car(s)? Not that I know his background, but at what point would a person who’s only ever scraped by get used to having way more than they need?
“You should come closer,” Zan says, knocking me out of my ponderings.
I lift an eyebrow and cross my arms.
He laughs again. “You have my word that I won’t disrespect you.”
I scoot closer, but just barely. There’s still a good two feet of space between us.
In truth, it’s not him I’m worried about. Just dropped back into the feeling that me and my rags don’t belong on this side of town, let alone inside this house on this immaculate piece of furniture with the illustrious Zan Macklin.
“Aww, come on, Danger.” He grabs my arm and leg and literally pulls me over to him. Once his arm is draped across the back of the couch, my right side is completely flush against
his left.
Father in heaven.
“It’s chilly down here, you know?” he says. “Gotta sit close so we stay warm.”
I shake my head. “Macklin, you are so utterly full of shit.”
“Fine, I’ll admit it: I missed you, buddy!”
“You just saw me yesterday.”
“But that was like…an eon ago.”
“You’re ridiculous.” And I want to run far, far away right now. I cross my arms and take what I hope is a hidden deep breath.
I can still feel him goggling at me, so I peek up. He smiles in a way that makes me feel like I’m on a roller-coaster drop, and I gulp.
“So how you been these past nineteen-ish hours?” he says right into my face.
Ah-ha. “Have you been drinking, sir?”
“Naaaaahhh.” He looks at the TV.
I poke him in the side, and he giggles like a preschooler. “All right, all right,” he says. “Maybe a little.”
Well, that sure explains a lot. And knocks some of the shine off, thank God.
“Just so you know, even if I weren’t tipsy, I’d be glad you’re here.”
“Okay, Zan.” But why am I so disappointed?
“I mean it, Danger.” He drops his arm onto my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “You really have become a bright spot for me. I’m over here a lot because home can get lonely, but you being here is making my little haven into a paradise.” He shuts his eyes and smiles.
I stare at my knees. Kinda wish he wouldn’t say these types of things. Especially right now when I’m like overstimulated and drowning in confusion.
And he smells really good.
I think he can tell I’m uncomfortable because he “stretches” and moves his arm away. “So we goin’ ta chuch tomorrow?” he says. “Halleluuuuujah, praise tha Lawd!”
I shake my head but chuckle. “You’re such a clown.”
“And you’re gorgeous” is his reply.
Nope! “Alrighty, I think that’s enough tipsy sweet talk for the day.” I pat his knee and put a good yard of space between us.
Then I grab the remote, raise the volume of the soccer game on the TV, and pray to the God whose house we’re supposedly going to tomorrow (ticket, Rico…the ticket) that Jess comes out soon so we can leave.
