by Nic Stone
“Jess, can I ask you something”—*look left, look right*—“in confidence?”
“Of course.”
“Do you ever feel…strange around Finesse or your other friends?”
She starts nibbling at her thumbnail. “Depends on what you mean by strange.”
“Like…out of place?”
Our eyes meet, and she smiles. “All the time, Rico.”
Just then, the funk of middle-school boy surges forward like a cloud of teargas. Jess barely steps aside in time to avoid being knocked over. I ring them up—holding my breath the whole time; $23.64 in soda and junk food—and the boy who can’t take his eyes off Jess passes me a credit card.
Figures.
“I’ll buy you a Sprite next time, beautiful.” He winks at Jess as they grab their bags from the counter and turn to leave.
“Go get your Pull-Up changed, twerp!”
I laugh as the door shuts behind them.
“What was I saying?” she asks.
“Feeling out of place?”
“Ah, yes. That. So Ness and I have been together for a year and a half, right?”
News to me, but okay. “Yeah…”
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Ask me how many times he’s been inside my apartment.”
“How many times has he—”
“Once. He’s only talked to Mom twice, and one of those was over the phone.”
Well dang. “Wow.”
“Right. Side note, I’ve never shared any of this with anybody besides him. If it gets out, I will come after you.”
I chuckle. “Duly noted.”
“So when I first made the cheerleading squad in ninth grade, I got thrust into this mostly white, upper-middle-class wonderland. All the other girls had two parents and lived in nice houses with canopy beds and shit. Me? I wound up in therapy and on antianxiety meds.”
Whoa. “Okay.”
“As a little kid, anytime I would complain about anything, my mom would bring up ‘the starving children in Africa,’ so I wound up feeling shitty about not having as much as everyone else, and then on top of that, feeling guilty for feeling shitty.”
My gaze drops to the counter as she basically reads my own life aloud to me.
“Halfway through freshman year, Micah—you know Micah Holloway? Tall, Blasian—”
“Physically perfect and filthy rich?” I say.
“Her feet are the stuff of nightmares, but don’t tell anybody I told you that.”
I laugh so hard, I almost choke.
“Anyway, she was supposed to come sleep over at the apartment we were living in then. The night before, I had a full-blown panic attack. Started seeing a shrink the next week. Still do a couple times a month now.”
“But doesn’t that get expensive?” I don’t mean to say that aloud, but there it is.
Why does she look like I just asked if the sky was made of cupcakes? “It’s covered by Medicaid.”
“Oh.”
Never woulda guessed Jessica Barlow was on public assistance.
I watch her realization dawn. “Wait…your fam doesn’t get it?”
I shake my head.
“SNAP, either?”
“SNAP?”
She pulls a credit-looking card with a leafy background and a giant peach on the front from her purse. “To help cover food?”
Ah. “Nope,” I say.
“Wow, you must be way better off than we are.”
I open my mouth to tell her Mama won’t apply, but the door chimes again just as Mr. Z steps out of the office. “Rico, there is a call for you.”
“Umm…” Uh-oh…I’ve never gotten a call at work before. “Do you know who it is?”
He shakes his head. “They didn’t say. I’ll cover the floor while you take it, but make it quick.”
My vision blurs.
“Whoa, Rico. You okay?” I feel a hand on my arm, and Jess comes back into focus.
“Sorry, I, uhh…” I look at the gaping door that feels like a step toward my doom. “I need to take this call.”
“Sure thing. I’ll grab a Gatorade or something so it doesn’t look like I’m loitering.” As she walks off, I slip into the office, trying not to hyperventilate.
Pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Agent Danger, this is Command.”
Zan.
“I hate you,” I say.
“Well, that’s overly harsh. What’d I ever do to you?”
“I never get calls at work! I thought somebody died or something!”
He laughs. “Sorry. You won’t give me your cell number, so this is the only place I knew I could catch you.”
“Oh.” Why am I light-headed? And sweating?
“I have news!” he says.
“You mean you’re not calling to hear my voice? For shame.”
Omg, I did NOT just say that….
“Are you flirting with me, Danger?”
“Pfffft. No.” Yes.
I can almost hear the mischief in his smile. “Liar.”
“You gotta work on that egomania, Macklin.”
“Oh hush, you.”
I roll my eyes and smile. “So what’s the news? I’m on the clock.”
“I found Ms. Maybelle!”
“Ms. who?”
“Good God, what am I gonna do with you?”
“How ’bout tell me what you’re talking about so I can get back to work?”
“Ms. Maybelle. The visitor coordinator from Victorious Faith?”
Oh! “Ah, yes. Her.”
“I swear I care more about this quest than you do.”
Mmmmm…“I’ve got a lot on my mind, all right?” Mostly you.
“When are you off?”
“Ten.”
“Not today, goof. I mean what day this week.”
Oh. “Thursday.”
“Field triiiiiiip!”
“Nerd.”
“You love it.”
I roll my eyes again even though A) he can’t see me, and B) fine, I kinda do. “You should really get over yourself.”
He laughs.
Mr. Z sticks his head in and holds up two fingers. Guess I have two minutes?
“You know, you really could’ve told me this at school tomorrow,” I say.
“Ah, I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Roller-coaster drop. “You flirting with me, Macklin?”
“You bet your beautiful ass I am.”
“Don’t look at my ass.”
“Oh, it’s much too late for that, Danger. I’ll be there to take you home at ten tonight. That okay?”
“Was that your way of asking?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Hmph. “Try again.”
“Rico, may I pick you up from work tonight, please?”
“Yes. You may.”
“Excellent. Later, gator.”
I hang up.
And stare at the phone.
Bite my lip and shake my head.
It’s official: I’m distracted.
This is going to be a disaster.
“So here’s the deal,” Zan says as we pull into the driveway of a mint-green Victorian house the following Thursday. The sign on the mailbox reads THE REVEREND’S ROOST: CIRCA 1907. “Ms. Maybelle’s grandfather-in-law built this house. It’s part of the annual Historic Homes tour, and she agreed to let us visit because she thinks we’re doing a school project on the history of Norcross.”
“Got it.”
“You ask her a few questions about her life and the house, then I’ll bring up Victorious Faith and our mystery woman. If she remembers her, great! Hopefully we can get a name. If not—”
“We’re shit out of luck an
d our quest is over.” You’ll stop talking to me, and I’ll go back to my miserable, meaningless life.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look in my direction.
Which is…whatever. “All right, let’s do this.” I remove my seat belt and reach for the door handle.
“Wait.” A set of fingertips grabs my elbow.
Whew, tingles. “What?”
“For one: let me get the door for you, please.” He smiles.
It gives me a shiver. “And for two?”
“For two: in case this is the end, know it’s been my highest pleasure questing with you, Danger.”
Great. Confirmation that this could be the end. “Whatever.” I go to open the door again.
“Wait, there’s a for three!”
“Macklin!”
“Sorry, it’s important.”
Stab, stab, stab with my eyes.
“Just so you know,” he goes on, “she thinks our names are Gustavo and Reneé.”
* * *
—
Maybelle Carver is the second-cutest old lady I’ve ever seen. She answers the door in a nylon jogging suit (bright pink) with purple dumbbells in hand, and her shoulder-length silver hair is held off her face with a matching sweatband.
She beams when she sees us. “Well, helloooooo!” she says. “Gustavo and Reneé, I presume? Do come in, do come in!”
We do.
“Lucinda!” she hollers over her shoulder. “We have guests!”
A lady appears from who knows where. Jeans, T-shirt, sneakers. She smiles at us. “Coats?” she says, extending her hand, and we pass them to her before she disappears around a corner to the right.
I take in the foyer (that’s what these areas just inside the front door of a big-ass house are called, right?), and though everything looks sort of antique and unassuming, I bet my britches this lady could bathe in hundred-dollar bills. She claps and bounces on the toes of her white Reebok Classic high-tops, then busts a spin move and heads down a hallway to the left of a curved staircase.
Zan and I exchange a Look.
“Down here in the drawing room!” Maybelle chirps. Her pink-crowned head pokes out of an open doorway down on the left.
Along the walls are pictures that progress in age: from monotone photos of jolly-jowled white men, to a sepia photo of a couple in wedding garb, to a series of Polaroids spread across four frames, to what look like modern-day photos of three different white families with children. The hardwood floors creak and groan, and the air smells of dust and lemon furniture polish, but it just adds to the old money feel of the place.
The drawing room (snort) is jammed with gorgeous furniture that looks like it would fetch a fortune on eBay. There are a couple of winged-looking chairs, a long velvet couch, and a fancy-shmancy chaise lounger thing all arranged around a squat coffee table with bowed legs in the center of a massive rug—surely Persian or some such. There’s an ornately framed mirror hanging over the mantel and a brilliant blaze roaring in the fireplace.
“Come, come,” Maybelle says from one of the chairs. “Lucinda made tea and a sampling of cookies.”
This is an understatement. There are three pots of tea and six varieties of home-baked cookies on the table. Zan and I take seats on the couch, then he pours each of us a cup and proceeds to pile a plate with cookies and offer it to me. “So Ms. Carver—”
“We can dispense with the formalities, dear.” She winks. “Maybelle is fine.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly call you by your first name, ma’am. My father would have my head.”
“A gentleman, eh?” Maybelle looks at me. “What a lucky girl you are! You know, it’s wonderful to see you kids mixing things up these days!”
Zan coughs beside me. “Oh, we’re not—”
“I had a liaison between my first and second marriage,” she goes on. “Lionel was his name, and he was a black man. This was all before I found the Lord, mind you, but that Lionel really knew his way around a lady, if you catch my drift.”
Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Abraham.
“There was also Eduardo.” She looks at Zan. “When you said your name was Gustavo, I expected you to look like him. Anyhow, he taught me a thing or two about haciendo el amor.”
Zan clears his throat, and I’m glad because I’m on the verge of spitting out my tea. “Sounds like you’ve had a fascinating life,” he says.
“Oh yes. Very blessed! Now what may I do for you interracial lovebirds?”
Can I leave? I’d really like to leave now.
“Well, as I mentioned during our phone chat, Ms. Carver, Reneé and I are doing a project on the history of Norcross,” Zan says. “I understand your late husband’s grandfather was the first mayor?”
She nods once. “My first husband’s grandfather, but yes. Yes, he was.”
She even talks like a person who’s never had a financial care in the world.
“Got it. And the first town hall was here in this house?”
She smiles and looks around the room. “Correct. As a matter of fact, you’re sitting in the room where the city was named.”
Okay, that’s actually pretty cool.
“How long have you lived here?” Zan says.
“In the town? My whole life!” she replies. “I’ve ventured away here and there, but there’s no staying gone. My friends and family are here, my church is here—”
“What church do you go to?” I blurt.
Zan pinches his lips together, but come on. Opportunity much?
“I’ve been a member of Victorious Faith Chapel since its inception fifteen years ago.”
“Oh wow! You must be pretty plugged in there!”
I see Zan’s jaw clench now, but (thankfully) Maybelle laughs. “You happen to be looking at the director of guest services!”
“Really?!” Okay, maybe laying it on a little thick now, Rico…
Maybelle doesn’t seem to notice my theatrics. Just points to a massive wooden chest in a corner of the room. “The drawers of that cabinet contain visitor cards for the past three years,” she says. “Not to toot my own horn, but since I took over, the guest-to-member conversion rate has increased eighteen percent.” She smiles demurely and bats her eyelashes.
I gasp. “Za—I mean, Gustavo, this is fate!”
Zan is smiling, but I can tell he’s not breathing.
“What do you mean, dear?” Maybelle says.
“Well…I work at a—consignment shop, and a lady brought in a bag of clothes the day before Christmas Eve. I found a…a brooch as I was sorting the clothes.”
Zan sips his tea.
“The owner of the shop is also a jeweler, and when I showed it to him, he said it’s probably worth a fortune. I know I’d be devastated if I lost such a treasure, so I’ve been trying to find the lady ever since.”
“Oh my.” Maybelle puts a hand over her heart, intensely moved, it seems.
“I remember asking about her Christmas plans, and she said she was going to visit your church for the Christmas Eve service…she’d never been before.”
“Perhaps I met her then!” Maybelle says. “There were sixty-two guests who filled out cards that night….Do you have her name?”
Zan looks at me with his eyes all alight.
“I never got her name, but I have a picture of her on me. I’ve been carrying it everywhere.” I stand and pat my pockets, hoping Macklin takes a frickin’ hint.
“I have it, actually,” Zan says (thank God, who, if he’s real, will likely smite us for all these lies we’re telling). He shifts to pull the picture out of his back pocket and passes it to me. “You dropped it in the hallway.”
“She was a tiny older black lady with little white Afro.” I unfold the picture and pass it to Maybelle.
She furrows her brow, turns the pho
to to the right, and cocks her head to the left.
Then she smiles. “Christmas Eve, you say?”
“Yes.”
Maybelle nods. “This is Ethel.”
I look at Zan…who’s already looking at me. “Ethel?” we say simultaneously.
“That’s her name. I remember her quite clearly. The light-up sweater she had on was a little tacky, but she came up at the end of the service for prayer and I walked her out.”
This rich old white lady would hate on Ethel’s sweater.
Maybelle sighs and shakes her head then.
My mouth goes dry. “What’s the matter?”
“She’s one of the ones who got away,” she says. “We tried to contact her but never got a response.”
Uh-oh. “Do you think she, umm…?” Based on the lack of color in Zan’s face, I’d say he knows what I’m about to ask. “Do you think she passed?”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Maybelle flicks the thought away. (Whew!) “We were probably just a bit too hip for her tastes. Women like Ethel tend to grow up Baptist, Holiness Pentecostal, or AME. Very traditional worship-wise—hymns and old Negro spirituals, that type of thing—and they rarely stray from the King James Version. You two familiar with the Gospel of Jesus Christ?”
Oh boy, here we go….
“We’re Catholic, ma’am,” Zan says.
Maybelle fights so hard to hide her displeasure, I almost bust out laughing. “Oh” is all she says.
The air in the room goes a little sour, so I decide to just take the plunge. “Do you think you could give me Ethel’s contact information? I’d really like to get her bracelet bac—”
“I thought you said brooch?”
And shit.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. Her brooch. Her…elephant brooch.”
She eyes me for a few seconds, then sighs. “Unfortunately, it’s against the VFC Code of Ethics to give out anyone’s contact information without their express permission. If you’d like to leave your phone number, I can make an attempt at contacting her myself, but as I mentioned, no one was able to get ahold of her after her visit.”
And scene.
She looks at her watch. “If the two of you would like a tour of the house for your project, now would be the time. I’ll need to have my bath soon.”
“That sounds like a fabulous idea, Ms. Carver,” Zander says. “Thank you for offering.”
