by Nic Stone
He clears his throat. “You didn’t wait for me after school.”
Why does he sound wounded? And why is it infuriating me and making me want to hug him back to happiness simultaneously?
What is happening?!
“What’s the number on that mailbox?” he says like he didn’t just turn the air in the Jeep to emotional soup. We’ve pulled to a stop and he points to the house on the corner of the adjacent street. It’s one story and buttercup yellow with white shutters, and there’s a FOR LEASE sign with the name of a realty company sticking out of the immaculate front lawn.
“Looks like…” I squint. “Twenty-seven twenty-one.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s the house linked to the PO box,” he says.
“Oh.”
During our brief moment of unintentional silence, the soupy air solidifies into something much heavier. I know he and I are thinking the same thing in this moment—if this is really Ethel Streeter’s house, and it’s for lease…
I mean, she was pretty old.
But what if she just like…retired to Florida or moved into one of those swingin’ senior communities or something? It says for lease, not for sale, which means someone wants to maintain ownership of this place even if someone else is living in it.
Right?
“I’m gonna pull up a little closer so we can get the number off the sign,” Zan says.
And now I sigh.
Which melts the smile right off Zan’s face. “You okay?”
What do I tell him? That every curveball in this “quest” makes me wanna quit for the sake of avoiding more disappointment? That my family is going to be one hundred and eight dollars in the red on March 1 unless I manage to pick up twelve extra hours over the next three days? That I should’ve grabbed an extra shift today instead of coming here?
Do I tell him I feel like I currently owe him way more than I could repay in any near future?
Do I tell him I’m not even comfortable sitting next to him right now?
And yet I don’t want to move.
All I know for sure: I can’t go back.
“Get a little closer,” I say. “I can’t quite see it from here.”
A ginormous smile erupts up into Zan’s cheeks. “Rico?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Okay…”
He takes my hand and fixes me in that green-eyed stare.
“I really like you,” he says.
I really am Ethel Streeter’s house, by the way. She moved outta me and in with her son Bartholomew just a few weeks ago.
It’s been lonely as all get-out without her here. And they recently “redeveloped” the area—you should see the monstrosity they tossed up next door mere months ago—so the black folk who have populated this neighborhood for as long as I can remember can’t (or maybe won’t) pay the exorbitant rent price Ethel’s financial advisor suggested so she’d be “competing with the surrounding renovated homes also listed for lease.”
Guessing I’ll be occupied by some strange white people like the ones I see jogging with their mini-dogs in strollers soon.
Oh, and just so you’re aware—Rico’s currently thinking about this as we speak—that thing she’s looking for? It’s not anywhere inside me.
I really like you too, Zan.
I still cannot believe I said that. Out loud.
Now it’s Friday and I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror feeling like a friggin’ idiot because I just poked myself in the eye with a mascara wand. And there are dark tears running down my cheeks.
Looks like I’m weeping dirt. Rico Reneé Danger, Goddess of Filth—
“Rico?” Mama opens the door.
Too late for me to splash water on my face to get rid of the mess, but you know what? That’s fine. She should see the results of her failure to teach me these things, dammit.
“Hon—whoa,” she says. There’s a mocking glint in her eye. “Struggling a bit?”
“Not helping.”
She looks me over. My hair is curled, and I’m wearing a low-back houndstooth pencil dress I stole from her closet with tastefully ripped black tights. Haven’t decided on shoes yet, but no matter.
“So I just got called into work for a few hours,” she says.
“Okay…”
She sighs. “Señora Alvarez can’t babysit.”
According to the watch staring up at me from beside the sink, Zan is gonna be here to pick me up in precisely twenty-one minutes.
This is not happening.
“You’re telling me this now?”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Unless your little date is planning to pay our rent, I suggest you readjust your priorities,” she snips.
“It’s not a date. We’re just going to a movi—”
“Great! You can take your brother with you then.”
Is she for real?! “But, Mama—”
“Either that or call it off.” She looks at her watch. “I have to go.”
And then she’s gone.
I shut the door and turn back to the mirror. Things have been decent between us of late—except on the topic of money and/or the means of acquiring it. The tears are flowing with verve now, which just makes me feel stupid and babyish. “Told you this was a dumb idea,” I say to my reflection. “And look at you now. Idiot.”
I did get a sinking feeling in my gut when, after acknowledging our mutual really-like for each other on Monday, Zan asked if I wanted to “hang out in a non-quest-or-transportation-related capacity.” I said yes before I could stop myself, but here we are, now nineteen minutes before the commencement of our Plan, and everything’s falling apart.
Story of my life.
I turn on the water and am prepping to wash my face—hope Zan’s not too upset about the cancellation; I can give him a real reason this time at least—when the door opens again, and Mama reenters and shuts it behind her.
I grab a piece of distinctly not-Macklin toilet paper and wipe my face so she won’t see that I’m crying.
After setting her purse on the counter and draping something black over the shower curtain rod, she spins me around, grabs me by the shoulders, and pushes me down onto the toilet lid.
Okay…
Her brows tug down and she takes my chin. Turns it left and right to examine my face, then bores holes in my pupils. “Close your eyes,” she says.
And I do. Got no fight left in me.
I keep them shut over the next however many minutes as my face is wiped, poked, tweezed (ow!), dabbed with this, and dusted with that. I’m told to lift my chin, look up, look down, suck my cheeks in, bat my lashes, pucker, and smile. Then my hair is yanked and pulled and pinned.
Then: “Open.”
A smile cracks her struggle-crusted face, and she nods once, returns all the brushes, tubes, and containers to her purse, grabs the thing from the curtain rod, unfolds it, and stretches it out to me.
It’s a jacket. Deliciously worn black leather with various zippers, pockets, patches, and buttons.
“Is this your motorcycle jacket?”
Her gaze drops.
Back when Mama first started college, she owned a Harley-Davidson her dad had given her, and was in an all-female biker crew called the Brazen Bitches. When I was small, she used to strut around in the jacket and (playfully?) lament the fact that she’d had to stop riding when I was born.
When my grandpa died, she got rid of the bike and the paraphernalia.
Or so I thought.
I take it, awe surely evident in my open mouth and raised brows, and she looks me over from head to toe and says, “Doc Martens.” Then she grabs her purse and turns to leave again.
Few seconds later, I hear “Bye, Jaxy-Baby!” and
then the front door shuts.
I look down at the jacket in my hands.
Almost start crying again, but then remember there’s makeup all over my face now. Makeup I haven’t seen yet.
I turn around to face the mirror.
And almost fall down.
I’ve always been blown away by people who can put on a crap-ton of makeup for the sake of making it look like they’re not wearing any. That’s exactly what Mama did to me. I know the stuff is there because I can feel it, but the effects are very subtle: my cheekbones are a little more defined, the fullness of my lips is well balanced with the rest of my face, my brows are super neat, and my eyes look a little bigger and brighter. She even managed to play up my different-colored eyeballs. Even I think they look pretty cool right now. Combined with the hair she wrangled into this crown-looking thing? I feel beautiful.
For maybe the first time ever?
And now I’m…befuddled. Especially when it hits me again that I’m holding Mama’s jacket. Like how did she go from popping on me about “priorities” to doing my makeup and completing my outfit?
I slip the jacket on—
And then I hear, “She’s in here,” and Jax rounds the corner with Zan in tow.
“WAIT!” I slam the bathroom door.
“Well, that was rude,” Jax yells.
UGHHHH! “I’ll be out in just a minute! Can you, umm…wait in the living room?”
“Rico, you’ve been in there for two hours.”
I’m gonna kill him.
“You can’t put a time limit on beauty, my man,” from Zan. “Come on. I’ll whup you in a couple rounds of 2K on the Xbox while we wait.”
Right. Because all those electronics Zan brought over here when Jax was sick last week? The kid got to keep them.
I shake my head and try to refocus.
I peek out into the bedroom. They’re gone.
“C’mon, Rico, you can do this. Obviously can’t cancel now, so woman the frick up!”
(This is gonna be a disaster, I just know it.)
Into the closet. Boots.
One last look in the mirror…
Okay, can’t lie, I look like a total badass.
When I step out of the bedroom, the boys’ heads turn in tandem. Zan’s caterpillar brows (he does, in fact, get them threaded, according to Jess) sideways-crawl up to his hairline, but Jax is the one who speaks: “Well, hot damn, sister.”
“Jax!”
He throws his hands up. “It’s the only appropriate response!”
Zan still hasn’t said a word.
He and I lock eyes, and it hits me just how much I want him to like how I look. Not sure I like the feeling.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s what’s been bothering me about this whole thing. This sense that I’m not only allowing myself to get distracted from what matters most (a-hunnit-and-six MIL) but also like…losing control of myself AND setting myself up for the kind of disappointment that can utterly decimate a person. That I’m deliberately handing another human being the power to destroy me if they’re (he’s) so inclined.
That I’m changing—caring more, putting forth more effort…
Wanting.
In truth, I’ve never really liked anyone before. For one, I’ve never believed anyone in this rich-ass town could be remotely interested in me; and for two, the only example I’ve ever had of a “person in love” is Mama. We see where all that emotion ’n’ devotion got her (get it? Emotion ‘N’ Devotion = END).
So I’ve kept myself locked down.
But now?
Please say something, Macklin….
He does: “You, umm…” He clears his throat and looks away. “You ready to go?”
And there it is.
My chin drops…maybe if I look closely enough at the floor, I’ll be able to see that heart of mine dissolving into our matted excuse for carpet.
“Oh. Guess I am.” Could I sound any more pathetic? “Jax has to come with us, by the way. Hope that’s okay.”
And if it isn’t, door’s right there, bucko. Feel free to let yourself out.
Jax huffs and rolls his eyes. “I told him already.” He turns off the game and television, then comes over and stands in front of me. “Can we go now, please, Rico?”
That’s when it hits me: I’ll have to pay for his movie ticket. I set aside a little money from this week’s paycheck so I could pay for myself, but it’s not enough for Jax too.
See? Disaster.
Zan comes over and holds his keys out to Jax. “How ’bout you go on out to the Jeep and get it warmed up for us, little dude? You can even sit in the driver’s seat.”
“Cooooool!” Jax takes the keys and rushes out the door.
Which leaves me alone with Zan-the-(clearly unimpressed)-Man.
I reach to tuck my hair behind my ear, remember Mama doing it, and instantly feel like the world’s biggest jackass. Stupid boots and tights and dress and jacket and makeup and hair.
“You might wanna go on out…not sure letting Jax start your truck is a good idea.”
“Ah, he won’t be able to start it at all.” And then he’s stepping closer. “Won’t crank unless the clutch pedal is down.”
Oh.
“Just didn’t want the kid to hear me say how incredible you look.”
Well then. I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
While I stand there blushing and surely emitting the fragrance of girl-scared-witless like some freshly unfolded tulip, Zan looks me over from head to toe. Reeeeeeeally slowly.
Am I even wearing clothes right now, because it certainly does not feel like it, goodness.
His eyes finally reconnect with mine and he smiles as he raises my hand to his lips.
I have nothing at all to say.
* * *
—
No clue what movie we saw because the only thing I was conscious of during the entire one hundred and seventeen minutes was Zan Macklin’s bare forearm against mine on our shared armrest.
Afterward wasn’t much better: Zan insisted on buying Jax and me loaded sundaes from the adjacent gourmet ice cream shop—this was after he insisted on paying for our movie tickets and the extra-large popcorn and box of Tropical DOTS Jax wanted—and the whole time we were there, all I could focus on was his interaction with Jax. Whether or not I wind up “falling in love” (whatever that means) with the guy, it’s obvious the baby brother I love more than my own life already has.
And it’s clearly mutual. Zan looks at Jaxy like he designed the solar system.
None of this is helping.
Now we’re pulling into the space next to Mama’s truck in front of the apartment, and I really don’t want him to leave. I try to sneak a peek at him, but he’s already staring at me.
We both smile.
How did I get here? From running to hide when he came into the store to goo-goo eyes in the front seat of the Tonka? That’s not to mention the road trips and random people and visits to strange houses we—
OH!
“Oh my gosh, I almo—”
“I need to ask you something,” he says at the exact same time.
We both blush and look away.
Absurd.
“You first,” he says.
I look over my shoulder at Jax, who is passed out in the backseat.
“Mmmm…I should probably get him into the house. You mind waiting a few minutes? I’ll come right back out.”
Zan snorts. Kills the ignition. “You really think I’m gonna let your gorgeous self carry that sack of potatoes?”
Before I can object, he’s out of the car, opening the back door, and carefully extracting my brother from his Jeeply den of slumber.
Unfortunately, when we reach the apartment, and I get the deadbolt unlocked,
I try to turn the knob and discover that it’s locked too. And there’s no keyhole for the knob-lock on the outside.
So I’ll have to knock.
Which, unless I can convince him to give me Jax and head back to the Jeep (unlikely, though I certainly intend to try), means Stacia Danger is about to meet Alexander Macklin.
“I can handle it from here if you want to head back to the car. My mom’s gonna have to come open the door since it’s locked from the inside.”
“Awesome!” He shifts Jax to his shoulder and knocks.
**Minor freak-out**
Mama opens the door, leans into the jamb, and crosses her arms. “So you’re him, huh?”
Oh God.
“You didn’t tell me he was a white boy, Rico.”
OH. GOD. “Mama!”
“Alexander Macklin, ma’am.” He extends a hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Her eyebrows furrow and she turns to me. “Did he just say Macklin? As in Macklin Ente—”
“Yep. Can we bring Jax in?”
“Certainly explains the new toys—”
“I need to talk to Alexander alone for a minute.”
Mama eyeballs the bejesus out of Zan, and his face creeps crimson. He’d left before she got home on the day he came to hang out with Jax post–doctor house call, and while Mama knew that the prescription came from “my friend Zan’s sister-in-law,” I never mentioned his last name.
This is exactly why.
“Here, give the kid to me,” she says.
He does.
“You have until midnight, Rico.” Looks back at Zan. “Mr. Macklin, it was nice to meet you.” Why does everybody Mister him? “Thank you for…” She looks him up and down and forces a smile. “Everything.”
The door shuts.
“Okay then…,” Zan says.
“Don’t mind her. Back to the car?”
“Sure.”
We go. He helps me in as usual, and once his door is closed, he turns to me. “I had a really nice time tonight, Danger.”
I smile. Sigh. “Me too, Zanny Zan.”
“What’d you want to tell me?”
“Oh.” See? Almost forgot again. It’s that damn cologne, I swear. “I called the leasing agency for the house.”
