by Sheela Chari
“I should check on her,” Ana said, and followed her out.
By then, Mr. Clay said we had to leave because the next class was coming in. So I headed out, too. At my locker, I tossed the King Kong textbook inside where it could stay all day, and shut the door with a bang. And that’s when I remembered the black book.
Ana came up to my locker. “Are you okay? You ran out like you were about to puke.”
I set the American Studies book carefully on the middle shelf inside my locker.
“What? I’m fine.” I paused. “I just don’t like Kai.”
“She is kind of nosy,” Ana agreed. “But your neighbor is soooo nice. Yesterday he sat next to me in Spanish class, and we tried to write notes to each other in Spanish.”
I swallowed. “Oh, yeah?” I tried to sound interested as I looked into the recess of my locker. It seemed like the rest of me was somewhere in there, too. Because I felt empty, except for the sad feeling rising in my throat.
“If you don’t feel better, let me know,” Ana said. “I can go to the nurse’s office with you.”
I gave a half smile. “I’m okay, Ana. Really.”
She hugged me, and my tears almost spilled over because she was my best friend, even when I was grumpy or annoying, and because she was being nice to me now, like she always was. I told myself it was silly to cry, because there was nothing to be sad about.
Then right after Ana left for her class and I was wondering what on earth to do, Kai came up to me. “Well done, Myla.”
I watched her warily. “What do you mean?”
She nodded at my open locker. “I saw what you did. It was very clever.”
I sniffed. “I have no idea what you mean,” I said, even though my heart was beating fast.
“In class now, you took Peter’s book.” She pointed to it. “That’s his book.”
“Really? They all look the same.”
“You can’t fool me. I know what’s inside that textbook. It’s his black book. You put your textbook next to his. Then you took his when you left.”
“If I did, it was a mistake.” I closed my locker shut. “I’ll return it as soon as I see him.”
Kai tilted her head. “Don’t you think you should share the black book with me? I can help you. I can figure out if Peter’s working with the Fencers or not.”
I pointed a finger at her. “You’re lying. You want the black book for yourself. But you’re not getting it. You’ll have to write your story without me.”
Kai paused for a moment. “Fine, have it your way. We could have worked together. You could have been part of my story.” She tossed her hair. “Now you’re on your own.”
“Even better!” I called out to her as she walked away.
The bell rang. I was late to English. But I waited until Kai was gone before I opened my locker again. I stared at Peter’s American Studies book sitting on the middle shelf. The thing is, I didn’t intend to take the black book. Not after all the thinking I did last night. Then seeing Kai in class today totally unhinged me. I never thought she would find a way to get to Peter, but she did. And maybe she really would have taken his black book, unless I did something to stop her.
But deep down, I knew Kai wasn’t the real reason I did it. It wasn’t because I wanted to stop her, or because I was scared of the Fencers, or that Peter was working with them. It was seeing him and Ana together—Ana, who was my oldest friend, and Peter, who was my newest. While they were laughing and joking, I could see that goofy look in their eyes. It was the kind of look that meant I’d vanished in the process. And I was so tired of that, of wanting to be taller and louder and prettier. If only there was something I had—something that would make me stand out and feel better about myself. Then I couldn’t help seeing how Peter’s textbook was right next to mine. It was just a matter of speed, and the little black book was now in my locker.
I fished it out and I felt monstrous, holding the worn cover between my fingers. I could give it back right now, as soon as I saw Peter. I could do the right thing and then everything would be fine. And maybe Peter and I would go on being friends, and we’d figure out what the four lines on my door meant. And he and Ana would pass notes in Spanish class, and then American Studies, and then they’d walk home together because she lived down the street from him, too. And that would be the end of me knowing Peter better than anyone else in Dobbs Ferry.
Or . . . I could go inside his head a teeny, tiny bit. I could find out what was so important that he had to hide what he wrote inside his textbook. It would be just a small peek. Then I’d give the black book back to Peter.
The rest of my day went like this. English: flip through black book. Technology: flip through black book. Science: flip. Math: flip. By Spanish, I’d flipped through everything multiple times. I’d tried so hard to look just a little bit, but in the end, I saw it all.
And what did the black book tell me? Nothing about the diamonds. Nothing about the Fencers. But it did tell me about Om. And that Peter loved graffiti. Like me. And that he was obsessed with words. Like me. There were lots of OMAR and Om tags. Maybe it was Peter’s tag. Or maybe he was writing them to remember his dad. When I thought of that, it made me sad.
There were also things in the book that were nothing like me. Lyrics from songs I’d never heard, drawings of cars and trains, and faces inside letters with their eyes closed. Then, halfway through the book, were the strangest drawings of all. It took me a moment to figure out that “HB” stood for High Bridge and “CD” stood for Croton Dam. I wasn’t sure what the line and dot were. I traced my finger along the curving line, puzzled.
But I think I finally realized what I’d been searching for. It wasn’t clues about the diamonds. It was whether Peter and I were meant to be friends. It seemed if I found enough things in here we had in common—like caring about graffiti—it wouldn’t matter how I talked or looked. Peter would still think I was special. Instead I found words and drawings I didn’t understand. I found the last traces of a father who was never coming back. Then I knew you couldn’t find friendship by looking through someone else’s private book. So I shut the black book and put it away.
I could hardly concentrate on anything after that. It seemed like I was in a fog, and the teacher was talking somewhere behind it, far away. Finally I wrote this in my journal:
I don’t know why I wrote them, except there was a part of me that wished I could do what Peter did. Most of all, I wanted to feel like I learned something to make up for the terrible fact that I’d looked through his black book. The shame of it followed me as I hurried to my dad’s class after Spanish. That was where I knew Peter would be.
Dad saw me and came to the door. “Myla, aren’t you supposed to be in woodshop?”
I cleared my throat. “Is Peter here?” I looked around as my shame grew and grew.
Dad glanced behind himself. “As a matter of fact, he isn’t. I was about to take attendance.”
“But he was in my class this morning,” I said. I came in and walked down the aisle while some of the students looked at me. I was conscious of how weird I looked, trolling their classroom. But Dad was right. Peter was nowhere to be found. The shame had now turned into a dark cloud hanging over me as I walked out of the room. And then I was left carrying the weight of Peter’s American Studies book, with no Peter.
Anyone who can get separated from a black book between American Studies and French has talent. For being a loser. Soon as I noticed, I hightailed it back to American Studies. Mr. Clay came to the door. “Hi, Peter, did you need something?”
“I think I left my book here,” I said, my voice wavering.
“There weren’t any books left behind.”
“I mean, I have my book, I just had something in it that’s missing. Some . . . notes.”
“You were all talking, and your books were on the table. Maybe they got switched?”
“Switched?”
“You never know.” He smiled faintly at me and went back to hi
s class.
A switch. Why didn’t I think of that? I hurried to my locker and pulled out the American Studies book. I turned to the beginning page and there it was in the top corner, written in pencil: Myla Rajan. This was her book. Which meant she had mine.
Maybe it was a simple mistake. Maybe Myla would be waiting for me in the hall or back at my house. Oops, she would say, smiling as we exchanged books. But the reality was I was cold with fear. Fear of her looking at it, seeing all those Oms, and doing what? Putting together stuff about Pop and Randall, and the hidden diamonds.
There was another problem. Finding her. I scouted in the halls between classes, but no luck. Then I decided to go home and wait for her in the one place I knew she would be, eventually. I wouldn’t budge till I saw her reach her front door.
As I walked home, the air was crisp, like the kind of autumn day when you should be eating apples and drinking cider, though my family never did any of that. My Jordans were starting to pinch around the heels, and a hole was working its way through my right shoe, near my big toe. But they still had spring. They still had action. I thought about that night in Yonkers when Randall jumped on the rail. Truth was, I thought about that night all the time. I thought about my brother’s crew, and what they were doing, if they were scheming like that MaxD, or in Randall’s corner like Nike.
By now, I’d got to Walnut. Just halfway down and a left on Cherry, and I’d be home. As I walked, I saw an old house up ahead. I didn’t know what it was, only that people were doing construction there. Then I scrambled back, crouching behind a car. Uncle Richard was talking to somebody in front. Not just talking but working.
Shoot, he would be working on Walnut Street, as the universe would have it. There was no way I could pass by without him seeing me. Then he’d know I’d cut class and tell my ma. I stayed a hair longer behind the car, wondering what to do. Maybe it was closer to the end of school than I thought. What if I had a free period and I was walking home? I would act like I was supposed to be here, that’s all. I continued. As I did, Uncle Richard and the second man crossed the street to the other side. For a moment I hoped I might miss him after all. But as I walked on, he turned at the last second and our eyes met. He gave me the barest smile, but he didn’t call me over.
I let out my breath. When I got home, I eased onto the porch, not bothering with the door just yet in case it stuck like yesterday. That made me think of Myla, and I felt the bile rise inside me all over again. I had to get the black book back. Randall would kill me if anything happened to it. Even though I had to find him first before he could do that. If only I knew who Tops was.
Down the street, I saw a car. That is, I heard it first, then saw it, a beige-colored sedan with a sound like a plane taking off. I watched as it made its way and then turned unbelievably into our driveway. The door on the driver’s side opened, and out stepped Uncle Richard.
“Hey, Petey.” He stood behind the door, resting his elbows on top. “Home from school?”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t know where that “sir” came from. I guess I was tense.
He looked at the house next door. “You met your neighbor yet? With the green Subaru?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, an Indian family. There’s a girl my age.”
Uncle Richard nodded. “Indian like your mom?”
“I don’t know. Just Indian, I guess.”
He looked back at the house. “You know which room is hers?”
I blinked. Why would I know that? I shook my head.
Uncle Richard nodded. “Get to know your neighbors, Petey.”
I frowned. I didn’t know what he was getting at, and I was still wondering why he was here.
“I suppose you’ve been thinking about what I told you last night. Well, listen, I came to tell you we’ll find your brother and he’ll be okay. Now, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. I’m here to help, son. I’m family.”
He stood there with a smile on his face, like he understood everything about my life, even though he was a complete stranger. I was about to pick up my backpack as a signal for him to leave. He was making me nervous on my driveway, like being at my house, but not. Then a thought came to me, and I breathed in and out, terrified by my idea. “Actually, there’s something you could do,” I said slowly.
He leaned forward. “Is there? Tell me. I’m on it.”
I looked one last time down the street for Myla. She wouldn’t be home for an hour, and if I sat here waiting, I’d go crazy. I said to Uncle Richard, “It’s Randall’s friend. I think he could tell me where Randall is. Only I have to see him to ask.”
“You need someone to take you?”
I nodded.
He motioned to the car with his head. “Get in.”
The sound was worse inside. When I walked home, no one noticed me. But when driving with Uncle Richard, everywhere we went we got looks from people, like we were a plane taking off from JFK. “What’s wrong with your car?” I asked at the traffic light.
Uncle Richard chuckled. “Bad muffler. I took it in last week, and no worries, she’s fine.”
The car kept gunning as we waited for the light to change green.
“Now, you going to tell me who we’re seeing?” he asked. “What’s he know you don’t?”
There was a lot I could ask my uncle. But I didn’t want him to know anything about me in the process. “He’s one of the last people who saw Randall,” I said carefully.
Uncle Richard nodded. “You mean he’s one of them.”
I swallowed. Had I said too much? “You know what Randall . . . does?”
“That he paints? Sure. What do you think, I’m some ninny? I know what he does. Because long ago, your daddy and I did it, too.” The light changed and we were off. Vroom! Vroom! I gritted my teeth against the sound. On either side, houses went by, then a fire station and a big grassy field. We were only a few minutes away from Central Ave. “You find out from your friend what you can. Just don’t get involved.”
“I don’t do that stuff,” I said stiffly.
“I see that, Petey. You’re a good kid.” He reached over and patted my arm awkwardly.
“Uncle Richard, are you married? Do you have kids?”
He laughed. “Sorry, son. No time for a family life.”
“And do you know somebody named Tops?” I didn’t want to ask before, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity now. My uncle might be the only one who’d tell me anything. What I didn’t expect was his reaction. I wanted to take cover, his face got so mean.
But it wasn’t me the meanness was aimed at. “Tops,” he said like the word was a piece of meat gone bad. “That’s one person you can’t trust. Steer clear of that dog breath. That’s something Omar should have done.”
I waited, fearful of his next question: How did I know Tops? But my uncle was too seething mad to notice the nuances. “What’s so bad about him?” I finally asked.
Uncle Richard pulled over to the side of the road and slammed the brakes. I was stunned because there was really no place to do that on Central Ave. I waited for somebody to come crashing into us.
“Promise me, Petey,” Uncle Richard said, putting his face close to mine. “Don’t go talking to that Tops. He’s running from a jail sentence. Hear me? He’s nobody you can trust, not you, your brother, or your mama.” He paused. “Is that what this is all about? Randall’s got mixed up with the likes of him?”
I shook my head. “No—c-c-course not,” I stammered. I wasn’t sure why I said that, when I was thinking the same thought. But something told me that my uncle would turn around and drive me back to Dobbs if I made mention of Tops again. And I really needed to see Nike.
It took Uncle Richard a moment. “All right then,” he said. He pulled back into traffic, and I started breathing slowly again. Then we drove and drove with that muffler, and the world staring at us until we got to the Music Land in Yonkers. That’s where Nike worked after school. And by this point, I was just happy to get out of the car.
I nodded. I didn’t know what she’d say either.
My uncle walked toward the classic rock section. “You come for me when you’re done. I’ll be here with the shades on.” With that, he pulled out a honking pair of sunglasses and slid them on. He looked like some whacked-out seventies guy. But I said yes, and I searched for Nike.
It didn’t take long. Near the subwoofers and amps, I spotted the familiar rusty hair.
“Petey!” He jumped a mile high at the sight of me. “I swear, you’re following me. Like, you’ll be standing some day on my grave.”
Even now, after him running out on me like he did, it was good to see him. Nike was all about Randall and me and where I was from. “I’m not following you,” I said. “I’m here to talk.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t have time to talk to you.” “Just a few minutes. Don’t you have a break or something?” “A break for what?” Nike sneered. “This isn’t preschool.” He turned to go. I reached over to pull his sleeve. “I don’t know the next time I can come like this. Today I got a ride. Please, Nike.”
He looked at me curiously. “You’re not here with your mom?”
“No man, she works.”
“Oh, right. The blood lady.” He snickered. “Who’s your ride, then?”
“See him with the shades? That’s my uncle.”
“Huh,” he said, looking over at Uncle Richard. After a moment he said, “All right, follow me. There is one place we can talk.” A second later, we were out behind the store, near the trash bin. Nike turned to me. “You’ve got exactly two minutes.”
“Where’s Randall?”
He looked annoyed. “You’re asking me that again? I told you, he’s gone to learn with Tops.”
“Who is he? Is he a Fencer?”
Nike looked at me like I was smoking out of my ears.
