“You know these games are rigged, right? Besides, I don’t like when people pay for me so often. It’s sexist.”
“Do you want to pay?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want a fish?”
“Yeah.”
I smirk and hand the man a five. In exchange, he gives me three white, dirtied balls (and yes, I realize how inappropriate this sounds).
She stands back, arms latched across her chest. “There’s no way you’ll win a—”
“WINNER!” the man shouts. He points to the center bowl, where one of my balls floats (yes, I hear this one as well).
“Fish for the lady.” He hands her a plastic bag with a small, nearly lifeless goldfish inside.
She perks up more than post–elephant ear. “I love you already, Marshmallow the Second.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“Would you rather have a fish you can’t pet that lives forever, or a cat you can snuggle that only lives a day?”
“What’s with your dire scenarios?”
She shrugs. “It’s my aesthetic.”
“I’m starting to see the pattern. I’d have to say the cat. Better to have a full day of happiness. Life’s short anyway.”
“I’d take the fish, which sums up our differences nicely.”
We move along, slowly approaching the Wheel of Doom. She falters in her steps. This time, she pays the attendant in ride tickets. “This one’s on me. In case we die.”
“Do you want me to hold your fish?” the woman asks, as enthused as one can be in 100-degree weather.
Naima holds it to her chest. “No way.”
The woman takes our tickets and lets us inside, checking that the bar around our waists is snug, though Naima appears uncomfortable at the woman’s slight struggle, whispering curse words beneath her breath as she tries to force the bar to latch over Naima’s midsection. When it finally does, Naima’s face is flushed.
“She had the strength of a small child,” I say. “And this seat is too small.” I neglect to mention there’s a wide gap between the bar and myself; the possibility of my body flying into the sky is real. She smiles, only slightly.
“My size doesn’t bother me until someone does that shit,” she says. “Like, I know I’m not teeny tiny, but no need to make a big, dramatic scene over it.”
“It was unnecessary.”
“Fat phobia is a thing, and the funny part is, I get it most from grown-ass women.”
“She’s probably unhappy with herself. I feel bad for her.”
“I wish I could see people the way you do.”
“Give it time. You will.” The ride begins slow, the air shifting as we move up. I hadn’t much realized I don’t enjoy heights until right now. She grabs ahold of my thigh, surely an instant bruise blossoming. Her eyes are closed, too.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“My dad wanted me to ride this thing every damn year and I refused every damn year for good reason. So, no.”
I don’t tell her how terrified I am because this isn’t my fight to win. Instead I peel her hand from my leg and let her squeeze my own hand as hard as she needs. The ride lasts an entire five minutes, during which we remain static in this position, only Marshmallow the Second’s water sloshing between us. Finally, when she feels the slow stop-and-go motion of letting people off, she peeks one eye open, then the other.
“It’s over,” I tell her. “You did it.”
“Hope you enjoyed your ride,” the woman says.
“NOT RIGHT NOW, SHARON,” Naima snaps.
I awkwardly laugh and pull her away from the dizzying scene. She holds her stomach, the color draining from her face.
“Wanna go again?” I say jokingly.
“Hell no. Take me home, Brickman.”
“As you wish.”
The walk back is quiet. She puts on a tough act, her exterior straight-faced and serene, but her fingers bunch the fabric of her shirt.
“K, bye,” she says as we approach our dueling houses.
“Wait.”
“WHAT, DEWD?”
“Can I have your number? To check on you later?”
“Just walk over. Don’t make it weird.”
“Okay, so maybe I’d like a valid reason to text you, just because. Friend stuff.”
She lingers, a vague smile forming.
“Fine, it’s—” She doesn’t get the number out before vomiting on my shoes.
This is the friend thing I’ve been missing out on?
NAIMA
Marshmallow the First rests in peace in the memory box I was given at Dover during Dad’s transport. I’m not sure what made me put the lifeless fish in the box. Maybe it was my way of burying the pain of missing Dad. But I’m wiping puke off my chin inside the bathroom when JJ asks about Marshmallow the Second. She drops him into a giant mixing bowl until we can get a proper tank. Dew helped me inside to JJ, for which she offered to buy him new shoes. He declined, stating he’d “forever have a reminder of his first friend date.” I think I gagged again. After JJ helps me clean up, she guides me downstairs. Kam follows close behind.
“I take it you didn’t have the best time?” she asked.
“It wasn’t bad.”
“What were you up to?” Kam asks.
I angle my head up. “I know JJ told you.”
He smirks. “Just wanted to hear it from you. Eat too many fried Oreos?”
“Elephant ear. Ugh.”
“Isn’t he allergic?”
“Oh, yeah. It was all mine.”
“Now, that sounds good. I could go for one of those.”
JJ smacks his arm. “Why don’t you go get yourself one and leave us be?”
“I think I will.”
“Wait—brew me some tea and fetch my laptop, would ya?”
“You talking to me or the dog?” he jokes.
JJ’s face shrinks stern. “Please?”
He winks. “Sure thing, my love. Get some rest, Ima.”
JJ doesn’t say much else. She guides me to bed, where the letters remain scattered, tucking me in on all sides like Dad would do, and disappears while I settle. She pulls an old rickety chair from the junk room beyond the washer and dryer and sits in it to the side of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask as Kam hands her the laptop.
“Tea will be down shortly,” he tells her.
“Thanks, babe.” She offers him a peck on the lips and turns on the latest podcast. The intro speaks of gender inequality across the globe. How even poverty is sexist. I want to listen, but my eyes droop. I offer her one last look, giving into my drowsiness completely. “You can go.”
“You think I’m just gonna leave you down here when you’re sick?”
I sink into my pillow, and don’t wake up until the next morning.
In Dew’s News you can’t re-use: Why one woman says dying young may have saved her life.
“Dew,” Stella asks, knocking, “you okay?”
“Fine,” I say before hanging my head over the porcelain bowl.
“Maybe you’re coming down with something.”
“It’s called Naima,” I whisper to myself.
“Can I get you anything?”
My parents, I think. A warm bath. The smell of strawberry cake. August Moon and the Paper Hearts. A way to reverse time. “Nothing, thanks.”
“Let us know what we can do,” Thomas adds.
“Me, too,” Faith chimes. After they’ve left, she lingers. A small shadow beneath the door crack. “Feel better.” She finally walks away.
Once everything is out of my system, I collapse into my bed, where the sheets welcome me. My phone almost immediately vibrates.
Violet: Your horoscope says there could be “twists and turns” so stay vigilant!
Violet: Also, hi.
Me: Hi! Question. Would you rather live for a thousand years without the ability to feel joy, or die young but be filled with it?
Violet: Totally the second one. Why
live forever if you’re miserable?
Me: Agreed
Violet: How was the fair? Was she able to ride the wheel?
Me: She did, and then we both got sick.
Violet: Aww Anything I can do?
Me: Tell me there are better things in my future
Violet: There are better things in your future.
Me: Perfect.
Violet: How about I bring some essential oils, a healing crystal, and my ginger root tea.
Me: That sounds like better things to me
Violet:
Violet: Be there in 20
I lie back, my eyes buzzing with migraine pain. It’s hard to reconcile feeling joy, because I’m struck with the reality of never being able to tell my parents about any of it. Still, dying too soon but living happily seems paradoxical, an irony of the fates. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to it, and why my parents died when they did.
They were just too happy.
NAIMA
I wander into Baked & Caffeinated the next day. “Hey,” I say, embarrassed. “I hope you’re wearing different shoes.”
He laughs. “Indeed. I put the others in a glass case to commemorate our day.”
“You’re gross.”
“Naima,” Violet says, stepping between us. She stands close, but I step back. “You’re back.”
There’s an odd pause.
“We didn’t get the chance to officially meet before, but I’m Violet. Wow—your aura reads dark. Almost black.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“What brings you in?” Dew asks.
“I called the dude and he said I can start today.”
“I didn’t realize you were serious.”
“I didn’t realize you aren’t a total douche, but here we are.”
“Let me get Big Foot,” Violet says.
“Like a Sasquatch?”
“More like a human manager,” Dew corrects.
“Obviously. What a name,” I say. “What. A. Name.”
We stand, awkwardly, waiting. It’s a weird tension. Like we didn’t just have a friend date.
Big Foot emerges from his shire. “Welcome to my humble abode that I don’t actually own, but run like I do. Ready to get started?”
When Violet returns, I feel her eyes on me and I can’t decide why. I check to be sure my shirt isn’t riding up. That I don’t have anything in my teeth. And I remember. Sometimes people don’t need a reason to hate me. They just do. It’s part of their makeup.
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.
“These two bad cats can get you trained on the machines after you fill out the paperwork. I promise not to call anyone an adorable mini muffin.”
“Cool.”
“Questions?”
“Seems pretty self-explanatory.”
He raises his hand for a high five—which I don’t do—and leaves me here, the third wheel.
“Naima,” Violet asks, “you’re going to be a senior right?”
“If I’m still alive.” The moment I say it, the words repeat in my head.
If I’m still alive. If I’m still alive. If I’m still alive.
If I’m still alive. If I’m still alive. If I’m still alive.
“Sorry about your dad,” Violet says. “Can’t be easy losing both parents.”
My face turns to Dew, heated.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” she says.
“It’s okay.”
Dew blushes so I change the subject pronto. He walks me through the basics of the store step by step. Turns out, it’s not hard. Ring this shit up, grab that shit. Don’t say “shit” to customers. Basically, cake (except for doing everything I just mentioned because my brain really doesn’t want to comply).
Violet leans near him at a safe distance as if trying to figure out her place between us. I want to tell her there is no us. But the stifled conversation and avoidance of direct eye contact would make it sound like I was lying.
As customers come in, I watch Violet trace the lines on Dew’s palms as she sits on the countertop. I swear there’s a time or two she looks right at me while doing it, but my nerves are so bunched up, I’m starting not to know what’s real. I’m there, wiping counters, refilling stock, and learning to serve customers with a knot in my stomach. My thoughts start to invade. They’re persistent. They tell me morbid things. I want to ignore them but the next customer has a speck of food on his hand when he lays it on the counter. What if it’s contaminated? He could poison me, and via everything I’ve touched, I’d contaminate the whole place. This is how contagion begins; this is how the world ends.
“Can I order?” a voice asks my back. Dew and Violet went to get more utensils and napkins and I was like “Does it require both of you or can someone help me?” and they both went. I’m wiping sweat from my brow.
When I turn, it’s him. The boy whose arm I twisted. His expression sours in three seconds flat.
“No, you can’t order,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like you. Once that’s decided, there’s no going back.”
“Is there a manager or someone else I can order from?” he asks.
Big Foot runs out, an impeccable display of audio cues. “How can I help you?”
“She’s refusing to serve me for no reason.”
Big Foot turns to me. “Is that true?”
“This butt nut messed with your little mini-muffin.”
Violet and Dew emerge from the back room. I don’t want to claim they have “make-out” hair, but they totally do. Plus, her gloss is all over his chin. Ew.
Dew’s eyes alight with fear.
“Did he hurt you?” Violet asks Dew. Her eyes zoom between the boy and Dew.
The dude’s face turns to Violet, softens a little.
“No,” Dew says. “I told you, Naima—he didn’t touch me. I tripped. It was purely an accident.”
They all stare at me like I’m the guilty one. I’m not sure why I’ve chosen this as my cross to die on, but here I am. Open and bleeding for a boy I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know at all.
Big Foot spreads his arms like wings and tells me to “go hang” in the back, code for “Imma get a lecture.” My blood heats, my fists clench. He gives the boy a latte, on the house, and pulls Dew and Violet aside to whisper something I can’t hear.
By the time he makes his way to me, I already feel a shift in the air. He comes at me with a pseudo-mentor type of disappointment and tells me to take a seat.
“It’s your first day,” he says, “so we’ll pretend this didn’t happen. In the future, the customer is always right. If they’re wrong, they’re still right. Until they’re wrong. Then, come get me so I can tell them they’re right. Okay?”
I feel how scrunched my eyebrows have become but flash a thumbs-up to make this end. He’s thrilled, instantly hopping around in celebration. “I knew you’d get it,” he says.
A while later, Violet ends her shift early for an appointment with her “reflexologist,” so it’s just me and Dew. For two solid hours, we say nothing except what’s necessary for me to do my job. Finally, I cave to kill the silence.
“What did Big Foot say about me?”
He bites his lip. Looks everywhere but my eyes.
“DEW.”
“He spoke with Joelle. We’re to give you a break since your dad died. To ‘babysit’ you. Those are his words so please don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Gah! Of course she told him. I wish everyone would let me forget for one second. It’s not all I am. It’s not all he was, either.”
“I know.”
I hug my arms tight to my chest as my invisible walls disintegrate. As if I’ve been put through fire, my shield melts so all that’s left are my exposed insides. A flash of Dad zaps through my brain and I don’t know when or how or why but I cry. And I cry. And I cry. And I cry. And I cry. And I cry. Dew guides me into his arms, but stops to ask if it’s okay.
I nod through the pain. He holds me until I decide to let go. For 113 seconds. There are no customers, and Big Foot has stepped out back for his “herbs” and a garbage nap, or whatever. It’s just us. When the last tear falls, he wipes it from my cheek and tilts my chin up. With a slight smile, it’s the first time I see him. Not as some weird kid all up in my business, but as the person, Andrew Brickman. What the hell is happening to me? It’s not okay.
He moves to change subjects, which I appreciate. “What’s next on your minor adventure list?”
“Forget about it. It was dumb to think I’ll feel better by doing those things.”
He pulls back far enough to take in my swollen eyes. “Have you ever dance-walked through town?” I think of dancing at Paint the Sky and my chest pulses.
I take a giant step backward. “I don’t like where this is going.”
He unties his apron and wanders out back to retrieve Big Foot so the place isn’t free to ransack. “Come on. Our shifts are over.” With the door open, and the sunshine pouring through, he waits for me. I reluctantly follow. Outside, where dozens of people stroll by, Dew snaps his fingers. With a kick of the foot, he dances, and walks—dance-walks—down the sidewalk. His arms flail and fingers snap and he couldn’t look more ridiculous—or free.
“Everyone’s watching,” I say, hiding my face.
“I know! I feel like I’m dying, but I’m working my way through it by not caring what other people think.”
I stand back and watch how he gives himself over to the moves. They’re terrible, and he should stop, but doesn’t. There’s a freeness radiating from him, and I know he’s not free. He’s carrying a lot, too. But I get the point he’s trying to prove: I don’t have to be perfect to find a glimmer of happiness, of hope that I can be okay.
I throw my head back and ignore all the voices that tell me not to.
And I dance for the first time since I danced with Dad.
* * *
I stop near the house to check my phone when it buzzes.
Smellope: The house feels empty without you here.
It catches me off guard and I can’t move my feet. Dew dances around me, stopping when he sees my face lose its joy.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 24
