“I wonder why.” I slam my binder onto my desk, hope he feels it.
Bowie strokes his cheek on cue. “She still mad you skipped out on helping her babysit her sisters last weekend?”
“Among other things.” I pause as the principal’s voice crackles through our shoddy PA system. Know I have about a minute to speak my mind before Booker does his job and makes us keep quiet for the Pledge. “You have a big mouth.”
“The ladies aren’t complaining.”
“The ones in your dreams who never talk to you in person?”
Bowie rubs his fist across his chest. “I am wounded, friend.”
I lean in real close so he catches every syllable. “I pulled you in to help me franchise. Get the word out. Not to snitch to Camila, and definitely not to negotiate prices.” Over the speaker, Principal Gilbert reminds us that the AC’s busted in the cafeteria.
“You pulled me in because I’m business savvy. Giving discounts to first-time customers is business savvy.” Bowie jabs his finger on his notebook, as if his shitty business practices are written down. “As for Camila . . . thought she was a potential customer.”
“You mean the girl who’s been on honor roll since the first grade?”
Bowie scratches the top of his trusty Steelers skullcap. That cap is stapled to his head—teachers don’t even bother to ask him to remove it anymore. His curly hairs poke out from the front, and they look like they’ve been dipped in grape Kool-Aid.
I shake my head at him. “Your hair’s purple. How am I supposed to school you when your hair’s fickin’ purple?”
Bowie adjusts his skull cap and tucks his hair back inside. “Got bored last night.”
“Pick up a book next time. Not a bottle of Dimetapp.”
Bowie lets out a silent laugh to tell me to fick off. He’s weird. Hella weird, as he’d put it. One of the only white kids to not be on Youngs Mill’s swim or golf team, he latched onto me in ninth grade after I didn’t pick him last in gym for dodgeball. Almost three years later and I still can’t shake him off, no matter how hard I try. Not that I try that hard or anything. Bowie’s the zig to my zag, the Chewbacca to my Han Solo—without him, I’d be pretty one-note. We even created our own cuss words to feel badass around adults. MiMi still thinks fick is some kind of texting acronym.
Gilbert announces it’s time for the Pledge, and Booker motions for us to stand.
“To be continued,” I say to Bowie as I climb to my feet. I mouth the words to the Pledge of Allegiance but don’t say them aloud. I stopped doing that about a year ago. Don’t have the balls to take a knee like three of the football players in class but figured my silent protest would do for now.
As we reach the climax of the Pledge, Mrs. Pratt, the school counselor, slinks into the room with her designer heels and chunky earrings she got from her trip to Panama or Trinidad or some other place more exotic than Bad News, Virginia. She keeps a map on her office wall with pushpins outlining her summer travels.
“This could be your map one day,” she likes to tell me before our mandatory class-scheduling sessions. Yeah right, lady, I want to say. Guys that look like me and come from my neighborhood don’t go no farther than Williamsburg for a vacation. I lost count of how many times I had to see the Jamestown Settlement.
I’m about to take my seat when I notice both Booker’s and Pratt’s eyes on me. I can’t help but glance at Bowie. This is the moment I’ve been dreading since I started charging clowns for papers last fall. Of course the moment I pull in Bowie, it all goes to hell. The hell you do? I mouth to Bowie. Bowie throws up his hands to show me they’re clean. It’s Camila’s turn to feel my scrutiny, but she stares back at me. Wide-eyed.
“Can I borrow you for a minute, Jay?” Mrs. Pratt asks, inevitably.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, add a smile for good measure.
“Boy, go with Mrs. Pratt. Bowie will catch you up,” Mr. Booker orders.
My sneakers squeak louder than necessary as I follow Mrs. Pratt out of the classroom. Before we reach the school counseling office, I glance at the main entrance. Count how many steps it’ll take me to reach it. If I double-timed it, I could be out the door before Pratt even looked back at me. Make up some excuse about MiMi. She’s old, she fell. She needed me. It’ll give me some time to clear past assignments off the computer we all share in the kitchen. Maybe even dump my iPad somewhere.
“You want to take a seat, Jay?” Mrs. Pratt asks me.
I blink and I’m staring at Mrs. Pratt’s infamous dotted map. My feet failed me and led me right into her office. I fold into the chair across from her desk. Link my hands over my lap so they won’t shake.
“You probably already know why I brought you in here,” Mrs. Pratt says.
If not Bowie or Camila, did Meek sell me out? I’d rather have taken the ass whooping.
“Jay?”
I shove the thought out of my mind and give my full attention to Mrs. Pratt, who’s in full-on counseling mode. Leaning forward, giving me direct eye contact. The whole nine.
“Mrs. Chung told me she asked you to be co-editor of Run of the Mill,” she says.
A gush of air seeps out of my mouth and I float in Mrs. Pratt’s office. The lit magazine. Mrs. Pratt’s trying to bully me into joining that damn lit magazine. That’s all.
“She also told me that you said you’d get back to her,” she continues.
“Yeah, I did.” I settle more in my seat. Check out the blinds for dust, scope out any new thumbtacks in her map. Wonder what the hell is a Bhutan and why Pratt would want to visit it.
“Jay, that was two weeks ago. I have to ask—what’s the hold up?”
“I mean, it’s a lit mag,” I say, then shrug.
“Don’t do that.” Mrs. Pratt folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t play the cool guy routine with me. Not when I know how often you check books out of the media center each week. And not when I know you could list all Colson Whitehead’s books in order of publication.”
“First of all, run-of-the-mill basically means, well, basic. Not a strong selling point. Second of all, nobody reads print anymore,” I say. “Everyone’s too busy clicking and swiping.” Plus, time spent working on a lit mag means less time working, period. MiMi always said: “If it don’t make dollars, it don’t make sense.” I get what she means now. Pratt wouldn’t understand, though. She’s too busy traveling the world to see what’s going on in her own hood.
“See? Mrs. Chung needs your fresh ideas. You could propose a digital magazine instead. Maybe a new name.” Her hands dance in the air now, getting more and more jazzed up about something I didn’t sign on the dotted line for. “Besides, it’s not like you’re doing anything else, Jay. You’re not playing sports. Not doing any extracurriculars outside of Sunday school. You’re not even signed up for many AP classes even though you could probably do most of the work with your eyes closed. Colleges look at everything, and you’re nearing the end of your first semester of junior year.”
It’s like she’s been conspiring with MiMi. Everyone’s trying to box me up and ship me away for four years. It’s not that college hasn’t crossed my mind. It crosses everyone’s mind, even if it’s just a fleeting thought while taking a stroll or deuce. But I’ve done the research. Lots of people make good grades, so why would someone offer me a full ride instead of some other dopey black dude in my school? It’s not like I can handle a ball. Basically, if I wanted to go to college—a good college—I’d be relying on loans and MiMi. She’s done too much for me already. I have to pay her back, and a degree in African American lit isn’t going to cut it.
But man, studying African American lit would be pretty, well, lit. I could be sitting in a student union, arguing the merits of Alex Haley with a dreadlocked kid named Zahir who wears skirts over jeans as some kind of political statement. Maybe I’d have my own map in my dorm room, pushpins on the places I planned on visiting. Hell, maybe I’d even give Bhutan a chance. But that dream danced away the day Mom decided t
o crash our Chevy into the back of a squad car. If I went away for four years, who would take care of MiMi? Can’t necessarily rely on Nic anymore.
“Jay?” Pratt frowns. “I thought you wanted to go to college. Of course, there are other routes you could take, but I thought with your grades and—”
“I’m figuring it all out,” I say. I lie. “And I’ll get back to Mrs. Chung soon.” I can’t stop lying. “We good? I really need to fade—get my history on.”
Pratt exhales loudly, her hopes for me drifting through her nostrils. “I’ll be in touch. Tell Mr. Booker thank you for letting me borrow you.”
My ass is out of the seat like it has a fever. Hard to think about my future when I could hardly keep my sister present. I grab my phone, open the texting window to shoot a message to Nic, but then catch myself. That’s Old Jay rearing his worried head. New Jay shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads to Booker’s class to learn about the past. Nic can wait.
New Jay repeats that until it sticks.
Three
“YOU’RE BREATHING A BIT TOO HARD ON MY NECK, BRUH,” I say to Bowie.
Bowie huffs and puffs behind me, pressing down on his bike pedals as we make our way up Warwick Boulevard. I’m perched on his handlebars, hanging on for dear life as he maneuvers past cars and pedestrians.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” Bowie says in between breaths. “It usually doesn’t take this much exertion to ride my bike, but I’m carrying deadweight at the moment.”
“I’m typically described as lean.”
“Can you lean your ass more to the right as I whip this turn?” Bowie asks.
I shift to the right as Bowie grunts under his breath and turns on Colony. Poor guy. We wouldn’t be in this predicament if Meek hadn’t been waiting for me at the bus ramp, as expected. I hid behind a shrub and watched his nostrils flare as he paced back and forth in front of my exact bus. Homeboy did his research. I had two options: endure the beatdown and show up to my Taco Bell interview half-dead, or ask Bowie for a ride that would get me to Taco Bell in one piece, albeit with a sore ass.
I chose the handlebars and sore ass.
“You can drop me off here,” I say to Bowie as we reach Canal Street.
“I got you this far, might as well give you door-to-door service.”
Panic crawls up my throat as I spot the opening to the Ducts. “It’s all good. I have to regain the feeling in my ass anyway. Walking could do me some good.”
“It’s not a big deal. I could use some water and—”
“Stop the fickin’ bike!” I jump off the handlebars before Bowie can get to a complete stop. The pavement skids so much under my sneakers that I expect to see a trail of smoke behind me. Instead, Bowie stares back at me with question marks in his eyes.
I should’ve known this would happen. Bowie tried to invite himself to my place for years, but every time I made up some bullshit excuse, like the air conditioner was busted, or MiMi was having the carpet cleaned. Eventually Bowie figured out I was dishing lies, so stopped asking like the good friend that he is. And I liked that about him. How he knew when to drop things. When to cut the tension with some whack-ass joke. Like when the other white kids at school find out about where I live, he puts the cap on that real quick.
Random White Kid: The Ducts. Holy shit. Have you ever been shot?
Bowie: My nana gets shot every day. I mean, she’s diabetic, but still . . .
Hearing about the Ducts is one thing, but actually seeing it is a whole other beast. The beat-up furniture spilling out of the dumpster. The neighbors inspecting said beat-up furniture to add to their collection . . . and that’s not even mentioning all the foul shiz that goes down when the moon’s at its highest. But that’s what all the assholes talk about. The ones that consider the Ducts to be the worst kind of stereotype. The ones that have never been to a neighborhood fish fry, or tasted Mrs. Jackson’s sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving. If Bowie starts looking at me like those assholes do, I don’t know how I’ll get through the next year at Youngs Mill. I couldn’t.
“Man,” I say, pushing out a smile. I rub my backside to dim the awkward, but rubbing your ass is always awkward. “If we’re going to make this a thing, you should invest in a pillow or something.”
“I don’t live in a palace, Jay,” Bowie says, ignoring me. He looks me dead in the eye, speaks in a low voice. Last time I saw him like this, I had spent the night at his house for the first time and just told him about my parents. “That sucks, bro,” he said after the longest five seconds of my life. Then he let me have the last slice of pizza. Bowie would eat his own underwear with the right amount of tomato sauce, so that last slice solidified our friendship.
“Yeah, pretty sure they wouldn’t let you into Buckingham with that hair.” I slip my backpack off his shoulders and give him a salute. He studies me and I don’t move. He and I both know that I’m not taking another step until he pedals in the opposite direction.
Bowie finally gives in and returns the salute. “Text me later. Let me know how it goes at El Taco Bell.” He lays on the accent extra thick, but every time he tries any accent, he always ends up sounding like some sweaty guy that works in a pizzeria in the Bronx.
“Yeah, and send my regards to your uncle Vito,” I say.
“Why I oughta . . .” Bowie shakes his fist at me like a true stereotype as he gives himself a push on his bike. I wait until he rounds the bend before I trek the rest of the way to my apartment building.
It’s weird to call the Ducts home. My tongue still gets in my way when I try, as if it’s embarrassed for me. Dad’s eyelid twitched more times than his doctor would have liked when he found out that MiMi was moving here. It isn’t that the Ducts are the projects—it’s the neighborhood that everyone migrates to when they move on up from the projects. The buildings might be newer, but the chaos inside those buildings remains the same. Behind these walls, there are still families living paycheck to paycheck, and the occasional idiot creeping into windows to steal those paychecks.
I walk past the security booth stationed at the entrance but, of course, the guard is nowhere to be seen. The booth is just something to make government officials sleep better at night. To show that even though the Ducts is part of the public housing system, they still care about our well-being. So they hire security guards as twisted as some of the folks who live here.
The most twisted of them all, though, is Javon. Remember when I said I’d get back to him later? Here goes: Javon Hockaday is the Ducts’ resident Don Corleone or Walter White or any other badass who makes money off fear. And he has the whole fear factor thing on lock. I’ve never actually seen him lay a hand on anyone, but I have seen grown-ass men—big dudes who like to show off their biceps in wife beaters even when the sun isn’t shining—cross the street to avoid eye contact with Javon. There are rumors Javon and his boy, Kenny, once seared a guy’s eye with a lit blunt for staring at Javon too long after asking for directions. Kind of surprising to hear that about Kenny. Though he rolls with Javon, he still takes the time to help MiMi carry her groceries upstairs when I’m not around. Sometimes, when he isn’t making runs for Javon, we’ll catch him playing freeze tag with the younger kids in the hood. But Javon is a different story. Only time I’ve seen him smile is when something sinister lurks behind his eyes. Like he’s plotting all the ways to dismember you and where to hide every limb.
Javon’s apartment building is in the parking lot to the left of the security booth. He does his business right under the guards’ noses, slinging out bliss, crinkle, and other drugs du jour. A part of me figures that’s why he got into the business. A big ol’ middle finger to the system that gives the side-eye to guys who look like us.
As expected, two of Javon’s goons, Slim and Quan, are perched outside of Javon’s building, ratchet hip-hop music spilling out of one of their Bluetooth speakers. They both crack up as they check out something on one of their phones. Slim even pounds one of his chubby feet against the pavement, p
unctuating the hilariousness of whatever he’s watching. Usually Nic’s on the stoop laughing right along with them. Other times she’s holed up somewhere with Javon. I prefer her out in the daylight though, that way I can check to see if her eyes and head are clear. When she’s off with Javon, no telling how cloudy she might be when she makes it home.
No lie, Old Jay shows up when I don’t spot Nicole with Slim and Quan. Maybe I should try calling her before my interview. But she did text that she was all good . . .
“Ay yo, come here!” a voice booms.
The air around me freezes. I turn around and Javon stands at his stoop. His platinum chain rivals the sun for light. Even Slim and Quan know that staring directly at him will scorch their eyes. Half of Javon’s hair is zigzagged into crisp corn rows, while the other half is full on ’fro. He chews on a Black & Mild cigar, face warped with irritation.
I point to myself like an idiot, and Javon frowns at me to validate I’m an idiot.
“Nah, the dopey nigga behind you,” Javon says.
Do not look behind you, I think—knowing if I do his crew will start clowning me for at least two minutes. I walk back over to Javon’s stoop, but make sure not to walk up the steps. No one walks up there unless they live in the building, and even residents take pause.
“Ay,” Javon continues, “where’s your sister?”
His question hits me in the gut. I peek at the window that, based off my own floor plan, leads to Javon’s living room. Expect to see Nic peering back at me. “What do you mean? She’s not with you?”
“Wouldn’t be asking if she was.” Javon flicks away his cigar and I jump to my right to dodge it. “Haven’t seen her since last night.”
Last night. Last night, Nic was tripping hard, talking so much nonsense over the phone that she must’ve smoked up whatever Javon didn’t sell yesterday. Figured she was coming down from her trip with him this morning, like usual. But if Javon’s lost in the sauce, where the hell could she be?
“I don’t know where she is,” I admit. Saying it aloud makes it even truer, and the fried bologna sandwich I had for breakfast crawls up my chest.
When You Look Like Us Page 3
