“You wouldn’t have a reason to lie to me, would you?” His question isn’t just any question—it’s a warning. And I hear it loud and clear.
“Why would I lie?” I ask.
Slim and Quan both suck in a breath and I wince. My attempt at sincerity was seen as a dig. Dig too deep with Javon and someone will have to dig you up. Or so they say.
My biggest fear comes true as Javon steps off his stoop, approaches me. “Fuck you just say to me?” I can still smell the smoke from his cigar on his breath. See the smoke seeping from his nose and ears. I swallow so hard that I taste the burnt vanilla remnants.
“Huh?” I ask, knowing damn well I heard every syllable. But “huh” was the only thing my throat would let me squeeze out.
“Bruh,” Quan calls out from the stoop, scratching the angry scar across his eyebrow. “I think he’s clowning you.”
My throat gets even tighter. “What?” I practically squeak. I clear my throat as much as I can and take a stab at articulation. “I wasn’t clowning anyone. Just trying to get home.” I take two tiny steps back from Javon in case he doesn’t believe me.
With one large step, Javon eats up the space between us. “You playing me?”
“Huh? No. No. That was the exact opposite of what I just said.”
“Now he’s saying you can’t hear, Von!” Slim says. He buries his hand in a bag of pork rinds and then passes the bag to Quan. My impending death is much more amusing than whatever they were cracking up at on their phone.
“Nigga, if you’re covering for Nic, I’m going to find out.” Spit flies from Javon’s mouth and lands inside mine. I’m too frozen with fear to gag.
“Javon . . .” I speak to him slowly, calmly. Just like I do with Nic when she’s floating. “I promise you, I’m not covering anything. I haven’t spoken to Nic since—”
Javon’s palm eclipses my face and I’m knocked off my feet. My mouth and nose are against the sidewalk and I’m munching on concrete. My arms flail. I try to push myself up for air, but Javon’s hand is glued to the back of my head. Pushing me down so hard against the pavement that I wait for my nose to crunch.
Slim and Quan whoop and holler in the background, egging Javon on. “Kill that nigga!” one of them says with a laugh. Kill? For asking a question? The fick are these guys on? I slap my hands against the sidewalk to show Javon that he wins the game I didn’t know we were playing. I feel more pressure on the back of my head, and then Javon’s mouth is right next to my ear.
“When you see Nic . . .” he begins in between breaths, like punking me is his cardio for the day. “Tell her to hit me up. Immediately.”
At that, he loosens his grip. My head snaps up and I gulp so much air that I almost choke from it. Tiny drops of blood fall from somewhere on my face and kiss the sidewalk underneath me. My self-respect spills with each drip. I scramble to my feet, don’t look back as Slim and Quan cackle at me like black folks at a Kevin Hart movie. Javon hisses more words in my direction. Something sharp and dangerous. But the words never stick because something else runs through my head: Where the hell is Nicole?
As soon as Joshua Kim slides into the booth across from me, his managerial facade goes to shit. He pauses, cocks his head, and furrows his eyebrows so hard that they basically shout: Dafuq?
I get it, though. My face looks like it just made out with a cheese grater. My dance with Javon’s palm left me with a busted lip and enough scratches to form their own constellation. I thought about rummaging through Nic’s drawers, finding makeup to cover the nicks—but I know as much about makeup as I do about self-defense. So, I made sure to wear the crispest button-down in my closet. Tucked it into my pants like a productive citizen. My dad was all about appearances and passed that eager-to-please gene down to me. I even push my bottom lip into my mouth to hide the cut as much as possible, play it off like I’m serving severe thinking face.
Joshua finally remembers the reason we’re sitting together and flashes a quick smile before shuffling through papers. Can’t imagine what else he has in his hand aside from my application, which was nothing but two sheets with my contact information and my answers to a few math problems. It’s hard to imagine anything else, actually, aside from where the hell Nic could be—and why the hell Javon seemed so pissed when he mentioned her. I only remember her getting into it with Javon one time. It was just this past Halloween. Nic came home early in short shorts, a white tank top, and heels. Beyoncé from her “Crazy in Love” music video. I’m assuming Javon pulled out his best Yankees fitted cap to be her Jay-Z. I was lounging on the couch, committing to my yearly Halloween tradition of being a loser at home watching some Michael Jackson movie about ghosts.
“You’re home early,” I said to Nic.
Nicole frowned at the old white guy on the TV screen. “Why does that old white dude look like Michael Jackson?”
“Because it is Michael Jackson.”
Nic’s frown shifted toward me.
I shrugged. “I guess the makeup artist wasn’t that good. Why are you home? Thought Kenny was having some huge blowout.”
She bites down on the cross hanging from her necklace. “He was. But Javon decided to be a jealous dick, so now I’m here.”
“Sucks to be you,” I said. Then offered her my bowl of popcorn.
Nic knocked my feet off the couch then curled up on the cushion, eating the majority of my popcorn. She ignored Javon’s calls the rest of that night. I still remember her laugh as I tried my best to mimic Michael’s dance moves from the movie. The sound was light and airy, like nothing weighed on her shoulders. Just like we were kids.
The next day, she grew up and answered Javon’s calls again.
“I asked if your name was Jayson Murphy.”
The smell of queso infiltrates my nose and Joshua Kim is across from me again. He’s wearing eyeglasses and, by how shiny they look, I can tell he doesn’t really need them. Probably something he throws on to make himself look like an official supervisor and not some college kid picking up a gig at Taco Bell to pay for textbooks.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. Fold my hands on top of the table between us. “Yes, sir,” I say again. More formal. I put on my polite white boy voice to show Joshua that despite my face looking like the last scene of a horror movie, I could be trusted.
“Hi, Jayson. Welcome to Taco Bell.” He smiles as if he built the restaurant with his own two hands. “It says here you’re a junior at Youngs Mill. Tell me a little more about that.” He leans forward, as if he expects me to say more than: “I’m an eleventh grader at Youngs Mill.”
I make up some shit about how much I enjoy school, how English is my favorite subject. How Youngs Mill has such an inviting atmosphere, which helped me build my team player skills. I think I add in something about math, since the application wanted me to demonstrate my math skills. The words just tumble out of my mouth so I can fill up enough space to push Nic out of my mind. The past year or so has been me covering for her, or worrying about her, or doing something for her. It was time I did something for me. Who cares if she pissed off Javon? They should break up anyways.
“And I decided to lighten my load. Take it easy on extracurricular activities this year to gain some work experience,” I conclude. I punctuate it with a nod since that’s what I’ve seen people in the movies do when they nail a job interview.
Joshua nods back, pleased. “Aside from school, what do you like doing in your free time?”
The fick does that have to do with working at Taco Bell? I rub my hands together, buy myself some time as I try to conjure up a bullshit response. But all I can see is Javon’s hand smacking me in the head. All I can hear is the rage in his voice as he asked about Nic. If he could knock around his girlfriend’s own brother, what did that mean for Nic? I shake my head and shake out the image.
“I like to help out my classmates with homework,” I say. “I’m usually their go-to guy for essays. I also tend to walk my neighbors’ dogs from time to time. I don’t hav
e one of my own, so it’s a good way to sneak in a couple of pats. Oh, and I have a sister.” I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth. Dammit, Nic. All I needed was five—ten minutes tops without her interrupting my life. But now Joshua Kim thinks that my sister is my hobby, whatever the hell that means.
“Um. Okay.” Joshua blinks at me. “I have a sister, too. They’re kind of pains in the you-know-what, am I right?”
I smile and nod at him again. He has no idea.
Joshua exhales and leans back in his seat. “I’m going to give it to you straight, Jayson. Since I’ve begun managing this shift, this Taco Bell has been receiving top marks with our health inspections and customer service surveys. We run a clean, friendly place here. No time for riffraff, follow me?”
“Yes,” I answer, though it comes out more as a question.
“Don’t get me wrong, you look like a good guy, but . . .” He points to his face. Probably because it would be too rude to point at mine.
“Oh. This?” I rub a hand across my mouth and my lip cusses at me. “This isn’t what you think. I fell off a bike.”
Joshua blinks at me again. “How many times did you fall?”
This interview was over as soon as Joshua slapped on his fake eyeglasses and got a clearer look at me, but I play along as he tells me about the next steps in the process. Phone call at the end of the week, and then I get to meet with another shift manager. I hadn’t realized Taco Bell had as many clearances as the FBI. But that’s what usually happens when you come from my neighborhood, live down the street from a guy like Javon, plus walk in with a face like a Picasso painting. Still . . . the run-around feels kinda shitty.
As I wait outside for the city bus, I glance at my phone, but there’s nothing new from Nic. I had called her, but she never picked up. I even left a voicemail, but she didn’t bother to send another text to check in. Her last text stares back at me: Never mind. All good. If she’s all good, why the hell is Javon tripping? I keep the phone in my hand, as if Nic could sense me waiting to hear from her. I hold on to it for the entire bus ride home.
She never calls.
Four
WHEN I GET HOME, I HEAD TO NIC’S ROOM AND DON’T EVEN bother knocking. If she can’t respect me enough to return my call, I can’t respect her privacy.
Nic’s bed is just like I left it this morning. Hell, everything’s exactly like it was this morning. She still hasn’t made it home. I snatch my phone out my pocket and stab at her name. After the fifth ring—voicemail. Again. I grit my teeth as Nicole’s recorded voice commands me to drop her a line.
“Okay, so check this,” I begin after the beep, “I don’t know where you are or what you’re up to, but since you just cost me a job, I’m going to start charging you ten bucks an hour for all the time I spend covering for you. May not sound like much, but I want backpay. So yeah, you’re going to need your boo to spot you more than a couple of bucks. And speaking of Javon, he’s a fickin’ psycho!”
I push Nic’s door closed behind me, just in case MiMi comes home from work and hears me spazzing out. “I’m done, Nic,” I say in a hushed voice. “Capital D as in dead. Which is what you’re going to be once MiMi finds out you haven’t been home in almost twenty-four hours.” I hang up the phone and wince as soon as I do. I didn’t even say goodbye.
No. No. Old Jay worried about polite farewells. New Jay was so cold that Nicole was probably going to catch a chill just listening to that message. I reach for the doorknob, but my hand feels heavy. Dammit, Nic. I tighten up the sheets on her bed, nice and tidy as if she’s been home. But this is the last time. I promise.
When I enter my room, I open Snapchat on my phone. Search through my friends until I come across Sterling Simmons’s profile. Her page is flooded with selfies of her glossy lips and platinum-blonde hair and random shots of her baring her abs in her bathroom mirror. A basketball wife in training.
Nicole and Sterling have been Frick and Frack since they both joined the track team during their freshman year. Of course, Nic got kicked off once her grades started slipping like her mind, and everyone knew that Sterling only latched onto Nic to give the middle finger to her ultra conservative, ultra–Confederate flag supporting parents. Otherwise, Sterling would just kick it with the other bougie white girls at school. The ones who eat their ramen in fancy broths and not from a twenty-cent packet.
She’s currently active on Snapchat, so I send her a private message: You with Nic??
She takes her sweet time to respond to me. I drop the phone on my bed, yank off my interview clothes while I wait. I don’t think I ever shook Joshua Kim’s hand. The right kind of handshake seals the deal, Dad always told me. He used to take my hand, squeeze it the right amount, and have me copy him. Sometimes he’d show me the street way—a gliding of the palms punctuated by a half hug. Both handshakes showed respect, but linger too long or squeeze too limply, and folks’ll look at you funny. I was so eager to check my phone for any missed messages from Nic that I never got the chance to extend my hand to Joshua. Maybe, just maybe, that would’ve salvaged the interview. Now I have to go back to walking neighborhood dogs and other side hustles to give MiMi her due.
My phone dings and lets me know I have a new Snapchat message.
Sterling: Who this??
I smirk so loudly that I hope she can hear it. Forget the fact that my handle is literally JayMurph. Sterling has to prove that she is in a higher social stratosphere than me.
I stab a response: Nic’s brother.
Bubbles appear then disappear on my screen. Appear and disappear. Over and over as if Sterling is trying to perfect her response for little old me.
Sterling: Nope
I groan in frustration. All that waiting for a one-word response. A possibly deceitful one-word response at that. A simple no would’ve taken a second to type. Sterling was too deliberate with her message, like the breath a sax player takes before leaking out the final, seductive note.
Me: You sure?
More bubbles. Finally:
Sterling: Think I would know. Come find me Monday morning at school, tho.
I frown at her last message. If she hasn’t seen Nic like she’s claiming, why would she need to see me? Sterling has always spoken to me in clipped sentences, as if she’s saving her adverbs and adjectives for somebody that counts. Now she’s scheduling meetings with me? The only explanation is that there’s something she wants to tell me that she doesn’t want in writing.
Me: You good?
The blue dot in our chat window disappears. Sterling’s no longer active. What the hell? I open the contacts on my phone until I remember that I don’t have Sterling’s number. Nic has always been our link, and without her, the assemblage is rusty.
“Jay! Nicole!” MiMi’s voice booms from somewhere in the front of the apartment. I didn’t even hear her get in. “Wash your hands and come eat dinner!”
I shove my phone in the pocket of my jogging pants, wipe the creases out of my old T-shirt as if I’m having dinner with the president instead of my grandma. Finally, I strut toward the front, try to keep the same cadence in my steps as usual. If I double-time it or take my time, MiMi may notice the absence of Nic’s footsteps sooner. When I get to the dining area, MiMi’s humming a hymn in the kitchen while she pours sweet tea into empty jelly jars. She sucks on her bottom lip, an indication that she is reaching the good part of the song. I grab two plates out of the cabinet, place them in front of my and MiMi’s chairs. My subtle way of letting MiMi know that Nic won’t be joining us for dinner tonight.
“Hey, baby,” MiMi says when she notices me. “You would not believe the sale going on at Picadilly’s. Ten-piece chicken meal, two sides, biscuits—all for twenty bucks.”
“Mmm,” I respond. Hard to focus on fried chicken wings when Nic is out there doing God knows what. Has to be something trippy if Sterling doesn’t even want it in writing. How the hell is the New Jay supposed to get the Old Nic out of this one?
“Work was rough today.
All I want to do is stuff my face, find something on Netflix, and fall asleep. Where’d you leave my blood pressure meds, baby?”
I grip onto the back of the chair that I was pulling out. Dammit. I was so caught up in my feelings after that interview that I forgot to swing by the pharmacy. Plus, I wanted to rush home, see if Nic made it back. Between her drama and getting my ass handed to me by Javon—
“I ficked up.” I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth, even though MiMi probably thinks that what I said was as harmless as LOL. “I forgot,” I try again. “I can run out now and grab them.”
“Don’t be silly. Eat your dinner. I have enough pills to get me through tonight. It’s okay.” MiMi exhales and I know from her sigh that it’s not okay. She’s tired and I’m doing the tiring. She walks over to the dining table with the jars of tea and pauses when she sees only two plates. She looks up at me and doesn’t even have to ask the question. It’s written on the faint lines trailing across her forehead.
I rest my elbow on the table, tuck my chin into my hand to cover my busted lip. I wish I had something to tell her, but I don’t even know what to tell myself at this point. And with me dropping the ball on her meds like that, she can’t afford to get all worked up. I have to protect her as best as I can.
“Nic stopped by real quick,” I say from behind my fingers, each word scratching at my throat. “Said she’s eating at Sterling’s tonight.”
At that, MiMi clicks her tongue. “Shouldn’t I have a say? I’m the one paying the bills around here.” She shakes her head after setting the jars down with a thud. Tea sloshes out of them, bronze tears dripping onto the table. MiMi mutters a few other things as she snatches the food out of the paper bags. I watch her hands. Knuckles a little large, permanently swollen. Slightly chapped in that space between her thumb and index finger, no matter how many times she soothes it with Vaseline. Her hands are badges of honor, proof of hard work. Still, I look forward to the day when she can rest them.
When You Look Like Us Page 4
