“You following me, Jay?” Mr. Branch asks, tapping his pencil on the paper on top of my desk. Bringing me back from wherever my head was floating. No place good, that’s for damn sure.
I lean forward, nod a few times as if I caught the last few minutes of whatever the hell he was dishing. “Yeah. Yeah, makes sense,” I say.
Mr. Branch tilts his head at me and smirks. He’s one of them older brothers who wears bowties even on casual Fridays. Who has memorabilia plastered all over his classroom walls to represent the HBCU he graduated from less than five years ago. Who likes to pause class to share what he’s learning in one of his graduate classes to make it known that he’s going to be a brother with a graduate degree. Basically, he’s too clever not to sniff out any of my bullshit.
“Where’s your head at, Jay?” he asks me. “Come on, earlier this school year, you could solve these problems in your sleep. Now it’s like you haven’t woken up yet. You got to make it to your senior year before you get senioritis, my man.”
I scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Try to snap out of it. But Nic’s been officially missing for almost a week. All the resilience in the world can’t make me bounce back from that. “I’m cool. I just picked up a part-time job, so I’m still figuring out my time management. That’s all.”
“That’s all, huh?” Mr. Branch shakes his head at me then rips off a piece of my paper. He starts scribbling something on it. “How ’bout this? When you’re ready to get real with me, you shoot me an email, okay? No questions asked. Just if you need me, holler.” He passes me the scrap of paper and I look down at the email address. Gmail—not the one tied to his school account. I look back up at him and raise an eyebrow. Mr. Branch laughs. “I’m not trying to skeeve you out. You just remind me of me, that’s all. I remember how hard it was to open up. Sometimes it was easier to write it down.”
“Thanks,” I mumble as I shove the paper into the sleeve of my binder. I don’t look back up at him because what the hell else can I say? I’m not used to older dudes being nice to me unless they’re family—and even then I had uncles who put a little too much rough in the roughhousing. “So, yeah, the bell’s going to ring soon and—”
“I’ll catch you later today, Jay,” Mr. Branch says. He just gets it. “And I’m not playing those tardy games, my man. So tell that grape-haired friend of yours to stop cutting up in the halls with you so y’all can get your butts here on time.”
I laugh and give him a salute before heading out into the hall. I wonder how Mr. Branch would react if I spilled all my wax to him. It might be nice to have someone else shoulder the burden. Someone who looked like me and from a hood like mine that could point to where I needed to go next. But the last OG I put my trust in was that Rick Ross–looking mofo from the station—and that didn’t turn out well. For all I know, Mr. Branch could believe all the rumors he heard about Nic in the school hallways and somehow pin her disappearance on her. Like it was her fault for falling for a thug. Mr. Branch was one of my favorite teachers—I didn’t need a reason to hate him all of a sudden.
“Jay . . . Jay!” I look over my shoulder and Mrs. Pratt is click-clack, click-clacking toward me. Her dangly, exotic earrings shimmy along with each step as she shuffles in my direction. I exhale through my nose. What the hell is this? Save a Jay Day?
“I stopped by Mr. Booker’s class looking for you,” she says once she reaches me. “He told me you were getting help with math during first period.”
“Yep,” I say. Glance at the clock over her head. I had better things to do than have Pratt recap my steps. Like call the hospital before the next bell to check in on MiMi. Like try to find Sterling to see if she’s heard anything.
“That’s good, Jay. Glad you’re taking charge of your grades like that. Speaking of which . . .” She gives me a smile and, fick, I know this can’t be good. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Chung about the literary magazine yet? First meeting is coming up real soon.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek so I won’t let out a groan. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to reach out to her. I have this new part-time job that’s been keeping me busy, though.” Hell, if I knew that having legit work could be my excuse for everything, I would’ve tried to nab one much sooner.
“Work? That’s good, Jay. Real good. As long as you balance your time well. And Mrs. Chung understands that students are busy. She’d work with your availability when it comes to the magazine.”
Dammit, she’s really not letting this go. I scratch the back of my neck. “Mmm,” I say. That’s all I can say. Anything else and I’m pretty sure she’d scope out my irritation.
“Besides, it might be good to take your mind off things.” She glances around the empty halls and takes a step toward me. “I heard about your grandmother . . . and I know that Nic hasn’t been around lately,” she says in a lower voice. “You know my office door is open if you need to talk. I’d hate for the truancy officer to show up at your door asking questions about Nicole when your grandma—”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say. Last thing I need is for her to pry even more about Nic and ambush me in the halls with her so-called concern. Kind of like now. The bell rings and students start spilling into the hall. I point to wherever the bell sounds from. “I need to get to my next class, so . . .”
“Say no more. I have a meeting to get to myself.” She backs away and points at me. “Oh, Jay! SAT registration is right around the corner. Stop by my office to get more info.”
I nod and plaster on a smile as I wave bye to her. “Leave me alone, lady,” I say through my clenched teeth, still keeping up my grateful charade. As soon as she turns around, my hand and smile both drop. SAT registration? Really? I can’t even pass a math test this week. How in the hell did she expect me to do well on the SATs with all I have going on? Now, if they asked questions about how to be the worst brother and grandson out there, colleges would be knocking down my door. But I’ve never been that lucky.
I reach my locker. Grab my books for next period and double-time it to my next class. I’m a few steps away when a boulder knocks against my back and sends me propelling down another hall. After regaining my footing, I spin around and Meek huffs and puffs at me. His fists balled. Ready to give me that ass whooping I deserved a week ago.
“Hey, Meek,” I say. I check my surroundings for an escape. We’re in the corridor that leads to the living skills classrooms. The ones with all the ovens and sewing machines. The ones that are rarely used except for some of the special needs classes that are held at the end of the day. The ones that are absolutely empty now. Something tells me Meek has been planning this for a while.
“Don’t ‘hey, Meek’ me, bruh!” His voice shakes the ground underneath me. Unless my knees are just giving out on me. “I told you I needed the rest of that paper. I can’t ask for another extension. And if I don’t turn that shit in, that means I can’t play this weekend.”
Fick. His paper. Bowie tried to warn me. But just like I haven’t had time to study or even eat breakfast today, I certainly didn’t have time to find what the hell I did with the rest of Meek’s paper. I was so worried about everyone else’s well-being that I didn’t think about mine.
“And if I can’t play this weekend . . .” He takes a step toward me. I take a step back. Bump into a wall behind me. “That means you’re not playing, either.”
I blink. Okay, he’s pissed. When you’re pissed, you don’t pay attention to whether or not the trash you’re spewing makes any logical sense. I’ll give him that. “I got you, Meek,” I say. “Let me talk to your teacher. I can tell her that you used my computer to type it up. That I’ll grab it for you tonight and you can hand it in first thing in the morning.”
“I told your dumb ass no more extensions!” he hisses in my face. I wonder if he spots the irony in his statement. That if I were the dumbass, why would he want me to write his papers? But if Meek even knew what irony was, we wouldn’t be in this situation. “I’ve about had it with your slick mouth! It’s
time for someone to shut it.”
Meek raises his meaty fist over my head and he doesn’t need to say anything else to prove he’s the one who’s going to shut my mouth. I swallow and squeeze my fists as tight as I can. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging, dammit. If I fend him off enough, maybe a teacher could spot us before I’m completely black and blue.
Meek takes a swing at me and I duck. His fist collides against the wall as I flee under his arm.
“Fuck!” he shouts. I see the opening to the main hall but he grabs at the back of my shirt, flings me backward. I’m on my ass in point-two seconds. Before I can climb back to my feet, Meek’s on top of me. He straddles me, pinning his knees on top of both of my arms. Cutting off the circulation until I feel nothing but static in them. He takes his hand and covers my entire face. Seriously. He presses down so hard that I wait to hear my nose crush under the pressure. I can’t let that happen, so I pull the biggest bitch move I can think of. I bite down on one of his fingers.
Meek cries out and yanks his hand away. I can breathe again. I can see again. And unfortunately, I see his fist come barreling down toward me.
Before his fist makes a landing, someone collides against the side of Meek and knocks him off me. I blink a few times to return to my senses and Bowie hovers over me, holding out his hand. “You good?” he asks.
I blink again, make sure it’s him. The purple hair pokes out of his Steelers cap. I grab his hand and he pulls me up.
“The fuck, Bowie?” Meek demands, climbing to his feet. Bowie steps in front of me.
“Hold on, Meek. If you got problems with Jay, then you got problems with me,” Bowie says. I frown at the back of his head. Does he have some kind of death wish?
Meek looks at me, looks at Bowie, then shrugs. His fist flickers away from him and jabs right at Bowie’s face.
“Gah!” Bowie cries out, covering his nose. I flinch for him. Grab his shoulder.
“You cool, man?” I ask.
“No!” Bowie bellows through his hand.
Meek could care less. He takes another step toward us. I pull Bowie behind me and prep my fists again. This time, hoping to at least land one blow.
“Wait . . . wait!” Bowie shouts. He removes his hand and there’s a little blood trickling down from his nose. “You didn’t even let me finish, Meek. We got you. Jay . . . did you save his paper in the cloud?”
I keep my eyes on Meek. Ready to stick and move in case he tries anything funny. Or at least attempt to. “Yeah.”
“Perfect. Meek, your English class is after lunch, right?”
Meek grits his teeth as he glares at both of us, then gives a curt nod.
“Cool. I’ll hit up the library during lunch. Print out your paper. Boom, bop, bip, everyone’s happy. Right?” Bowie looks at me.
“Right,” I say. I study Meek’s hands. Wait to see if he’s ready to use them as weapons again.
“Right?” Bowie asks again, this time to Meek.
Meek huffs through his nose and loosens his fists. So do I. “Right . . . but I know where to find you clowns if you try any funny shit.”
“We’ll be as unfunny as possible, Meek. Promise,” Bowie says.
Meek sucks his teeth at us then storms down the hall. I feel bad for anyone who accidentally gets in his way.
I wait until the coast is clear then pat Bowie on the back again. “You sure you good? Want me to walk you to the clinic?”
“I’m fine.” Bowie shrugs me off him. “Though we wouldn’t be in this predicament if you’d just answer my fickin’ texts. But . . . I get it.” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand then peeks at me. “I heard Nicole took off.”
I frown at Bowie, the words stuck in my mouth.
“People talk, Jay,” Bowie explains. “My only question is, why haven’t you? I thought we were . . . you know. I mean, we’re business partners, but we’re friends first, right?” He has so much sincerity in that question that it makes my teeth hurt. That’s because Bowie’s too saccharine—not all bitter like me. Yeah, he’d get my saltiness if I’d let him in enough to know the ins and outs of the Ducts. But if he tastes too much he might spit me out—like those frat guys and Joshua Kim and even Officer Miles Hunter.
“I’m handling it,” I tell Bowie. “Just like I would’ve handled this situation with Meek.”
Bowie scoffs at me. “Yeah. I could see that while he was straddling you on the floor.”
“That was a misunderstanding. I was going to mention the library as soon as he got everything out of his system.” Lies. I wasn’t even thinking about the damn cloud. I had forgotten that Bowie showed me how to save stuff up there as a backup. My head was too caught in the clouds to come up with a rational solution like that. Bowie saved my ass, but I couldn’t let him know that or he’d try to do it again. I point to his nose. “You should get that cleaned up before teachers ask questions.”
Bowie touches his nose again then winces. “Yeah. Sure.” He looks at me one last time. Waiting to see if I’ll sing a different tune. But not another note escapes my mouth. Bowie sighs and heads to one of the bathrooms.
I scrub my head in frustration just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, see a message from Riley:
I have an idea . . .
Eleven
RILEY WASN’T JUST SHOOTING THE BREEZE. SHE DID HAVE an idea and it’s a good one. So good that I want to kick myself because I didn’t think of it myself. As soon as school ends, I book it to Heritage Trace Apartments. Wait in front of the sign as Riley’s Uber pulls up. She and the driver share a quick laugh before she climbs out of the car. The driver waves a hardy goodbye at Riley before driving off.
I raise an eyebrow at Riley as she walks over to me. “Make a new best friend?” I ask.
“Who, Keisha?” Riley points at the car driving down the street. “She’s nice. About to graduate from Hampton University at the end of the year. Plans to continue her studies in psychology. I think I’ll request her again.”
“And you got all of that from a ten-minute car ride?”
Riley shrugs. “It’s amazing what people will tell you if you ask the right questions. Speaking of which . . .” She hitches her head toward the apartment complex. “You ready to do this?”
“Either way, I guess we’re doing it,” I say. We tread our way toward one of the apartment buildings. The one that Kenny’s folks live in. They moved out of the Ducts a little less than a year ago. Even though they moved only a few lights away, I’m sure they figured that any distance away from Javon was good. Didn’t matter. Kenny stayed as much in the hood as before. We reach their front door and I lift my hand to knock, but then pause.
“What’s wrong?” Riley asks.
I drop my hand to my side. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.” Lately, whenever I opened my mouth to try to help Nic at all, my words come out all sideways and I just hit another wall. I’m not sure if I can take another dead end.
“It’s okay,” Riley says. “Follow my lead.”
Before I can even ask her what she means, Riley knocks on the door. I hold in my breath. Part of me hoping someone answers, but the other part hoping that nobody’s home. At least with the latter, I can avoid more disappointment.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” I say to Riley, just as the door cracks open.
“Yeah,” a gruff voice says on the other side.
“Hello? We’re looking for Mr. and Mrs. Boyce,” Riley says, taking a step forward to peer through the door. I grab her arm and nudge her back. Curiosity is a great trait to have, but not necessarily in this neck of the woods. Pry too much and you just might get popped.
“Who’s looking for them?” the voice asks. He punctuates it with a cough that chokes up something I don’t want to see.
“Jay and Riley,” Riley says. “We’re friends of Kenny. Kenny borrowed something from Jay and Jay was hoping to get it back.”
I look over at Riley. She gives me a sideways glance. Not bad . . . bu
t let’s see how far this gets us.
The door pulls open farther and Mr. Boyce stands in front of us, looking like a shorter, more crinkled version of Kenny. Like Kenny got folded into origami and they tried to undo the work but ended up with Mr. Boyce. “Look now. Kenny don’t have anything here that you’re probably looking for. I made sure of it, you feel me?”
Riley blinks, perplexed, but I dig everything Mr. Boyce is tossing. He thinks Riley and I are here looking for drugs. All this time I’ve spent shooing away blissheads, I never thought I’d be mistaken for one myself.
“Jay?” Mrs. Boyce peeks out the front door, tightening the waistband of a house robe around her. “That you? Goodness gracious you grew up.”
“Um, thank you, ma’am?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but what does one say when someone mentions you going through puberty? Not the typical conversation piece.
Mrs. Boyce taps her husband on the arm. “That’s Ms. Murphy’s grandbaby. They’re not here for any shenanigans. Let them on in.”
Mr. Boyce doesn’t hesitate. He steps back and waves a hand, motions for me and Riley to enter. It’s obvious who runs the show in this household. Mr. Boyce flashes me a quick grin like he suddenly remembers my face. The smile lasts only a second, but still sticks with me. However Kenny got that knee injury, I can’t imagine it being from his dad. Mr. Boyce seems warm. The kind of dad that scolds you in front of your mom, but sneaks you your favorite snack later.
“Have a seat. I’ll get you both some sweet tea,” Mrs. Boyce continues and disappears into the kitchen, not waiting to see if Riley or I even wanted sweet tea.
When You Look Like Us Page 10
