“And these are all things you could talk to me about,” Camila says. She pinches the bridge of her nose and folds her arms across her chest again, toughens up. “I tell you when things are going down at my house. Like when my mom skipped out on dinner to do something for work?”
“Yeah, because you hate watching all your sisters alone,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. It sounds like I’m picking a fight. And, I don’t know, maybe I am a little. But now’s not the time to question what we are and why she likes me. To ask if she’s just using me for free babysitting services and an arm to hold on to until something better comes along. She doesn’t deserve the asshole routine. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I like your little sisters.” I reach for her hand but Camila steps back. Holds up both her hands so I can’t lay a finger on them.
“Don’t even bother, Jay. Because I don’t care what or who you like. Not anymore.” She looks me right in the eye and pauses a second or two before laying it on me: “Because we’re done.”
I blink. I knew that’s where she was heading, but I didn’t expect to feel turbulence along the way. “Mila, there’s nothing going on with me and Riley,” I say. Saying Riley’s name so close to hers gives my stomach the ups and downs. Almost like I committed some kind of crime and was afraid of getting caught. “She’s just helping me out with something . . . that’s all.”
“I said I don’t care, Jay. She can help you until the cows come home. You’re not my problem anymore.” She whips around and her hair smacks me right in the eye.
I rub my eye, my good one watching her walk away. I wait for my heart to sting just like my cornea. Camila’s been my dream girl since eighth grade. When she finally gave me the time of day, I was the clown who wondered what colors we were going to wear to prom together. But I never really wanted to go to prom. That was more her thing—like dressing up for spirit week or going to football games. I never looked good in Youngs Mill’s random colors of purple and gold, and I could never find a comfortable way to sit on a cold, hard-ass bleacher.
I finally wipe Camila’s hair out my eye and take a seat back on the stairs. I try to force the rest of my nuggets down, but they’re a little tough to swallow.
Camila officially kicking me to the curb is yet another thing on my mind as I pretend that restocking the napkin dispenser at Taco Bell is the most riveting task on the planet. Joshua Kim likes all employees to paste a smile across their face—whether it’s the guy pumping cheese on your nachos or the lady showing you where to insert your credit card chip to pay for said nachos. Smiles make people want to spend more money, Joshua says. Funny, I just assumed it was a late-night case of the munchies after a bliss break.
The good news (and yes, I still try to find good news even as a toddler crushes cinnamon twists in her tiny palms and then blows the dust on the floor—cinnamon dust that I’ll have to clean up later) is that Joshua Kim is not the tool in charge this shift. I get Maurice instead. Granted, Maurice and Joshua are pretty much cut from the same cloth. Maurice is just a bit thicker around the belly and a bit darker in the pigment, but Maurice is a little older than Joshua. He’s not taking this manager job to score brownie points with some professor in his MBA program. Nah, Maurice is a family man. Has a wife and two small kids at home. River and Parker—or some other unisex names that he probably let his crunchy wife choose. But anyways, Maurice is good people overall. Probably willing to help out another brother when needed. I catch him giving me a look sometimes when a customer is getting a little too hype after accidentally getting soft instead of hard tacos. Same look that MiMi gives me when we see a kid cutting up in the grocery store, all: “If that was MY child . . .”
I decide tonight’s a good time as any to test out Maurice’s brotherhood. I spot him asking the lady with her toddler wreaking havoc on the cinnamon twists if she was enjoying her food. The lady gives a half-hearted nod in his direction. I mean, we are just a fast-food restaurant and not some authentic restaurant in El Paso or whatever.
“All right, you just let us know if you need anything else, okay,” Maurice practically sings, the smile on his face so wide that the whites of his eyes disappear. As soon as he turns around, though, someone hits the off switch and his jaw is as slack as usual. I sweep my way over to him.
“How it do, Maurice?” I ask.
Maurice looks up from his clipboard. Probably inspecting the inventory in the dining area. Probably pretending to inspect the inventory in the dining area but doodling something on his paper instead. Either way, he gets paid. “Keeping my head up as always, Jayson. How about yourself? Been here a couple days now, right? Getting the hang of everything?”
Yeah. I’ve learned that the broom works better if you sweep from the right to the left and that you can’t stuff more than one hundred fifty napkins into the dispenser at once. Important life lessons. “Sure am,” I say instead. “Everyone’s been mad cool here. And it’s been a trip meeting all different kinds of people.”
“Yeah. A trip’s the right word,” Maurice says, staring at the toddler who throws herself on the floor and kicks her legs up and down. All because her mom tried wiping her hands. Maurice gives me the MiMi look for a second before turning back to manager mode. “Been hearing great things about you, too. From what Joshua tells me, we’ll get you back there on the drive-thru line in no time.”
“Really? That’s what’s up,” I say, nodding like he just told me I won ten thousand dollars.
“Yeah. Just keep on keeping on and we’ll try to get you in there in the next month.” He looks back down at his clipboard and it’s now or never.
“That would be great,” I continue. “Listen, while I got you, I was wondering if I could change shifts tomorrow. Between coming here and visiting my grandma in the hospital, I’ve been a little behind on schoolwork. It’d be great to knock out as much as I can in the morning, and then come here tomorrow night instead.” Guess it wasn’t a complete lie. I mean, I do have mad homework to catch up on. But the real truth is Riley said her parents might feel more comfortable about her driving in the daytime instead of night. Originally, I told Joshua and Maurice I could do day shifts on Saturdays since it was the weekend and all, but this new lead on Nic is too hot not to follow.
Maurice taps his pencil on his chin. “That probably wouldn’t be a problem. Might be someone willing to work doubles,” he says.
I smile. That was easier than expected. I knew that Maurice was good people. “For real? Cool, man. I’ll be here right at four tomorrow.” I shuffle my broom to the other hand and turn around, ready to sweep the rest of this floor with more pep in my step.
“But,” Maurice continues—and something about his tone makes me pause. I’m too afraid to even look at him over my shoulder. “If I do you that favor, I’d have to do everyone that favor. Soon, I’d be doing so many favors that I might not have enough folks to cover a shift.”
I curse under my breath. Of course, that’s the moment the toddler decides to stop throwing a tantrum. She stares at me, wide-eyed and widemouthed. I reluctantly face Maurice again, who stares back at me with both hands on his hips. All broad shouldered and power-hungry. Like he just morphed into some sleazy guy on Wall Street.
“I get that,” I say. “But it’s just this one time. I promise.”
Maurice shakes his head. “It always starts with just one time. One time is all it takes. You can rock a boat just once and the whole thing can tip over. Soon you’d be choking off salmon.”
I blink at him. What kind of water is he sailing on around here? I doubt you’d find much salmon in the James River. Hell, we rarely find it in our grocery stores. That’s why MiMi’s always frying up whiting.
Maurice walks over to me. “You’re a good kid, Jay. I told you—we see your potential. But remember . . .” He looks me up and down. “You could also be replaced. Other cats around here would kill to have your job. Recession is no joke.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “We’ll see you tomorrow at eight a.m., then. Okay?”
I grit my teeth. I want to spit in his face. I want to take his clipboard and shove it up his ass. I want to make him eat all the crumbs and scraps and insect carcasses that I sweep up every night that I’m here. But with little time left for my side hustles, this job is all I have to contribute to MiMi’s retirement fund. With how her health has been lately, she needs to get off her feet for good sooner than expected.
“Yeah,” I force out. “Cool.”
Maurice gives me a wink and then whistles his way over to the counter to torture some new customers that just walked in.
“Welcome to Taco Hell,” I want to tell them. But I go sweep up the toddler’s cinnamon crumbs instead. Hope it makes the time go by faster.
Thirteen
THE SUN STARTS TO KISS THE LAND AS I WAIT FOR RILEY to pick me up to find Nic. Autumns in Virginia meant more hours of night and less time for visibility, which is why I tried switching shifts at Taco Bell. But Maurice used his large, ashy hands to squash my plans. After work, I’d run home and washed the stank of queso off my skin, then hightailed it to outside of Man Boo’s barbershop for Riley to scoop me up. Not that I’m putting her in a box like Bowie. Riley’s already seen where I lay my head. But there are too many prying eyes at the Ducts. Even tonight, Slim and Quan were perched in their usual positions as I headed to Man Boo. The last thing I need is for Javon to catch wind of where Nic might be and get to her first. I still have hope that he hasn’t caught her scent yet.
I hear a tap on the store window behind me. Man Boo raises both hands, as if asking why I’m not coming in. I smile and shake my head: I’m cool. Man Boo smirks at me and then shuffles toward the shop’s entrance. Should’ve known he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Oh, I get it,” he says, walking up to me on the sidewalk. “You got a little coin in your wallet now because of that new fancy part-time job of yours. Now you got some swanky guy named Federico cutting your hair.” He smiles and he has to have an extra tooth in there or something. Nobody can have that much joy.
“Marco,” I correct. “He usually has a waiting list, but I was able to slip right on in. Taco Bell perk.”
Man Boo laughs as he rubs his hand over his bald head. He no longer has to subject himself to his own haircuts, lucky dog. “We miss seeing you around here, man. How’s your grandma doing? We’re all pulling for her.”
“She’s hanging in there. Should be home soon,” I say. MiMi’s tough. Probably the toughest person I ever met. Still, even the idea of losing Nic is enough to break her. Hell, it almost did. That’s why I’m going to do what it takes to get Nic home and give MiMi the family reunion they show in them Hallmark movies. Even if it means dragging Nic to Riley’s car.
Man Boo blows into his hands and nods. He was in so much of a rush to come out and bust my balls that he forgot to throw a jacket over his smock. “And your mom?” He peers at me over his fingers, keeping his hands up like a shield. Like I was going to lash out and strike him at the mere mention of my mom.
I shrug. “She’s . . . you know.” I shrug again for good measure. Truth is, I don’t know how she’s doing. Never called to give her the deets about MiMi like I was supposed to, but I’m sure MiMi filled her in by now. Every time I pulled out my iPad to email her or whatever, my fingers locked up. Froze. As if they didn’t know what to type. I didn’t know which was worse: drafting a letter to let Mom know how twisted our family had become or seeing that I had a response from her. Even if she sent a sentence or two, I’d read so much more in between the lines—none of which would fully scratch that itch I get when I think about her.
Man Boo nods at me again, eating up everything I was feeding him even though it’s just crumbs. But he’s cool like that. He always knows the fine line between chopping it up and keeping it moving. Too bad his barbering skills aren’t just as on point.
A black Lincoln Continental pulls up to the curb in front of us. Man Boo lets out a whistle and I look down at my shoes. Check my laces in case I have to take off booking. Fancy car like that in a neighborhood like this usually spells trouble. The passenger window rolls down and I bend my knees, prepare for takeoff.
“Hey, Jay!” Riley leans over and pokes her head out the window. “Hop on in.”
I blink. I don’t remember the Palmers rolling in a ride like this to Sunday services.
“Fancy friend to take you to your fancy haircut?” Man Boo asks, raises an eyebrow.
“Something like that.” I slap him a five and slide into the passenger seat. “I’ll tell MiMi you said hello,” I call out through the window.
Man Boo gives me a salute and lets out another whistle as we pull away.
“Seatbelt,” Riley says like a mom in training.
“Yes, ma’am.” I snap my seatbelt into place. Peek into the sideview mirror to make sure Man Boo got back into his shop without any drama. Most folks around here know better, but there’s always some clown from the next town over who thinks they can shake up someone in this neighborhood for some quick cash.
“Who’s your friend?” Riley asks.
My smirk comes out as a laugh. “Friend? It’d be kind of creepy for me to be friends with an old dude.”
Riley lifts one hand into a shrug, keeps the other on the wheel. “I don’t know. You two looked friendly together.”
“He just used to cut my hair, that’s all.” But that doesn’t feel like a hundred percent the truth, especially after saying it aloud. Yeah, he cut my hair until I outgrew his high fades, but he also spotted me a few dollars to sweep up hair or clean his windows. He let me chill out in one of his chairs whenever MiMi’s shift ran a little late and Nic was too distracted with her phone to distract me. If he wasn’t just a barber, but wasn’t a friend, I didn’t know what the hell to call him. So instead, I look around the car. Leather seats. Navigation system. Some kind of clip on the vent that makes the whole car smell like lavender. My knee bumps against the dashboard as I continue my snoop fest.
“My mom usually sits there. She’s way shorter than you. You can adjust the seat if you need to,” Riley explains.
I reach in between my legs and under the seat for some kind of handle. Nothing’s there.
“No. It’s on the side. Just press it toward the back—it’s automatic.”
I find the button on the side of the seat, press it, and, like magic, the seat glides backward. The transition is seamless, like a private jet landing on a runway. Don’t think I’ve ever been in a car as fancy as this. The fanciest, probably, was the back of the hearse escorting my dad to his final resting place, but I’ve always tried to push out that memory.
“We don’t drive this one to church,” Riley explains, almost sheepishly. “We just use it for trips.”
“You have a car specifically for trips?” I ask. “La-di-da. And Reverend Palmer entrusted you with the vacation vehicle for our trek to Richmond?”
“Weeellll,” Riley begins. Okay, that was one too many l’s to not be a little suspicious. “They don’t necessarily think we’re going to Richmond.”
I look at her. “Where do they think we’re going?”
“They might think we’re just going to the bookstore to check out a few more books and stuff for Sunday school. And by we, they mainly think me.” She peeks over at me. “I’m not allowed to have other people in the car.”
I grab my chest. “Riley Palmer. First sneaking out and breaking curfew, now lying to your parents. What’s next? You gonna get a face tattoo?”
Riley shrugs. “I’ve always been a fan of unicorns.”
I laugh at the image. The day I see Riley Palmer with a tattoo is the day you’d see me with a full ride to Harvard. “Unicorns, huh? For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m full of surprises.”
She has a point there. If somebody would’ve asked me even two weeks ago, I would’ve never guessed she’d step foot into my neighborhood after dark—let alone without a can of mace or guard dog. But these past few days have been like a
Tootsie Pop. Going through layer after layer without truly getting to the core. Like Riley still has some things she wants to share with me, but I need to put the work in first.
“Whereas with you . . .” she continues, “complete open book.”
I scoff at her. “Lies. I’d like to think I’m dark and mysterious.”
“Just because you think it, Jay, doesn’t mean it’s true.” She holds up a finger and I know she’s about to count off a few things. “One, you always have a book with you, which means you love to read.”
“Sharp detective skills,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“But your books never really have creases in them. Which either means you only carry the books for show, or you treat books like precious things you need to handle with care. I’m going with the latter since it doesn’t seem like you care too much about what people think.”
That last part’s not quite on the nose, but still, I nod, somewhat impressed. “Okay. What else you got?”
“Two.” She continues counting with her fingers. “You wear the same hoodie almost all the time.”
I shrug. “I live in the Ducts. Money’s tight.”
Riley shakes her head. “That’s an excuse. Ms. Murphy makes sure you look sharp. Even if you’re not wearing labels, you have a variety. Which tells me that your hoodie must hold some sentimental value.”
I hold my breath. Damn. She’s good. I run my thumb along the zipper of my hoodie. It gets caught from time to time. I remember having to help Dad get it up to his neck sometimes, when he got too weak to fight with it. Think it took me five months before I let my mom wash it for the first time after he passed. His scent is long gone, but if I close my eyes tight enough when resting my forehead on the crook of my arm, it’s almost like he’s still right here.
“And three . . .”
I almost forget that Riley’s in the car, even though she’s the one driving.
She finally rests her hand back on the steering wheel and gives me another quick glance. “I’m really sorry about you and your girlfriend.”
When You Look Like Us Page 12
