Needy Little Things(10)
CHAPTER 4
Jude picks me up early Saturday morning to go get ready for the festival at Malcolm’s place.
“Thanks for the ride.” I toss my bags in the back seat.
“No problem.” He turns off the radio and I wonder if it’s because he remembers what I said about music and my headaches. “Your hair looks nice.”
I tug on the mini twists I spent four hours doing last night. They’ve already shrunk up to my shoulders. With this humidity, they’ll be up to my chin by the end of the day, but I don’t mind. “Thank you,” I say, trying to hide my smile.
He waits for me to buckle up, then starts driving. “I’m glad Malcolm invited me. Got me out of going to a cookout with my mom’s coworkers. One of the doctors has a house at”—he taps his thumb on the steering wheel—“Lake Lanier, I think she said.”
I slam my foot on my imaginary brake pedal. “Lake Lanier?”
He flinches. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you sure aren’t from Atlanta. Is your mom still going?”
“No. To be honest, I think she wanted an excuse to get out of it, too.”
“I bet she did. Heard her ancestors whispering Don’t do it!”
He lets out a small laugh. “What?”
“The lake is man-made, but back in 1912, part of the land it’s on was a town called Oscarville. Racial tension peaked after two white women were assaulted and one of them died. No one knew for sure who all was involved, but all the Black families in the community—over a thousand people—were forced out of their homes. Churches, businesses, and even some lives were lost in the process. You can cover that land with as much water as you want, but the history can’t be washed away. That lake is cursed. Everyone who grew up here knows it and yet people keep playing around like a lake ghost won’t snatch their baby toe and drag them to a watery death.”
“Come on, you really believe that?”
I shrug. “Some details are questionable, but facts are facts. That lake is murderous.” I point at the intersection ahead. “Take a right.”
Jude’s jaw drops when we pull into the driveway of the Hawkins home. “Damn, I didn’t know Malcolm’s family had it like this.”
“Yeah. They got it like that. Come on.” I jog up the brick stairs leading to the front door and ring the doorbell. “You’re legal!” I shout when Malcolm opens the door for us.
“Happy birthday,” Jude mumbles.
I watch, humored, as he takes in the marble floors and twinkling chandelier, eagerly waiting for the change in expression when he sees Malcolm’s room.
My patience is rewarded. Jude whips his head back and forth between the hallway—immaculate and luxe—and Malcolm’s bedroom with the mattress on the floor, an ancient TV, a dresser that looks like he picked it up from the side of the road, and clothes thrown all over the place.
“To be fair, stingy as they may be, my parents don’t force me to live like this. I just like to do for myself. I was supposed to use the money I was making at Sweet Pea’s to buy some furniture but, as you can see, I got a problem with clothes. I did buy me a cute little hooptie, but folks done lost their minds with these gas prices and road rage. Won’t catch me driving nowhere.”
Jude smiles widely and points at the old black pug nestled on a dog bed by the window. “Who’s that?”
“Miss Doretta,” Malcolm says.
“You named your dog Doretta?”
“Excuse me?” Malcolm looks him up and down. “Sariyah, get your friend.”
“It’s Miss Doretta, Jude. Miss.”
“That’s right and don’t you ever get it twisted again,” Malcolm says, transitioning into high-pitched doggie talk. He picks her up and kisses her head. “Miss Doretta is the perfect name. She was old when we got her. Looking like somebody’s great-auntie. No teeth, white chin hairs and everything.” He adjusts her pearl collar and puts her down. “Don’t be shy. Get comfy.” Malcolm slides a chair to Jude and the leg breaks off. We all stare at the miserable thing for a beat before bursting into laughter and frightening poor Miss Doretta.
“Anyway,” Malcolm says, catching his breath, “we’re already running late. Ri, Winnie-Pooh has volunteered to do your makeup.”
Malcolm’s little sister, Winnie, is thirteen but she’s already gathered a solid following on her hair and makeup YouTube channel. I watch in the mirror as she gathers my twists into two space buns and decorates them with gold hair jewelry. After that, she grabs her makeup kit and tells me all about my hooded eyes and warm undertones and low bridge nose. She’s clearly an expert, so I submit myself to her creative whims with no hesitation.
For the thirty minutes I sit in Winnie’s chair, I imagine she’s Tessa. It feels dirty. Like I’m willing her and her sister to swap places. But I’m not. I promise I’m not. It’s just that Winnie is now the spitting image of the last memory I have of Tessa’s face. Round cheeks. A small beauty mark on her left nostril. Wide-set brown eyes a shade or two lighter than her skin—Malcolm got those, too, but people always talk about how much the girls look alike. I’ve never seen Winnie take it as anything other than the highest compliment. She was around Jojo’s age when Tessa disappeared. Young enough that her big sister was still an idol. Was still who she wanted to be when she grew up, no matter how much they teased each other. The only thing that breaks my fantasy is that I can hear Winnie’s needs. Tessa was a vault.