Needy Little Things(12)
“I can’t go if you don’t promise.”
“Okay, Sariyah, jeez. Buddy system. Scout’s honor.”
I squint at him. “I know you think scout vests are high fashion, but since you never actually were one, I’m going to need a little something else.”
He throws his head back and stomps his foot. “If you don’t take this pinky.”
He sticks out his little finger and I lock it with mine.
CHAPTER 5
Malcolm’s a kid at Disney World once we make it to the security check at Hyde Park where the festival is being held. He admires the outfit of every single person in the vicinity, dishing out compliments that make people grin, twirl, and strike poses. He even smiles pleasantly at the bones of a discarded chicken wing and an empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on the ground. “I love Atlanta.” He gives me a hug and a wet kiss on my temple, which I promptly wipe away. “Bless you and that freaky little brain, girl.”
Inside the park, the air smells like incense, shea butter, weed, and barbecue. The vibes are everything Malcolm said they would be. Black people showing off the infinite varieties we come in, with an extra-large shout-out to the subcultures you don’t often see us represented in, and the ones you do. Punk and hip-hop forced so close together that the line between them blurs. It’s everything. Natural hair, relaxed hair, head wraps, and wigs. Bald heads, silk presses, locs, twists, and braids. Hair every color of the rainbow. Outfits equally diverse. Glam and edgy and boho and goth. Everyone so different. Everyone the same. It’s all beautiful, but my brain won’t let me be great. It won’t let me meld with this moment. I slip on my bedazzled noise cancelers, leaving one ear out so I can hear my friends. It defeats the purpose, but I can’t relax until I get Deja what she needs—if screeching speakers and the nonstop needs of everyone else is considered relaxing.
Bookmark. Pad. Pepper spray. Spoon. Ice. Safety pin. Charger.
I preemptively pop some migraine meds. It’s going to be a long night, but Malcolm’s joy, all of theirs, is worth it. “I’m going to grab Santa Bag,” I say to the group. I tossed it in some bushes next to a decaying fence behind the food trucks.
“I’ll go with you,” Jude says. “Probably best if none of us goes our own way.”
Deja happily agrees with this, like the rest of us hoped she would.
I take Jude by the hand so we won’t get separated in the thick crowd. Once we are in the woods, the sounds from the festival fade and I’m comfortable enough to free my covered ear. “It’s way too easy to smuggle stuff into places.”
He gives me a goofy smirk.
“What?” I ask with a laugh.
He shrugs, still grinning. “You held my hand.”
I snatch up Santa Bag with a snort and check inside to make sure nobody’s been snooping. “I didn’t hold your hand,” I mock. “I was … guiding you.”
“Same difference.” He tucks his thumbs into the front pockets of his black jeans. “You look really nice today.”
My stomach does a couple of back handsprings. “You said that already.”
“Well, I’m saying it again.”
Maybe it’s the energy here, but I feel more sure of myself than I have in a long time. “I like it,” I say, as I brush by him, heading back for the park.
“You like what?”
“I like it when you tell me I look nice. You clean up well, too.”
He looks down at his fit. “Step up from the Sweet Pea’s apron?”
“Might be a tie.” He looks damn good in that apron and I’m sure he knows it. I turn and walk backward, extend my hand for him to take again. “Come on.”
* * *
I fulfill every need I can as Jude and I casually search for Malcolm and Deja. Some people are hesitant to take random offerings from a stranger, but I’ve gotten pretty good at convincing them to accept. Your friend dropped this and Might come in handy has been particularly effective today. After a solid thirty minutes of giving and wandering, the stabbing sensation behind my left eye drops from a nine to a somewhat-manageable four. We find our friends near the front of stage two and I stealthily pass off a mint-green key chain pepper spray to Deja. She’s confused until I point out the hot-pink one clipped to my belt, which I put there hoping she’d see me as a safety-first friend, and not an ominous, need-fulfilling weirdo. It works.
“Good looking out!” she shouts over the music.
We vibe to a few sets from a couple of artists, then crash the food trucks, each getting something different so we can sample everything. Vegan soul food, fresh beignets, jerk chicken tacos, massive cups of juice and iced herbal teas. I sneak-purchase a decadent-looking banana pudding cupcake and hide it in another bag filled with desserts.
We make a picnic on some fabricated seating. A lady behind Malcolm taps his shoulder and compliments his hat. He compliments her nails and they dive into a conversation about accessories. Perfect timing. I nudge Jude and Deja with my elbows before grabbing the number-shaped birthday candles and lighter I have stashed in Santa Bag. Deja shoves a waxy one and an eight into the whipped cream and I light them while Jude hides our shenanigans with his body. When Malcolm turns back around, we present him with the cupcake and burst out in a chorus of “Happy Birthday”—the classic version immediately followed by the Stevie Wonder version. Random people around us join in and Malcolm is happier than I’ve seen him in years. He reaches out and grips my hand. The others don’t know that Malcolm’s favorite cupcake flavor is red velvet. But Tessa, her favorite dessert is banana pudding. And it’s her birthday, too. A few fat tears escape his eyes.