Needy Little Things(15)

“Jude, give me your keys,” I say.

“I can drive. It was just weed.”

I glare into his bloodshot eyes. “Is that what you’re going to say when we get pulled over?”

His expression grows panicked, like he’d forgotten that was even a possibility.

“Forget y’all. We don’t have time for this,” Malcolm says. “I’ll get my own ride.”

He disappears into the night.





CHAPTER 6





Police cars are already outside Deja’s house when I turn Jude’s car onto her street. We checked all the fast-food restaurants and convenience stores near the park before coming back. Nothing. No one has seen her.

Jude has tucked himself deep into the passenger seat. “Sariyah, please take me home. I don’t do well around cops.”

He said the same thing Wednesday night at Sweet Pea’s, but I don’t want to hear it. “You’re so put off by cops that you thought driving high was a good idea. Got it.”

“I don’t think that. I just—”

“And I’m kind of mad you’re more worried about being around cops than you are about where Deja is.”

“I’m not, Sariyah.” He points at his head. “This stuff just has me paranoid.”

He’s still talking when I get out of the car and slam the door. I’m not trying to sit around arguing with him.

I only make it halfway down the sidewalk before I have to take the ridiculous boots off my blistered feet. The drive here allowed a horrible ache to set in and I can’t take even one more step in them. I walk up to Deja’s duplex in my socks. It seems like every light in the entire house is on. A guidepost calling her home.

Malcolm sits on the front porch staring at the ground. He shakes his head when he looks up. A nonverbal request to not mention the only other person who could be at the forefront of both our minds on a night like this. We were still in middle school when Tessa vanished, so the adults didn’t share many details. But we know what this is like. Missing someone. Worrying over them. Waiting for them.

“We shouldn’t have gone,” he says.

“We don’t know if not going would have changed anything. How would you feel if we stayed home and this still happened? Then it would have been Oh, if we’d only gone to the festival.” I say the words only to comfort him. In reality, I wish with my entire heart that we hadn’t gone.

“Her mom wants to file a missing person report,” he says, looking over his shoulder and through the storm door.

My breaths come faster, more shallow. “What? Already? I mean, do you think—I thought someone had to be gone for at least twenty-four hours for that.”

“Hollywood myth. Plus, she’s still a minor. Her stepdad and a couple of officers just drove back down there to see if they can find her. They think maybe she got turned around or made some new friends or something.”

I scrunch up my face. “Made some new friends? And what, left with them?”

“I know. That’s why her mom wants to go ahead with the report. Deja wouldn’t do something like that.” He exhales and rests his head in his hands. “You need to go inside and talk to them. You were the last one to see her.”

My armpits dampen. “Is that bad? Is it bad I was the last one to see her?”

“No. Just go get it over with. It’ll help. They just asked me what she was wearing and stuff.”

I open the door and it creaks loudly, causing all eyes—and a smattering of needs—to land on me. Deja’s mom, Ms. Jasmine, holds a tissue to her nose. Her eyelids are already swollen from crying. I’ve never been inside the house. Deja always preferred to meet up at a park or restaurant. It feels so wrong to be in here now. Under these circumstances.

“Hi there, I’m Officer Lucas Penby.” A short man in uniform holds out a meaty hand and I shake it weakly. “Are you a friend of Deja’s?”

Toothpick. Toothpick. Toothpick.

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles kindly and motions toward the dining room, shoving the last remnants of a protein bar into his mouth. The action is so frustratingly casual, like this is just another day at the office for him. And I guess that’s because it is.

“Come chat with me,” he says. “It won’t take long and there’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m just going to ask you a few questions that might help me find your friend, okay?”

“Should I call my mom?” I ask, trying to ignore the bit of food trapped next to his upper right canine.

“It’s okay, Sariyah. Tell him what you know,” Ms. Jasmine pleads, face wet with fresh tears.

I sit across from Officer Penby and he takes out a notepad. “Can I get your full name?”

“Sariyah Lee Bryant.”

“Spell that for me.”

I do as he asks.

“Got it. Thank you.” He clicks the tab on the back of his pen a few times and smiles again. “Decided to go have some early spring break fun with your friends tonight, huh?”

I look over at Ms. Jasmine, who encourages me as she pops a pill into her mouth and swallows it dry.

“Yes, sir. We went to the Afro Alt Music Festival.”

“Any adults go with you?”