Needy Little Things(36)

“She’s going to be okay.” Malcolm removes his arm and taps my chin. “Look at me.”

I turn to him.

“I know I stay pointing out differences between Casey’s case and hers, but the most important difference is that Deja is going to be okay.” He says it with such confidence and authority, I feel like it’d be an insult not to take him at his word. He breaks the eye contact and snatches up a piece of bacon. “But you know she’d be pissed at us for letting this happy stack get cold, so let’s get on with it.”

I sniff and allow a small laugh to escape. Malcolm’s good for getting those out of people wherever, whenever.

We demolish the food. It’s the kind of good where you know there will be a price to pay in the bathroom soon, but you don’t even care. We’re all slouched in the booth, letting our stomach acids do their thing when a phone buzzes. Malcolm jumps and pats his pocket.

“Relax. Your phone is never on vibrate. It’s Jude’s.”

Malcolm laughs, but there’s something uneasy about it. “Right. Think I was falling asleep to be honest. Scared me.”

“We did just tear up a put-you-to-sleep kind of meal,” I say.

“I’ll be right back. Need to call my mom real quick.” Jude slides out of the booth and wanders toward the restrooms. He returns barely a minute later, head bowed, scratching his neck nervously.

“What’s wrong?” I try to stand, but my knee hits the table, knocking over a glass of water. “Is it Deja?”

He motions for me to stay seated. “No, no. It’s Danny Irvine.”

“What about him?” Malcolm asks, but I already know what. I can see it on Jude’s face.

“He just had a massive heart attack. He’s dead.”





CHAPTER 15





The booth feels tiny. Jude stands there mumbling something, blocking my way out. “Move.” I nudge him, try to force him out of my way while keeping the rapidly building nausea at bay.

“Sariyah, wait. Calm down first.”

“Move!” The chocolate sauce and eggs and sprinkles and bacon battle in my stomach.

He steps aside and I run straight for the restroom. My meal reappears in the toilet only seconds later.

“Sariyah?” There’s a gentle tap on my stall door.

I turn enough to see Ms. Lizette’s tiny classic black Reeboks.

“Is she okay?” Jude calls from the doorway.

“Is anyone else in there?” Malcolm asks before his Doc Martens step into view. He whispers something.

“Okay, sweetie.” Ms. Lizette’s shoes squeak across the tiles as she leaves.

“Riyah, don’t make me get down on this nasty ass floor.”

“It’s not that bad,” I mutter before standing, flushing, and sliding open the lock.

Jude hands me a glass of water.

I take a huge gulp and swish it around my mouth before spitting it into the sink. “He’s really dead?” I ask their reflections in the mirror.

Malcolm turns my body to face his. “A heart attack.” He scans my face for understanding. “Say it with me, girl.”

“A heart attack,” we say together.

“But—”

“Aht.” He holds up his index finger. “But nothing, Sariyah. I know you and that brain. This is America. The land of heart disease. He had a heart attack. It’s sad and the timing sure as hell leaves something to be desired, but don’t go where I know you’re going.”

His statement has strong end-of-conversation vibes and I don’t know if it’s because it’s that simple and obvious to him, or if it’s because he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with me and my guilty conscience right now. But that conscience is raging. It’s raging completely out of control. “Malcolm, Danny got stabbed with a nail file I provided. Then he got an infection. Infections can put strain on your heart. Can’t they?”

“What infection? What are you talking about?”

“From the nail file. It’s why he’s still been in the hospital. My mom told me,” Jude says, saving me from having to admit the things I’ve been keeping from my best friend.

Malcolm gently taps my jaw, forcing eye contact. “It doesn’t matter. Did you hear the chain of events you stormed through to take the blame for this? If some sweet old lady gave a kid a piece of candy that the kid later gave to their friend who later had an allergic reaction to it, would you be demanding the old lady be put on trial?”

No. I wouldn’t. But me and this hypothetical old lady are not the same. There was no voice in her head compelling her to give that specific child the candy. No voice telling her the child needed the candy. Nothing guiding her to pick exactly the type that would end up making the other child sick. My bottom lip trembles uncontrollably. And then I’m surrounded by a weighted blanket. A weighted blanket in the shape of my friends, minus one. Minus two.



* * *



I’m surprised to find Mama on the couch when I get home from the diner. Tears instantly cloud my vision because seeing your mom when you’re sad, when you don’t know what to do or say, when you’ve had to go without her for a couple of really hard days—it’s like opening a tap on full blast.