Needy Little Things(37)
I drop Santa Bag on the floor. The sound makes her snap her head up.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I wipe the moisture from my face because if she notices that, it’ll only scare her more. “Where’s Josiah?” The apartment is eerily quiet.
“He’s at his friend’s house. Can’t remember his name. Mama’s name is Angela.”
“Mario?”
“That’s right. He’s staying there for a few days. He was driving me up the wall.”
I know Jojo has a lot of energy, but something about the comment offends me. She hasn’t even tried to entertain him. I’ve barely seen her face since the trip to the police station. “Did he pack his medicine? Does he know when to take it?”
She raises her brows. “I may be going through my own shit right now, but you think I’d really send my son off somewhere without taking care of all that?”
“You don’t even know the name of the kid he’s staying with,” I say under my breath.
Somehow her brows go even higher, way up near her hairline. “You say something?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t think so because I know you wouldn’t stand there and judge me for letting that little boy’s name slip my mind. I met Angela at the sickle cell center. I don’t let Jojo stay just anywhere.”
“I know.”
“Then why you acting like you forgot?”
“I’m sorry, Mama. Really,” I say for being rude, but not for being fiercely protective of my brother. “It was a good idea to let him go over there.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what’s a good idea when it comes to my own child.”
“That’s not what I meant.” The words come out fast and panicked because all I want to do is backtrack this conversation. To somehow un-offend her. “I meant he usually looks forward to doing things with me during school breaks, but I’ve been caught up in everything else going on right now.” I don’t know if she knows I took him to the zoo today and I don’t mention it. I stand there, playing with my fingernails, hoping she’ll sense my desire, my need, to talk to her. Ask for what you want. It’s something she has drilled into me and Josiah our whole lives. Don’t expect people to read your mind. Jojo gets it, but it’s been a constant struggle for me, a girl who can hear what most people need without them having to ask. And it seems like now even that can’t be trusted. Trusting that gets people killed. It gets people put on missing persons lists.
Mama stands. Takes a step toward me. For half a second, I think she might reach for me. Pull me into a hug. But she takes a hard left and disappears into her bedroom.
I leave the apartment before the air inside it suffocates me. My neighborhood isn’t bad—only the occasional car breakin or stolen package. But I do live in the city, and there are certain rules you’re taught to follow to stay out of trouble. Sometimes people follow all the rules and trouble still finds them. Sometimes people break all the rules and get on just fine. I think the law of probability would put me in the latter group. If there’s a missing-girl quota, my friend group has met it. So I’m not scared as I walk down the street near midnight. It’s just me and Santa Bag, but I’m not afraid. If anything, I’m the one who should be feared. Creeping around windows. Ladle. Helmet. Lotion. Hovering by backdoors. Salt. Ruler. Detergent. Hiding behind shrubbery. Washcloth. Graph paper. Hanger. Leaving behind gifts with a missing flyer as a greeting card. Use at your own risk.
I fulfill needs until I’m numb to my own. When I slip into my cool sheets and close my eyes, I see Danny lying in his hospital bed. Danny lying on the ground outside of Sweet Pea’s. Danny in a coffin. I see Philly graciously accepting gifts from me, oblivious to my involvement in the death of his brother. I see myself passing the pepper spray to Deja. These conscious thoughts fade into a dream. Me. A corrupt Santa Claus screaming trick or treat.
* * *
Jude and I ride to the rally together. We decided to hold it on the soccer practice field next to the student parking lot for visibility. There’s a traffic light at the corner and rush hour is the perfect opportunity to get Deja’s face out there.
Corbin, from my physics class, is the first person to greet us. “Morning! Me and my grandma made these.” He gives Jude and me a handful of pins with Deja’s face and hashtag.
“Wow, Corbin, these look great. Thank you.”
“Five hundred more where those came from. East Lake rides for our own! You know that.”
He jogs off to pass out more, leaving me feeling guilty for thinking some of the things I’ve thought about him in the past.
“There’s Malcolm,” Jude says.
He and his family are huddled up with Detective Habib and a representative from an organization for missing BIPOC children. His mother waves Ms. Jasmine over and Malcolm slips away to join us.
“Hey, y’all.”
“Avoiding Ms. Jasmine?” I ask.
“After the way she spoke to us at the station? Yes. I’m not about to willingly subject myself to more of her wrath.” He points to a group of elderly people settled in lawn chairs around a folding table. “I’m going to help them make signs. Want to come?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “I think I’ll take the box of ones they’ve already finished and start setting them up by the road.” It’s productive, and it’ll keep me far away from everyone else. After the nightmares I had last night, Santa Bag got shoved underneath my bed for the day. Plus, this rally is about Deja and if I spend the whole time fulfilling needs, I won’t get anything important done. I took my migraine meds this morning and brought my noise cancelers. That, and keeping my distance from the thicker parts of the crowd, will have to do for a few hours.