Needy Little Things(51)
“I’m sorry,” I blurt as soon as I accept the call.
“For what?”
I smile a little because him giving me a hard time like this means he’s already forgiven me. “Really, Mal. I shouldn’t have—”
“Yeah, cool. I’m sorry, too. Onward?”
“Onward.”
“Okay, so I’m starting to see more about Deja online. People from school have been putting in work. They are showing up for her, Ri. The posts from Afro Alt were a catalyst, but she isn’t viral yet.”
We brainstorm other ways to attract attention, wondering how much it will take to get her name on the national news. We don’t say another word about our argument. It might not be the healthiest thing. In fact, I know it isn’t. All we’ve done is tighten the cap on a shook-up bottle of Coke. But this is how we do. This is how we’ve always done. And these days I take comfort in the familiar.
CHAPTER 21
Josiah spends Saturday morning moping around the house. He goes back and forth to the fridge, holding the door open way longer than Mama would ever tolerate, hoping for new food to appear. He plays his video games for only a couple of minutes at a time before getting bored. What tugs on my heartstrings the most is when he asks to borrow my computer and I later find my YouTube account recommending nothing but animal videos. It’s hard to watch, but I can’t tell him I’m going out later to scrounge up the remaining cash I need to secure his spot at camp. I don’t think his nine-year-old body could handle the letdown if I told him I was trying but ended up failing.
Both of us start when Mama’s bedroom door opens. She shambles into the kitchen but only leaves with a glass of water. “Need you to go to the grocery store for me this weekend, Sariyah. Break is about over and Josiah needs stuff for his lunch. There’s cash on the table by the door.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you need anything?”
“No.” She goes into her bedroom and closes the door.
“Is Mama okay?” Josiah asks.
“She’s…” I wonder, for a second, what the age-appropriate response is. “Depressed.”
He stares at her closed door, considering the word. “She was depressed before.”
“Yeah. It happens to everyone sometimes, but for some people, it happens a little more.”
He frowns. “Why? Did we do something?”
“No. Not at all. Sometimes there’s no good reason, but I think certain things can make it worse.”
“Like Deja being gone?”
A hard lump forms in my throat. “Mm-hmm” is the best I can get out before taking a huge gulp of water. “But she’ll be okay. And so will Deja. And so will I.”
His face is wrinkled with uncertainty.
“And guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m signing you up for zoo camp.”
* * *
I sit at the dining table for my daily social media rounds. It’s hard to believe I once did this for fun. This time last week, we were all getting ready for the festival. It’s been one of the longest and shortest weeks of my life. My first stop is Afro Alt’s Facebook page. The post there is the same as the one on all their other platforms. It’s mostly strangers in the comments, but a few people from school who never even speak to Deja have chimed in talking about how much they miss her and want her to come home. About how they had this class or that with her. How they can’t believe what happened and they just saw her a few days ago—as if seeing someone prevents bad things from happening. Their words feel grossly performative, but I can’t be mad. The engagement on the post is a good thing.
I’m switching over to the Atlanta Police Department’s page when I get a notification from Instagram. Jedidiah Jones has requested to follow you. Fitz’s friend. I casually wonder if my phone heard me talking about Chefly with that guy at the MARTA station yesterday and if that somehow influenced this follow request. Then I realize that sounds like something Philly would think up, and I push it from my mind.
I scroll through Jed’s feed. His face is barely familiar, but Fitz has mentioned him enough that it feels like we’re old friends. Looking at those two and Ella and other random kids from town—fishing, hanging around bonfires, four-wheeling—I can’t help but wonder what my life might have been like if Jojo wasn’t sick. If I’d gone to Blueship High. Do people get stabbed with nail files in Chefly? Do girls go missing? I scroll back up to accept his request, but my heart stops when I reach the top of the page. There. Under his bio.
Followed by DejaDej.
I immediately check, but he isn’t following her back … or isn’t following her anymore. His following-to-follower ratio is really unbalanced. That’s how it usually is for guys who look like him—fresh cut, chiseled jaw, smooth brown skin, deep dimples. I call Malcolm.
“Hey,” he answers.
“Colmy, did Deja ever mention a guy named Jedidiah Jones?”
“Jedi what?”
“Jedidiah Jones. He’s a friend of a friend from Chefly.”
“Why all your friends down there got grandaddy names?”
“Says Malcolm Frederick Hawkins, brother to Winifred and Contessa, dog daddy to Miss Doretta. Answer my question.”