Needy Little Things(59)
Deja.
My yearbooks are tucked away in a box under my bed, along with other high school memorabilia from over the years. I choose the one from tenth grade because that was when I peaked on the social ladder. The last year I made homecoming court. I run my fingers across the sash and crown. An entirely different person wore these things. But it wasn’t like it is in the movies. I can’t pinpoint one specific event or groundbreaking decision that removed me from that path. There was no fight, no bad breakup, no massive betrayal or a humiliating night at a party. And it happened long after Tess and long before Dej. My fall from favor was quiet. Uneventful. It was more like I got distracted by something at a rest stop during a road trip and everyone else left without me. Except, I don’t feel left behind. Not at all. I’m just somewhere different.
I sit on the bed with the yearbook and compare the hundreds of autographs in the back of the book to the writing in the photos of the Valentine’s Day card. There are a few that make me do a double take, and a couple that make me squint, comparing loops and points, even word choice and language. But none of them are right. Next, I go through names. Everyone whose first and or last name starts with J. There are dozens of people who qualify, many of which I’d already ruled out by their handwriting.
When the yearbook leads me nowhere, I grab my phone and open Instagram. I go back to Jed’s page and stare at the followed by DejaDej under his bio, like looking at it long enough will make it less weird. I scroll through his posts, tapping here and there. It takes a few minutes for me to realize what I’m doing—scanning the likes for Deja’s name. I find what I’m looking for on a post from February. It’s a photo of Jed and Ella. She sits on his lap, her hands pressed against either of his cheeks as she kisses him. The caption reads: My ride or die. I tap to view the comments.
Ella_Davis1: I love you, Jedidiah Jones. Forever.
Fitzdavy: vomits
DejaDej: adorable
My phone slips from my hand. The comment was left only three weeks ago. Does Deja have a habit of commenting on random people’s photos? Does she follow just anyone? I snatch my phone back up, take a screenshot, then go to her page.
Followers: 411 Following: 409
I scroll through the list of all four hundred and nine accounts. Most are celebrities or people I recognize from school. It doesn’t make sense. I can’t find a single connection between Deja and Jed, other than me. But Jed and I weren’t even connected on social media until yesterday, and I sure as heck never mentioned him.
I get ready for bed, still trying to find logic in any of it. I wonder if part of me is just desperate to rule out Rincon. He’s a grown man. That’s likely to be a much darker path than this one. But even if Jed is J., and he and Deja had some kind of fling, it’s obviously over—she wouldn’t be leaving comments about how adorable Jed and his girlfriend are if it wasn’t. The comment doesn’t make sense either way. Jed should be a stranger to her. He said he never spoke to her. And if he was lying, I’m afraid to know the reason why.
My anxious thoughts trigger another lucid dream. I’ve never had them so close together. But things are exactly the way they’ve been every other time. Tessa sits on the floor, painting her toenails, humming quietly to herself. I sit next to her.
“Hey, Tess.”
“Hi, Riyah.”
I watch her paint until all her toes are electric blue—the last color I ever saw them. My eyes are watery when I bring myself to speak. “Tessa, who was that man you were talking to?”
The scene rearranges itself. Her answers always come from my memories, so I know what’s coming. And I don’t want it to. I hate reliving this. But if there’s a chance I could get some insight that might help Deja. I have to. If there’s a chance I could get it right this time, I need to.
I’m on the school bus, looking out the window. Tess wasn’t at school that day and I remember being so excited when I saw her waiting for me at my stop. I waved at her, but as the bus turned the corner, I noticed she wasn’t alone. There was a man with her. It’s hard to say how old he was, but I do remember thinking he was a man. I frowned when I couldn’t get her attention. The bus stopped half a block from where they stood, and when I got off, he was gone. The scene replays around me, our words muffled until we make it to the part of the conversation I resurrected by asking what I asked.
“That guy? He’s just someone I know.”
Twelve-year-old me had accepted that answer. Twelve-year-old me never told anyone what I saw that day. Fifteen-year-old me did. But it was too late then. If that man at the bus stop was the same man in the security footage outside of the convenience store, I could have saved Tessa. All I had to do was tell her mom, my mom, the bus driver, anyone. No one was angry with me when I shared it years later. Not even Malcolm. Because I wasn’t the only one who ignored something that could have made a difference. Almost everyone had. But what I didn’t share with anyone, is that I heard that man’s need. A rock. My insides curdle when I think about why he might have needed it. How he might have used it. I prefer to imagine myself throwing one at him. Right out the window of the school bus. Watching it hit his temple. And then waking up, cuddled right next to my best friend in her eighteen-year-old form.
CHAPTER 25
My walk to school Monday morning is quiet, aside from the light thudding of Santa Bag against my hip with each step. I woke up at 3:00 A.M., replaying memories of Deja over and over in my head. Looking for clues that took too long to surface with Tessa. By 6:00 A.M., I was sure she’d been communicating with someone she didn’t want to tell us, or me, about. It’s not just the card or the comment on Jed’s post, but the more I think about it, Deja was skittish with her phone. My most distinct memory being the way she’d acted in the library after our math quiz. It was the day before the festival. I’d caught her smiling at it and she’d shoved it deep into her book bag. She’d gotten defensive. I have to find out who she was talking to.