Needy Little Things(6)

Deja, Malcolm, and I all stare him down, daring him to give the wrong answer.

He shifts back on the bench, chuckling. “Okay. Y’all got me. People need ice cream.”

“And sometimes the things I give end up being compromises anyway. A stand-in when something better isn’t around. I once saw these parents make a snowman out of Safe Space Sweet Cream to calm their toddler after she realized she’d lost her stuffed Olaf.”

Across the street, a curvy light-skinned woman in a sundress and sky-high wedges tries to enter Sweet Pea’s. The steel security door rattles loudly, interrupting our conversation.

“It’s closed!” Malcolm yells. “And cursed!” He peeks at me from the corner of his eye, goading me to comment on his continued pettiness toward Ms. Jess, but I don’t indulge him.

He looks back at the woman, who is now desperately tugging on the door to the shop. He stands up this time and tries again. “It’s closed!” And under his breath he adds, “Is it me, or are locked doors not a sign to keep it moving?”

The woman looks at us, shading her eyes, despite already wearing sunglasses and a floppy hat. She pushes her shades down her nose, then smiles broadly before scurrying across the street, waving energetically.

“Look what you did.” I glare at Malcolm, who casually inspects his fingernails.

“It’s you!” the woman squeals.

I look at Jude and Malcolm and Deja, but we all know who she’s talking to.

She reaches the picnic table and sets her huge tote bag on it with a clank. “I’ve been looking for you!” She roots around in her bag and passes me a wrinkled envelope. Thanks for the nail polish remover. Lifesaver! is scrawled across the front. She winks at me, then scurries her way back across the street.

“What was that about?” Jude asks.

I turn the envelope around so Malcolm can read the front.

“Oh! Need fulfillment perk!” He claps his hands as Deja rolls onto her stomach, distractedly grinning at her phone.

“Do people give you gifts often?” Jude asks.

“Not often, but it happens. A few months ago, this lady shoved two hundred dollars in my hand and ran away. Like, literally ran. I think she thought I was a witch or something.”

“Do all the needs you hear fit in that bag? Never a car or a million dollars or a cure for cancer?” Jude asks.

I’m pretty sure I hear Malcolm’s eyes roll into the back of his head. “Sariyah,” he whines, “open the damn envelope already.”

I suck my teeth at him but peek inside anyway. “Oh my God,” I gasp.

Deja sits up, intrigued now. “What is it? More than two hundred?”

They all crane their necks trying to catch a glimpse.

I hold the envelope close to my body. “Malcolm Hawkins, that woman just delivered your dream birthday gift.”

“Oh, give it to me on Saturday. You know I love a surprise.”

“This … can’t wait. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

He does as instructed. I let Jude and Deja take a look first. Four tickets to Afro Alt Music Festival. Deja slaps her hand over her mouth and takes off running across the park. Jude splutters, trying to hold in his laughter. Deja and Malcolm have always wanted to go, and it starts this weekend.

I place the tickets in his waiting hands. “Open!”

Malcolm’s eyes flash open. He takes a second to process what he’s looking at. Then he screams.

The people nearby go silent and gawk.

“Everything’s fine.” Jude smiles and waves reassuringly.

When Malcolm screams again, the people decide to add more distance between us and them. His shriek is a lure for Deja, though. She sprints back toward us, her short legs moving lightning fast. It’s no wonder she made varsity track in ninth grade.

“You are lying!” Malcolm shuffles through the tickets, holds them up to the sun, sniffs them. “Stop!” He flips them back and forth. “Shut up!” He breaks into a mini praise dance, then hugs my neck across the picnic table, shoving my gut against the splintery wood.

“Dang, Colmy, chill,” I say with a laugh.

Deja sneaks a ticket from Malcolm’s grip, her huge cheesy smile wide enough to expose every bracket of her pink braces. She gives it a good sniff, too.

“You are one of God’s favorites,” he says slowly. “These have been sold out for weeks. You could hustle that ability so hard. Save lives and make bank.”

I open my mouth to explain for the hundredth time why I don’t, but he cuts me off.

“I know, I know. You and your superstitions.”

“Not wanting to become a test subject in some creep’s basement laboratory and being superstitious are not the same thing. Plus, I think it’d just feel … wrong.”

“Whatever, Mother Teresa. Let’s go shopping. I know you don’t have nothing to wear. And you”—he looks Jude up and down—“I accept your devotion to black, but we need to elevate this for the festival.” He wags his index finger at his outfit.

Jude says, “I’m invited?” at the same time I say, “I can’t go!”

“Of course,” Malcolm answers Jude, and to me, “Hell yes, you can. It’s my birthday.”

“It’s a music festival, Malcolm. There will be thousands of people and, well … music.”