Needy Little Things(77)

“He left,” Deja whispers.

“You could have told me that before I shouted myself hoarse,” I snap. I lie there until my breathing returns to normal. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not asking why Fitz left. I’m asking why you came here. Why you did this.”

“Malcolm and I wanted to—”

“Stop. I already heard Malcolm’s reason. I’m asking you for yours.”

“It’s the same as Malcolm’s. I’ve had a family member disappear, too. I know most missing people, even most white girls, don’t get the attention Casey got. But—”

“But nine times out of ten the ones who do are white. Yes, I know. Everyone knows. It’s common knowledge and I still don’t get how this stunt was supposed to change anything. But you can explain that part later. Because I know it’s not your whole truth. What was going on with you and Fitz?”

“Nothing.”

“Look where we are, Dej. What’s the point of lying? If we get out of this, which we will, all our dirty laundry is getting aired out. It’s probably best to get the worst of the funk off now before the whole world catches a whiff.”

“Nothing was going on with me and Fitz! He told me his name was Jed. I met him over Christmas break and we hit it off. Shit sucked at home. I thought I was in love with him. Malcolm’s idea was my chance to escape and maybe bring awareness to a bigger issue at the same time … only I never intended to go back home like we planned. Jed—I mean Fitz—picked me up from Afro Alt and we were just going to figure things out together.”

“He picked you up from—” I can’t even get the sentence out it’s so absurd. “And what? You sprayed the pepper spray and cut yourself to make it seem like something bad happened?”

“No!” She releases a frustrated sigh. “I mean, the pepper spray did seem useful considering what we had planned, but I really ended up needing it! This dog. It ran up on me. Knocked me down. I cut myself and had to use the spray to keep it from attacking me.”

It feels like my skull shrinks two sizes. There’s so much that’s not adding up. “Wait—back up. You met Fitz in person this past winter and he introduced himself as Jed?”

“Yes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “And when you followed him on Instagram, you didn’t wonder why he looked different and had a whole-ass girlfriend?”

“I never followed him on IG. It should have been a red flag, but he said he preferred Facebook. I made an account on there to talk to him.”

“Willow D. Nelson?”

“Yeah. How’d you—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Fitz must have hacked Deja’s Instagram and Jed’s Facebook. Some kind of stunt to set him up but there’s no telling why. “Dej, what was so bad back home that running off with a guy you barely knew seemed like a good idea? I saw the lock on your door. I gave it to you. What was going on?”

She sniffs, sinuses already heavy with the fluids that come with tears.

“Is it Derrick?” I ask.

“No! No, Derrick is … good. I was most worried about how all this would affect him. How is he?”

“How you’d expect, I guess. But if it’s not him…” I don’t want to be the one to make this accusation.

“My mother.” Those two words are almost a complete story. “The lock on my doorknob works, but the door doesn’t latch properly. The chain lock was to keep her out of my purse. She takes my money. Buys drugs, clothes, makeup. I was fed up. Pissed off. I don’t want her in trouble or people talking smack about her. I just wanted to slip away. Erase myself from her life but keep living my own. Or start mine over, I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid of her?”

“No, but it’s strange.” She thinks for a few long seconds. “Like watching a scary movie. You know there’s no real physical threat, but your heart races anyway.”

“Physical threats aren’t the only ones that can hurt you.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I’d already planned to leave before Malcolm said anything to me.”

“But what about graduation? What about—”

“Hello, hello,” Fitz’s voice booms from above. “Are you ready to have a civilized conversation, Sariyah?”

Deja scooches over to me, close enough for me to see the warning in her eyes. The warning that tells me I better play nice.

“I said, are you ready to talk? I know you can hear me.”

I clear my throat. “Yes.”

“Good. I hope there are no hard feelings about”—he searches for words—“your current accommodations, but you kind of gave me no choice. You understand?”

He pauses like he actually expects me to respond in the affirmative. Deja nudges me. “Yeah” is the best I can get out. “But Fitz, it’s me. You know me. What are you doing? What are you thinking?”

“Well, I thought you knew me. But that didn’t stop you from looking at me sideways and knocking me across the head with that box before I had time to explain, did it?”

“I’m sorry,” I say as earnestly as I can, even though it’s complete bullshit. “I’m listening now.”