Needy Little Things(83)
My noise cancelers cover my ears and Santa Bag hangs over my shoulder as I hobble across the stage at graduation, orthopedic boot still on my foot. It took relentless tutoring from Jude, Malcolm, Deja, Mama, my teachers—even Jojo—to pass all my classes, but together, we managed it. Rincon didn’t trip when I admitted to giving his name to the police, but he did flip when he found out I had no plans to walk. A lot of things have changed over the past several weeks, but my dislike of large crowds hasn’t. Our principal is all uptight about tradition and expects all students to dress uniformly for the ceremony. No bags, no headphones. But he made an exception this year. So here I am, accepting my diploma to the chorus of two thousand needs. Minus the usuals. And minus Deja’s. I haven’t heard any needs from her since that night in Chefly.
“Retro for dinner?” Malcolm asks me after the ceremony.
I shed my hot, scratchy gown and Mama happily takes it off my hands.
“Go have fun,” she says.
I look at Dad. He’s going back to Chefly in the morning and I don’t want to miss out on our last few hours together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “We’ll wait up for you.”
Malcolm smiles and waves at my family, then throws his arm over my shoulder, directing me away from the football field.
“Tess should be here with us today,” he says, once we escape the larger portion of the crowd. He isn’t angry or somber, just reflective.
I squeeze his left hand, still dangling over my shoulder. I’m not over what he and Deja did. My stomach lurches every time I imagine them scheming behind my back. But it’s not as hard for me to understand why they did it anymore. The country may be talking more about how race, and sex, and socioeconomics affect how missing persons are handled by the police and media, but there’s a gap between talk and action. A gap worth getting angry over.
Deja and Jude wait for us under a giant oak tree at the far edge of campus. They both pull noisemakers from behind their backs and clap and cheer as we approach.
“We did it!” Deja whoops.
She’s the only one who can say that without earning an eye roll from me. She and I are the only ones in our group that anyone ever worried wouldn’t make it across the stage.
Jude laces his fingers with mine and tugs me close enough to kiss my forehead. “Proud of you.”
Malcolm looks at Deja, wagging his finger between me and Jude. “We still not going to acknowledge whatever’s going on here?”
“No,” I say with a smile.
Jude grins at me and I’m glad he’s okay with letting whatever it is—because it’s definitely something—just be.
* * *
I come home to Jojo playing in my cap and gown and Mama and Daddy cuddling on the couch. I join my parents in the living room.
“Good time?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, it was great.” I hand my leftovers off to Josiah.
Mama glimpses what’s inside before he makes it to the kitchen. “No, sir. You not eating all that sugar before bed.”
“Oh, let him,” Dad says.
Mama raises her eyebrows and twists her lips. “Don’t think about nudging me when he comes in the room at three A.M. talking about I threw up.”
He kisses her temple. “I won’t. Sariyah can handle that.”
I snatch the Styrofoam container away from my brother and shove it in the back of the fridge.
He grins evilly. Mouth already chipmunk stuffed with cold pancakes.
“You sure you don’t want to come down with Josiah after his camp?” Dad asks me.
“I’m sure. But tell Jed I said hey.” I don’t mention Ella, even though she sent me a message explaining how terrible she felt about what her brother did. She had no reason to feel bad, and I let her know as much, but I can’t really imagine a world where we could be proper friends. Because I know being angry with her brother, being disappointed in him, doesn’t erase her love for him. And I’m not far enough into my therapy sessions to welcome that kind of complexity into my life. Mama signed the whole family up and gave referrals to Mr. Derrick and Mrs. Hawkins. It’s helping, but I think it’s the kind of work that doesn’t really have an end.
Mama stands and twists her body until her back pops. “Come on, Jo. Let’s go pick you out some clothes for camp.”
When they disappear down the hall, Dad leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “You still thinking about going to trade school?”
I laugh. I have nightmares about that crawl space and gutted rental almost every night. The thought of being a contractor isn’t appealing anymore. “No. I don’t think that’s for me after all.”
“Fair enough. What’s the new plan?”
“I’m not sure.” I scrunch up my face, hoping he’ll accept that answer for now.
“You don’t have to be sure. I’m curious is all.”
“I’m starting full-time at the pharmacy next week. The pay is better than I thought it’d be.” Which means I can save and still plan a proper donation to Danny’s fundraiser. “But as for long-term plans”—I hesitate, nervous to share—“I don’t know. I was thinking about finding an organization I could volunteer or maybe intern with. A group that helps teens going through things like Tessa and Deja were.”