Needy Little Things(9)
“You all right, Sariyah?” Mama asks.
“His name,” I say, still trying to clear my airway, “it sounds familiar.”
“Maybe he’d been by the ice cream shop before.” She gives up on dinner entirely and places her clean dish in the sink. “I’m going to go lie down. I’ll forward you that study guide. Don’t let me come out and find you doing anything but that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, but she never comes out to check, and I know that’s not a good sign. I do study, though, harder than I have in a long time. The formulas and equations work to distract me from everything else on my mind for probably the first, and last, time ever. But my body knows when it’s 10:00 P.M. I could be dead asleep. I could be out having the time of my life. But at 10:00 P.M., my world resets. At 10:00 P.M. I think of Tessa. My phone dings because Malcolm does, too. He’s sent a photo of tater tots with sour cream and sriracha on top—just how Tessa likes them.
Me
Tess tots!!
I send a couple of drooling emojis. A few minutes pass before he texts again.
Malcolm
I wish we could have made people care. Can’t believe the police gaslight us to this day. Talking about they did everything they could.
Me
You’re reading about Casey again, aren’t you?
Malcolm
I can’t help it.
Me
I know. I love you.
* * *
I sit in the back of Mr. Howard’s class, glaring at him while he gets everyone settled for the quiz. A few needs I missed fulfilling before the bell berate me, but I can’t risk getting in trouble for disrupting class again. I convince myself that the study guide, tissue, toothpaste, and eraser circulating through my mind are not things that could easily turn into objects of self-defense. It helps ease the building guilt brought on by failing to fulfill.
“Dang, girl, fix your face,” Deja whispers. “It ain’t his fault they have to notify parents if your grade drops below a seventy.”
“He could have waited until after spring break.”
She considers this, then joins me in scowling. “True. He wrong for that. Is your mama gonna let you go to the festival?”
“She said I can go if I pass the quiz, but only because she loves Malcolm. Even if I get a one hundred on this thing, my overall grade will still be failing so I’ll probably be on lockdown for the rest of break.” The last part is a lie, but is it weird that I wish it wasn’t? Because if Mama bothers to put me on punishment and enforce it, that means she’s healthy.
Ms. McArthur, the class co-teacher, grabs a set of quizzes from Mr. Howard. “Usual crew. Let’s go.”
Deja and I are both part of the usual crew, only she’s in it just for show and I’m in it because of my IEP. Individualized education plan. My teachers give me accommodations like extended time and small-group testing. It definitely helps, but my grades are proof that those interventions aren’t enough. Not for someone like me.
The world quiets when we leave the full classroom and go down the hall to an empty one. My eyes glaze over as I scan my quiz, trying to keep up while Ms. McArthur reads the directions aloud. Written assessments exist solely to make me feel bad about myself.
“Psst.”
I look over at Deja. She’s angled her paper enough for me to see and her numbers are written comically large. Bless her. But I’m shocked to find I don’t need her lifeline. Ms. McArthur reads the questions and they’re really similar to the ones Mr. Howard put on the study guide. I still struggle with some of them, but it feels good not to be totally clueless for once. To turn in my paper knowing I at least passed. But it’s not like I can rely on the doom storm that led to my rare moment of focused studying last night. Not like I’d want to.
Ms. McArthur lets me and Deja go to the media center once we’ve both finished. It’s deserted, thank God.
“I am so hype about tomorrow, but I’m walking on eggshells around the house,” Deja says. “My stepdad has been trying to talk my mom out of letting me go.” She takes her phone out and smiles. Quickly types a message. She fumbles it while trying to set it down and an old jazzy song plays on full volume. A woman, crooning about some misunderstanding between her and her love. She silences it and shoves it deep into her purse.
I laugh. “What was that?”
“What? A girl can’t be cultured?” she asks, strangely defensive.
I raise my hands, still laughing. “No. Do you.”
She digs my physics homework out of my book bag to help me with it.
“Are you worried your stepdad will convince your mom to change her mind?”
She tucks her leg under her butt. “No. I just don’t want to hear his mouth. My mom is even more annoying, though. She’s been on do-whatever-you-want-since-you-think-you-grown mode since I was twelve. She lets me do stuff, even advocates for it, then gets pissed off about it later. She’s going to have something to say Saturday night, and that’s fine. She can go off on the walls because I sure won’t be listening. It might be Mal’s eighteenth we’re celebrating, but I’m marking it as a new beginning for all of us. A rite of passage. A last hurrah.”
I snort. “Last hurrah?”
“Mm-hmm. And hell, I might even start the festivities early.” She sips her water bottle, little finger jutting out. “Tomorrow’s not promised, right?”