The Scammer(67)

“My parents are spending Thanksgiving in Texas with my siblings.”

He walks into the kitchen, inspecting the empty fridge.

“Why didn’t you want to spend Thanksgiving with your family?”

He huffs. “It’s the other way around. They didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with me.”

“You and your little riddles,” I groan. “Wish you’d tell me something real for once.”

“Really?” He turns to me. “Okay. Why didn’t you want to go home again?”

“You mean aside from my parents? Too many memories. Too many opportunities for them to try to convince me that going to Frazier is a bad idea. Not enough ways to avoid talking about it.”

“Ditto,” he says and makes his way up the carpeted stairs. I sigh and follow.

He opens a door down the hall and turns on a light.

“You’re staying in here,” he mumbles, not crossing the threshold.

I look around the massive room with a chapel ceiling and frown. “But this is your room. I can just take the guest room or the sofa.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, sullenly. “Guest rooms are being renovated. Besides, I don’t sleep in there anymore anyways.”

“Oh. Well, okay. Good night.”

He opens his mouth to say something then closes it. “Good night.”



* * *




The moment my eyes open, I sniff the dusty air, expecting the scent of sweet potato pies to float in the room. Mom loved waking up at five a.m. to start cooking. Her pies were always my favorite.

But since Kevin died, everything somewhat stopped with him. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I smelled nothing. But the memories of honey ham and green bean casseroles haunt me. I text Mom and Dad.

Happy Thanksgiving!



I don’t expect a reply. They didn’t even check if I was coming home.

I slink out of bed, gazing around. Nick’s room is like a time capsule. The robin’s-egg-blue walls hold shelves with baseball trophies, awards, a high school diploma, and track medals. In his closet hang a few old sweaters and sports jerseys, all remnants of a life he left behind. I glance out the window that faces the driveway, sun sparkling off the water fountain, morning dew frosting the tips of grass in the front lawn.

Wonder why he didn’t want to sleep in here?

I grab one of his sweaters and make my way downstairs.

Nick is in the kitchen, dressed in flannel pajamas and a Wu-Tang T-shirt, his hair all wet and jostled.

“Morning,” Nick says in a raspy voice and places a mug in front of me. “It’s mint.”

“My favorite,” I say, scooting into one of the barstools. “Thanks.”

Nick nods, sipping a mug of coffee before staring out the windows at the water. Doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

“Soooo, what are we going to do today?” I ask. “Do you want to cook? If we head out now, maybe we could find an open supermarket.”

He shakes his head. “No, we’re going to Anita’s.”

“Who’s Anita?”

“You’ll see.”



* * *




Nick pulls up to a white one-level home surrounded by tall pine trees. A far smaller home, in comparison to his giant mansion. We climb out of the car, the weather a touch warmer than earlier. The screen door squeaks as it swings open and out pops a thin Black woman with graying hair, her smile shining bright.

“About time you showed up!”

Before he can respond, a gang of little kids run past her.

“Nicky!!!”

The kids wrestle him to the ground and he lets them attack him while tickling anyone he can get his hands on.

“Ohhhh! An ambush!” he laughs.

“Come on now, let him up! It’s my turn,” the woman says, pulling him up to his feet and wrapping him in a big hug.

“Awww, welcome home, baby boy! You look good!”

“Hey Anita.”

A tall guy about our age with dark skin wearing a durag runs outside.

“Aye, kid! You late! I was finna to head on over there to find ya and—” The guy notices me and frowns. “Uhhh . . . who dis?”

Nick steps beside me, smiling. “This is Jordyn.”

The whole yard stands shell-shocked, wide eyes bouncing from me to Nick and back.

I give a short awkward wave. “Uhhh, hi?”

Nick chuckles. “Jordyn, this is Anita, and my best friend, Richie.”

Anita clears her throat, elbowing Richie, then smiles. “Welcome! Glad Nicky brought home one of his friends.”

She steps forward and wraps me in a warm hug. A strong hug that could crack my back. I can’t remember when I’ve been hugged like this. Maybe years.

“Chile, when’s the last time you ate something?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Well you know how school meals can be.”

“Nicky was telling me last year, that’s why I made sure he had the right pots and pans to get down if necessary. Well, come on. We just finished breakfast, but I saved you a little something.”

Breakfast on Thanksgiving? I’m used to just drinking tea, maybe a little toast or a bagel.

Inside, her home is just as warm and cozy as she is, filled with a cacophony of voices. A few gentlemen sit on the leather sofa arguing about fishing routes, as the kids crowd around the TV, watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade. We cross the teal carpet, worn down with wear, and I notice a mahogany dining table with a lacy tablecloth and matching china cabinets, set with Sternos and chafing dishes, ready for a buffet-style dinner. The walls are covered with dozens of framed family photos. And that’s when I spot Nick, a little white boy surrounded by a sea of Black kids—birthday parties, family reunions, fishing—growing as the years go by.