“Bathroom’s to the right.”
I used the opportunity to grab my cell from my book bag by the front door. It made me think of Desiree’s phone—the one Zizza seemed to be in no rush to return—and how much easier this would all be if I could look at it. I didn’t have the patience to wait until we finally got it back—not with Desiree’s killer roaming free.
I’d just sat back down at the kitchen table when Erin returned. She’d left her bag on the table and now she made a whole production of reaching into it. She produced a jewelry box. Even I recognized the distinct robin’s egg blue. It was square and flat. Perfect for a necklace.
I put my phone down on the table. “Are you proposing?” I said.
“Am I on one knee?”
She smiled as she handed it over. I wasn’t much for jewelry. I opened it.
Jelly bracelets. About ten. All different colors.
“That heifer.”
The bracelets were mine. Or at least had been years ago. They’d disappeared the first summer I spent at Gram’s. Desiree’d sworn she didn’t take them. Sworn all summer. Then swore on birthdays. Swore on Christmas. Even swore on Easter. Year after year after year. It became a running joke. We’d be hanging out and I’d randomly find a way to mention my bracelets. She’d deny, deny, deny. But she couldn’t do that anymore. They were here and she wasn’t.
I rubbed my wrist. It took a minute, but I finally spoke. “Where’d you find them?”
“She left them at my place after a 2000s party. I got stuck with the Livestrong bracelets. Nowhere near as cute.”
I put them on, twisting my wrist to fully examine them. “They still fit. Thank you.”
“Of course. And that’s not all I brought. This is from me, though.”
She reached back into her Birkin purse, which could pay for eight $1,756 credits at Columbia, and brought out a bag of marshmallows.
“You making hot chocolate?” I said.
“Better. Honey, I can tell you’re stressed AF over not making up with her before she died. You need to take your mind off this Karma person. Even take your mind off Freck.”
Erin was right, but the only thing that would stop me from being stressed AF was finding Karma/Zor-El. I picked up my cell as Erin held back up the bag of marshmallows. “Best edibles in the Western Hemisphere.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t get them off those green Weed World vans camped out by Penn Station.”
“Theirs don’t even have any marijuana in them.”
When I didn’t respond immediately, she grabbed my cell out of my hands. I gave her the same look my mom gave me whenever I’d asked for McDonald’s for dinner. Unlike me, Erin was undeterred. “We’ll make a deal. You have a marshmallow, you get the phone back.” I hesitated. “Just one. Whatever you have to do can wait a few minutes.”
“Fine.”
She handed me the bag. It turned out she wasn’t lying. The marshmallow took my mind off any and every thing. My thoughts had parked and weren’t even moving for street cleaning. One marshmallow turned into two. We started shooting the shit.
It felt nice to just talk as if I hadn’t a care in the world. I hadn’t done it since the last time I’d seen Kat. It made me think of school. And how I desperately wanted to be back in a classroom, bitching to Omar about first-world problems like having shitty cell service on the subway or a final coming up. I hoped I could get back to all of that soon.
I was telling Erin how I’d moved to the Bronx to be closer to school when Aunt E let herself in. I’d just taken a bite, so I almost choked. Erin didn’t play it any cooler. We tried not to look at each other as Aunt E stopped a few feet in front of us. “I was coming up to tell you the food is ready, but I see you’re doing dessert before dinner.” She looked me dead in the eye. “Looks like you finally decided to eat something.”
I forced myself to swallow. “Just a snack.”
Aunt E held out her hand. “I love snacks.”
This time Erin and I did share a look.
Shitnuts.
Erin spoke first. “These were my last two…”
A lie. Aunt E knew it too. She did an about-face, heading back to the door, talking over her shoulder as she crossed the room. “Your generation swears you’re the first and only to do everything. Your gram was making pot brownies before you were even a thought.” She finally stopped and looked back. “Now come down here, get yourself some food, and bring that bag. We can make s’mores.”
We spent the evening high off marshmallows and stories about Desiree. It was exactly what I needed to stop thinking about Desiree’s death and start appreciating her life. I wasn’t the only one. We were all mourning Desiree in our own different ways.
But then midnight hit, and it was just like Cinderella. Everything was back to shit. Aunt E went to bed first. Erin tried to go home, but I wouldn’t let her. Chelsea may have been just ten miles away, but it was late and I had a spare bedroom. Luckily, she had a Louis Vuitton weekend bag she kept in her car for “quick jaunts to Mexico or the South of France.” She was asleep as soon as she hit my freshly washed sheets.
I should’ve gone to bed myself. But I couldn’t have another useless dream about playing hide-and-seek. I stayed awake, sobering up, eyeing my cell phone like a drunk dude at a club. Then it was in my hand and I was searching Desiree’s Instagram following list for Karmas. I came up empty.
Strike one.
I moved on to Desiree’s followers. A much more extensive list. That one had three Karmas, none of whom listed a last name of Dodson. I screenshot them all anyway.
Strike two.
Up next was a general Karma Dodson IG search. Three Karma Dodson handles came up, a grand total of one post and five Instagram followers between them.
And strike three.
I moved on to Twitter, still hoping for a hit. Desiree had an account she’d used solely to link to Instagram posts. No Karmas followed. No Karmas following. I did find a Karma Dodson handle with no listed location and only a few posts from 2014.
I didn’t even waste time with Snapchat. Desiree had never been into it. Something about some sponsored post gone awry. And she’d stayed off TikTok too, probably because she never had enough rhythm for dance challenges.
So Facebook it was. I wasn’t much of a fan myself, and Desiree didn’t even have a page. But the reasons I hated it were the same reasons it’d be helpful. It made it hard to be anonymous. Full names. Locations. Doing the utmost to tell everyone your business, from your birthday to your new job to your comment on that pic of your friend’s cute new baby.
I typed in the name. Three people popped up. I clicked SEE ALL in the upper right corner. Facebook loved to make more assumptions than a Black grandmother: that you missed a letter, added a letter, got the word order wrong. It was too late at night and I was still too high to make much of the full list, but I tried, using my finger to scroll. One Karma listed Arizona as her current location even though she was wearing a knit scarf in her profile pic. It’d been two years. Could she have moved?
Number two had a dog for their profile pic and a Pennsylvania hometown. I doubted this Karma would drive two-plus hours to get to Manhattan. Not when Philly was so close. Number three bypassed both location and human profile pic, offering only the Knicks logo. I was about to click on the basketball fan when the guest bedroom door opened. Erin stumbled out, hand covering her mouth, and headed toward the bathroom.