Within seconds, Violet had her phone out, thumbs furiously tapping and scrolling through some social media site that Nola had never been to in her life. The girl had an energy about her, like she was vibrating even when she was sitting still. She wouldn’t look up—no eye contact—though Nola couldn’t tell if it was from pain, shyness, or just being twelve.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you before,” Violet finally offered, still staring at her phone. “Ms. Waggs told me . . .” She paused. “I didn’t realize you were trying to help my mom.”
“It’s fine,” Nola said, turning back to the front window and lowering her visor to quickly find Violet in the mini mirror. Nola had seen her before, always from afar. After her time with Mint at Grandma’s Pantry, Nola would come by at least once a year, usually around Violet’s birthday, sitting outside in the car but never going in—hoping to catch a glance, but really, just checking to make sure all was okay. Today, to have her this close, Nola had a chance to say something else . . . she wanted to say something else, but instead, she sat there, feeling equal parts alert and undone.
A deafening chirp pierced the air. Nola jumped as the ambulance flipped on its siren, flooding the car with swirling red lights.
“You got one of those in here?” Violet asked.
“That’s just in the movies,” Waggs said.
Violet nodded, appreciating being let in on the law enforcement secret.
For the next three minutes, that was the extent of their conversation. Waggs shot a look to Nola, trying to nudge her on. Nola barely noticed. She was still glued to the visor mirror. At one point, the car sped up, matching the speed of the ambulance. Nola shifted her head forward, then back, trying to get a better angle on the back seat.
“So, Violet, your mom said you like baseball.”
“Yeah.”
Waggs paused, an awkward silence filling the car. “You don’t really want to talk baseball, do you?” Waggs asked.
“Not really.”
“That’s fine. What else you into? Movies? Bike riding?”
“Bike riding?”
“I dunno. Don’t kids still ride bikes?”
“I like to draw,” Violet offered.
Nola sat up straight, like a membrane had been pierced. Later tonight, she’d replay this moment, wondering if she embarrassed herself, if she was too enthusiastic, if she should’ve just stayed quiet . . . but right now, caught up in the moment, her glance slid sideways, toward the car’s back seat—toward Violet, the two of them locking eyes as Nola quickly, impulsively, proudly blurted, “I draw, too.”
“Cool,” Violet replied with an indifferent shrug, turning back to her phone. For the rest of the ride, she didn’t say another word.
But for Nola, it was enough.
105
Newark, New Jersey
Three days later
“How’s your ass?”
“Better than your colon,” Zig teased, limping into the pale beige hospital room.
The bullet that tore through Roddy’s stomach had also perforated his bowel, forcing the trauma surgeons to sew a colostomy bag to the left of his belly button. Only for a month, they promised. Same amount of time his right arm would be in a cast.
“At least I don’t smell,” Roddy said as the antiseptic and metallic stench of Silvadene burn cream filled the room. When the freezer exploded, Zig was lucky he was running, though he still took the brunt of it. Full-thickness burns—third degree—across his neck and back. Hair burned away, leaving the back of his head a mess of uneven patches. Plus bits of metal shrapnel, glass, and razor-sharp slivers of freezer door that lodged into his posterior thighs and rear end. The only unscathed part was the top of his left shoulder, from where he was carrying Reagan, whose body they never found in the rubble. Zig’s doctors kept him for days to make sure there was no infection, but from the ginger way he was walking, full recovery would take weeks.