Hours ago, before the sun crept into its shadow, Momma backed out of Granddaddy’s graveled drive, no smile painted on her face, only a blank frown that spread to her eyes. She frowns so much now, and I know it has something to do with Daddy. And not just cause he died. She been sad since before that day. Some nights I’d hear her arguing with Daddy in a big whisper that crossed the thin wall between their room and ours. If I asked bout it the next morning, she’d keep humming and washing dishes and say I imagined it all.
After Daddy died, I looked up that word, fiend, in the dictionary. The first definitions I saw all made it seem like a fiend was some kind of devil. But the third definition down talked bout somebody who was addicted to something, which reminded me of a movie I once watched with Daddy. It was called New Jack City even though it took place in New York City, and it was bout gangs and a drug called crack and a guy named Nino Brown who sold it to people. I ain’t sure why Daddy let me watch it cause the movie had naked people and guns and it was definitely not a movie for little kids. But when I found him on the couch in the basement and snuggled up next to him, he ain’t make me leave.
Once I thought back to that movie, I figured out what the smell was, and what Daddy was doin’ on them stairs, and how Daddy died. At least I think I know, cause I ain’t ever ask nobody. But I think Daddy was doin’ drugs, and kinda like the crack addict Pookie from the movie, Daddy did too much til he died. But there’s still a lot of stuff I don’t know, too. Like why Daddy ain’t just stop doin’ drugs if he knew it could kill him. And why Momma ain’t do nothin’ to stop him, or if she did, why it ain’t work. Even Pookie tried to go to rehab, which I guess is a place for people to go and try to stop being addicted to drugs. Usually, I would ask Nia my questions. Used to be that Nia would tell me the stuff the grown-ups wouldn’t. She was the one who finally told me the truth bout Santa, after I asked her why Santa forgot our house one Christmas. But these days, talking to Nia is like talking to a grown-up. And all grown-ups do is lie to me and treat me like a kid.
I pull off my gym shoes—damp now cause I ain’t wear no socks—and stretch my legs in front of me, wiggling my toes in the cool night air. This summer, I’m gon’ get Nia to start telling me the truth again. I bet if I figure out how to be her friend again, then she gon’ tell me stuff and we can figure it out together. I bet me and Nia gon’ fix everything, so we can all go back home.
Granddaddy stands up from his big rocking chair and slowly walks into the house. It’s black dark outside now, so the words in my book disappear. I strain my eyes, try to make out anything in the darkness, but ain’t nothin’ to see, cept, barely, the leaves of a giant tree, stretching and growing and pointing in all directions. A strange noise like when the wind gets caught in my bedroom curtains makes me wonder if something is crawling nearby—maybe a raccoon? I ain’t ever seen a raccoon, cept for when I begged Momma for a subscription to National Geographic. We couldn’t afford it, but she found me just one encyclopedia at the secondhand store: animals starting with the letter R. I read in that book that raccoons have thumbs like humans and can turn doorknobs. After six straight nights of raccoon nightmares, I hid the book under Daddy’s stairs, where I knew nobody would ever find it.
I shiver and stand, tryna think bout something else. But now my mind is stuck on that book. On raccoons and Daddy’s stairs.
“Nia?” My whisper comes out more like a shriek. But Nia, still with them headphones on, don’t budge. I creep closer. Her eyes are closed tight, and her head sways slow, back and forth, to a rhythm I can’t hear. All I can hear instead is a bunch of noises I don’t recognize. Too many noises I don’t recognize. “Nia!”
Her eyes pop open just as I reach to shake her shoulder. She jumps, and her Walkman lands with a hard thud on Granddaddy’s wood porch. “What’d you do that for?” Nia scoops up the Walkman and shoots me her very best mean face. I smile, even though it don’t make no sense. Nia turns the Walkman over and over in her hands, but she can’t find nothin’ wrong.
“I just wanted to get your attention,” I whisper. “You wanna go inside?”
“Nah, I’m gon’ stay out here.” Nia stretches her long legs out, crossing one ankle over the other as she leans back on the corner porch post. Her legs are thicker than mine, especially her thighs, but we both got the same little spots all over—not quite moles or freckles, but more so little brown speckles—just like Daddy.
“How long you think it’s gon’ be,” I ask before she can turn her music back on, “before Momma come back?” I hope this might be my chance to get Nia talking.
“You serious?” Nia rolls her eyes, a half smirk cross her face.
“What you mean?” I say, slow, chewing the ends of my hair.
“Don’t be such a baby, KB. Momma ain’t coming back.” Nia laughs but it sounds all wrong, more like a whine caught in the back of her throat. I can’t tell if this is one of them times when Nia says something mean just to mess with me, or if this time, it’s really true.
“Yeah she is,” I say, cause I can’t think of nothin’ better. Of course Momma’s gon’ come back. Nia goes back to her rocking and swaying as I count all the reasons in my head: Momma, me, and Nia are a family. We barely even know Granddaddy. We got school again in the fall. We already lost Daddy. “Why would you say that?” I ask, but Nia don’t respond.
My mouth turns dry til my spit is a giant lump I can barely swallow. I want Nia to say something else. And I want her to come inside with me. I sigh and stand, mouth, “Good night,” as I stumble cross the porch through the blinding dark, even though I know it ain’t gon’ reach her. I know I ain’t gon’ reach her.
Granddaddy’s sittin’ on the couch in front of the TV, but it’s off. I wonder what he’s doin’， sittin’ there all quiet. He don’t say nothin’， just stands and walks to the back of the house. I figure he wants me to follow, so I do. His quiet feels just as tiring as Nia’s being mean, but right now ain’t nothin’ much I can do bout either one. I make sure to stomp as loud as I can, though, when I follow Granddaddy to a room back by the kitchen, a tiny room with a tiny bed. Ain’t nothin’ in the room but a bed and a dresser, with a pile of towels and two pillows on top, one for me, one for Nia. Granddaddy nods—I barely seen he did it—then leaves. I think bout Anne from my book, realize that Granddaddy act kinda like Marilla Cuthbert, who ain’t talk to Anne much at first. Problem is, ain’t no Matthew Cuthbert here who’s gon’ talk to me when Marilla won’t. Ain’t nobody but Granddaddy.
I place my muddy shoes on the floor of the empty closet and hang up my rainbow jacket. I ain’t got no pajamas so I keep all my clothes on cept my jeans, which I fold tight and set on top of the dresser. I’m s’posed to braid my hair before bed like Momma tells me to and like Nia taught me, but I just pull it into a thick, messy ponytail. Stupid Momma ain’t here and stupid Nia don’t care.
* * *
That night, I lay awake and listen to crickets. They make a rhythm like raindrops that reminds me of a day when flooded streets trapped me and Nia and Momma and Daddy together in the house for an afternoon. It was a Saturday, which was a day we usually spent apart. Daddy would leave early and, as usual, not say where he was goin’。 Momma would do laundry all day, and sometimes go to the grocery store or secondhand store, depending on what we needed. That would just leave me and Nia. Used to be, we would play house or school together, pretending to be teachers or students or mommas, but always still sisters, too, in any game we played. No matter what was goin’ on with Momma and Daddy, we always had each other. But then it got so Nia would do her own thing, and so I would pretend to have my own thing to do, too.