I see her watery eyes and I already know what she’s gon’ say before she says it. “Yes, Mama. That’s right.” Charlotte looks at the ground, then at her fingers, then at nothin’ but air. Anything but me. My eyes rush to Bobby, cause I know he’s gon’ say something. He’s gon’ tell they momma that Charlotte is lying, that I’m their friend, that he knows I ain’t steal that bike.
“Mom, this isn’t—” Bobby starts, and a satisfied look creeps onto my face.
“Robert Brian,” his mother responds with lips in a tight, straight line.
I look away from her and back to Bobby. Wait for him to say something else. But he don’t. With his face turning bright red, he goes to stand beside Charlotte like a statue, not moving or speaking even once she starts to cry.
“I’m their friend,” I say weakly, not even sure why I’m trying anymore. I think I want one of ’em to make my words true. Even though I’m starting to realize they won’t.
“You’re not their friend! You’re a thief! My kids might be na?ve, but I know your type. Dad on drugs, family loses their house, so now you come over here and steal from us?”
Before I can stop them, tears pour from my eyes. I look over at Charlotte, who finally looks back at me. I say to her with my eyes, I can’t believe you told. But she don’t respond.
“We don’t want people like you around here!” Bobby and Charlotte’s momma continues, screaming so loud she’s turned red all over. I hear her last words repeat in my head over and over. People like you. I think bout what Granddaddy said, how they didn’t like people like us, and how I ain’t believe him. But now, with me standing stuck in the driveway and Bobby and Charlotte up on the porch, I see everything different. They been wearing masks all this time, so that they looked like my friends. But now they momma ripped the masks off, so all three of ’em are exactly who they are, plain. I start to back out the driveway, slow.
“What’s the problem here?” Granddaddy’s voice comes up behind me, strong and firm. I don’t know how he got over here so quick, and without his cane. He stands in front of Bobby and Charlotte’s momma, taller than I ever seen.
“What’s the problem?” The momma moves toward Granddaddy as she yells, and I move to him, too, stand behind his legs. “I’ll tell you what the problem is! Your granddaughter stole my daughter’s bike.” She lifts the bike up like proof. Her tone is so convincing that I half expect the bike to be covered in my fingerprints as she shakes it in the air.
“You need to keep her away from my children! She stole from them, and with her family background, it’s no surprise.” She says family background like they bad words, almost like the police officers on the day Daddy died, when they called him a fiend. All these words that other people use to label us, to decide who we are, who we gon’ be.
I choke back the giant lump in my throat. “I ain’t steal that bike, Granddaddy! I promise! Charlotte told me I could borrow it and I brought it right back.” I look at Granddaddy when I talk but sneak a quick peek over at Charlotte when I say her name. Her face is still wet, but she’s stopped crying. I can’t tell if she feels bad for lying or if she’s just scared of being in trouble with her momma. Either way, she told her momma my secrets. She betrayed me. I thought she cared bout me, but really, she ain’t no better than Rondell.
“I know,” Granddaddy says to me, then turns to the angry momma. “Don’t you ever talk bout my granddaughter like that again,” he says with an even voice. “She been playing over here with your kids all summer. They done all got to be friends, whether you like it or not.” I’m surprised to hear this. If he knew all this time, why he ain’t tell me to stop coming over, since he had already told me not to?
“Friends?” She screams the word like it’s poison and she’s gotta rid its venom from her mouth. “My children are not friends with that girl!” This would be the part in the movie where Bobby and Charlotte run over to me and grab my hands, showing they momma she was wrong. But they too busy acting like they don’t even know me.
“Let’s go, Kenyatta,” Granddaddy says, taking my hand to cross back to our side of the street, but when we reach the sidewalk, he turns again to the momma, then to Bobby and Charlotte.
“Our children don’t have to make the same mistakes we did.” Granddaddy speaks, calm. “Let ’em decide who to be for themselves.” Then we cross the street together, Granddaddy holding my hand and me wondering who I would be, if I could decide for myself.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Brittany pulls up in the front seat of her aunt’s car, and they take Nia with them. I don’t know where they’re going, and I don’t ask. Granddaddy sneaks a fifty-dollar bill into Nia’s palm before she leaves, with a whispered “Happy birthday” special for her. She walks out the door with a smile big as Momma’s, like I ain’t seen on Nia’s face in a long time. I’m happy to see Nia smile, but right now, I can’t help but wish her smile was for me.
After sittin’ in the bathroom awhile, not wanting to move, I take an hour-long shower and scrub my skin til it turns pink. No matter how hard I scrub, I still feel Rondell’s touch there, like I been burned and scarred, even though there ain’t no marks. I climb out and towel off, dressing in the oversized T-shirt and stretchy shorts I usually wear as pajamas, even though it’s still afternoon. I don’t feel much like going outside. Granddaddy sits in his wicker chair, reading from his Bible. I sit on the couch watching the muted TV. I wanna turn the volume up but don’t wanna bother Granddaddy, so I watch the characters and make up in my mind what I think they’re talking bout.
In the middle of a made-up story bout a little girl that can read people’s minds, Granddaddy asks, “You ever read the Bible?”
“No,” I answer. “Momma don’t let me touch her Bible and I don’t have my own.” I think for a second, then add, “I’ve read the Bible in the back of the seats at church, though. But I can’t much understand what it’s saying.”
Granddaddy nods, then asks me, “Do you know why it’s important to read the Bible?”
I shake my head no.
“The Bible is filled with stories, just like them books you always reading. But the stories are bout God, and they teach us how we should live our lives.”
“Is that why you and Charlie read the Bible together sometimes?”
“Yeah,” says Granddaddy, “that’s called Bible study. God is happy when we come together to read His Word and pray and worship. That’s what me and Charlie do when we have Bible study.” Granddaddy stands from the rocking chair and joins me on the couch. Then he opens the Bible on his lap, so we can both see the pages. “You can have Bible study all on your own, too.”
“But I wouldn’t know how.” I point at the page. “I barely know what all them words mean. And I don’t know where I’m s’posed to start.”
“You don’t have to know.” Granddaddy shuffles the thin pages. “You just have to listen.” I wonder if he’s talking bout listening to him or listening to God. I watch as Granddaddy picks a page and scrolls his finger through the text til he lands on a spot. “See?”