“Him ever Gov,” I murmur, and Nicki laughs.
Inside, I glance around curiously. “Where are the twins?”
“A me one deh yah. Dem gone a school,” she says. “End of term exam.”
“Okay,” I nod, remembering the date.
“Mi nuh know wah yuh say to Jordane,” she turns to Nickoi, “but him have wah piece a drive fi school this morning, essi.” Nickoi probably bad him up.
“That mi wah hear, man,” he calls out from the back.
“Nicki, a the brown dye mi get,” Marsha says, and I turn to see her. Nicki’s friend from the deadyard.
“Hey, nice girl,” she greets me.
“Hey,” I smile.
“Dem nuh have the red or burgundy… mi nuh wah that enuh,” Nicki says, and I wander toward the back, searching for Nickoi.
“Nickoi?” I call. No answer.
I call again, pushing open the door on the right. Uniforms scattered across the bed. This must be Jordane’s room. Messy. I close it quickly and try the other door.
Found him. He’s inside. His room is quiet and clean, fitted with white sheets that contrast the darker energy that alwaysclings to him. There’s a photo on the wall my feet carry me toward it before I even register the steps. It’s his dad. Hazel eyes like the twins, but everything else? Identical to Nickoi. The physique. The tattoos. Even the cold expression. He’s brown-skinned with cornrows, dressed in all black shirt, pants and Clarks. The man was a shadow version of Nickoi.
“You look like him enuh,” I say softly, staring at the image.
“Everybody say that, but mi feel like him look more like Jordane,” Nickoi replies.
“It’s the eye color why yuh say that. But he’s your twin, same jaw, same features, same stare,” I tell him. He looks at the picture again and nods.
“Who and you a paint the grave?” I ask, stepping closer.
“Me and mi bredda dem.”
“Mommy nah go help?”
“She probably a go do har hair. So just me and Junior dem,” he says, his voice flat.
“Wah bout Gutta?”
“Them a go help too, but them nah reach yet. By 3:00, yuh a go see dem.” He sounds a little off—sad, maybe—but he’s masking it. I glance at my phone.
“A almost 3:00 ,” I say. “Dem soon reach.” I sit on the bed beside him, then slide over and straddle him.
“I hate how yuh look down. Is it ‘cause of your father?” I ask, close enough to feel his breath. He nods slightly, and our lips touch for a brief second.
I rest my head on his shoulder. “I know it must be hard losing your father. Even though mi and mine nuh have the best relationship, mi cya imagine losing him.” He stays quiet.
A knock hits the door. “Hey Nick, your bredda and sister just reach in,” his mom calls. I move to get up but Nickoi wraps his arm around my waist, holding me still.Him know you woulda move. Woiieee.
He nods. “Mi still a wait fi Junior and Gutta dem. Them have the brush and them thing deh.”
“Bro,” Jordane’s voice calls from the hallway.
“Deh pan?” Nickoi asks.
“Miss Williams,” he answers, and I smile. One thing, him always call mi Miss Williams.
