Auntie’s washing machines looked like they belonged in a factory. I tried to figure them out, how the cranks and scary-looking spinners worked, but it was a failing task without help. So I left my laundry in the room, hoping someone would take care of it.
There was another knock the next day, and outside my door, I found a basketball. I took it outside after the sun set and bounced it some on the sidewalk in front of the house.
I walked aimlessly down the street, until I reached a wooden sign that readHarlem Square Park. I listened to some drummers by the trees and watched girls jump rope.
I found a watch tower that stood as tall as the trees and had an enclosure on top. I wound up the spiral staircase and sat alone against the railing, staring off at the sun as it set over the city. The world had gone so dull that even the sun shone dimmer.
And yet, hope reared its head at the center of the ache, and what it said was,Things will get better.They have to.
The knocks had sounded quickly and were gone just as quickly. But in their absence, I cracked open my door. I found a bag of stamps along with a note that said,Just in case you want to send any mail! Love, Daisy.
I was on to Daisy—she’d have none of my wallowing in my misery forever.
Seeing the stamps made me realize I might want to send a letter back to Isaiah at some point. But would he even still be alive to receive it? What happened to him when the mob came? Did he look for me?
I could write a letter asking him how he was faring. But I needed to make sure I knew where to mail it from. I slipped out of my room and opened the front door.
Three boys were waiting at the bottom of our stoop—a bit younger than me, approaching the end of secondary school, maybe. I’d seen them before, throwing the ball at the wall outside my window.
“You play wall ball?” one of them asked me.
I just shook my head.
“It ain’t that hard to understand,” he said. “Come play.”
But I didn’t want to. Doing something new like that with new people was an invitation to mess up and make a fool of myself.
“I’m set,” I said, but it was like I offended the boy.
He looked at me like I was some creature. “Your hairline look like a runaway train, you know,” he said, which made his friend laugh.
But it wasn’t funny. I felt I’d been stabbed!
“Boy’s hairline look like high tide on a slanted hill,” he continued.
I had nothing to lob back. My brain had not picked up much about his appearance. He was average in his white shirt and flimsy hat, and good for him.
“Excuse me!” chirped a voice from behind them. The boys moved their bikes as Daisy pushed her way past them, bob swinging, holding two heavy garment bags. She stopped to look at both of them. “What are you two doing in front of my house?”
“Just saying how that boy needs a line up,” he said, laughing.
“And you need to stop buying all your clothes from discount bins.” Daisy grimaced at the bully’s outfit. Then she looked at the sidekick. “And you—I could smell your breath when I was standingbehindyou. Think twice before you speak on my cousin.”
Daisy walked up the stairs, pulling me along.
The bully shouted, “We ain’t know he was your cousin, Daisy!”
And she spun back around. “Think twice before you speak on anybody, then, Maurice! Maybe if you spent less time running your mouth and more time figuring out why you’re sixteen and still riding a tricycle around town, you wouldn’t have to embarrass yourself in public. Now, shoo!”
The boys started to pedal off and I followed Daisy into the house. “Um, nice meeting y—” I said to them, but the door slammed before the words got out.
“Don’t be nice to them, Nick,” Daisy said dismissively, as she went to my room and put the bags on my bed. “I didn’t know your sizes. But if they don’t fit, we can get them tailored.”
I looked in the bag and found a suit. A nice one—one that I would be the first to wear. “Thank you, Daisy. I never know what to say to boys like that. I mean, I’m not mean like they are, so...”
“You don’t have to be mean. You just have to tell them who you are. Nick Carrington the Third, descendant of Ruth and NickCarrington ofLangston Heraldfame. Those boys have never done an interesting thing in their lives.”
My family’s history in journalism had never been something to brag about—it was just a thing. “How do I bring up something like that without sounding like a rotten egg?”
