Wednesday
In this home of worn leather sofas, tabletops with cracked edges, mismatched chairs, and exposed pipes, there is so much love.
Even if that love is for a version of me that isn’t real.
I feel it whenever I stare at my ma in the morning, as I eat my toast and she gets ready for her first job down at the local school, where she cleans. I watch her confidently pray to God for answers, before warming her oatmeal in the microwave.
I finish my last piece of toast and I hug her from behind, hoping it tells her everything I think about her. I hope that if she finds out about the picture, this hug reminds her that I’m still me, still someone who loves her.
“I’m gonna go to school now, Ma,” I tell her, moving back toward the chair I left my backpack on.
“This early?” she asks.
The microwave beeps.
I unzip my bag, pretending to put something inside, turning away from her before I lie. “Yeah, meeting Jack for some schoolwork.”
She gives me a one-armed hug, kissing my forehead. “So proud of you. I’ll see you later,” she says, sitting down on one of the lawn chairs that double as dining room chairs. Ma’s been telling me she’s proud of me since I showed her my badge on Monday after she got back from work. I thought she was gonna cry, but she didn’t. She wiped her face and hugged me, whispering,I’m so proud of you, Von.
“See you,” I say, guilt weighing me down as I rush out, slamming the door behind me, then cringing when I think of how loud it was and how Ma will probably give me a lecture on that later.
But that’s later, and this is now, where I have more important things to think about.
I walk past other homes like mine—crooked, paint peeling, doors barely hanging on their hinges—and into a part of my neighborhood most people avoid. The part where a huge apartment block stands, with boys whose skin is as dark as mine chilling outside. Some have twists or cornrows in their hair—both styles I’m not allowed to wear at Niveus—and pants that hang off their backs effortlessly. A few are seated in the torn-up green car in front, some are on the roof of the car, and others lean against the outside walls of the block. I wonder when they sleep. They always seem to be up, waiting, whenever I come over, no matter the time of day.
I walk past all of them, legs shaky as I approach a big guy with cornrows and arms folded, leaning by the door. I can’t tell if I know him from middle school or whether he’s just a guy who I know works with Dre. I don’t remember much from middle school, because the bullying was really bad toward the end, so Ma pulled me out. Plus, I visit Dre so much, the faces have started becoming more familiar as time passes.
“I’m here to see Andre,” I tell him. Even though he’s probablyseen me before, the guys always act like I’m not here several times a week.
He stares me down, making me feel small, before kissing his teeth and pushing off the wall.
“Watch him,” he tells some other guy, who nods and takes his place as he enters the block.
Behind the door, I can hear his heavy footsteps, then the slam of another door inside. I try to stay still, not draw any attention to myself. A few moments later, the guy yanks the front door open and tells me to enter. I walk into the low-lit hall and up the carpeted staircase to the second floor, where Dre’s apartment is.
Dre’s apartment matches his personality: quiet and homey; it’s spacious, decorated in browns, greens, and reds. Like normal, I push open his door, then walk through his living room and into his bedroom, where he’s seated behind a desk. His head is tilted up and his eyes are shut. For a moment, I just watch him. His cropped black hair and shaved face surprise me. He had a beard last week. Without it, he looks like an actual eighteen-year-old. Like the boy I grew up with.
I close the door loudly, and his eyes open lazily. A smile creeps onto his face.
“Von,” Dre mumbles, pushing himself out of the chair and swaggering toward me slowly until we are inches away from each other.
In the silence, my palms sweat, and my heartbeat goes wild like it always does whenever I’m near him.
And then, like always, he kisses me. I wrap my arms around him and I feel him smile into the kiss, eagerly bringing his hand up to cup my face, moving me toward his bed. I ease my arms away and pull back, resting my head on his gently.
“I came to talk, Dre, not dothat.”
“But I like doingthat,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I try not to smile. “I have school, and I need to talk to you about something else.”
He nods, moving back now. “The picture of you and that guy? Scotty, right?”
His words catch me off guard, making my heart stutter. Dre knows all about the rich kid from my school who broke my heart. But how did the photo travel so fast? It’s barely been two days. I was going to ask him if he could try to bury it before anyone else saw it. He’s good at burying skeletons. I think it’s partly why no one bats an eyelid at the fact that I’ve been coming around three or four times a week for the past couple of months. He tells his boys to mind their business, and they do.
I nod. “How did you find out?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me.
