When You Look Like Us Read online

  Dedication

  FOR MY PARENTS, WHO NEVER HAD TO REMIND ME TO MAKE IT HOME BEFORE THE STREETLIGHTS CAME ON—I WAS ALREADY INSIDE DREAMING WITH A NOTEBOOK AND PEN.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Pamela N. Harris

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  IT BEGINS WITH A THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

  A steady bass line, throbbing against the normal rhythms of Canal Street. The rat-a-tat-tat of car backfire, the staccato grumblings from the neighborhood pit bulls. The chirping of Mrs. Jackson’s laughter drives the tempo for the evening’s lullaby. But it’s the thump, thump, thump at my window that unnerves me. It’s not like the usual gunshots that punctuate the night, but a gentle knock. An invitation for me to crack open the window and let the night swallow me whole.

  “You’re not listening, Jay.”

  I pull my eyes away from my bedroom window. I’m tripping. Who the hell would be knocking at my window this time of the night? The guys in my neighborhood joke that I don’t need a pit bull when I have a MiMi. Her smirk alone could leave the most thuggish of thugs shook. I lean on my headboard, press my cell real cozy against my ear so Camila feels me feeling her.

  “Actually,” I say to the phone. To Camila. “I’m listening too much.” My eyes shift back to the window, expecting another thump. Stillness greets me. My nerves are on autopilot tonight, doing their own thing. Must be from all the Red Bull I downed to finish up Meek’s paper.

  Camila lets out a heavy sigh. I try to imagine her. Maybe she’s sitting on her bedroom floor, waving an issue of Cosmo over her toenails so the polish dries. She probably spots a smudge. Probably wants to redo them all but won’t. Redoing them requires using both hands, but one of those hands belongs to me right now. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Camila and I’ve been shooting the shiz every night since she kissed me two weeks ago at some party Bowie and I stumbled into. Yeah, it was a dare—and yeah, I could taste the wine cooler on her lips that made the kiss sloppier than it needed to be. But she liked how I didn’t try to do more with her that night. And I liked that she liked me after years of insisting my name was Ray. So yeah, the idea of Camila Vargas creating a crime scene with her nail polish just to speak to me was pretty dope.

  “It’s like you’re here but you’re not,” Camila keeps on. “Tell me—where’s Jay?”

  “I’m still here.” I close my eyes and wish I were somewhere else. Somewhere outside of the Ducts, where I don’t have to check my locks three times before running out to grab MiMi’s blood pressure meds every month. Somewhere with Camila. Sitting on soft carpet, watching her paint her nails. Eyes trailing up her lotiony legs but stopping at the hem of her shorts. I try to respect her even in my daydreams.

  “When Bowie told me what you were up to—”

  I jolt away from my headboard. “Bowie’s a clown. A corn nut. About as trite as a dad joke.”

  “Lo que sea,” Camila says under her breath but heavy enough for me to hear it. “Jay, you could get suspended. Hell, you could even get expelled.”

  I laugh. Can’t help it. Camila goes from zero to one hundred at lightning speed. That’s one of the things I dig about her. One minute she’s rolling her eyes at me in class because I’m staring at her too much, and the next she’s scribbling her name on the back of my hand to mark her territory. “I tutor, Mila,” I explain. “Can’t get in trouble for helping out classmates. Isn’t Youngs Mill teaching us to be helpful and productive citizens?”

  “Tutoring doesn’t mean you write the whole damn paper, Jay, and then charge people for it.” Even with Camila not in my bedroom I feel her eyes on me. Sandy brown, poking tiny holes through anything that’ll come out of my mouth next. But I don’t get a chance to bullshit her. The thump, thump, thump returns. This time, I spot a hand at my window.

  “Shit.” I jump out of my bed. I really wasn’t tripping—someone’s out there.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  My feet are glued to my carpet as the hand raps against my window again. I always wondered what I would do if something went down. If it was my bedroom that was the scene of one of the random break-ins our neighbor was always warning us about. I finally have my answer. I would freeze.

  “Jay? You okay?”

  Camila’s voice snaps me out of it. I can’t be a bitch right now. She’d break up with me before we even put a label on whatever the hell it is we’re doing. She has to hear me man up. “Someone’s at my window,” I croak, in my least manly voice ever.

  Camila sucks in a breath. “Why is someone at your window?”

  Excellent question. My brain races for an answer. Something logical that’ll put Camila at ease. That would put me at ease. “Maybe they’re lost?” The hell, Jay?

  “What the hell, Jay?” Camila asks. “Why would someone be knocking on your window in the middle of the night because they’re lost? That’s what Google Maps is for.”

  Great point. Someone’s more likely to pull up to a gas station than a random-ass window in the hood to ask where to find Main Street or Whatever the Fick Boulevard. Even better point? If someone were trying to pop me, I’d doubt they’d politely rap on my windowpane first. Psychos don’t really give a damn about manners. So, there was one somewhat logical answer.

  “Probably a blisshead,” I say. Javon Hockaday lives in my neighborhood. The guy’s notorious for selling bliss or crinkle or anything else you might want to get high on a Saturday night. He’s also notorious for being my sister’s boyfriend and, thus, a pain in my family’s ass, but I’ll save that for another time. Anyways, sometimes lowlifes make their way to my building, looking to score, too high to realize that Javon lives a block away from me.

  “Really? A blisshead, Jay?” Camila utters something in Spanish that I can’t quite catch. She said she’d teach me more. Said bilingual dudes were sexy as hell, but we can never quite find the time between school and my odd jobs and general high school bullshit—plus all the time I spend thinking about her during school and my odd jobs and high school bullshit. “You got some thot over there, don’t you?”

  I frown at her even though she can’t see me through the phone. “Mila, ain’t no thot creeping into my bedroom. And I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t like you calling them outside their name.”

  “Why you care what I call that ho if there ain’t no ho crawling through your window?”

  I push air out through my nose. I learned pretty quickly that there’s no talking to Camila when she’s like this. The girl gets salty if I use too many words to answer a female teacher’s question. Like you give that much of a damn about the Constitution, she told me after we had a sub with too much estrogen in history class two days ago. I mean, damn, shouldn’t I, though?

  I grab the baseball bat un
der my bed. The most bliss does is give you the munchies or a serious case of the chuckles, or so I’ve heard (and seen). But every now and then, some of these blissheads need an extra push to back off. “Look, I gotta go, Mila, before they wake up MiMi.”

  “Jay, you best not let whoever’s at your window in,” Camila says as I cross my bedroom floor. I pull back my curtain some more and raise my bat high, ready to wreck shop. Or make someone think I’m ready to wreck shop in case they try anything funny.

  Pooch peers back at me from the other side of my window.

  I smirk and drop the bat to the floor. “Gotta fade,” I say to Camila, and end our call before she can tell me otherwise. I’ll pay for that later. The bad news is that I’m right—there’s a blisshead at my window. The good news is that it’s just Pooch, the friendly, neighborhood degenerate. As narrow as a string bean, goofy as all hell, and the absolute antithesis of dangerous. About two weeks ago, he showed up at my window asking for ten bucks to grab a meal at Wendy’s. He and I both knew that he could buy a meal for less than five bucks at Wendy’s, just like we both knew my ten dollars wouldn’t actually go toward a burger, fries, and a Frosty. Like always, it’ll probably take me five minutes to get rid of him. Though I’d much rather keep spitting game to Camila, I know she doesn’t have much patience to hang out on the other line while Pooch tells me for the hundred-and-third time about the night he thought Mary J. Blige hit on him in the club. Spoiler alert: Ms. Blige was just some black chick with a honey-blonde wig and a fierce two step.

  Pooch motions for me to open my window. I shake my head and then hitch it to the side, tell him to beat it. He clasps both hands together in a prayer and, I don’t know, maybe it’s his ashy knuckles. Or the Dallas Cowboys jersey he wears so much you can barely still see Tony Romo’s number. Or the rings around his eyes that tell me he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since Romo was actually the Cowboys’ quarterback. Either way, he looks just sad enough for me to humor him for a few minutes. I pry my window and rest my elbows against the sill.

  “I don’t have any change tonight, Pooch.”

  One of Pooch’s eyebrows quirks up. “Huh?”

  “Change. I don’t have any change tonight, Pooch,” I repeat, even as a pair of twenties burns a hole in the pocket of my jogging pants. I guess the correct thing to say would be that I didn’t have any change for him tonight, but it’s late and I’m not trying to wake up MiMi so . . . “Later.”

  I reach for the window and Pooch throws up his hands. “Hold up, youngblood. I ain’t ask you for no change.”

  “Yet,” I say.

  “I came for information, not coin.”

  It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. Pooch has a way of keeping me on my toes since I never knew what the hell was going to come out of his mouth—when he wasn’t talking about his almost hookup with the queen of R & B music.

  “You know where I could find Javon?” Pooch asks me.

  I give him a look that I’m pretty sure he gets every day in his life but never from me: one of complete and utter confusion. “Don’t come at me with that, Pooch. Why the hell would I know what Javon’s up to?” Lies. Nic took off with him earlier tonight. Right after MiMi told her she didn’t need to be going to any parties on a school night. Nic yelled a few words, MiMi yelled a few words back. Both glared at me, waiting for me to pick a side. But I’m Switzerland. I retreated to my room and Nic retreated to Javon’s car. The whole scene was too much of a headache to give Pooch the play-by-play.

  “Him or his boys ain’t on the stoop.” Pooch looks over his shoulder and toward Javon’s building, completely ignoring my question. “Kenny’s not at his spot, either. I just needed to, you know, ask them something.”

  Yeah, like could they spot him an ounce of whatever. I raise both my hands into a shrug. “Don’t know what to tell you, man.”

  “Well . . . maybe your sister could tell me something. Where’s she?”

  His question hits me like a hammer. “I’m not my sister’s keeper, Pooch.” More lies. I mean, kind of. I’ve tried to keep Nic a few too many times, but she doesn’t like to be kept. She slips through my fingers every time I think I get a good grip on her. Kind of like tonight. It’s almost midnight, we got school in the morning . . . and Nic still hasn’t slinked home from the party she wasn’t supposed to go to in the first damn place. Good thing MiMi fell asleep right after Grey’s Anatomy. I have too much going on than to referee another shouting match between those two.

  “Hit her up then. She gotta be with Javon . . . or Kenny.” He lowers his lids, all you know what I mean? But I don’t know what he means. Kenny’s Javon’s boy—the main guy Javon trusts to push whatever he’s pushing. Kenny looks out for Nic from time to time, but only when Javon needs him to. And to think anything else is to think that my sister is some kind of skank.

  “Fick off, Pooch. Don’t come around my window anymore. Don’t even glance at it on a leisurely Sunday stroll, you hear me?”

  Pooch stumbles as if I actually used my bat on him. “Come on, Jay. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Sure you didn’t. Now beat it.”

  “Jay. Jay? We cool, youngblood. We cool. Here.” He rummages through one of the pockets of his jeans. “Want a Jolly Rancher?”

  I frown at him. “Pooch, I don’t know how long you’ve had them Jolly Ranchers.” I pause and think about all the Red Bull I guzzled earlier. I could use something else sweet to keep me awake instead of drinking more caffeine. “What kind?”

  He looks down at the candy in his hand. “I’ll give you my watermelon if you got five bucks to spare.”

  I scoff at him. “Man, ain’t nobody tryna give you no five dollars for some watermelon Jolly Ranchers.” If he had green apple, we could’ve negotiated.

  “We cool still, right?” He pleads at me with his eyes. He and I both knew that my family were the main people in this neighborhood that looked out for him. I sigh and give him a slight nod. He claps his hands together. “My man! Did I tell you about the time I rolled up in The Alley a few years back?”

  “Night, Pooch,” I say.

  “It was ladies’ night,” he continues, smiling at the sky as if he was back in the nightclub. “Drinks were flowing, Frankie Beverly was bumping through the speakers, and out of the corner of my eye, who did I see tearing up the dance floor? None other than Ms. Mary J.—”

  I close my window and draw my curtains closed. I had to finish Meek’s paper and try to squeeze in at least three hours of sleep before waking up for school. Enough with his shenanigans. I plop back down on my bed and rest my iPad on my lap. Crack my neck from side to side and get ready to dive into an analysis of Othello. As soon as the words start flowing, my phone buzzes and knocks against my windowsill . . . almost making me drop my iPad—and a deuce in my pants.

  I sigh. “Come on, Mila,” I say under my breath when I realize I left my phone across the room. I almost ignore it but ignoring a call from Camila is far worse than hanging up on Camila. I’d have to promise shoulder rubs for a week to get out of that one. I trudge over to my phone, prepping a string of apologies in my head. But when I grab it, Mila’s name isn’t on the screen. It’s Nicole’s. Speak of the Devil.

  “MiMi’s sleep,” I say as soon as I answer. “The coast is clear. For now. But you might want to book it before she gets her two a.m. sweet tooth.” Without fail, MiMi wakes up early in the morning with the taste for something that’ll spike her blood sugar. Then yells at me and Nic the next day for eating up all the cookies or graham crackers or whatever.

  “Jay?” Nic says, or I think she says. Her voice is muffled, hushed. And there’s a steady bass line in the background like she’s taking a break from bumping and grinding in somebody’s cramped living room. “You . . . gotta . . .” More thumping music. Someone yelps in the background, followed by laughter.

  I roll my eyes. Glad she’s off having fun while I’m here researching Othello and fending off blissheads. “What is it this time, Nic? Crinkle? Blis
s? Or were you adventurous and partied with both?”

  “No . . . no. Just . . .” More bass. More laughter. Nicole says something else and lets out a heavy breath that turns our connection into static. Almost like she’s stifling a laugh. I grip onto my phone. I’ve seen or heard her like this too many times in the past couple of years. When she’s so cranked up on bliss that MiMi can’t even get through saying grace over dinner without Nic breaking into a fit of giggles. She’d been doing okay lately. Gone to school at least four days during the week. Even pulled up her grades in two classes. Not necessarily the honor roll student she was back in middle school, but at least she was thinking about her graduation in a few months. But here she is, dirtying things up on the other side of my phone, expecting me to clean it all up again.

  “Kind of hard to talk straight with all that bliss bopping through your veins, right?” I have to push the words out of my throat. If I hold them in, she’ll keep clowning around. Maybe move on to something more twisted than what Javon’s pushing. We had already lost so much, so I wasn’t trying to lose her, either. “Call me back when your head’s clear.”

  “Wait! Jay—”

  I hang up. Don’t let her get out what she needs to get out because it’s all bullshit. At least when she’s like this. My phone buzzes and her name pops up again. She’s not letting up. Javon’s probably putting her up to this. I could see them now—laughing as she redials my number. Trying to pull a fast one on her dope of a little brother. That’s what Javon called me the first time we met. Like met met, not just me avoiding his side of the street as I walked to the store or waited for the school bus. He rode up to our building in his Charger, rims blinging brighter than the custom-made platinum grills hugging the bottom row of his teeth. Righthand man, Kenny, sat in his passenger seat, warning the neighborhood kids to not toss their balls too close to the car. Nicole bent over to kiss Javon through his window, pointed at me over on the curb as I clicked through the latest from Colson Whitehead on Bowie’s hand-me-down iPad.

  Javon scoped me out, the only thing shining on me was the silver cross around my neck that matched Nic’s. “Yo, that’s one dopey-looking nigga.” He made sure the whole neighborhood could hear it over the booming bass of his sound system. And my sister laughed. She fickin’ laughed at me. I pulled the iPad closer to my face but the words on the screen lost their form.