Wing Jones(40)

“That is so sweet of y’all!” one of them says, and Granny Dee looks away. Because these pies aren’t sweet; they are full of sadness.

“I hope y’all enjoy them” is all she says.

After we get home, I give Granny Dee a big hug and hold her trembling frame, and then we both put on aprons and together we make one more apple pie. For us.





CHAPTER 24


I should have run the second I saw Heather Parker sauntering toward me, a trio of girls trailing behind her. She has that smile on her face, the one she wears when she’s going in for the kill. But I don’t run. Instead, I back into the corner, wishing I were so small that all you could see of me was the tuft of my hair and it was so small you’d mistake it for a dust ball. That’s how small I’m trying to make myself.

But for all my wishing, I stay the same size, and when I open my eyes they’re all there, staring at me, like they know I tried and failed to make myself disappear.

“I’m surprised you’re still here. Being the sister of a murderer and everything.” Heather sounds gleeful. I’ve never heard anyone say the word murderer with so much pep. “Everyone hates him – you know that, right? Everyone thinks he should have been the one who died.”

She’s so close to me now I can smell her breath. It smells like ranch dressing. I can see every freckle across her nose. She’s so close she could kiss me. Or bite me. “What’s that old saying? An eye for an eye? Aren’t you scared someone’s gonna run you down to get back at Marcus for what he did? I’d be scared.”

“Knock it off,” says a voice, a low, strong voice that I feel all through my bones, like I’ve got radio receptors wired inside me and I’m tuned in to his channel.

“You playing big brother now that Marcus isn’t around?” Heather laughs. “Isn’t that sweet?” But there’s nothing sweet about her tone of voice. “You gonna start dating … what’s her name? That blond girl with a thing for black guys? Oh, wait. Not black guys. Black Chinese guys. Pretty particular taste, right, Rhonda?”

“Very particular,” Rhonda chirps, tossing her blond ponytail.

“I’d say she has a thing for freaks.”

“Shut up,” Aaron growls. His jaw is so tight I’m sure it’ll snap if he tries to say anything else.

Heather’s eyes widen for a minute. But she stands her ground.

Bile is rising in my throat.

She lowers her voice to a hiss and leans toward me. “I hope he dies and then I hope you kill yourself so I don’t have to see your freakish face anymore.”

All the air leaves my body in one whoosh, like a balloon that’s just been untied, because Heather Parker has said a lot of things over the years but she’s never said anything like this. And nobody has said they hope Marcus dies. It feels like because she’s said it out loud, maybe it’ll happen. Like she’s cursed him.

I can’t handle it. I don’t know what to do. So I do the only thing I can do.

I run. I push past her, leaving her wide-eyed and jeering.

I hear Aaron shouting after me. I don’t slow down.

I speed up. I run down the hall and out of the building and I keep going until I’m at my front door, heart beating so fast and lungs working so hard that I don’t realize tears are streaming down my face until there is a river of them at my feet and I’m drowning.

Strong arms pull me up out of my river of tears. For a second I think these arms that I know so well, that I want to know better, are going to wrap around me and hold me close until my racing heart calms down. But they don’t. Instead, Aaron pulls me to my feet and lifts my chin up.

“I’ve never seen you go so fast,” he says. “Let’s get you some water or something.” He pulls out a key and unlocks my front door.

“You have a key?” Part of me is astonished; part of me isn’t surprised at all.

“Yep. I’ve had it for years. Marcus was always losing his or forgetting it or something.”

I follow Aaron into my house. The hall is dark and quiet and distinctly unwelcoming. We go into the kitchen and I switch on the fluorescent lights and they hesitantly flicker to life. A cold cup of coffee sits on the table.

“Where are Granny Dee and LaoLao?” Aaron asks.

I shrug. LaoLao started working at the restaurant with my mom a few weeks ago, hoping the minimum wage she’ll make will help stanch the ever-widening hole of debt we’re falling into. She didn’t want to go back to work, she’s old now, but I don’t think we had much choice. I don’t know where Granny Dee might be. Even though she can’t drive, she’ll take the bus sometimes, if she needs to get somewhere. I say as much. Then it hits me.

“Granny Dee is with Marcus.”

She has to be. Where else would she be in the middle of the afternoon? I wonder why she hasn’t told us. Probably because there’s nothing to tell. It’s not like he’s woken up. I picture the scene: Him lying there, a lump on the hospital bed. Her sitting in a chair, watching his every breath, waiting for him to open his eyes. Not wanting him to be alone if he does.

When he does.

I should be the one visiting him. Spending my afternoons by his side. Standing guard. Waiting. Watching. I should be able to hold his hand by now; I should be able to touch his face, be able to pretend that he’s just sleeping. But I can’t. I can’t. And the guilt I feel about not visiting him more, not being able to stomach it, not just what he looks like but what he did, has buried itself inside me like a tick. It was small at first, but then it gorged on my blood and just grew and grew, burrowing deeper. I’ve tried to brush it off, but it’s far too deep. Did you know that if you don’t properly remove a tick the head will stay in your body and infect you? My guilt is spreading and I can’t stop it.