Wing Jones(5)

No one has ever asked me to model. And I look even more “exotic” than Marcus.

Marcus’s voice snaps me out of my tumbled thoughts. “Moni, what do you want to do?”

“I wanna go to Gladys’s,” says Monica, in that tone that is right between a whine and a demand. “I’ve never been. And everyone’s always talking about it.” She means Gladys Knight’s Chicken and Waffles restaurant, the one downtown. She pronounces it “Gladees”, the way everyone around here does. Like they’re all personal friends with Gladys Knight.

Marcus raises his eyebrows in a silent question to Aaron. Aaron shrugs in response.

Monica stamps her foot like a little girl and pouts, her glossy lips puckering prettily. “Come on. It’ll be fun. We can all go. Wing, you’ve never been, have you?”

I shake my head. “I thought y’all were going out to celebrate.” They always go out after games and I always go home. With my mom, Granny Dee, and LaoLao. The only reason I’m here now is I took too long getting the Cokes, and Lord knows my Granny Dee and LaoLao have the patience of a two-year-old throwing a tantrum when they want to go home. Sometimes I wonder if they were born with so much in common or if years of living together at our house has slowly melded them into the same person. Not that I’d ever tell them that.

Monica leans toward me and grabs my arm tight. “We are! We’re celebrating by going to Gladys’s. No better way for Marcus to celebrate than by being with his favorite people in the whole world.” What she means is, there is no way in hell that she is going to the party at Trey’s with Jasper, so this is the next best thing. But still. I like that she’s included me. As one of the favorite people.

“Don’t let Granny Dee or LaoLao hear you say that,” I say, but I’m smiling and I feel a warmth glowing inside me, like a little spark that Monica has lit with her words.

Marcus wraps his arm around Monica’s shoulders and pulls her in and kisses the top of her head. They are beautiful together. I wish I had a camera so I could freeze this moment of them. Marcus in his letterman jacket, eyes bright and laughing as he looks down at Monica. Monica in her blue sweater dress, long blond hair tumbling down her back, snuggled up against his chest.

There’s a light cough next to me and I glance up and across at Aaron. “I don’t really care where we go as long as we go soon. I’m starving. Come on, you two,” he says, rolling his eyes with a smirk. “Although I don’t really think you want to go there with me and Wing. I think you want to go somewhere just the two of you…” He finishes his sentence in a warbling croon and Marcus lets go of Monica and is next to Aaron in a second, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight.

“Is this what you want, man? Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of love for you too.”

Monica laughs, the sound tinkling out into the night like fairy bells chiming, and grabs my hand, pulling me toward her jeep. “Come on!” she says, tossing her keys to Marcus. “Marcus, you drive.” She gets in the front seat, still laughing. Aaron climbs in behind the driver’s seat, muttering under his breath that she didn’t call shotgun.

I get in behind Monica. I can’t stop grinning. It isn’t that I don’t ever hang out with them; I see them all the time. Monica or Aaron or both of them are always over. But this feels different. It doesn’t feel like I’m just Marcus’s kid sister. It feels like I belong. The feeling is like a hard butterscotch candy in my mouth, smooth and sweet, and I want it to last for ever.





CHAPTER 4


Going into Gladys’s feels like going back in time. The walls are wood paneled and the lights are dim and everyone but us is in suits and nice dresses and one woman is even wearing one of those fancy hats that people wear to the races. A low laughter floats in the air – it’s unclear who’s laughing or if it’s multiple people or if it’s the room itself – chuckling away at some inside joke long gone.

The restaurant is warm. Not hot, but warm like the inside of a freshly baked biscuit. It smells like maple syrup and hot fried chicken and my mouth starts watering. I inhale deeply, taking in the sweet and savory scent.

Monica is the only white person in here. Even without her, we’d stand out, the way Marcus and I manage to stand out everywhere we go. I feel the eyes of the nearest table taking us in.

Aaron. Tall, black, wearing a black hoodie and jeans. And gorgeous. I see a girl – no, a woman, probably in her early twenties – eye him up and down more than necessary and I have to stop myself from stepping in front of him and blocking her view.

Marcus. Almost as tall as Aaron. Letterman jacket. Eyes wide, lashes curly, hair short, but it’s still obvious that his curls are soft. When his hair is longer, they coil away from his face like on a Greek sculpture. He grins easily around the restaurant, as if he’s saying hello to everyone. As if he’s an old friend. His arm stays tight around Monica’s waist. Less possessive and more protective.

Monica. Shorter than all of us. White. Blond. In here, her skin looks so pale she’s practically translucent, the way Nicole Kidman looks on the red carpet. Her hair seems to catch the light and reflect it back, so it’s glowing a hundred different shades of gold. She’s got a coy smile on, like she’s been let into a secret club, and maybe she has been, maybe we all have.