We Are Not Like Them(55)

I pretended I only applied to see if I could get in and that I didn’t care one way or another. And I pretended to be happier than I actually felt when Riley was offered scholarship after scholarship, three total to my none, even though we ran the same relay in high school, got the same times, won the same medals. I celebrated at the Wilsons’ with a sheet cake under a giant arc of purple and white balloons when Riley decided to go to Northwestern, but the bitterness was something I could taste, like the too-sweet strawberry icing, every time I thought about how I could have gotten a scholarship and gone to college if I’d been Black like my best friend. Then I hated myself for thinking that. Riley worked hard, harder than me, harder than anyone. And of course she deserved good things. She deserved everything.

This keeps happening to me lately, random memories of Riley popping up, stuff I haven’t thought about in years. As if to taunt me, unbelievably, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” blares out of the speakers. I flick off the radio, shutting Whitney Houston right up. Now there’s only the muffled hush of heavy snow falling around the car, broken by the rhythmic swoosh of the wipers. The car fishtails again as I slow at a light on the empty road and curse myself for how incredibly stupid I was to have snuck out of my in-laws’ house in this weather, but there’s a box of photos I gotta get from our place. I need the pictures to finish Kevin’s present—a scrapbook—in time for Christmas. Cookie’s got all the supplies in her craft room, and I keep telling myself it’s thoughtful and not lame, the tried-and-true rationale for everyone who can’t afford a real gift. I have one more payment left on Kevin’s new bulletproof vest, and I could have swung it, but what’s the point now, with him on leave, everything in limbo? The wheels spin as I accelerate, searching for traction, and Chase does a flip in my stomach as if to remind me of the stakes of my recklessness. If Kevin knew I was out here in this weather, he would lose it—he’s seen too many fatal accidents. I snuck out of the house after everyone was asleep. Kevin FaceTimed with Ramirez for a good hour earlier, after I begged and pleaded with him to finally call his friend back. Ramirez has called twice a day since the shooting, sometimes more, but Kevin’s been dodging him.

“I can’t handle talking to him, Jenny,” he told me. “I keep thinking about how if he hadn’t left, then I wouldn’t have been paired with Cameron, and none of this would have happened. I can’t blame Ramirez for moving. That’s crazy, but…”

Tonight I shoved the phone in his face when Ramirez called. “Just talk to him. He loves you.” I needed his mood to be someone else’s responsibility and I thought it might cheer him up, but it completely backfired.

“Ramirez kept asking me to go over exactly what happened, like I haven’t already done that a thousand times.” He was clearly upset about something Ramirez had said to him but wouldn’t tell me what it was. When they drove together every day, they might have bickered like two old men on a fishing trip, but I couldn’t remember a time when they were actually mad at each other. He stomped off to the basement to play video games, and by the time I slipped out of the house, he’d fallen asleep on the ratty old futon.

I hit the brakes to slow down, and the car slides again, sending a fresh wave of anxious chills through me. You’ve come too far to turn around now. Besides, this late at night, in the middle of a snowstorm, is probably the only time I can get into my own house without being harassed by the media or protesters. Even after nearly three weeks, there are still a few stubborn reporters camped out there, hoping to thrust a microphone in our faces, or protesters who throw eggs at our front door. Mrs. J still texts me constantly with updates, including the fact that other people on our street have been complaining.

Please say sorry to the other neighbors, was all I could send back. What else was there to say? Our neighbors hate us now too. Join the club.

I switch off the headlights as I pull into the cul-de-sac and sit in the car, squinting into the darkness. The street’s eerily quiet; a few lights dot windows here and there. It feels safe enough to go inside. Still, my heart races as I trudge to the front door, keys at the ready. Between my huge belly and the heavy snow boots, tight on my swollen ankles, I’m about as graceful as a moose in heels, but I move as quickly and stealthily as I can, a thief breaking into my own home.

By the first step of the porch, I spot the streaks of dried egg yolk that dribble down our black front door. As I turn the key in the lock and step forward, something squishes beneath my boot—a white plastic bag that had blended in with the snowdrifts. I know exactly what’s inside without touching it: someone has left a bag of human shit on our doorstep.

I choke back a gag and throw open the front door. It catches on a mountain of mail, mostly bills, some catalogs and grocery store circulars. I groan as I bend over awkwardly to gather up the pile. Bending over has become such a challenge that anything I drop on the floor is just dead to me. I tiptoe to the kitchen before I have a chance to wonder why I’m sneaking around an empty house. Am I worried I’ll wake the ghosts of our former life?

The pile of mail lands on the kitchen table with a thud; I jump at the sound. I turn on the light over the oven instead of the overhead. No reason to alert the neighbors that I’m back after all this time. Shards of my POCONOS IS FOR LOVERS mug, the one I was drinking from the morning after the shooting, are still scattered across the tile floor. The daisies on the table are brown and wilted.