On the Come Up(30)

Grandma gasps. Sister Daniels lives for gasps like that.

“Threw you?” Grandma says. “What in the world they do that for?”

“They thought she had drugs on her,” Sister Daniels says before I can say a word.

Another gasp. I close my eyes and hold my forehead at this point.

“Brianna, what you doing with drugs?” says Grandma.

“I didn’t have drugs, Grandma,” I mumble.

“Sure didn’t,” Sister Daniels says. “She been selling candy. Curtis claims them guards love to start mess. They’re at fault, but Brianna still got suspended.”

Welp, no need to tell my own story. I’ll just let Sister Daniels take over at this point. In fact, why don’t I just let her write my autobiography since she knows so damn much?

“They gave you three days, right, baby?” she asks.

“Three days?” Grandma shrieks.

The dramatics. I rest my chin in my hand. “Yes.”

“What you selling candy for anyway?” says Grandma.

“Probably to help her momma out,” says the expert in all things Bri. Surprise! It’s apparently not me.

“Lord, I knew you wasn’t looking right,” Grandma says. “You didn’t act like this when you lived with us.”

“Carol and I were talking”—Sister Daniels lowers her voice—“and this whole thing odd, ain’t it? Pastor would pay a salary out his own pocket before he let somebody be without. He don’t easily let folks go. Unless . . .”

She raises her eyebrows as if there’s a message hidden in them.

Grandma goes, “Hm!”

“Mm-hmm.”

Um, huh? “Unless what?” I say.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Grandma says as they glance at Jay. “You know what they say, folks ain’t ever truly clean once they been on that mess.”

Wait, what?

“Chiiile,” Sister Daniels says. “You better keep your eyes and ears open, Louise. For your grandbaby’s sake.”

I’m sitting right here. “My mom’s not on drugs.”

Sister Daniels sets her hand on her hip. “You sure ’bout that?”

The “yes” is on the tip of my tongue, but it sits there a second.

I mean . . . I don’t think she is.

For one, eight years is a hell of a long time to be clean. Two, Jay wouldn’t go back to all of that. She knows how much it messed us up. She wouldn’t put me and Trey through that again.

But.

She put us through it in the first place.

The choir fills in the stands and the band starts an upbeat song. People clap along around the sanctuary.

Sister Daniels pats Grandma’s knee. “Be watchful, Louise. That’s all I’m saying.”

Four hours later, church is over.

The spirit forgot the concept of time—I mean, the spirit hit Pastor Eldridge hard. He huffed and puffed until a praise break broke out. Grandma took off running, as always, and that wig went flying, as always. Granddaddy tucked it under his arm, looking like he had overgrown armpit hair.

After service is over, everyone files into the church basement for “fellowship.” I can’t help but shiver a little bit every time I come down here. It’s like this place is haunted. They have portraits of all the old, dead pastors on the walls. None of them smile, like they’re judging us for not tithing enough. Doesn’t help that the place is decorated like a funeral home. I’m convinced that one day, Jesus is gonna jump out from a corner and scare the bejesus out of me.

Question: If Jesus scares you, do you call on Jesus? Do you even say, “Oh my God?”

Stuff to ponder.

Anyway, fellowship at Christ Temple really means snack time, and snack time really means fried or baked chicken, potato salad, green beans, pound cake, and soda. I don’t think church folks know how to just “snack.”

Grandma and a couple of her girlfriends serve the food, including Sister Daniels. They wear plastic gloves and plastic hairnets that seem a bit too thin for my germaphobe liking. Granddaddy and some of the deacons chat over in a corner. Granddaddy sips on a diet soda. Anything other than diet and Grandma will go off about him not watching his sugar. Trey’s gotten cornered by a couple of the other deacons not far away. He looks like he’d rather be invisible. Jay’s talking to Pastor Eldridge and laughs and smiles like nothing’s wrong.

I’m still in line to get food. There’s an unspoken rule that when your grandparent is serving, you have to get in the back of the line. I’m not complaining. Grandma’s over the chicken, and she’ll save a big piece for me. She’ll tell Sister Grant to give me the corner edge of the peach cobbler, too. Peach cobbler is the love of my life, and the corner edge is perfection.

Somebody comes up behind me. Their breath brushes against my ear as they say, “You didn’t get into too much trouble with your grandma, did you, Princess?”

Without any hesitation, I ram my elbow back, straight into his gut. The “ow!” makes me smile.

Curtis has called me “Princess” since we were seven. He said it was because people call my daddy the “King of the Garden.” It’s always irked me, too. Not so much being called a princess—trust, I’d make a badass one—but the way he says it. Princess, like it’s an inside joke but he’s the only one who gets it.