When No One Is Watching(22)

Angie C.: Does it always happen at 2 am?

Derek James: Yes!

Angie C.: That’s the witching hour, my guy. Get you some holy water and some sage and you’ll be straight.





Chapter 5

Sydney

AS I BRUSH MY TEETH WITH ONE HAND, I HAVE MY PHONE IN the other, web browser open, scrolling through search results for “why does it feel like my bed is shaking when I fall asleep?”

My other searches this morning have been “earthquake + Brooklyn” and “do demons shake your bed,” so whichever NSA Brad is collecting my Google searches is probably having a good laugh.

I, on the other hand, am so tired I want to throw up.

The only nonsupernatural explanation in the results is that high stress levels and overconsumption of caffeine can create the sensation that your bed is shaking, like how you sometimes feel like you’re falling even though neither your body nor your bed has moved.

I place the phone on the edge of the sink and finish brushing my teeth.

My phone buzzes and a text message pops up: Hello Ms. Green, we’re messaging you with a lucrative offer on your house! Please contact us at 212–555-CASH.

I trash the message, minty-hot rage zinging through me as I spit and rinse my mouth.

These vultures can even harass you by text now? It’s like real estate psychological warfare—they bombard you with flyers, blow up your phone, have people showing up at your door, and now can show up in your text inbox. How many people do they wear down, or catch in a moment of weakness or desperation?

Bastards.

I apply my undereye concealer with shaking hands, not wanting to deal with questions at the hair braiding shop. Five hours of someone tugging at your scalp is bad enough without every other person who comes in commenting on how tired you look.

I head into my room and open the sealed plastic bag that contains my clothes—after the first couple of bedbug scares, I’m not taking any chances. I check the baseboards of the apartment and the furniture every few days, too. Drea says I’m being crazy, which isn’t my favorite descriptor after what happened in Seattle, but she’s seemingly immune to them. She doesn’t have clusters of cocoa butter–resistant scars marring her neck and ankles. She doesn’t start itching every time she sees a tiny dark mote from the corner of her eye. And she doesn’t lie in bed at night wondering why the mattresses out on the curb are quickly being followed by moving trucks.

I do.

I lock up the house, cringing as Josie yells at her kid, or her dog, or her husband, and head to the community garden to make sure everything is good.

By the time I get there, I’m already sweating through my T-shirt. It’s hot and humid and there’s no way I’m walking all the way to the salon in this heat.

Ms. Candace is in there with Paulette. She’s picking some tomatoes, lettuce, and peppers from her plot, dropping them into a basket in Paulette’s lap. Paulette’s dark eyes lock on me as I stop at the entrance, but she doesn’t say anything. Her gaze strays toward the toolshed, then she looks down.

You’re imagining it, I tell myself, though more beads of sweat pop up along my hairline. The shadows of the sunflowers sway back and forth over the two women.

“Everything good? You need anything?” I ask.

Candace looks up at me and gives me a warm smile. “Everything’s good. We’re getting some salad makings for the Day Club Crew’s lunch later, isn’t that right?” She glances at Paulette, who doesn’t respond, then looks back at me. “What you up to?”

“Heading to the beauty supply, then the braid shop,” I say. “And then working on the tour some more.”

She rests her hands on her knees, examining me, and I know the concealer isn’t doing its work. “Stay safe, okay?”

She’s told me this countless times since I was little, but this time it seems like an actual request.

“I will.”

I look over the garden one more time before I turn to leave; all the plots, except the one I’m tending, are thick with green and red and orange foliage. Honeysuckle climbs over archways, shading the gravel pathways. Sunflowers, Mommy’s favorite, stand tall and heavy-headed along the back edge.

The three-block walk to the beauty supply to pick up my hair feels like I’m moving underwater. It strikes me when I’m walking that several of the stores on just this short stretch are new. The West Indian fruit and veggie store is still here, as are the patty shop and the nail salon, but the pet store where I got my first goldfish is gone. The barbershop where older men used to congregate and play jazz records is now a home goods boutique. And the halal market is a thrift shop that has price tags more expensive than neighboring stores that sell brand-new items.

I start walking faster, pushing through the fatigue as a single terrifying thought possesses me: What if the beauty supply is gone? I passed it two days ago, but . . .

I speed walk that final half a block and feel a sense of disproportionate relief when I catch sight of the pink awning with BEAUTYLAND written across it in bold white letters.

I step into the air-conditioning, out of breath and out of it. I wander through the aisles, my pulse racing for absolutely no reason and the panic trying to get a tight hold on my sweat-slick body, but eventually it loses its hold on me.

“Hey. You okay?” the older woman behind the counter asks as she rings me up, then gestures toward the fridge near the register. “Want to add a Red Bull?”