When No One Is Watching(25)
She sucks her teeth playfully, which doesn’t ease the pain as her knuckles dig into my forehead as she starts to braid one bit along my hairline. I wince and send up a prayer to the god of edges that she doesn’t fuck my shit up.
When my teeth are no longer gritted I say, “Thanks again for fitting me in.”
“It’s all good. But I have to give you my new number because next week I’m moving to a new shop.”
I glance at her reflection in the mirror to gauge whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. Her fingers move with a rapid efficiency that’s its own art form as she weaves the Kanekalon hair with my own, forming thick braids that ombré from black at the roots to teal at the tips. Her expression is tight and her lips are pouted out in a frown that isn’t her usual expression of concentration.
“Is it the rent?” I ask, already knowing.
She nods. “Landlord suddenly wants us out. He’s selling the building, and the new owners don’t want any tenants to deal with. I believe they’ll knock it down and make one of those ugly condos.”
“Doesn’t he have to give you time?” I ask her.
“Probably. He told me if we had a problem with it, he could call ICE to do the job for him. I’m still waiting for my green card and I don’t want any problems.”
I pass my coffee cup from hand to hand. “I’m sorry, Sandrine.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to rent a chair at the barbershop around the corner. They have a little room for me to work in, so that will mean you don’t have five dudes in your face watching you get styled.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out more of a sigh. “How’s your mother doing? Did you ever call my friend, the home health aide?”
I regret how much I used to share with Sandrine during the hours and hours I passed in her chair.
“We actually decided on an assisted living home,” I say, the words heavy in my mouth. “It hurts, not seeing her every day, but it’s what she wanted. I visit her as often as I can.”
“You made the choice that was right for you both. Don’t feel guilty.”
I take in a shaky breath and dab at my eyes.
“Need a tissue?”
“No. You know I always tear up when you do my edges. I’m fine.”
Sandrine is quiet after that, and there’s nothing but the sound of rich people acting up for the reality TV cameras until the shop doorbell rings.
Sandrine pauses to look over her shoulder, sighs, then says, “Can you push the button?”
I press the unlock button on the underside of the counter in front of me and hear the jingling bells hanging from the door, followed by the scrape of flip-flops as someone shuffles into the room slowly without lifting their feet.
“Hey, Sandrine. And is that Ms. Green’s daughter?”
I see why Sandrine sighed. “Hi, Denise.”
Denise knows my name is Sydney. She just likes trying to start mess and has for years.
“Girl, you look like shit.”
“Did you wash your hair this time, Denise?” Sandrine asks, in a tone that’s much different from the one she uses to speak with me.
“My appointment is in half an hour, I’m going to wash it now,” Denise snaps. “I popped in because—”
Sandrine sighs. “I’m almost finished with Sydney. How long do you think I will wait?”
Denise draws her head back to look down her nose at Sandrine. “You’ll wait just like I have to wait for you every other time I come here.”
I can’t argue with that, even if she does get on my nerves.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Sandrine loses and goes back to focusing on my braid.
“Anyway, I popped in before washing my hair because the police swarmed up on Gifford Place a little bit ago.”
My hands grip the edge of the seat.
“Is that what all those sirens were?” Sandrine asks casually. She doesn’t live there. Only knows me and a couple of people who are her clients.
“Yup. They rolled up to Jamel and Ashley Jones’s house and stormed in. Pulled up the floorboards in Preston’s room. The boy was moving weight, apparently. Felony weight.”
My stomach turns. “Preston Jones? That doesn’t make sense.”
I’m not gonna pretend I know anyone’s secrets, but his family is solid, does all right for themselves, and he seems to have a very definite idea of how he wants his life to turn out.
I can’t reconcile “moving felony weight” with the nerdy boy who regularly showed up at my door over the winter to see if I needed help shoveling, and who always has his face in his books. It isn’t that he’s “too smart” to sell drugs, but if he is involved in that, he’s too smart to be holding an amount that would jeopardize his future or put his parents in danger.
Denise shrugs. “Not a bit of sense. And no one was in the room when they found the drugs, either. Don’t change the fact that they arrested him a little while ago. He was crying like a baby. His mama is a mess.”
Part of me wants to get up and swing on her, going around telling the Joneses’ business to anyone who’ll listen. But when I glance at her in the mirror and see the red flush under her light brown skin and her wide eyes darting back and forth, the urge fades away. What is the proper response to seeing a child arrested? Another child, the umpteenth child, when you’ve lived here long enough. And worse, arrested for something you can’t be sure they actually did, even if they get found guilty?