When No One Is Watching(45)

“They didn’t call. Didn’t ask for transcripts,” I say.

“And the guy who hired you was . . .” She raises her brows again.

I raise mine back, not knowing what she means.

“White,” she stage-whispers.

“Oh! Yeah. We mostly talked about music during the interview. Some band I’d never heard of, but I just pretended I was blanking on the titles of their songs because I was nervous about the interview. Then we talked sports teams because I saw the pennant hanging in his office and I told him about my guys who can get amazing Yankees tickets.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head and leans back in the booth. “I’ve been working in a shitty school office and you—”

“Are unemployed. Because eventually one of the administrative assistants was putting together some list of alumni for the company, something completely innocuous, and realized there was no record of me at the school.”

I sip more water while she stares at me.

“Is that why your girlfriend was being such a heifer to everybody? Because you lied on your résumé and stopped bringing home the luxury leggings?” she asks. “I can understand that, though I don’t know why she took it out on me.”

I shake my head. “She doesn’t know.”

Her eyes go wide. “She doesn’t know? About the lying? Getting fired? Both?”

“The lying. I haven’t told anyone. Except you.”

Sydney leans back and raises both her hands, the expression on her face meme-worthy. “Nope. Nope. I’m not trying to be your repository of secrets, which is a nicer term for ‘the person you kill because you don’t want your girlfriend to find out you’re a sociopath.’”

“I’m not a sociopath,” I protest, though maybe laughing as I say it doesn’t help my case. “You’ve never lied to get what you need?”

She stares at me for a long time and then shakes her head, picks up her purse, and stands up, glancing quickly at her phone as she slides it into the bag.

“Let’s go. This is a lot. I just wanted some scrambled eggs and got Dashboard Confessional instead.”

“And she’s not my girlfriend anymore,” I add, standing to follow her. “She told me it was over and then went to her family’s place in the Hamptons with the dude she cheated on me with. I think. You’re the only person I’ve told that to, too. Sorry to add to the repository.”

I kind of chuckle even though my throat feels weird and rough. I don’t want to be with Kim anymore and I’m relieved more than anything, but saying it out loud makes it more real than drinking myself into a stupor did.

Sydney squints at me. “She dumped you and she didn’t even know about the lying? What else did you do?”

“Not lie well enough, I guess?” I shrug. “Should’ve aimed a bit higher and not gotten caught.”

“You are a mess,” she says, shaking her head. “Unemployed, cheated on, dumped.”

Soon to be homeless, I mentally add to the list but don’t say aloud. I don’t want her to think it’s a request for help.

She sighs and says, “I meant what I said—I’m not gonna ‘oh honey’ you. But you get a free breakfast at least for that sob story. And for scaring away the fake Con Ed man.”

She smiles, just one half of her somehow still-glossy mouth lifting up, but she’s looking at me and it doesn’t feel like she’s across the room anymore. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this. Not attraction or desire, or not just those things, but understanding. Camaraderie.

I’m going to have to be more careful. Because there’s the truth and there’s the truth, and Sydney’s smile is enough to make me think about telling her the latter.

“All right, boss,” I say. “Take me to church.”

THE CHURCH HISTORIAN, Kendra Hill, is expecting us—apparently Sydney texted her and asked her if she could make time for us. She’s not that much older than us, maybe midforties, though there’s a touch of gray in the dark brown hair at her temples that makes me uncertain. She brings us into a small office and takes a seat behind a pale green wooden desk, gesturing at the two chairs in front of it.

“This building doesn’t look like a church, really,” I say. “I’ve thought it was a school all this time.”

“Well, a church can be a basement, a storefront, a living room. It’s about the faith contained in a place, not the receptacle. But yes, it was a school. In the time of Weeksville it was one of the African schools, where Black children could get an education. Later, it was the first integrated school in New York. And eventually it became home to our congregation.”

She nods, and then sends a sympathetic look Sydney’s way.

“How’s your mother, Sydney? Is she hanging in there?”

I glance at Sydney, who presses her lips together like she’s swallowing bile but nods.

“That’s good. Yolanda was always so tough. We’re praying for her.” She gives Sydney a comforting look. “She mentioned your tour to me, you know, last time I came to visit her. Was so proud of you getting into history. Now, tell me more about it.”

“I’m not a historian or anything,” Sydney says, her voice more subdued than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m just trying to put together a little something about the neighborhood from the perspective of someone who grew up here and also is learning things that we don’t get taught at school. I’d love to hear any interesting facts you might have about the neighborhood’s past since everything is changing so quickly.”