After Jason’s family held a service at the Lutheran church this afternoon, they’re now hosting a reception for friends and loved ones in their house.
The good news is, I’m pretty sure Marcus will be here today.
The bad news is, I’m pretty sure Marcus will be here today.
“I have a surprise for you, Zadie!” Jason’s mother singsongs when she opens the front door of their house for me.
“Don’t try to guess,” Mrs.R tells me, which, of course, makes me desperate to guess.
My obvious hope is that it’s Jason, that he’s out of his coma, but since I saw him earlier this morning, I know that can’t be it. And Mrs.R is excited now, but no way her reaction would be this muted if her son was awake.
“I promise, I won’t,” I say as I move into the house. The Riddick house is something you would find inArchitectural Digest. Not those expensive houses with vintage furniture that pretend to be homey, but the rich-and-proud-to-be-rich houses. Everything is sleek and modern and neutrals-colored.
The only time Mom has ever been here, she oohed and aahed over everything, polite to a fault until we got into the car. Then she told me it looked like a “McMansion.”
“It just doesn’t have a very attainable, lived-in feeling,” she said.Attainableis one of Mom’s words. It means to beof the people, to be thought of as normal, down-to-earth, trustworthy, all things that my mother is always aspiring toward as a politician. Other words for attainable:approachable,relatable, andelectable.
I wouldn’t describe our house as lived-in either, but that’s not something I’d ever tell Mom.
“Oh my God, don’t look now, babe, but this absolute stunner just walked in,” Amber loud-whispers to her boyfriend, Talon, as I enter the living room.
“Where? Where?” Talon swivels around, pretending to look. Then he nuzzles into his girlfriend’s neck. “Only stunner I see is you, babe.”
“Wow. I don’t know whether to feel rejected or objectified,” I deadpan.
“Maybe both?” Amber suggests, taking my hand and pulling meinto their group. “Why are your nails givingNight of the Living Dead, and why do I love it?”
“Thanks,” I say. My nails are painted black with silvery glitter dust today.
The open secrets started when Dad died. So many times since that day in August, I’ve wanted to not do my makeup and not put in my contacts and just dress like a slob because what does anything matter when my father is gone? But I never had the courage to do any of that. I’ve remained tidy, affable Zadie Cartwright, with her carefully chosen clothes and cute hair and flawless makeup. Instead, I started to choose one thing each day that would reflect how I truly felt. Something subtle.
At least the nails aren’t clashing with my church outfit.
The Riddick house is big enough for the twenty-five or so of us who just left the service and are having lunch at their house. Of course, the meal is catered, people in uniforms slipping between and around us while classical piano music floats through the house speakers. The somber, formal tone reminds me of Dad’s wake. I remember feeling like I was drowning in a sea of faceless bodies that day, all of them dressed in black. Nobody knew what to say or do. It felt utterly hopeless too; nothing I did could bring Dad back.
Today, though, there is an unspoken undercurrent of hope, like we are just simply biding our time, going through the motions until Jason wakes up.
Mrs.R is settling down next to her husband, who is showing Coach Kyle and his wife ancient photo albums of Jason as a kid. Jason’s parents have shown them to me multiple times over the past year. Jason playing soccer. Jason winning the golden boot, themini-league version of MVP. Jason meeting his idol, Cristiano Ronaldo.
I’m only the slightest bit grateful that their spiel is directed at someone else today. “Where’s Mo?” I ask. It’s weird that she’s been gone for this long.
“Somewhere around here,” Amber says, voice strangely high-pitched. Behind her, Talon points at Amber then makes exaggerated throat-slashing gestures at me.
“You cut…kill…killed her?” I say, trying to do my best with his clues.
“Are you miming behind my back again?” Amber asks, turning on Talon. “It’s really not in your skill set, babe. And Zad, I love you, but if I had to choose between having you and a walrus on my charades team, I’d pick the walrus.”
“They don’t even have hands,” I point out with a laugh.
“Exactly,” Amber says.
“Epic,” Talon remarks, and based on his laughter, I take it he found Amber’s comment funny.
“Fine. Mo and I had a baby argument,” Ambs admits. “And she stomped off.”
“An argument? About what?” I ask, alarmed. My friends and I never fight. I call our trio a friend-ocracy because whenever two of us disagree, the third casts a tie-breaking vote. Amber and I have been pretty much inseparable since the day in kindergarten when she gave Brady Westhaven a valentine that he rejected. Rightfully annoyed, Amber picked it up from where it had been discarded on the floor and gave it to me instead. Amber being as famously glamorous and tender-hearted (even then) as she was, I intrinsically understood the value of what she was offering me, and we’ve beena pair ever since. Then, years later, after showing Monique around the school when she first moved here, I invited Mo to sit with me and Amber at lunch. I was overjoyed to finally have another Black person in my class.
Amber and Mo could not be more different. Ambs with her expensive everything and heart made of actual mush, and Mo with her backpack full of pins depicting great scientists, plus the marker-tattoo she wore on her wrist for all of junior year that read WWAFD (What Would Alexander Fleming Do?). Then there’s the app Mo is trying to launch before winter break (she’s looking for investors and everything). But Ambs and Mo quickly discovered that they both have an affinity for true crime podcasts and almost always agree on who the killer is, which is no small feat. I can’t stand true crime, but somehow the three of us make it work.
