Page 119 of ClickBack

It is after three. Calling now will wake her. The excuse is available because I have spent hours creating it.

I type a message asking whether she has seen the photograph and what she wants me to do. I read it and think about how much I have already done. Then I delete it.

The next one starts with the truth. I’m scared somebody will find her house. I’m angry that people have taken the thing she told me in bed and made it public without even knowing what she trusted me with. I don’t know what else they will find.

I delete that, too. She shouldn’t have to calm me down while finding out what happened.

What I finally send sounds steadier than I feel.

Me: Something from Atlanta is going around. Don’t read the comments. Don’t post anything or say anything. You don’t have to do a single thing. I got it handled. It’ll be gone by the weekend. Let me take care of it.

I leave the thread open. A few minutes later, the read receipt appears.

Nothing follows it.

I read my own message again. I have told her what to do, what I will do, and when it will be over. Tori didn’t promise me that last part. Nobody did.

I keep the phone in my hand and wait for Giselle to answer.

Chapter 21

Giselle

At three in the morning, a message is usually somebody telling me to put on shoes.

I reach for the phone already thinking of Rae, then Zion, then which emergency room I would have to drive to. Jarrett’s name eases that fear just enough for me to read what he sent.

Atlanta. Comments. Don’t read. Don’t post. Don’t say anything.

I sit up and read it again. The camisole slips off one shoulder. I wore it tonight because I liked sleeping in it, a decision that had required no defense when I turned out the light.

I open Instagram.

The picture is easy to find. We are outside the rink, my skates hanging from Jarrett’s hand. I am looking up at him, laughing. I remember telling him he could not call nearly hitting a trash can an athletic recovery. He had argued the point all the way to the car.

I wish somebody had sent me the photograph then. I would have saved it.

Now I can barely see us for the writing beneath it. My age is wrong in one caption and correct in another. People are arguing about whether I look good for it. Someone has enlarged my legs. Someone else wants to know what a twenty-nine-year-old man could possibly want with a grandmother, and several people have offered to explain.

I start to close the app. Then I recognize the name above a comment.

That’s Giselle. Cedar Mill, stand up.

When I was little, that woman used to sit me between her knees on the back steps and grease my scalp. She would tap my ear with the comb when I squirmed. I can hear her pleasure in finding somebody she knows, the way she would call across a store to make sure I saw her.

Beneath her comment, someone has written, The Laurel queen?

I stop moving my thumb.

The photograph appears farther down. Sixteen years old, satin dress, crown, the mayor standing beside me. My mother had told me to lower my chin before the photographer took it. I remember doing that. I remember being so happy that following a simple instruction was difficult.

First Black girl they ever crowned.

Wasn’t she the one who got pregnant right after?

Fast then, fast now.

I put the phone facedown on the bed. Then I pick it up because I need to know whether Rae is in it.