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“Let me give you an example of what I mean,” Nana says.
She stands up extra-straight and speaks. She’s talking like she’s a fortune-teller or something, but she’s not being silly.
“Ali, I sense that you are about to tell me that you want to go out. And when I ask if you’ve finished your homework, I sense that you’ll say ‘My homework is almost completely finished.’ Then I’ll ask, ‘You all set for the big debate?’ and you’ll say, ‘Of course I am, Nana.’ Then I’ll ask who all you are going to be seeing, and you’ll say Cedric or Gabe or Mateo. How’m I doin’ so far?”
“I’d say good, pretty good.” And Nana keeps going.
“Then I’ll say, ‘Is it a safe place you’re going to?’ and you’ll say, ‘Of course, Nana. Perfectly safe.’ And so I’ll say, ‘Well then, go on out, Ali,’ because I know there’s no use trying to force you to stay put.”
Neither of us speaks for a few seconds. I’m scared to move, like Nana Mama didn’t really just give me permission to go out.
Then she asks, “Did I leave something out?”
“Yes. The most important part. What do you always say when I’m walking out the door?”
I go to the kitchen door and open it before she can change her mind.
“‘Don’t forget to come home,’” I say. And then I’m gone.
BAD THINGS SEEMa lot worse when they happen on a bright sunny day. That’s how it is for all the officers and firefighters and volunteers who are walking and looking and praying for Yolanda Curtis. Yo-Yo to her friends and family.
You can hear babies crying, some toddlers yelling, the usual neighborhood sirens wailing, but mostly you hear grown-up voices shouting some version of Yolanda Curtis’s name.
“Yolanda. Yolanda.”
“Lonnie. Lonnie.”
“Yo-Yo. Yo-Yo. Yo-Yo.”
Cedric and Gabe are there. I walk over to meet them, but before I can say anything, we overhear a police officer breaking down the case to another one. We sneak closer to listen in. The officer is explaining what happened.
“The missing child was being watched by her big sister. The big sister, well, she isn’t more than ten or eleven years old herself.”
That happens a lot around here. Kids taking care of other kids. Or even worse, little kids being left alone.
The police officer shrugs as he talks.
“Their mom isn’t around much, and her kids live in the Millicent Public Projects two streets up. You know the place. Everyone ’round here calls it the Millie House.”
Yeah, the officer is right. Everyone knows the Millie House. It’s a place to buy drugs. It’s a place to stay away from.
The officer keeps talking.
“Anyway. It’s not official or anything, but I think the older sister might have been using or something, and, you figure, the little girl is only four. The big sister is eleven. The sisters’ ages between them barely adds up to sixteen. It’s a shame.
“So the little one. Yolanda. Sometimes they call her Yo-Yo. She goes out from the ground-floor apartment, and since they live so close, she actually knows how to get herself over to the park. They go there a lot, her and her sister. This is not good. I don’t hold out much hope for finding the kid.”
“You don’t? Really?” the other officer asks.
“Nah. I don’t. The little girl was missing for over an hour before we got a call-in about her.”
“Shit,” says Cedric. I see he’s shaking a little. He closes his lips tight, and his cheeks balloon out a little, too. I keep myself steady, but this whole thing is making us sick. I can see I’m not the only one who’s scared.
Cede is the biggest guy of the three of us. He’s absolutely the strongest. All things considered, he’s got to be the bravest. You know. Brave, like sure of himself.
An older officer gestures for the other officers to join him. The first officer nods that he’s coming, and says to the other, “Over there. That’s the sister. I’m gonna go see what they found out from her.”
He takes one step in the direction of the big sister. Then he notices me.
