The video’s barely got views. It’s messed up, but I’m glad nobody’s watching it.
Trey peeks into the bathroom. “Dang, you ain’t ready yet?”
“Treeey!” I groan. I’m just standing here, putting gel on my edges, but who wants their older brother sticking his nose in the bathroom while they’re getting ready? “Do you know what privacy is?”
“Do you know what timeliness is?” He looks at his watch. “Church starts in twenty minutes, Bri. Ma’s ready to go.”
I comb my baby hairs into a swoop. “Don’t know why we’re going in the first place.” Straight up, it would take Jesus himself to make me go back to the same church that let me go. For real, for real. Even then, I’d tell him, “Let me think about it.”
“I don’t know why Ma wants to go either,” Trey says. “But she does. So hurry up.”
This makes no sense, I swear. Trey heads outside, and I’m not far behind. Jay’s already in her Jeep.
“All right, y’all,” she says. “You know folks will be talking about me losing my job. Try to ignore it and don’t get smart, okay?”
She looks dead at me in her rearview mirror.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“Oh, you know why.” She puts the truck in reverse. “Got a mouth like your daddy.”
Also like her. But anyway.
Christ Temple is only a five-minute drive away. The parking lot is so full, cars are parked in the gravel lot next door that the church owns. That’s where we end up, instead of in the church secretary spot that Jay used to have. They’ve taken the sign down.
Jay greets people inside with a smile like nothing’s happened. She even hugs Pastor Eldridge. He opens his arms toward me. I give him a S’up nod and keep it moving. Trey does, too. Our petty doesn’t discriminate.
We have a pew near the back that may as well have our names on it. From here we can see some of everything. Service hasn’t started yet, but there are people all around the sanctuary, talking in little clusters. There are the older “mothers,” as they’re called, up in the front row with their big hats on.
Some of the deacons are over to the side, including Deacon Turner with the Jheri curl. My stank-eye is strong for that one. A few months ago, he got up in front of the congregation and ranted about how parents don’t need to hug and kiss their sons because it makes them gay. Sonny’s parents said that rant was a “bunch of bullshit.” They haven’t brought Sonny and his sisters back to church since. I’ve flipped Deacon Turner off every chance I get since.
Like now. He’s not wearing his glasses though, which explains why he just waves at me. So I give him the double-middle-finger special.
Trey pushes my hands down. His shoulders shake from fighting a laugh.
Grandma’s up front with her group from the decorating committee. Her hat’s the biggest of them all. She says something to her friends, and they glance back at us.
“Heffa bet’ not be talking about me,” Jay says. “With that synthetic mess on her head. Wig looking like roadkill.”
“Ma!” Trey says. I snort.
Granddaddy comes up the center aisle. He can’t take a step without somebody saying, “Morning, Deacon Jackson!” This is the only place where people don’t call him “Senior.” His round belly looks like it’ll pop out of his vest. His purple tie and handkerchief match Grandma’s dress and hat. My grandparents always match. Not just on Sundays, either. They’d show up to Markham’s football games in identical tracksuits to watch Trey. He didn’t play—he was a drum major—but the band is just as important as the football team at HBCUs. Shoot, more important.
“All right now, y’all,” Granddaddy says to us.
That’s his way of saying good morning. He leans across the pew and kisses Jay’s cheek. “Glad to see y’all made it today.”
“Of course, Mr. Jackson,” Jay says. “Nothing could keep me from the house of the Lord. Glory!”
I side-eye her. Not that Jay doesn’t love the Lord, but she gets extra-Christian when we’re in church. Like her, Aunt Gina, and Aunt ’Chelle weren’t just twerking to bounce music last night in our living room. Less than twenty-four hours later, and every other word out of Jay’s mouth is “glory” or “hallelujah.” I doubt even Jesus talks like that.
Granddaddy leans toward me and points to his cheek. I kiss it. It’s fat and dimpled,