I wanted that guy dead, I swear I did. Now all I can think about is how a gunshot’s gonna take him like one took Dad.
If he has a wife, his death will mess her up like it messed Jay up.
If he has a momma, she’ll cry like Grandma cried.
If he has a dad, his voice will dip when he talks about him like Granddaddy.
If he has a son, he’ll be angry at him for dying, like Trey is.
If he has a little girl, she’ll never get a response when she says, “Daddy.” Like me.
They’ll bury him and make him into everything he wasn’t. The best husband, the best son, the best dad. There will be T-shirts worn around the neighborhood with his face on them and murals in his honor. His name will get tatted on somebody’s arm. He’ll forever be a hero who lost his life too soon, not the villain who ruined my life. Because of my aunt.
They’ll only show her mug shot on the news. Not the pictures of us smiling together on her Cutlass or her cheesing with that GED Jay thought she’d never get. She’ll be called a ruthless murderer for about a week, until somebody else does something fucked up. Then I’ll be the only one mourning her.
She’ll become the monster for handling the monster I couldn’t handle myself. Or somebody’s gonna kill her. Either way, I’m gonna lose Aunt Pooh.
Just like I lost my daddy.
Every tear I’ve held back rushes out, bringing sobs with them. I cover my mouth. Jay and Trey cannot hear me. They can’t. But the sobs come out of me so hard that it’s almost impossible to breathe.
I hold my mouth and fight for air all at once. Tears fall over my fingers.
Jacksons can cry. Even when we have blood on our hands.
Nas once called sleep the cousin of death, and I suddenly get that. I could barely sleep for thinking about death. I said six words that may have summoned it.
He pointed it in my face.
They felt heavy when I said them, like I was taking a weight off of my tongue, but somehow, it’s as if they’re still lingering there. I practically see them and all seven of their syllables.
Since he pointed it in my face,
My aunt may be gone to waste.
Because those six words told Aunt Pooh something else: Handle him for me. Ruin your life for me. Let everyone pin one word—“murderer”—on you. For me.
I hear those six words in my ears all night. They make me text her three: Are you okay?
She doesn’t respond.
I drift off to sleep at some point. When I open my eyes, my mom is sitting on my bed.
“Hey,” she says gently. “You okay?”
From the looks of things, it’s morning. “Yeah. Why you ask?”
“Every time I came to check on you, you were tossing and turning.”
“Oh.” All of my limbs feel heavy as I sit up. “Why were you checking on me?”
“I always check on you and Trey.” She strokes my cheek. “What’s going on, Bookie?”
“Nothing.” She can’t know that I ordered Aunt Pooh to kill somebody. She can’t know the chain is gone, either. It would break her heart.
At this rate, I’m piling up secrets.
“It’s not that petition, is it?” Jay asks.
Oh. Ironic that a gun made me forget that someone hates that I rapped about guns. “You know about it?”
“Mm-hmm. Gina and ’Chelle texted it to me. You know how your godmothers are. They’ll go hood in a minute over you.” She chuckles. “They’re ready to whoop that woman’s behind. But I told them to ignore it, just like I’m telling you.”
It’s easy to ignore now, but I’m wondering if Emily may have been right. Maybe my words are dangerous. “Okay.”
Jay kisses my forehead. “That’s my girl. Come on.” She pats my leg. “Let’s get you some breakfast before you head to school.”
I glance at my phone. It’s been eleven hours. No word from Aunt Pooh.
I follow Jay to the kitchen. Trey’s still asleep. He’s taking off from Sal’s today just for a mini vacation.
Something’s . . . off. There’s an odd stillness, like the house is quieter than it should be.
Jay opens a cabinet. “I think I’ve got time to make you some French toast before the bus comes. The kind my momma used to do. She called it pain perdu.”
I love it when Jay pulls out those recipes her momma used to make in New Orleans. I’ve never been there, but they taste like home.