Not A Good Look (7 page)

W
hen you were little did your mother ever tell you that the police were going to lock you up and put you in jail when you misbehaved? That always used to work on me and get me to straighten up quickly. It also gave me an irrational fear of police officers. Even if I'm driving nineteen miles per hour in a twenty-miles-per-hour zone, I still look in my rearview mirror when I pass a police officer.

So imagine how badly I want to run away screaming when two uniformed police officers show up at my school wanting to talk to me. They didn't say anything loud enough for my class to hear, but clearly the words
Sunday
and
shooting
were both said. That spooked my calc teacher, Ms. Wheatley.

“Sunday, will you please step outside and talk to the officers for a moment.”

My first thought is, How do we know these are really police officers? I mean, I've watched enough Court TV to know that people show up masquerading as officers all the time, just so they can snatch people. If you ask me, these two look pretty suspect.

I step into the hallway with the officers, but I keep looking back over my shoulder waiting for someone to rescue me. My supposed-to-be ex-boyfriend, Romell, is leaning all the way out of his chair to see what's up, but is he trying to have my back? I don't think so.

One of the officers closes the classroom door behind me, and there's not one person walking down the hallway.

“Hi, Sunday. You haven't done anything wrong. We just want to let you know that up front,” the first officer says.

“But you had to come up to my classroom? People are gonna think I'm a criminal.”

Officer number two says, “Unfortunately, the questions that we have can't wait until later. We're trying to apprehend the shooter in the Carlos Acevedo case.”

Duh! This is about Carlos. With all of the record-deal stuff going down, I forgot we're still in the middle of that particular unsolved mystery.

“Well, I wasn't at home at the time of the shooting. I didn't show up until the ambulances came.”

“So you didn't see anything? Any suspicious cars or anyone unfamiliar in the neighborhood in the days leading up to the shooting?”

“No, but the day that Carlos got shot, I remember that his baby's mother, LaKeisha, called my mother about child support money.”

Officer number one starts scribbling on his pad. Officer number two asks, “Did you hear the conversation? Was it an argument?”

“I didn't hear the conversation between my mother and LaKeisha, but I remember my mom fussing at Carlos about it before she left for work.”

“So you don't actually know if the conversation took place?” officer number two asks. “You only think it happened.”

“Why would my mother start an argument with her boyfriend over a fake conversation? That doesn't make any sense.”

Officer number two doesn't answer, but officer number one continues to scribble details in the notebook.

“Do your mother and Carlos have a good relationship?”

I lift my eyebrows. What in the world does that have to do with anything?

“They have a great relationship. He lives with us, and they're going to get married when he has enough income to take care of us.”

“So your mother wouldn't marry him due to his financial status?” officer number two asks.

“I didn't say that! You are putting words in my mouth.”

“You said your mother fussed with Carlos about the mother of his child. Did they argue frequently about that?”

“Um, no. I thought you said you had questions about the shooting.”

I wish I'd never brought up that argument, but I was hoping that they'd start looking LaKeisha's way for some answers, not try to point the finger at my mother.

“Are y'all even close to making an arrest?” I ask.

“Thank you for your time, Sunday. We'll contact your mother when we have more information.” So I guess I don't get to ask any questions, huh?

They walk away from me like they didn't come up to my school interrupting my day. I mean seriously, they could've asked me those questions anytime. They could've come to our house.

When I walk back into my classroom everyone is staring at me. I know exactly what they're thinking because I'd be thinking it, too. Police only show up at the school when it has something to do with drugs. Do they think I'm a drug dealer? If I was trying to be a rapper, that would probably help my career!

Since I'm totally stressed by my visit from the boys in blue, I grab my backpack and leave, telling my teacher that I have to go to the principal's office. She doesn't object; probably thinks I'm under arrest or something. And I was planning to ask her to write a recommendation letter for my college application.

On my way down the hall to who knows where, my guidance counselor, Mr. Brubaker, flags me down. “Sunday, can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Sure.” I don't really feel like doing this, but Mr. Brubaker is the other person I need a recommendation letter from.

We go into his office, where Mr. Brubaker walks around the side of his desk and points to the chair for me to sit down. I plop down on the soft, worn-out leather. I bet thousands of students have sat in this chair because it's got a nice little dent in the middle where the behind should go.

“What's going on with you, Sunday? Be real with it, too, because I saw the police officers earlier.”

I can't help but crack a smile at Mr. Brubaker. If he didn't have all that gray in his hair and beard, he'd be a grown-man hottie with that smooth, chocolate colored skin. But he's the coolest adult in this school, and I think the only one who really cares what happens to us when we leave here.

“I'm cool, Mr. Brubaker, but my mother's boyfriend is missing.”

“I hope he's okay. Did you get that Spelman application done yet?”

I nod. “Almost. I still have to finish the essays and get my recommendation letters.”

“When were you going to ask me for the letter, Sunday?” Mr. Brubaker gives me a knowing grin.

“I was about to today in fact! But then the police came up here and stole my joy!”

Mr. Brubaker throws his head back and laughs. “They stole your joy, Sunday?”

“Yes, sir, they did. Can I ask for your help with something?” I ask, my tone suddenly serious.

“Of course. What do you need?”

I shift a little bit in my seat, because I don't want to really put my mother out there, but I'm gonna need some help with my college fund.

“Mr. Brubaker, I don't think I'm gonna be able to go to Spelman. I might have to do a community college for a few semesters, because my money isn't right.”

“Have you applied for any scholarship money?”

“No, not yet. I don't even know where to start looking.”

“You should've come to me sooner.”

I shrug. “Up until a few days ago, I thought my mother had it covered.”

Mr. Brubaker sighed. “Don't worry. We'll get you into Spelman and get it paid for. Your grades are excellent. I wish you did more extracurricular activities, but…”

“I do music after school, Mr. Brubaker. I don't have time for volleyball or the glee club.”

He laughs out loud in his deep baritone. “You should join the glee club, Sunday. I could use your voice in the soprano section.”

“Maybe. I'll think about it. When do you meet?”

“Thursdays before school and Saturday mornings. It shouldn't take too much time away from your other stuff.”

“You might see me Thursday morning.”

“Great. And, Sunday, I don't want you to worry about school. We'll take care of it.”

“Okay, Mr. Brubaker. I'm trusting you on this one.”

 

After school, Bethany and I meet up to get on the bus. She still doesn't know about the tour, and I'm trying to think of how to tell her about it without her blowing up.

“Dreya moved back home,” I say.

Bethany laughs. “What happened? Did your Aunt Charlie go over to Big D's studio, wrecking shop?”

“No. Big D made her come back home so that Aunt Charlie would sign the contract.”

“So there's a contract now? Wow…”

“Yeah, she signed to Epsilon Records.”

“What about you? Did they give you an in-house songwriter gig?”

An in-house songwriter is someone who works for the record company and gets a paycheck like a regular job. They don't get royalties, though, so I'm not trying to go that route. I want to freelance like I've been doing. That's the only way for me to come up. Plus, what record company is trying to hire a seventeen-year-old?

“No, Bethany. I don't even want one of those. But they did give me a job.”

“For real? Doing what?”

“Well, I have to be Dreya's assistant on two tours, photo shoots, and other stuff like that.”

Bethany's mouth drops open like a broken hinge. “You have to be Dreya's assistant?”

“Yeah, it's cool.”

Bethany doubles over with laughter. “That is
not
cool, Sunday. You are the leader of our group! You're used to being in charge. There is no way you're gonna be able to survive five minutes as Dreya's assistant!”

“That's where you're wrong. I'm doing this so that I can go on the road for free, meet celebrities, go to parties, and make money at the same time. I can handle Dreya.”

Romell walks up to where we're standing. “Hey, Sunday.”

“Hey, Romell. What's good?”

“You, girl. When we going to the movies?”

I crack up laughing. “You must like getting dogged out by girls.”

“Nah, only you. Who was that lame that picked you up from school yesterday?”

“Wow. Hater much?”

“Naw, never that. I just wanted to know who you was kickin' it with these days.”

That's really funny. “Ro, you didn't care too much when we were together, but now that we're apart, you all of a sudden checkin' for me?”

“Guess I didn't know what I had.”

“Boy, stop. You don't mean that. What's up? You need help with your calculus homework or something?”

Romell sighs and his entire body relaxes. “Girl, I'm so glad you said that! I do need some help with the homework assignment.”

“You can come over, Romell, and we can do the assignment together. All you had to do was ask.”

Bethany covers her mouth and giggles. “If he comes over to your house, y'all not gonna do no homework. Maybe I should come, too, and chaperone.”

Romell's eyes light up. “Do we need a chaperone, Sunday?”

“Uh, no. We do not, but, Bethany, you can come through if you want.”

“Okay.”

Romell narrows his eyes at Bethany like he's angry at her for some reason. I know he can't be over there thinking she's blocking, because there's nothing to block. I'm not feeling him at all anymore.

Romell licks his lips and runs a hand over his cornrows. “Bethany, you are a chump, for real. You stay in the way, don't you?”

“I'm in the way, Romell?” Bethany's feelings are probably hurt now. “Never mind, Sunday. I'll just go to my house.”

“No, Bethany! He's just trying to psych you out. You're coming over.”

Romell takes one of my long cornrows between his fingers and drapes it across my neck. I wonder if he likes my hair like this. I used to love when he played in my hair. Shoot, I still love it when he plays in my hair—I ain't gonna lie.

“No alone time?” Romell asks. His face is so close to mine that I can feel his fruity-scented breath in my ear.

I take a step back so I can clear my head. “No. No alone time, Romell. Just homework. I'm talking to somebody.”

“You talking to somebody?” Romell repeats my statement as a question. “That dude who picked you up from school?”

I nod. “Yeah. He goes to DeKalb School of the Arts.”

“For real?” Romell laughs in my face. “The
arts
school? You sure he likes girls?”

I roll my eyes. “Keep talking trash, and you're gonna be figuring out that calc homework by yourself.”

Romell slides his hand over my hip. “Well, I just want you to know. I like girls.”

“I know you do. Multiple girls, in fact.” I push his hand away.

I'm glad the bus pulls up, because I don't want to continue this conversation with Romell. It's only going to end in an argument, because I can't help but get mad about all the times he played me for other girls. Only cute boys get away with that kind of stuff, though. I bet Sam wouldn't cheat on a girl.

Thinking about Sam makes me want to text him. I sit down in the seat next to Bethany and pull out my phone.

 

Hey, babe. What u doin?

 

A few seconds go by and he replies.

 

Thinkin' 'bout you. Want some pizza?

 

Dang. Now I wish I hadn't invited Romell over for homework.

 

Can't. Gotta tutor this dude.

 

Want some company?

 

I think it would be funny to see Romell and Sam interact. Romell and his hating and Sam with his perpetual cool swagger.

 

Yeah, come thru. And bring pepperoni.