“What were you thumping on inside your pocket, Cede?”
“Two very dangerous objects.” He smirks at me. “A smartphone and a Nature Valley bar.”
We would usually be laughing at something like this. We don’t. But I do speak.
“Thanks for what you did, C,” I say.
“Hey, anytime the threat is completely fake, you can count on me.”
“No, man,” I say. “I really mean it. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, of course I did,” Cedric says. “You’re my boy.”
MY HOUSE ISpractically empty.
Jannie is over at Howard University pounding the track, like she does every Monday, completely determined to break a four-minute mile.
Bree and my dad are out doing their jobs. The house is only occupied by me and Nana Mama. And she’s downstairs fixing supper (I can smell the onions cooking) and singing (Nana’s old CD player is blasting out her favorite gospel singer, CeCe Winans, who is belting “Never Lost”).
You’ve never lost a battle
And I know you never will
Whatever you say, CeCe.
As for me right now? I’m trying to decide whether to start my homework or study up on my debate material. Instead, still trying to calm myself down after what happened at school, I decide to sharpen my video game skills.
I’m just about to jump into my season with the Wizards on NBA 2K22 when my police app chimes. Daytime. Unusual. Most serious calls—shootings, drugs, gangs—are nighttime problems. Not sunny, four p.m. problems.
I read it. This’ll make you nervous. A missing child.
Four-year-old girl. White T-shirt, turquoise shorts, purple KUBUA sneakers. She answers to the name Yolanda Curtis. Last seen PSP/AP.
I don’t need the local Southeast police department manual to tell me what those initials stand for: Pirate Ship Playground at Anacostia Park, a pretty nice spot that kids really love. Fun, clean, entertaining. And way too near the Anacostia River for a playground.
My first problem, of course, is how to get out of my house without setting off alarms with Nana Mama. Sneaking away is out of the question in broad daylight. And, as the past has proven, lying to Nana is not a smart alternative.
I toy with the idea of telling her the truth. Hmmm. Let me just think about that.
Okay, that takes me about a second.No.
I text Gabe and Cedric. They tell me they’re on their way to the Pirate Ship Playground. I let them know that there might be a slight delay. I call it the “Nana-Mama” delay.
I walk down the stairs. I enter the kitchen. I’m calling up all my bad acting skills so I can look calm and casual. Meanwhile, that app on my phone won’t quit dinging and vibrating every few seconds.
“Hey, Nana. You’re steppin’ hard to your CeCe Winans tunes. Nice,” I say. “Very nice.”
“Best thing that ever happened at St. Anthony’s church was when the monsignor agreed to let Martin and Bettina and me bring that gospel group in to sing after communion,” she says. “I love that it’s a regular Sunday thing.”
“Everybody’s lovin’ it,” I say. (And the truth is, everybody does love it.)
Nana suddenly looks very serious. I could swear that her eyes squint a little bit as she stares straight at me. She’s looking at me hard. Or I should say that she’s lookingthroughme hard.
“You know, Ali. I believe that I’ve got a special sixth sense about you,” she says.
“Oh, you really think so?” I say. I could swear my voice is actually shaking.
Meanwhile, my own sixth sense tells me: this is not going to go well.