The thick, barefaced scent of roaches wafted into Qway’s nose from the moment that he pushed open the front door of the corner store. He’d already begun breathing through his mouth by the time he reached the first shelf of snacks.

“And can you make sure you get some A.1 sauce too? Yo’ fat headed daddy wasted it last week and I ain’t had a chance to go to the store.” He could hear his mother rummaging through the cabinets, her voice distant and muffled as she put him on speaker phone.

He scoffed. “Mama, I ain’t going all the way to Schnucks. I’m at the corner store now, but I’ll see what they have.”

“You know what? I ain’t say that when you wanted something from the store when you was younger. That’s okay though, don’t even worry about it. You gon’ miss me when I’m gone, I know that much.”

He groaned, attracting the attention of the clerk for less than a second before he was deemed unworthy and the hump of a man went back to scratching lottery tickets. “Fine, dang. Let me gon’ head and let you go, I’ll see you when I get back home.” He hung up before she could ask for anything else, shoving his phone deep into the recesses of his sweatpants. Shaking his head, he debated on whether or not to just head straight to the grocery store; he’d frequented this corner store often as a child and was familiar with its contents. He knew they wouldn’t have the sauce his mother wanted just as well that he knew that the front door, shattered glass covered by nothing more than a cut of cardboard, had probably been in such a state for a year at the minimum. Still, he could grab some milk and candy for much cheaper there.

The thought was enough to propel him further into the store. No sooner had he plugged in his earbuds and selected a song did he feel a body slam into his, a shoulder glancing off his own.

“Ay, what the fuck?”

He was never sure what to expect when people stepped to him. It was hardly ever an accident. Once, he’d turned around only to receive a blow to the jaw with no prior warning. He’d walked away from that one with a busted lip and a limp, but he’d broken the other man’s nose. Another time, a scraggly looking man with a receding hairline had crossed the gas station lot just to tell him he walked like a fag and asked him to confirm the validity of his statement. This time, rather than a stranger looking for a fight, Qway turned around to see a vaguely familiar face. He didn’t even think of the name before it was already out of his mouth.

“Isaiah?”

They hadn’t been close. They’d barely even been on speaking terms. Qway got the feeling that he only tolerated him because of Patience, and the same could be said vice versa. Still, as he looked into his face, he couldn’t help but feel a pinprick of concern. Bags sagged beneath his eyes, the whites of which were marred with spidery red lines and tinted pink. Beneath the dirty hood he wore, Qway could see that his dreads were unkempt, the new growth at his roots almost two inches long, the hair a hop and a skip away from becoming matted. Patience would have thrown a fit.

The boy squinted at him before recognition skirted across his features. “Ayo, you heard from my sister?”

He seemed to already know that Qway would answer in the negative, but was disappointed nonetheless. They were in agreement there; Patience spoke to him almost as much as she did Qway. If she wasn’t answering even his calls, then it meant that she hadn’t just blocked him for some unscrupulous reason.

He scratched at the little facial hair that was growing in on his chin. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. I, uh, I guess since you ain’t heard yet my parents prolly ain’t gon’ tell you.” He cleared his throat, but his words came out guttural all the same. “She, uh, she… I guess she was in Chicago a couple months ago and she…” He opened and closed his hands. “She died, man. We don’t really know what happened. The police ain’t tell us shit really. We know it wasn’t no accident, but that’s it. Her funeral is in a week.”

It was as if Isaiah had told him it was going to snow later that day. “You fucking with me.”

He shook his head. “I wish I was.”

He couldn’t help it. Qway reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. He scrolled back to the last texts they’d shared. The last one was dated for December 23rd, 9:42 am. He’d called her a whore for choosing to spend Christmas with Emoni and she’d responded with a crying laughing emoji and a promise to spend time with him when they got back into town. He hadn’t responded. The ones that followed, he realized numbly, were him talking to himself.

“Shit.”

Isaiah nodded. Swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, which was cracked to the point that it was almost bleeding. “Yeah. Anyway, I got to go. Be easy, man.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and Qway barely noticed that he crinkled as he did so. A wave of must slapped him in the face as he passed. Had the circumstances been different, Qway would have got on his head about it as well as what he suspected was theft; he cared about Isaiah only as an extension of Patience, and he knew that had she known her brother was walking around like that, she would have strangled him.

Even so, as it was, he barely had the wherewithal to remember what he’d come to the store to get in the first place. He drifted through shelves full of dented cereal boxes, various canned foods and off brand candy, selecting items that he forgot as soon as he picked them up. When he was out of earshot of the clerk, he pressed his phone to his ear. He couldn’t help the disappointment he felt when it went straight to voicemail, but he left another one all the same.

“Patience, it’s Qway. Pick up yo’ phone, girl, you got everybody out here worried and shit. You know I hate being worried about yo’ goofy ass when I know you just don’t know how to pick up the phone.” The words came out hollow, wavering.

For several minutes, he idled at the back of the store, staring at the screen. He expected it to light up at any moment, and when it didn’t, he found himself at a loss. His head was swimming, as if he’d taken an edible before he’d left the house and it had hit him full force too early. He didn’t know what to do, so he did the only thing he could; he paid for his items and headed to Schnucks.

When Qway thought of how he and Patience met, he thought of barbeque and musty petunias.

That was what they all smelled like - the church ladies. At that time, they were young enough that they knew to use it in moderation but old enough that they thought it smelled good to begin with. That was enough to bring the two preteens together.

“Now, who cleaned this meat?” Sister Edith stalked the picnic tables, a silver tray clutched between her hands. “It ain’t goin’ on the grill till I find out, because ya’ll know Franklin is a good man and all, but all good men don’t necessarily know how to clean meat.”

Both had been abandoned at the children’s table by their parents, but at eleven and twelve, they felt too old to be stuck there. The white table cloth had long since become stained red, green and every other color in between, and each occupant hadn’t even received a plate yet. An hour must have passed before Qway became aware of her. The plate of sliced turkey and collard greens in front of him was beginning to attract flies, but his focus remained on his mother.

At social events such as those, they were always partners; his mother was a slender white woman who, depending on who you asked, spoke as many or as few as two full sentences on any given day to anyone that wasn’t Qway. They would make their rounds together, his hand clasped tightly in hers whilst she dangled from her father’s arm and performed the necessary social obligations. That day was different.

“Leave him at the kids table when we get up there. He don’t need to be listening to grown folks talk no more; he got some ears on him now.” His father announced as he slid from the backseat, adjusting his crumpled shirt.

He’d heard his father refer to it as his ’nice shirt.’ The color of it reminded Qway of the pus that leaked out of his big toe when it got infected. Qway thought it was too small for him, the buttons straining for air just as much as his father. He’d said nothing about it when he was gifted a matching one. 

“But I don’t want to sit there!” He protested, lunging for his mother’s hand. “I want to stay with ya’ll!”

He expected her to shield him. To cling to him as well. Later, when he reexamined the day, he wasn’t sure why; his mother had always been like a canoe equipped with no oars, lost in the sea that was life. She simply swayed in whatever direction it took her, so when her hand sat like a dead fish in his hand before she pulled it free, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

She crouched down to his height, which even at that point wasn’t much shorter than hers, collecting her dress in a neat bundle around her knees so that it wouldn’t touch the ground. “It’s alright, okay? Maybe you can make a friend your age.”

It was a betrayal. Of course, there was nothing to be done; once his father had made up his mind on something, there wasn’t much wiggle room. He considered it a betrayal nonetheless. When she steered him to the table full of screaming children, he pretended that she didn’t exist, holding himself precariously on the edge of the bench. The splintery wood poked at his backside uncomfortably, but he refused to look away from the table cloths’ decorative embroidery. It was bright red against the white, forming little loops around the edges. His eyes were already on her the moment her back was turned.

It wasn’t hard to follow her. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t as if he made himself out to be any trouble. They were meant to bear the brunt of being spectacles together; to protect one another. He couldn’t believe she could leave him so easily.

Unbeknownst to him, Patience began watching him the moment he sat down.

“It’s because it was love at first sight for you.” He liked to joke years later. “Sucks for yo’ ass that I thought you was a tree stump or some shit.”

She’d said that his face was a confusing one, his black the kind that you could guess at. It was the kind that shifted and morphed into different things the longer you looked at him. He had become accustomed to being stared at, his features dissected piece by piece. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

“What?” He’d demanded once he felt her gaze, frowning at her.

She flinched. “Nothing.”

“Then quit staring at me.”

He sent her another scathing glare. She was a small thing. Her arms were wrapped around her body, her hands tucked into her armpits. The dress she wore looked uncomfortable. Her straightened hair shined with grease, the oil black strands stuck in place even when the wind blew. He looked away.

“Your mama is really pretty,” She mumbled suddenly, and he almost didn’t hear her over the constant hum of squealing children around her.

He’d been told time and time again that pride was a sin. He knew it, and he would be made to feel somewhat ashamed later, but right then it shone through in two words. “I know.”

He looked at her again. He guessed that she was somewhere near to him in age; she too leaned away from the smaller kids at the table, trying to pretend away their existence. But he hadn’t ever seen her before, and he’d been going to the same church since he was seven.

“Where are your parents? They leave you here too?” It was hot. He could already feel sweat collecting on his back, the fabric of his shirt sticking to his skin.

She nodded. “Yeah. My granny is one of the choir ladies so they usually help organize these things.”

“Forreal?” He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “Yo’ granny one of the ones that smell like dead rats?”

“How do you know what dead rats smell like?”

Annoyed, he waved away her question. “Don’t worry about it, I just do. Is she?”

The girl shook her head. “No. But I know who you talkin’ about. My mama said we not supposed to say nothing because it’s impolite, but she say Sister Rosette smell like hot breath. She don’t let me eat nothing she made at stuff like this because she said she don’t wash her hands.”

Qway swished the information around in his mouth before deciding to ask for McDonald’s on the car ride home. Better safe than sorry. “I’m Qwaylen. What’s yo’ name?”

“Patience.”

His scoffed. “That’s a word, not a name.”

Although she didn’t drop her arms, she relaxed her back and allowed her shoulders to lower a few inches from her ears. “Okay? And what’s a ‘Qwaylen?’ That’s not even a word. That’s something somebody made up.”

They were still arguing about who’s name was less of a name by the time her parents came for her.

All that happened after that cut in and out like a movie taped on a roll of old film. He remembered thinking that her daddy looked too rough to pick her up like he did, to sit her on his shoulder like she was the most important thing in the world to him. It made her seem more childlike than she was, and he found himself wondering again how old she was. Her mother sat back and watched, and so she was nothing more than a smear of paint on the canvas.

He remembered deciding that he liked her, being scared to ask her daddy if they could ride bikes together later. The man looked as if he was about to decline without a second thought, but at that point her mother faded into focus.

“Let the girl go, Jamie. It’s better than her just sitting in a dark house all the time.”

It was another thing they laughed about later. For all that their friendship blossomed to be, he wondered if Shanice ever regretted intervening.

Next Chapter: 21