The Scammer - 25

Nick was mostly silent on the drive down to North Carolina. So I’m not sure what to expect. How does he plan to explain our

relationship to his parents? Am I walking through the doors as his girlfriend or just a homeless friend needing a place to

go? They must be okay with Black people to let their son go to Frazier so maybe it won’t be a dinner filled with nonstop microaggressions.

Like at Jack’s house. I try to imagine what his mom looks like, what she’ll cook for Thanksgiving dinner, and what silly dad

jokes his father will say over his beer.

Nick pulls into a driveway just shy of two a.m. Even in the darkness, I can make out how enormous the place is. A modern rustic

ranch-style home sitting on the bank of a river, the exterior made of cobbled limestone, wide windows throughout. There’s

even a fountain in the driveway.

“Um, where’s the bathroom?” I whisper, as he opens the front door, not wanting to wake the whole house. Although I’m somewhat disappointed that his parents didn’t at least try to stay up to greet us.

“No need to whisper,” he says, flicking on the foyer lights. “No one’s here but us.”

“No one? But . . .”

“Bathroom’s this way,” he says, his voice sharp as he walks down a hallway, flicking on lights as he goes. The air has a dampness

to it, chill slithering into my bones. In the bathroom, I splash some cold water on my face, trying to organize my thoughts.

We’re spending Thanksgiving here . . . alone?

I walk out into the living room, a creamsicle scene, with beige carpet, a giant U-shaped sofa, and a TV that looks more like

a movie screen. The entire back wall is made of floor-to-ceiling windows that face the river. A tiny dock stretches out into

the water.

Nick is at the thermostat, turning up the heat.

“Soooo . . . where is everybody?” I ask, rubbing my arms.

“My parents are spending Thanksgiving in Texas with my siblings.”

He walks into the kitchen, inspecting the empty fridge.

“Why didn’t you want to spend Thanksgiving with your family?”

He huffs. “It’s the other way around. They didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with me.”

“You and your little riddles,” I groan. “Wish you’d tell me something real for once.”

“Really?” He turns to me. “Okay. Why didn’t you want to go home again?”

“You mean aside from my parents? Too many memories. Too many opportunities for them to try to convince me that going to Frazier

is a bad idea. Not enough ways to avoid talking about it.”

“Ditto,” he says and makes his way up the carpeted stairs. I sigh and follow.

He opens a door down the hall and turns on a light.

“You’re staying in here,” he mumbles, not crossing the threshold.

I look around the massive room with a chapel ceiling and frown. “But this is your room. I can just take the guest room or

the sofa.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, sullenly. “Guest rooms are being renovated. Besides, I don’t sleep in there anymore anyways.”

“Oh. Well, okay. Good night.”

He opens his mouth to say something then closes it. “Good night.”

The moment my eyes open, I sniff the dusty air, expecting the scent of sweet potato pies to float in the room. Mom loved waking

up at five a.m. to start cooking. Her pies were always my favorite.

But since Kevin died, everything somewhat stopped with him. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I smelled nothing. But the memories of honey ham and green bean casseroles haunt me. I text Mom and Dad.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I don’t expect a reply. They didn’t even check if I was coming home.

I slink out of bed, gazing around. Nick’s room is like a time capsule. The robin’s-egg-blue walls hold shelves with baseball

trophies, awards, a high school diploma, and track medals. In his closet hang a few old sweaters and sports jerseys, all remnants

of a life he left behind. I glance out the window that faces the driveway, sun sparkling off the water fountain, morning dew

frosting the tips of grass in the front lawn.

Wonder why he didn’t want to sleep in here?

I grab one of his sweaters and make my way downstairs.

Nick is in the kitchen, dressed in flannel pajamas and a Wu-Tang T-shirt, his hair all wet and jostled.

“Morning,” Nick says in a raspy voice and places a mug in front of me. “It’s mint.”

“My favorite,” I say, scooting into one of the barstools. “Thanks.”

Nick nods, sipping a mug of coffee before staring out the windows at the water. Doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

“Soooo, what are we going to do today?” I ask. “Do you want to cook? If we head out now, maybe we could find an open supermarket.”

He shakes his head. “No, we’re going to Anita’s.”

“Who’s Anita?”

“You’ll see.”

Nick pulls up to a white one-level home surrounded by tall pine trees. A far smaller home, in comparison to his giant mansion.

We climb out of the car, the weather a touch warmer than earlier. The screen door squeaks as it swings open and out pops a

thin Black woman with graying hair, her smile shining bright.

“About time you showed up!”

Before he can respond, a gang of little kids run past her.

“Nicky!!!”

The kids wrestle him to the ground and he lets them attack him while tickling anyone he can get his hands on.

“Ohhhh! An ambush!” he laughs.

“Come on now, let him up! It’s my turn,” the woman says, pulling him up to his feet and wrapping him in a big hug.

“Awww, welcome home, baby boy! You look good!”

“Hey Anita.”

A tall guy about our age with dark skin wearing a durag runs outside.

“Aye, kid! You late! I was finna to head on over there to find ya and—” The guy notices me and frowns. “Uhhh . . . who dis?”

Nick steps beside me, smiling. “This is Jordyn.”

The whole yard stands shell-shocked, wide eyes bouncing from me to Nick and back.

I give a short awkward wave. “Uhhh, hi?”

Nick chuckles. “Jordyn, this is Anita, and my best friend, Richie.”

Anita clears her throat, elbowing Richie, then smiles. “Welcome! Glad Nicky brought home one of his friends.”

She steps forward and wraps me in a warm hug. A strong hug that could crack my back. I can’t remember when I’ve been hugged

like this. Maybe years.

“Chile, when’s the last time you ate something?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Well you know how school meals can be.”

“Nicky was telling me last year, that’s why I made sure he had the right pots and pans to get down if necessary. Well, come

on. We just finished breakfast, but I saved you a little something.”

Breakfast on Thanksgiving? I’m used to just drinking tea, maybe a little toast or a bagel.

Inside, her home is just as warm and cozy as she is, filled with a cacophony of voices. A few gentlemen sit on the leather sofa arguing about fishing routes, as the kids crowd around the TV, watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade. We cross the teal carpet, worn down with wear, and I notice a mahogany dining table with a lacy tablecloth and matching china cabinets, set with Sternos and chafing dishes, ready for a buffet-style dinner. The walls are covered with dozens of framed family photos. And that’s when I spot Nick, a little white boy surrounded by a sea of Black kids—birthday parties, family reunions, fishing—growing as the years go by.

I look back for Nick, but he’s still outside, whispering with a snickering Richie. I follow Anita to the back of the house,

to an old spacious kitchen with yellow flowery wallpaper. There, a few women are focused on their Thanksgiving Day tasks:

peeling potatoes, shredding cheese, and kneading dough. The entire place smells of a delicious turkey roasting in the oven.

Anita scoops scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes onto a plate, topping it off with fresh biscuits from a cast-iron skillet. I

struggle to hold the plate still in my trembling hands, hearing Devonte’s voice . . .

“Rat, cat, and dog!”

Nick rushes into the kitchen, greeted by a chorus of “Hey Nicky!,” and doesn’t waste any time grabbing a plate and digging

right in while standing and chatting with everyone.

“Eat, girl,” Anita says, nudging the plate in my hand.

Not wanting to be rude, I take small nibbles. The eggs are soft and buttery, the biscuit fluffy. My mouth, not used to such

rich food, aches as I chew slow.

Once Nick is done, he drops his plate in the sink, grabs an apron off the hook by the fridge, and joins the peeling crew,

slipping right into the groove. I try to put away my dish but Anita catches me.

“You barely ate and you didn’t touch your bacon.”

“I . . . don’t eat pork.”

Nick looks up, watching me. I fidget under his gaze.

Someone behind me whispers to Nick, “She Muslim or something?”

I clear my throat, plastering on a giant smile. “Um, can I help? I’m pretty good at snapping green beans.”

Anita frowns. “Green beans? What that for?”

“The . . . green bean casserole.”

Beside us, the women snicker.

“Girl, that white people food! We don’t eat that!”

“I tried to tell her,” Nick says, and a woman swats his arm.

I laugh nervously. “It’s pretty good! Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Richie bursts into the kitchen.

“Aye, come take a ride with me, kid. Heading to Trayvon’s to grab the hooch.”

Nick rips off his apron. “Be right back!”

I watch Nick and Richie play fight as they head out the door. He seems lighter here. Less serious.

Anita takes a pan of seasoned chicken legs out of the fridge. “Come on, girl. Let’s get this going.”

“Fried chicken?”

“You think that one turkey gonna feed all these people? You gotta have some chicken up in there too. No wonder you look like

you’re starving. Green beans, no chicken. Lawd.”

Anita lays out some seasoned flour while whipping up an egg wash. She’s tiny but I can tell there’s a hidden strength deep

in her bones.

“So, I take it this is Nick’s second home.”

She smiles. “Yep! We spent more time here than at his house.”

“We?”

She chuckles. “Ahh, I see Nicky didn’t tell you much of nothing, which is just like him. He shares things his way when he’s

ready.” Anita takes out another skillet. “I was Nicky’s nanny that just became so much more.”

I smile, thinking back.

“What Black woman raised you?”

“His parents . . . well, they thought they were done having children so when Nicky came along, they didn’t have much left

in them to start all over again. His momma had no clue she was pregnant until she was close to seven months. Thought she was

going through early menopause. So they hired me. At first it was only supposed to be a Monday through Friday thing but at

some point they just left and wouldn’t come back for weeks. Trips here and there. So I stopped going over to that big ole

cold house and kept him here, with us. I even had to enroll him in school.”

“The local school? Not private?”

“Mmm-hmmm. He wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She fires up the stove, grabbing a dented blue can out of the cupboards.

“Um . . . is that Crisco?”

She laughs. “Lawd, I know what you about to say and I don’t give a damn. My grandma taught my mom who taught me everything she knows about cooking and this here is the truth! Can’t make good chicken without it. I understand you young folks want to change things and that’s why y’all’s fried chicken is as soft as cotton balls!”

She passes me the can. “Here, drop a few spoonfuls in.”

I grip the can, my skin flaring, stomach queasy.

“But . . . isn’t this stuff kinda bad for you?” I whisper.

Anita nods, as if understanding something unsaid.

“Well,” she says, softly. “I always like to say, food made with love can never be bad for you.”

I smile, scooping another teaspoon into the pan, and it sizzles.

“So tell me, ’cause he won’t . . . what’s it like for him up there at Frazier?”

I chuckle. “You mean, what’s it like for him being the only white boy at a Black college?”

She grins. “Ooo, I like you. You’re sharp!”

I give a little bow. “He’s very popular. And driven. And well respected. You did a good job with him.”

She nods, her voice changing. “And . . . he’s treating you good. You know, as his girlfriend?”

“Um, yeah. He’s great!”

Anita nods, raising an eyebrow, and returns to her chicken.

After I fail at frying, Anita banishes me to the living room to watch TV with the kiddies. A movie just ends when Nick and

Richie return. The sight of me makes them both bust out laughing.

“You got kicked out, huh,” Richie says, cackling.

Nick smiles at me just as we hear Anita’s voice.

“Come on now, Nicky, you gotta help me with this damn ziti. If you don’t hurry up, we won’t eat until Good Friday!”

“Be right back,” he says, leaving Richie and me alone.

Richie narrows his eyes, dramatically combing through the beard that doesn’t exist.

“Hmmm. You look like you got questions.”

“You look like you got answers,” I shoot back.

He swings his arms toward the front door. “Come on out and step into my office.”

We walk to the end of the driveway, shooing away bees and late fall pollen floating in the air.

“Are you in school?” I ask.

He nods. “Oh yeah. Xavier. Full ride. Mom didn’t play games about education.”

Another HBCU. Of course. So much about Nick is making sense within just a few short hours of being here.

Richie stops and procures out of the dented mailbox what looks like a plastic bottle of water with the label rubbed off and

two cups.

“THIS! This is old-fashioned moonshine. You don’t look like the type that would know nothing about this. Try a little.”

“Seriously? We haven’t even had dinner yet.”

He pours a little in a cup. “What them white folks say, ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere.’”

He hands me a cup and we cheer. I take a large sip and the warm liquid burns like acid down my throat. I cough up a gasp and hunch over, waving a hand at the fire in my mouth.

“What the fuck!”

Richie glances at the door laughing, patting my back. “Girl, what you doing sipping like that? I told you that was moonshine.

Shit’ll add hair to your chest.”

I cough up a lung, the moonshine still stinging my tongue.

Richie looks back at the door, as if making sure no one is watching.

“So, what are y’all two up to?”

I stand up straight to meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”

He purses his lips, waving a cup at me. “You ain’t his girl. I know my mans. So what kind of shenanigans y’all got going?”

I laugh. At least someone in this world knows Nick well. “He’s . . . helping me through something.”

Richie chuckles. “That’s Nicky. Captain save a ’ho. Even to his demise. Ah damn, my bad. I didn’t mean to call you a ’ho or

nothing. I’m sure you’re nice!”

I wave away the insult. “I’m used to it. How’d you know I wasn’t his girlfriend?”

Richie’s smile fades. “It’s a long story.”

“That ziti in there sounds like it’s gonna take some time. So! What were his girlfriends like in high school?”

He shakes his head. “Girlfriends? Nah. He only had one.”

“Okay. So what was she like?”

Richie pauses to look at the door again.

“Aight, I’m only telling you this ’cause you’re here,” he whispers. “He brought you here and put you in the middle of his

shit. But, well hell I don’t know. Maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe he’s been trying to find a way to tell you ’cause he

can’t. He can’t talk about it.”

Damn. Do I really want to know?

Richie meets my eyes. “Her name was Ashley. And she was killed. Right in front of him.”

“What?”

He looks at the door again. “Ashley had this crazy ex-boyfriend. Couldn’t handle her moving on. Especially with Nick. They

were good friends before they started dating. Nick convinced Ash to leave that abusive ass. And she did, but the man was obsessed

with her. One night, he followed her over to Nicky’s house and shot her in the driveway. Nick saw the whole thing.”

“Oh God.” Poor Nick.

“Yeah. Nick blames himself. Said he would never get that close to someone again. And you’ll learn, when Nicky makes his mind

up about something, he ain’t changing it.”

I nod, understanding so much about him now. So much we have in common.

Richie pours another splash of moonshine in my cup. “But I don’t know. Maybe things have changed. You might be good for our

boy. Or maybe you about to drag him into some shit again.”

I swallow hard, thinking of Devonte.

“Hey!”

Nick is at the door, holding the screen open. “What are you two doing?”

“Talking about you,” I shout.

“It better be good things,” he shouts back. “Hey Rich, let me get some of that.”

“Naw, playboy,” Richie says, shaking his head as we walk toward the house. “It’s too early. Don’t need you laid out already.”

“You trying to say I can’t handle a little rotgut?”

“‘Rotgut’?” Richie laughs then says to me, “I swear this guy is the oldest Black woman I know. Alright, man. But don’t say

I didn’t warn you.”

I notice that the night bugs scream louder in the country down south as I stand by, watching Richie drag a passed-out Nick

out of the bed of his truck.

“What I tell you? Didn’t I tell you!” Richie shouts, cackling.

We ate, drank, played cards, and ate some more. It was the most relaxing, stress-free Thanksgiving I have ever had. I could

stay at Anita’s forever.

Anita hops out of the front seat and takes my hand. “Come on, girl. You too.”

“What? I—” But before I can spit out the word, I tumble forward. The earth begins spinning backward and forward. Damn Richie

and that moonshine!

Anita and Richie deposit us on Nick’s living room sofa.

“I’ll drop your car off tomorrow with Uncle Pete,” Richie says. “See you two later.”

“Call us in the morning, Nicky,” Anita says, kissing his forehead. “I can stop by and whip up some breakfast.”

“My leftovers,” I whimper, reaching for the unknown.

Anita laughs. “They’re already in the fridge, baby girl.”

I hear the front door close before the world fades to black. Then someone is shaking my shoulder.

“Hey,” Nick utters. “It’s time for bed. I can’t sleep down here.”

Barely coherent, I nod as we climb up the stairs on our hands and knees. The sight of us makes me giggle until I snort. Nick

breaks down laughing, his face turning beet red. We reach the top and fall into each other.

Nick gives me a sloppy grin. “I want to sleep together like we always do.”

“Okay,” I mumble, swaying like a breeze hit me.

“I sleep better with you,” he slurs.

“Okay,” I say, and take his hand, leading him down the hall.

“Jordyn,” he moans. “Wait . . . I . . .”

Then we’re in his room, surrounded by his childhood. The sight of him in here reminds me of something. I turn to the window . . .

looking out at the driveway.

“It happened here,” I mutter. “You saw it happen right . . . here.”

Nick follows my line of sight and whirls away, shutting his eyes. The action is too fast, and he stumbles forward.

“Jordyn . . .”

I step toward him, taking his hand.

“Nick, I . . .”

He brushes his thumb against my lips, the corner of his lip sliding into a silly drunken smirk.

“Shhhh . . .” He leans his forehead on mine. “Please.”

“Talk to me,” I beg. “Please.”

Nick shakes his head, wobbling backward out of the room, releasing my hand.

“Tomorrow. I promise to tell you whatever you want. Trust me.”