“He’s not for her,” Jasmine mutters. “I don’t know why she’s bothering.”
“What about you?” Shelby says, playing detective as smoothly as she can. “Anyone special in your life?”
Jasmine is in the midst of SATs. “I’m way too busy at the moment,” she says primly. No mention of Marcus. For a moment, Shelby feels stung. Jasmine has always confided in her, but not this time. Then she realizes that Jasmine may be scared; she’s protecting Shelby from knowing too much. Once Shelby knows what’s going on she’ll have to do something. But she does know, so she begins to plan.
Fortunately there’s a basketball game at the high school, so the kids will be out of the house if the stalker shows up at his usual time, right after supper. When everyone is gone, Shelby positions herself at the front window. She plans on letting the guy from Queens know that if he ever bothers Jasmine again she will call the police. This is not an idle threat. The little white cat, Snowball, sits beside Shelby on the couch. Snowball is spoiled and snooty, but Jasmine loves her. Shelby has looked for the tattooed girl in Union Square, but lately there’s been no sign of her. Maybe she’s taken off for a city where life is a little easier, Portland or Seattle, or maybe she overdosed one rainy night on a subway platform. Of course it’s possible that she turned her life around and went back to New Jersey or Connecticut; maybe she rang the bell of her parents’ house and said, I just want to come home.
Dusk is sifting down when the blue Toyota pulls up. Shelby can hear the music blaring. The windows of the car are indeed tinted black. Shelby pulls on one of Dorian’s sweatshirts, then, on impulse, takes the broom from the coat closet. As she goes outside she pulls her hood over her head. She doesn’t want to look like someone’s mother. Or even like someone’s mother’s best friend.
The truth is, she wants to protect Maravelle. She knows how upsetting this would be to her. Maravelle met the kids’ father when she was sixteen, younger than Jasmine is now. He was married at the time, and soon enough he did to Maravelle what he’d done to his wife. If a man lies to one woman, he’ll lie to you, Maravelle once told Shelby. By the time she found out he was both a drug dealer and a cheater, she had three children. Her worst fear is that Jasmine will make the same mistakes she did.
The leaves of the grapevine running along the garage smell sweet. Shelby has the broom under her arm, wooden handle pointing out so it appears lance-like. She crosses the street, pulse pounding in her ears. It’s a quiet neighborhood and dinnertime is finishing up in most households. Dishes are being washed and put away. Down the block, some children play in a yard and their lilting voices echo. The -music’s bass line from inside the car is throbbing. It sends shivers down -Shelby’s spine. Her breathing has quickened; it’s fight or flight. Because of the tinted windows she doesn’t know who she’s up against. She walks over to the car and raps on the driver’s window. Nothing. She does it again, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Her whole chest is burning.
“I want to talk to you,” she shouts to the window.
Her voice doesn’t sound the way she wants it to. It’s too soft.
Shelby expects him to buzz down the window, but instead he opens the door and gets out. Marcus is older than she expected, in his twenties, nearly Shelby’s age. His hair is closely shorn and there’s a tattoo of a crown across his throat. He’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a leather jacket and expensive jeans. But the car upholstery is torn, and smoke billows out when he opens the door. He’s been sitting there smoking weed. No way on earth he is getting anywhere near Jasmine, no matter how pissed off he looks.
“This isn’t a parking lot,” Shelby says. “I suggest you move along.”
Marcus is compact, wiry, fueled by drugs. He’s also handsome in a hard-edged way. “Yeah? I don’t see any No Parking signs.”
“People who loiter get tickets.” Good Lord, she sounds like the mean teacher in high school. No wonder he’s sneering at her.
“Be smart, lady,” he says. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Marcus turns his back on her. He gets back in the car and slams the door. Shelby can see his shadow through the black glass. What the hell does he mean by calling her lady? He’s leaning back against the headrest. But he still seems coiled, ready for what happens next if Shelby dares to annoy him. She raps on the glass again, this time with the edge of the broom. As she does, Shelby feels the burning inside her chest flame, a sign she is about to do something stupid. She keeps tapping until he finally opens the door again.
“What?” Marcus shouts.
“I don’t want you to come here anymore. If you contact her I’ll call the police.”