“That girl. Hang on to her. She can’t come up this street.”
Coral saw the police officer look around, spot Malaya, and head toward her. She saw the girl see the officers, then the patrol cars, then look behind her toward the spot where the school bus had just idled. She would be afraid.
“I know her, Tom. Can I go to her?”
Tom looked around. Saw the girl’s startled stance, saw Coral’s concerned face.
“Yes. But don’t say anything.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Get her off the street. Your house is too close. Ask the officer where to take her.”
Coral turned and walked toward Malaya, who was talking to one of the policemen and had her backpack half off her shoulder, as if she were about to drop it and flee.
“Rick,” Tom said into his radio, “my friend Coral is coming at you. She lives on this street. Knows the girl. Take them somewhere together. Keep her close by. And get the girl’s cell phone. Make sure you have her phone.”
Coral could hear Tom’s voice on the officer’s radio as she approached, and when Malaya looked at her, Coral tried for a reassuring smile. The girl simply stared, her eyes darting to her house, to Coral, to the officer. The backpack slid farther down her arm. Coral knew she wanted to run, was calculating which way to go, if she could get away. They wouldn’t shoot a girl—they wouldn’t—but Coral wished Malaya looked less wild. She had pulled her hair all to one side to reveal the shaved scalp above her ear and the tongue of the tattooed snake that twisted toward her neck.
Malaya had been such a beautiful little girl. Honorata used to dress her in elaborate dresses on Sundays, with a bow tied in her silky brown hair, and during the week, Malaya would walk to the school bus in a plaid skirt and a crisp white blouse. Even then, she was a funny child, knocking on Coral’s door and selling Girl Scout cookies while carrying a small stuffed deer whose name was Horns. “Horns likes the shortbread cookies the best. That’s the one Horns eats.” Trey had adored her. Called her Malaysia, which had made Malaya angry the first time he said it. “Don’t call me that . . . Fatboy,” she had said at eight years old, her feet wide apart.
Fatboy! Trey had laughed and laughed. “Okay, Malaya, I won’t call you that. But I meant it as a compliment. Malaysia is a very beautiful country.” As if Trey knew anything about Malaysia. Or even where to find it on a map. He was always quick, though.
“Well, it’s not my name,” Malaya had said, much more amenably.
“Oh, I know that. I won’t get it wrong again.” But the next time Trey had seen her, he called out, “Hey, Malaysia! How are you today?” And he had given her his big Trey grin—he towered over her, fifteen and already six foot three—and Coral had been sure Malaya would be angry, or worse, cry. But instead, she laughed and said, “Hi, Fatboy!”
And that was that: the little girl and the almost man were friends that year. Trey introduced her to his high school friends as if she were a peer, and Malaya brought him drawings she had made at school, or things she found in the patch of undeveloped desert behind their cul-de-sac. Even now, on the rare occasion that Trey came by and Malaya happened to be out, they greeted each other fondly. He still called her Malaysia, and she called him Trey; she allowed him to gently tease her about the black clothes, the laced-up boots, the zany hair, and the gold chain hanging from her belt loop.
“Malaysia, you’re scaring little kids. Why do you wear that stuff?”
“You scared of me, Trey?”
“Of course I’m scared of you. You’re covered in black and chains, and you got that freaky tattoo. How’d you get your mother to say yes to that? You’re too young.”
“Well, I got friends. They think I look twenty-one, not just eighteen.”
“Yeah, well, take it from me, baby girl. Those might not be the friends you need.”
“Come on. You gonna get all over me too? I got a mom for that.”
“Nah, I’m not saying nothing. You always beautiful to me, Malaysia.”
In the house, Trey would ask Coral what was going on, why Malaya looked so wild, but Coral didn’t have an answer. Malaya almost never came by this year, and Coral worried about her. She walked with her head down and a hunch in her shoulders that had not been there before.
“You think she’s gonna be okay?”
“Oh, I hope so Trey. High school can be tough, right?”
“Yeah. Her mom should get her away from those friends.”
Coral smiled at this.
“I love that kid,” he added. “She makes me laugh.”
“I know you do.”
Coral nodded to the police officer and set her hand on Malaya’s arm.
“Come with me. I’m not sure what’s going on here, but these guys are good. We just have to lay low a bit and let them take care of this.”
“Why are they here? Where’s my mom?” The girl was panicking. Who wouldn’t be?
“I don’t know. But I know that man. He’s a good guy. It’s going to be okay.”
“Is this about my dad?”
“Your dad?”
“My dad. I have a dad. He said he was going to visit me. Is this about him? I want to see him.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to ask about anything. I don’t know if it’s about your dad.”
Of course it was about her dad. If anything would bring a SWAT team onto a neighborhood street, it was a domestic issue. They wouldn’t take a problem with a dad lightly.
Malaya had never said anything about a dad.
All those years ago, when Honorata had asked for help changing Malaya’s name, and Darryl had thought she was a sex worker, Coral had just assumed Malaya’s father could have been anyone. But obviously that wasn’t true. Malaya knew who her dad was.
Where had Honorata gotten the money for those houses? Who was Malaya’s father?
One of the patrolmen led Coral and Malaya to the far end of the cul-de-sac, where another officer was setting up a shade canopy, like the ones Althea used to put up for Keisha’s soccer games. They were getting ready for a long stretch; no one would be hurrying this.
“Honey, you hungry? I can ask someone to get us food.”
“No.”
The girl didn’t say anything else, and Coral stood there, wondering how bad this might get.
The officer pulled out two lawn chairs and motioned for Coral and Malaya to sit down. Malaya was nervous, popping up and down on the balls of her feet, and Coral placed her arm around the girl to encourage her to be still. She didn’t want the officer to think Malaya was on something—her appearance was incriminating enough. And it wouldn’t help Malaya to get worked up before she even knew what was happening. They sat down in the chairs; the girl let Coral take her hand, but turned and stared off toward where the bus had been.
An image of Malaya a year or so earlier, standing in Coral’s kitchen with a plate of biko that her grandmother had made, came to mind. Coral was talking with Malaya when Isa came running in the door, shouting, “Mom! Something bad happened!”
Coral’s heart beat faster. Her youngest son held something in his hand, his eyes teary.
“What is it?”