Should Have Known Better

“No. That’s love,” Sharika said as delicately as a poet. “Doing nothing is crazy.”

“Sharika, you don’t understand. I let her in. I did that. I told him to like her. I wanted her to like him. I made this happen,” I cried.

“Look, Dawn, I know you’re older than me. And a little smarter than me. But I just can’t believe you believe that. You didn’t do anything wrong. If something was happening, your husband needed to stop it. But he didn’t. Let’s stop speculating and say what this is. Call a spade a fucking spade. He didn’t stop it. Whatever it is. For whatever reason. And I know you want to be sad, but right now isn’t the time for that.” She took my hand and balled it up, placing it over my heart. “You take all of that blame you have in your heart and you get mad. You do something with that.”

“Hi, Mrs. June,” I said as pleasantly as I could, standing in the main office at R. J. and Cheyenne’s school. “I’m here to get the twins.”

“Oh, is something wrong?” she answered, getting up from her desk in a loud fuchsia dress that was nearly red and definitely too small. Her nails were the same color and as long as her pinkies. She’d been working in the office at the school since Reginald was a student and prided herself on looking young and staying in everyone’s business.

“Yes. It’s an emergency.”

“Emergency?”

“Emergency,” I replied tightly, so she wouldn’t bother to ask me another question, and not only because I didn’t want her in my business, but also because I didn’t know the particular state of my business myself. Moments before, Sharika was stuffing me in my car and promising to back me up at the job by telling everyone at the main library that she was sure I had the flu and certain I’d infect the entire library if I didn’t stay home for the rest of the week.

Mrs. June pulled a stack of papers from her desk and spit on her hand to thumb through to Johnson.

“Will you be needing any—?” she said, looking down at the pages.

Frustrated and frantic, I slammed my hand on the papers and she looked back up at me, afraid.

“I’ll be needing my kids. R. J. is in Mrs. Nettle’s class—room fifteen. Cheyenne is in Ms. Fern’s class in room nine. Do you need me to go and get them myself ?”

“Mama, where we going? To a basketball game?” R. J. asked, still giddy that he was leaving school early and, according to his teacher, missing an afternoon math quiz.

“No, R. J., and put your seat belt on,” I said, watching him squirm around in his seat from the front of the car.

Cheyenne was sitting beside him, quiet and angry. I’d come before lunch and it was Natalie’s birthday and she didn’t get her cupcake and gift bag. She sucked her teeth and glared out of the window.

I had nothing to say to her. Altogether, she was enveloping all of my doubt. Had already asked all of the questions that made me look crazy and deflated every ounce of courage Sharika had pumped into me.

“Well, can we go to a basketball game?” R. J. asked excitedly.

“No basketball, sweetie,” I answered. “Well, maybe.”

“Then where are we going?” Cheyenne asked snidely.

“I told you when we first got into the car. We’re going to get your father. To pick him up.”

“But he has the truck. He can drive home.” She rolled her eyes again and looked into my eyes in the rearview window.

Just then, I realized that I was lying to someone who knew the truth. She may have been young, but she wasn’t dumb. Her anger alone made her better understand mine. Maybe she was happy I was sad. Maybe she was happy Sasha had come and taken her father away. I remembered how she’d laughed at Sasha’s jokes, eaten her pancakes.

“When are we coming back?” she asked as we cleared Augusta and I could see the city with the highway slipping through it in the rearview mirror.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh, a vacation!” R. J. exclaimed.

“But what about our clothes?” Cheyenne asked.

“I stopped at the house and packed some bags. They’re in the trunk,” I said to her reflection.

“Yeah, a vacation! We can go to a basketball game. We can go to the beach. Is there a beach in Atlanta?”

“No, baby.”

“This is stupid. Next week is the last week of school. I want to be with my friends. Friday is Jayshanna’s birthday,” Cheyenne protested. “What about Daddy? What if he’s on his way home? What are we going to eat? Where are we going to sleep?”