Should Have Known Better

“Uhm . . . humm.” Sharika shook her head disapprovingly and shot an evil eye across the floor at a boy who was folding back pages in a magazine. “Dante!” she called to him. “Stop folding those pages. I see you.”

He looked up toward the dark help desk surprised and slid the half-folded magazine onto the table in front of him.

“Bad-ass kids up in here,” Sharika said. “They’ll break something that’s already broken. Don’t have a clue how to treat nice things. Can’t give them anything.”

She inched off of her stool and went to push the cart away to return the books.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“What?”

“I’ll return the books.”

“You’ll return the books? But that’s my thing. That’s what I do. You handle these crazy-ass customers and I do the floor work.”

“I’ll do it,” I said firmly. I was getting tired of sitting there in the darkness and thinking of Reginald being gone. I kept looking at my phone. Waiting for a new text. Reading the old text. Trying to decipher it again. I’d responded, asking what he meant by “time” and reminding him that I needed him to come home to pick up the children so I didn’t have to pay for after-school care again—he didn’t answer.

Sharika’s hand went to her hip. Her lips pursed together the way they do when she’s about to read into something.

“What crawled up into your ass and died?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Yesterday I thought something was wrong with you. I didn’t say anything. I just knew and let it go. Didn’t want to be all nosy, you know?” she pointed out. “But today, I know—”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Let it go.”

“If that isn’t the weakest defense, I don’t know what is.” Sharika stepped away from the cart and stood right beside my seat. “You know you can talk to me, right? We aren’t close, but I do consider you my friend. Hell, you listen to all of my problems.”

“There’s no problem.” I got up and pressed past the little bit of space she’d left between us. “I figured I’d get used to pushing this cart around when you leave. And you need more experience with the customers.” I began pushing the cart out to the floor.

“Dawn Johnson, you stop that cart right there and right now!” Sharika demanded.

And I stopped. Not because I had to, but because something in me wanted to. But I rolled my eyes anyway. Pretended Sharika was just wasting my time.

“You and I both know something is wrong. You came in here all scary-faced, looking like somebody stole your soul, and expect me to sit here and pretend nothing’s wrong? That ain’t me! That ain’t where I’m from. Now, that might be how it is where you’re from in the south side of Atlanta, but here, in these woods, we look the devil in the face and tell him he’s a liar.”

“Drama. Drama. Drama. What do you want from me, Sharika?”

“What’s wrong?” She came over and pulled the cart from me. “I know it isn’t the kids, because you’d be someplace else dealing with your babies. Is it Reginald?” She paused. “Is it that woman from TV who was here looking all funny?”

I grabbed the cart back.

“Hell no,” she said. “Hell fucking no.”

She put her hand on my shoulder. Tears came crawling up my back.

There was a slam from the front hallway where the bathrooms were.

Everyone looked up from their squares on the tables.

Sharika and I rushed to the hallway to see Mr. Lawrence stomping toward us in a rush.

“—tired of this,” he said.

“What happened?” I asked. “Everything OK?”

He walked right past us and out of the library, slamming the door behind him.