Page 27 of Missing White Woman

Adore didn’t say anything at first, obviously as shocked as I was. “That’s… ridiculous.”

“What am I gonna do?”

And that’s when I finally started to cry. It sounded like distant thunder rolling in, soft at first before building up momentum. I wiped the snot threatening to drop from my nose and turned away from the waiting cop, who was ignoring me anyway. When I was finally able to calm myself down, I tried it again. “What am I gonna do?”

But I said it too softly because Adore didn’t answer me.

I tried a third time. “What am I gonna do?”

Finally, she spoke. “This is gonna be fine, but you need a good lawyer.”

As much as I wanted to be one, I didn’t actually know any. I doubted Adore did either.

When I didn’t respond, Adore spoke again. “Did you talk to your mother?”

“No. And I don’t want to. You know she thinks I’m a full-on drug addict since she found that one bag of weed. You gotta get me out of here.”

“Okay,” she said. “There’s that Legal Services office on campus. I’ll go there and then I’ll come get you.”

The relief came so hard I had to sit down. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said.

Twelve years later and she still hadn’t made it.

Instead, my mom showed up after two hours dressed to impress. She was in her fur and perfect makeup, eyes boring into me. I made the mistake of feeling relieved to see her, but then she spoke.

“What did you do, Breanna?”

She didn’t bother to listen to my answer. Still hadn’t heard it, twelve years later.

I was sure she’d thought she was doing the right thing by coming down. Bringing the lawyer. One who also barely listened to a word I said.

I’d never forget the way my mother acted, like she was disappointed but not surprised. Like I was no longer her child but a statistic. And even worse, a stereotype. She wanted me to take the plea. Do the three months. Move on with my life. She didn’t care when I shared a statistic of my own. That Black people in the US were seven times more likely than white people to be wrongfully convicted.

At first I was determined. Went back to school fall semester for my senior year. It was a disaster. My grades were so bad I lost my scholarship. Everyone knew what had happened, thanks to both the newspaper and the grapevine. They saw me as a stereotype too. I didn’t return spring semester. I just gave in, began to feel like a stereotype myself.

Like it wasn’t already hard enough to be a Black woman in America—without a drug conviction. And it was difficult to say I didn’t do it when there was proof I accepted a plea. Even if I hadn’t taken the deal right away. Giving in to my lawyer and my mother had been a mistake. I never forgave myself for not fighting. And I’d vowed to never let it happen again.

Adore was one of the many people who hadn’t kept in touch. I guess having a jailbird as a best friend hadn’t matched her aspirations to be America’s next trophy wife. She hadn’t called me and I hadn’t called her either. Too mad that she’d never come like she’d said she would. I didn’t know she’d left Baltimore or even the DMV area. Didn’t know where she lived now. Jersey was small, and Manhattan was just across the river. She could’ve come from anywhere.

It’d been so long ago, I wasn’t even mad anymore. There was the occasional good memory when one of the girls at work talked about a good party or a bad date. Followed by a quick sense of sadness more than anything else.

So I was surprised at how angry I’d felt when I first saw Adore’s face, recognized it under the layers of straight Brazilian virgin hair extensions and equally expensive makeup.

“Good to see you still have the same favorite word.” Adore even smiled when she said it.

I kept it all business. I had more important things to worry about than Adore’s sudden presence. And she’d gotten me away from the police.

“Have you heard anything about the cops finding another body anywhere in the area?” I said.

“No,” she said. “Why?”

“My boyfriend’s missing.”

She took this in but said nothing. Just opened the car door.

If Ty was alive—and he had to be alive, he had to be—he would be as worried about me as I was about him. Since Adore had found me, the story was obviously already on the news.

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