Page 60 of Evil All Along
“Keme, that’s such an ugly stereotype. And I did help you with your hair. Remember when Indira had to cut off that chunk in back because I got chewing gum stuck in it?”
To judge by the look on his face, Keme did, in fact, remember it, and I was quickly losing whatever pity points I’d earned.
The laceration on the back of my head had stopped bleeding, and aside from the beginning of a massive headache, I felt normal. Ish. Between the two of us, we got each other moderately cleaned up. Because I was now the walking wounded and, for a few precious hours, had the moral high ground, I insisted Keme let me buy him some ice cream, mostly so I wouldn’t be the only one eating ice cream. Also because I wasn’t sure the last time Keme had eaten.
In late October, Cold Stone didn’t exactly have a line out the door, so it wasn’t long before Keme and I were settling into a booth, me with a chocolate-dipped waffle-cone bowl of Birthday Cake Remix (extra sprinkles), and Keme with the boyest of boy flavors: Peanut Butter Cup Perfection.
We ate in silence for a while. Keme couldn’t look me in the eye.
He put his spoon down abruptly and said, “You might have a concussion.”
“I don’t think I do.”
For some reason, that made him roll his eyes. “You need to see a doctor.”
“Maybe.”
He picked up the spoon again and poked at a peanut butter cup. In a low voice, he said, “Bobby’s going to hate me.”
“Why? I tripped stepping off the curb, and you were nice enough to stick around and help me.”
“You can’t tell him—”
“That’s what happened, Keme. That’s what I’m going to tell him.”
Keme went very still and covered his eyes. His whole body tensed as he struggled. When he spoke, the words were so distorted they were almost unintelligible. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “No more apologizing, got it? We’re friends; friends don’t get hung up on the little stuff.”
He shook his head.
“You’re still my friend,” I said. “Am I still yours?”
It felt like a long time before he whispered—pleaded, really—“Dash.”
“And I love you.”
Honestly, the best part was I could actuallyseehis adolescent boy horror rising at the prospect offeelings. He made himself smaller in the booth. His shoulders came up. He pressed his hands more tightly against his eyes. But you’ve got to give it to Keme: he doesn’t back down. Finally, he managed to say in a breathless rush, “I love you too.”
I let him dangle for about five seconds. Then I said, “That was literally the best thing of my life. I’m going to remind you, like, ten times a day that you told me you loved me. God, I wish I’d gotten it on camera.”
He dropped his hands. His eyes were wide and even redder than before, but a lot of the guilt and self-loathing had been replaced by, well, the usual mixture of teen indignation and outrage. “What iswrongwith you?” he asked and then attacked his ice cream.
For a while, we sat in silence.
“It was the rent money,” Keme said. He was speaking into his ice cream, his gaze fixed on the dish—probably, I guessed, so he wouldn’t have to look at me.
“What?”
“That’s why I got in that fight with JT.” And then, as though I might be an idiot: “I didn’t kill him.”
“I know you didn’t kill him. What happened?”
“Mom said she’d paid him. The back rent, all of it. She gets a check every month, and I gave her some—” He stopped and blushed and then, as though daring me to ask follow-up questions, said, “I had some money for Homecoming tickets. I wasn’t going to use it, so I gave it to her. But then she told me itwas too late, and they’d gotten evicted even though she paid the rent.”
“Had she paid it?”
He pushed his ice cream around morosely. “I don’t know. She’s not good at that stuff. She forgets.” His eyes came up in another challenge. “She’s not a bad person.”
