Page 35 of It's Me They Follow
JANUARY 22, 2020
3:33 P.M.
The Shopkeeper wanted Elle all to herself. She needed to speak freely in their language. “I was better off just taking the damn train,” she huffed under her breath as she continued to throw mismatched clothes and shoes into her book bag. She loved her sister, but she wasn’t a fan of her sister’s friends. And she hoped one of Elle’s boyfriends wasn’t coming with them. Yuck. Nothing like a road trip with someone you don’t know, but worse is a road trip with someone you can’t stand. Her sister would be there any minute. As a teacher, Elle was a stickler for time and order. The Shopkeeper touched the walls and counters—keys, wallet, tolls, ME’s journal. She checked the windows, the bathroom—toothbrush, socks, bra, gum. She’d practically been living in the bookshop. It was hard to say goodbye.
She found a copy ofHomecomingas she was locking up. The front and back covers were missing, and pages were tattered and torn, but it was a classic. The brand-new cherry red convertible pulled up like a chariot taking her offto battle. She walked toward the freshly washed car with anticipation and hesitation. She didn’t know what she was getting herself into and wasn’t sure if she could push herself through it—Down South seemed long ago and far away.
“Hey, new booty,” Elle said with a smile of gold out the driver’s side window. Her sister was the cute one. She’d always been petite with an hourglass figure, flawless skin, perfect teeth, polished everything, but never stuck-up about it.
“Before we do anything...” Elle opened the driver’s side door and slowly got out. “I know it’s killing you because it’s been killing me. It’s written all over your face; you don’t have to say a word.” Elle sang that last part. “You’ve been in your head about it, making up excuses and telling yourself you can’t go because you don’t like new people, right? Blaming me and my friends because you don’t know who is coming with us. And telling yourself that is why you can’t take the trip. Well, this is US.”
The Shopkeeper peeked at the passenger seat but didn’t see anyone. She looked in the back and there was no one there either. Then she looked down at her sister’s oversized belly and her eyes shot up. They held each other’s gaze. And began to laugh. “Oh @#$%.”
Her sister modeled her extra-large, watermelon-sized belly. “It looks good on me, though. I’m not getting any taller, but I’m getting wider.”
It did look good on her. She glowed.
“How long?”
“Any day.”
The Shopkeeper shook her head in disbelief—they wrote each other letters every day and Elle never mentioned this.
“I wanted to tell you in person. I think it was your book.” Her sister laughed. “The same day you gave it to me last summer, I met someone—a SEPTA driver.” The Shopkeeper had given her sister a copy ofConversations with Harriett. She’d told her to read it with someone; the whole point was to read it in pairs so you had someone to discuss it with.
“A SEPTA driver.”
“Yup, vintage Route 15 trolleys. He said he sees you all the time.”
“You blaming me for this?”
“I’m thanking you for it.”
“Is this a setup for me to pay y’all child support?”
“It’s an opportunity to accept your fate.” Her sister got back into the car and turned on the engine. She was playing Patti LaBelle’s “If Only You Knew.” “You can be a crybaby. Or pull up your big-girl panties and come on with me and Aunt Patti to Virginia,” she taunted.
The Shopkeeper gripped the handle of her bag, then loosened her grip. She didn’t really want to go anymore. She didn’t like surprises. But her Elle knew that The Shopkeeper also didn’t like being called a punk. “Pop the trunk.” She hopped into the car, thinking about how hard it would be to help her sister with a baby given her condition. When theywere younger, she had been more like the baby of the family. The thought of a newborn made her smile, but it also made her sweat.
“It’s the dead of winter and warm enough for us to be outside in a drop-top. Doesn’t that feel wrong?” The Shopkeeper asked, holding her hands to the sky to take in the breeze. “Remember how you had that baby pink Barbie convertible when we were little? I always knew you’d have the real thing someday.”
“Feels right to me,” Elle said, adjusting the mirrors and checking the gas. She was always in control of everything in her life. Even when they were little, her dolls and schoolbag had to be just right. She could play and sing by herself in her room for hours. For The Shopkeeper, being with Elle was like looking at herself in a trick mirror.
“Okay. Before we get on the road, let’s set some ground rules,” Elle said. The two had been playing games together long enough to predict how each other won, lost, gave up, or cheated. The Shopkeeper kicked off her favorite brown leather boots and threw them into the back seat. She crossed her legs, rolled down her window, and made herself at home. She promised herself she’d be patient with herself and even more with her sister—especially now. Even though it irritated her, The Shopkeeper was not surprised; Elle loved rules. Something to argue about later, she guessed. The Shopkeeper didn’t see the world in black-and-white, and Elle couldn’t imagine things in color. “Whatcha got...?”
“First—don’t touch my radio.” Her sister turned Patti LaBelle up to her maximum volume as she hit an impossibly high note, then turned her back down. “Even if it’s your favorite song. What’s your favorite song?”
“‘Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It.’”
“‘Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It’?” She laughed. “That is nobody’s favorite song. I could see if you said ‘Summertime.’”
“It’s Will at his happiest! The kids are singing the chorus. It’s old Philly meets new Philly. He sampled Sister Sledge on it. Everyone was trying to get over Tupac and Biggie, and the only one capable enough to restore the culture was Willard Carroll Smith II.”
“Okay, so even if ‘Gettin’ Jiggy With It’ comes on the radio, do not touch my radio.”
“‘Wit.’”
“What?”
