Page 19 of The Prodigy

8

Malika

Midling’scourthousewasniceenough, I guess, but in all my wedding dreams and fantasies, it was a big, beautiful chapel full of flowers that acted as the venue, not this place where criminals came to learn their fates.

I looked up at the ceiling as we entered, somewhat pleased with the skylights. The wood columns lining the walls were nice, too. Stately. It was all just so impersonal and ordinary.

It was another apple.

My groom, such as he was, stood tall and fine in a grey suit. If I wasn’t his prisoner, and this was an actual wedding, I’d be ecstatic. Criminal or not, he looked good. Very good. Suit fitting right, fresh lineup, skin moisturized, smelling good…any woman would be happy to walk down the aisle toward him.

Anyfreewoman.

Which I was not.

Still, a small part of me did feel a twisted sense of accomplishment. Crazy, I know. But I’d crushed on this man since I was a young teenage girl, and now, he was gonna be my husband. Legally. Which was more than any other girl had ever gotten.

And there had been plenty of those.

I remember his main girlfriend. Jamie Newsome. A brickhouse, even back in the tenth grade. Jakari was a senior then, she was a sophomore, and everybody gushed over them like they were the president and first lady. It’s stupid now, but back then, I thought Jamie was special. He treated her like she was, so everybody else did, too. When she started dating Jakari, girls started styling their hair like hers and trying to dress like her. She was popping because he was. He elevated her.

Whenever he saw her, he would yell out, “There she is!” like he’d been waiting all day just for a glimpse of her. It was sweet, and also sad. For me. Because no boy had ever waited for a chance to see me.

And then there was the stuff.

He spoiled her rotten. Valentine’s Day that year, he filled her locker with balloons. My locker was two sections down, and I remember pink balloons flying out at her as she laughed and swatted them away. And the roses. The cookie cake with her name on it. The gold herringbone chain. The stack of cash wrapped in a red bow.

I was so jealous, I wanted to cry.

And now, he was marrying me, but I didn’t feel the least bit special. Or spoiled. Or cherished. I just felt numb, and no matter how handsome he looked in that suit, the numbness refused to subside.

Because this wasn’t love. It was damage control.

At any rate, the ceremony was fine, if impersonal. Just like my dress, a white off-the-rack fitted maxi dress his sister picked out for me from Belk. Jakari barely looked at me, and never in the eye. His eyes kept flickering over my cleavage. His words were flat and lifeless. He seemed bored and irritated. I just wanted to get it over with.

After the ceremony, Joe, who was our witness, met up with us in the hallway.

“Alright. Everything’s signed and backdated,” he said, handing Jakari a thin stack of papers. “As far as the state of Georgia is concerned, y’all got married a month ago today.”

Jakari seemed pleased by that. His eyes raked over the paperwork. “So if by chance they kick my door in tomorrow—”

“You’re straight. She can’t be compelled to say a damn thing.”

“Why do y’all keep talking about me like I’m not here?”

Jakari looked at me like he’d finally noticed me standing there. “My bad,” he gritted. “Didn’t know you wanted to be included in this shit.”

“If ‘this shit’ means our marriage, then yeah, I wanna be included.”

Joe snickered. “Ain’t been hitched five minutes and already sounding like an old married couple.”

“Whatever, man. So we’re good?”

“You’re good. Congratulations.”

“Cool. And one more thing.” Jakari looked around, then lowered his voice. “Did you look into that other thing for me?”

“Yeah. I got somebody on that. I’ll call as soon as I hear something.”

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