Chapter 5
“What about this?” I asked, pulling a tee from my closet.
Bobby gave it one look and said, “No.”
“What’s going on?” Keme said.
“It’s romantic,” I said.
“It’s a video game T-shirt,” Bobby said.
“It says ‘I’d pause my game for you.’ That’s true love.”
“It’s dorky.”
“Bobby!”
“In a cute way,” he amended.
“I’d pause my game for you.”
“I know, and I love you too. But that shirt is still a no.”
“I don’t know why you guys dragged me up here,” Keme said, “but I’ve got to go.” His voice was a little too loud, and his dilated pupils suggested an adrenaline rush. He was still clutching the flowers as he wheeled toward my bedroom door.
Bobby intercepted him, and with surprising gentleness, he loosened Keme’s death grip and set the bouquet on my nightstand. Hands on Keme’s arms, he squared the boy’s shoulders.
Keme’s eyes welled with tears. His breathing ramped up to a ten.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bobby said with a smile. “We got you.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I am personally going to guarantee that you will be spitting, uh, the dopest juice, and you’ll be ultra-fly, and all the single ladies—”
“Make him stop,” Keme whispered.
“Deep breaths,” Bobby said, chafing his arms. “And hang tight.”
Bobby did a quick—and brutal, and excoriating—survey of my closet before we moved on to his clothes.
It took some convincing to get Keme to trade his hoodie for an oatmeal-colored chambray shirt.
His hands were shaking so badly that Bobby had to take over and finish doing up the buttons for him.
When it was time for shorts, he tried to insist on a red pair while Bobby and I urged him to take the navy ones.
Finally, I settled it by saying, “Do you want to look like me in a pair of shorts? Or do you want to look like Bobby?”
Keme decided to go with navy.
The sneakers looked like someone had made them out of the world’s coziest sweater, but in a good way—urban professional lumberjack, maybe? Obviously they were Bobby’s, and they came from one of his fancy display boxes, and he didn’t even wince or cry or anything when he handed them to Keme.
Shaking his head, Keme said, “I can’t—”
“Put them on, dummy,” Bobby said.
And for some reason, that worked.
“Hair?” Bobby said to me.
“On it,” I said. When Keme opened his mouth to object, I said, “Not up for debate.”
He endured it as long as he could, squirming and trying to wriggle away and growling when Bobby and I boxed him in.
I finally decided enough was enough when he started baring his teeth (I was also pretty sure there was a growl happening).
When we let him go, he scrambled over to the mirror to inspect himself.
“You look very handsome.”
He scowled at me.
“Say thanks, numbskull,” Bobby said—and he added a kick to the back of Keme’s knee.
“Thanks,” Keme mumbled.
“Now,” I said, “what are you going to say?”
He stared at me. And then, horror growing in his voice: “Say?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Bobby said—and for some reason, he gave me a dirty look. “You’re just going to tell her how you feel.”
“Oh my God,” Keme said. “What am I going to say?”
That earned me another dirty look from Bobby.
“Never mind,” I said. “Forget I asked. You don’t need to have it all planned out.”
“Oh my God.” Keme moaned the words this time. “I don’t have a plan.”
When Bobby glared at me, I said, “I’m helping.”
“Try helping a little less.” Before I could respond, he squeezed Keme’s shoulder and said, “You two are best friends. She knows you. She cares about you. You don’t have to do anything different or be anything different.
Just be you.” Passing Keme the bouquet, he added with a smile, “But with flowers.”
Keme gave him a watery grin. And then, to my surprise, he grabbed me in a hug. His face was wet through my shirt, and I patted his back and said, “Hey, uh, it’s okay.” And then it just slipped out: “Buddy.”
He pulled back, his face screwed up, and Bobby tried not to laugh.
“Ready?” I asked.
He shook his head. But then, cradling the flowers, he straightened and started for the door.
Bobby and I waited a believable amount of time before we crept after him.
From the second-floor landing, we had an eagle’s eye view as he approached Millie, who was clustered with a group of friends—all girls. They were laughing with the mixture of nerves and thrill that made me think of sick-to-your-stomach excitement that not infrequently manifested as manic hilarity.
Millie’s back was to Keme as he approached. And then her voice rose above the laughter. (God bless her, she couldn’t stop herself.) “OH MY GOD, STOP,” she said, and although she was laughing too, there was a high-voltage current under the amusement. “HE’S LIKE MY LITTLE brOTHER!”
Keme froze. The seconds stretched out until they felt like minutes. From above, all I could see were the ways he made himself smaller, tighter, more compact. And then, slowly, he turned away from the group.
Bobby grabbed my hand. I swallowed against the knot in my throat.
Some invisible signal must have been transmitted, though, because Millie spun around and pushed free from the crowd and, jogging after Keme, called out, “THERE YOU ARE, KEME! NOW YOU HAVE TO OPEN MY PRESENT!”
I caught a glimpse of his face. Just enough to see him struggle, before he turned, to bring up a smile.