Chapter 3
(Back Then)
The first really cold weather of December hit Emancipation, LA, like it was pissed off.
I could see my breath in little puffs as I stood in the rigged-up backstage of the outdoor amphitheater, hugging my coat tighter around my sweater.
The town had spent some money on this century-old structure, somehow illuminating the stage in a way that threw soft, golden light over everything.
It was pretty, the way the fake snow on the set glowed and the gold foil that held poinsettias shimmered.
The town’s foreparents had chosen such a pretty location, too, right in the center of some of the tall, beautiful pine trees that dotted the North Louisiana landscape.
The Christmas play certainly had the right aesthetic background, helped along by the carols pouring from the speakers as people filed into the rows of stone benches.
It probably felt magical to the audience.
For me, it did not. I was too caught up in the logistics of the play: listening through my headset, checking my clipboard, and going over cues like my life depended on it.
I wanted to know everything, down to the exact moment the little kids in reindeer pajamas were supposed to run across the stage.
I liked being backstage because it let me be useful and invisible, two things I was really good at.
“Ky, stop frowning at that paper like it owes you money,” my best friend Taniyah teased, bumping my hip with hers.
I glanced up and tried to smile. “If one of these babies trips on stage because I forgot a cue, I would die.”
“They’re eight. They trip standing still. You good.”
She looked so pretty under the yellow string lights of the amphitheater’s backstage area, her hair in two puffs and her cheeks all red from the cold.
She was ready for her moment. Somewhere out front, her mama was probably bragging to someone about how her baby girl was singing the solo in the town playing.
I was proud of her. Taniyah was meant to be a star and me? I was the girl behind the girl. That was my comfort zone. Tonight was about her. Still, my eyes kept sliding toward the sliver of parking lot I could see above the theater. Every time headlights turned in, my heart sped up.
“He said he was coming, right?” Taniyah asked, following my gaze.
I tried to sound casual. “Who?”
She kissed her teeth. “Girl, bye! Don’t play with me, Kyleigh. You ain’t dressed like this just to work backstage!”
I glanced down at myself. I had on black jeans, ankle boots, a red turtleneck sweater and my grandmother’s pretty gold cross necklace.
My hair was blown out and flat-ironed straight, tucked behind my ears.
Blow outs only worked in the winter in Louisiana.
Nothing about my outfit was dramatic, but it was a step up from my usual “oversized hoodie and a bun” uniform.
“I wanted to look nice,” I lied.
She side-eyed me. “For your cue sheets?”
“For the children.” God, forgive me.
If I were Catholic, I’d be needing to do some kind of penance for all this lying. Taniyah wasn’t going.
“For Jabali,” she corrected, all sing-song.
I felt a blush warm my face. “Yeah, he said he was coming,” I admitted. “With Truth and Braeden after his shift at the store.”
“He better. I need him to see my girl ain’t to be played with.” She snapped three times, but frowned when I didn’t crack a smile. “You okay? You been weird since Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving.
My stomach flipped. Suddenly, I saw flashes of that Thursday.
Jabali had come over after his family’s dinner.
We sat on the back of his truck parked by the huge magnolia tree on my grandmother’s land.
He’d kissed me and I… I just remembered things.
The way his hands slid under my sweater.
The way he whispered my name against my skin like a prayer.
The way I had trusted and given him everything in a way I’d never imagined before coming to Emancipation.
Even though it was spontaneous—I told myself that, even though anyone watching us probably knew what was coming—we had been careful.
There was a condom and spoken consent from both of us.
He didn’t ghost me afterward like they swore teenaged boys did.
He checked on me, brought me flowers and hot chocolate and a book about being a better writer.
It felt good, like this beautiful, brilliant boy saw me and not just the money my last name carried in this town.
But I was an overthinker with insecurities. Now, every time my mind replayed those moments, part of me panicked. What if I had misread everything? What if it had meant everything to me and nothing to him?
“Girl, I’m alright. I just really need tonight to go right. Mrs. Amanda been bragging to everybody that I’m the ‘assistant-stage manager’ like it’s a real job or something.”
“It is a real job. I told you about diminishing what you do. Shine, bestie. I’m ‘bout to with this perfect solo, so stop stressing, okay?” she fussed.
I nodded. She hugged me and went to check in with the choir director. I watched her go, smiling. Taniyah was a sweetheart, one of the best things about my move to Emancipation a year and a half ago.
“Look at little Ms. Grindley, acting important,” a syrupy voice said behind me.
I knew that tone. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
Shayla.
She and her cousin Donique had somehow made it backstage even though they were not working the play.
They definitely didn’t look like they were coming to an outdoor community production with their (fake) fur-trimmed coats, skintight jeans, and too much makeup.
These bitches had committed themselves to making my life hell when I’d never even bothered them.
I glanced at them, twisted my lips, and looked back at my clipboard. “Y’all not supposed to be back here.”
Donique scoffed. “Relax. We just visiting. You ain’t the boss of the whole world.”
“That headset make her feel like it though,” Shayla added, laughing.
I breathed in slow. Out slower. I wasn’t about to cuss them out and get in trouble when I’d worked so hard for this play. I knew how to do this. Ignore them and move away, I told myself.
“Kyleigh, double-check the mics, please,” Mr. Floyd, the real stage manager, said, giving me an out.
I stepped to the side and checked the battery on one of the handheld mics.
Mr. Floyd was across the stage, messing with the “God mic.” I swear he loved that thing; he used it like we really were on some big ol’ theater set.
He had set it on a stool for a second while he adjusted some wiring.
The speakers above us hummed as I did what he asked, pretending Shayla and Donique were invisible.
But no one would ever accuse those two of being able to read the room.
They followed me like two annoying puppies.
“Anyway, speaking of acting important… I heard you think you somebody now that you got Jabali Christopher looking at you,” Shayla taunted.
My hand froze on the mic. I turned slowly. “I do not ‘think I am somebody.’ And me and J—”
Donique smirked. “Aww, she mad. That’s so cute.”
“I am not—”
“Girl, calm down. We just talking,” Shayla said, leaning on the costume rack. “It’s just funny, that’s all. Watching you act like you special. Like he want you.”
“He does want me,” I said before I could stop myself. “Why else we been talking since August?”
“Since August? That’s when it started for you?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.
“Yeah. Why you care?” My voice sounded hard, but inside I was shaking. She was playing on all my insecurities.
“Tell her, Shay,” Donique pressed.
Shayla’s eyes slid over me slowly, an evil grin marring her pretty face. “Baby girl, the only reason he even walked up to you that day in the cafeteria was because Deon asked him to,” she said, fake pity in her tone.
“Deon?” I repeated. “What Deon got to do with—”
She interrupted me, ready to spew her venom.
“He wanted to shoot his shot at Taniyah, but you always somewhere right behind her. So, he asked his boy to run interference. Deon told us he told Jabali he might luck up on some rich pussy. Jay was all for that. Deon said he felt kinda bad you caught feelings, but that’s life. ”
The amphitheater seemed to shrink. I felt sick, like I was drowning in noise.
I heard everything at once: car doors closing up on the parking lot, kids laughing as they ran around backstage, Mr. Floyd tapping the microphone and saying something about checking levels.
Christmas carols faded out as the sound system clicked over.
It was cold in Emancipation, but suddenly I felt hot.
“You lying. Everybody know Donique still wants Jabali, Shayla. You just mad because he not thinking about you,” I said, but my voice sounded weak even to my own ears.
“Mad?” Donique laughed. “Girl, please. This not about me. This about you being delusional.”
I shook my head. The scene in the cafeteria flashed in my mind.
I was sitting at the end of the table with my book, waiting on Taniyah, pretending not to listen as everybody talked over me.
Jabali slid into the seat across from me with his tray and asked what I was reading.
I ignored him. He kept on until he got a smile out of me. We never looked back.
That had been a setup? A fucking favor?
“He wouldn’t do that. Jabali cares about me—” I whispered, trying to push down the doubt, the fear at their words.
“Aww, he told you he cares about you. They all say that when they trying to get what they want. It is not that deep, Kyleigh. You just an assignment he took real serious,” Shayla said, fake sympathy dripping off every word.
“Oh, and you ain’t the only one who hooked up with Mr. Jabali in August,” Donique said, lifting her sweater and revealing the slight swell of her stomach. She smiled at me.