CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JORI
My mother waited until I finished the dosage problem before telling me I had disappointed her.
She stood at the kitchen counter cutting chicken while I worked at the table. The television played low in the living room. Every few minutes, the washing machine knocked because she refused to admit it was unbalanced.
“Mrs. Green had to call three people,” she said.
I kept my eyes on the worksheet. “I’m sorry you gave her my name before asking me.”
The knife stopped.
“That how we talking now?”
“I’m not being disrespectful.”
“You telling me I caused the problem.”
“You did.”
My heart beat harder after I said it.
I had spent years translating no into maybe, later, or let me see because a direct answer felt like something only selfish people gave their mothers.
She turned toward me. “I was trying to help you make extra money.”
“I know. I still needed to study.”
“You should’ve been studying before your grades got this low.”
I looked at the numbers on the page until they blurred. “You’re right.”
My mother hadn’t expected agreement.
Neither had I.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” I continued. “I should’ve asked for less hours before I got behind. I didn’t. Now, I’m trying to fix it.”
She put the knife down. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you tell everybody I’m doing so good.”
“You are doing good.”
“I’m at risk of repeating a class.”
“One class don’t erase everything.”
“Then, why did it feel like I had to hide it from you?”
Her face changed.
The washing machine knocked twice in the silence.
“I push you because I know what you can do,” she said.
“Sometimes, it feels like you push me because you need me to be the one who makes it.”
She turned back toward the cutting board.
My mother had worked housekeeping, home care, and school cafeteria shifts without ever having insurance from all three at once. She had wanted nursing for herself before life turned wanting into bills. Every exam I passed looked like proof that neither of us had suffered for nothing.
“I am going to make it,” I said. “But I need you to stop volunteering my time.”
She nodded once, still facing the counter. “Ask me if you need help.”
“I will.”
Neither of us apologized perfectly.
The conversation ended because the chicken still needed seasoning and I had six more problems to finish.
That felt more honest than a hug would have.
At seven sixteen, Kye called.
“Ari asked if I slept with Cam,” she said without hello.
“What did you say?”
“Monday.”
I closed my eyes. “She already knows the answer.”
“She knows the shape of it. Not the details.”
“The details don’t make it better.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because you keep acting like if you explain the year and the order and how many times, there’s a version where she doesn’t feel betrayed.”
Kye went quiet.
I regretted the sharpness but not enough to take it back.
“I need you there tomorrow,” she said. “Bring the hotel picture. I have everything Sade sent.”
“Nae should come too.”
“Why?”
“Because Ari spent all weekend learning things in pieces. We’re not doing that again.”
“Nae’s money ain’t got nothing to do with Cam.”
“It has to do with all of us deciding what Ari gets to know.”
Kye laughed bitterly. “You love making everything a lesson.”
“And you love joking until the room catches fire.”
“See, that’s why I didn’t call you for comfort.”
“You called me to help clean up. Same as everybody else.”
Kye heard it.
“What is your problem?”
“My problem is, I’m tired. Ari’s entire life is a crisis if a picture looks wrong.
Nae keeps making motherhood everybody’s emergency after she already decided what she’s gonna do.
You turn everything into a joke until somebody gets hurt, then want us to understand why you lied.
And, somehow, I’m supposed to be the one with answers because I wear scrubs. ”
Silence.
My own voice sounded ugly in my ear.
“You done?” Kye asked.
I pressed the phone tighter. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“But you meant it.”
“Some of it. Not like—”
“Save it.”
The call ended.
I sat at the table with my worksheet in front of me and anger burning through the shame.
Kye had asked what my problem was.
I answered.
I opened our text thread and held the microphone.
“I’m tired of feeling like I can’t struggle because y’all already filled the room.
I know Ari’s insecurity is real but, sometimes, she makes everybody perform around it.
I know Nae needs help, but she makes choices alone and hands us the consequence.
I know you’re scared of Trell, but you use jokes and lies until nobody knows when it’s serious.
And I hate that I’m saying this because I love y’all.
I just... I don’t know where the hell I get to be weak. ”
I listened to the voice note once.
It sounded less cruel than the phone call.
It still wasn’t kind.
I sent it anyway.
Kye read it.
No response.
Two minutes later, I typed: Delete that. I needed to vent, not build a case.
She reacted with a thumbs-up.
My stomach tightened.
The blank account messaged before I could put my phone down.
ANONYMOUS: Everybody gets honest when they think only one person can hear it.
A chill moved over my arms. I stood so fast, the chair scraped. The message arrived seconds after I sent Kye the voice note.
I called her back.
She declined me.
ME: Did you send that to somebody?
KYE: No. Leave me alone right now.
I screenshot the anonymous message. Then another came.
ANONYMOUS: Tomorrow gonna be crowded.
I went through every person who knew about Monday.
Kye.
Nae, if Kye had called her.
Me.
Sade.
Cam.
Ari.
The account knew about the hotel picture, senior year, and now a voice note I had sent less than five minutes earlier.
Either Kye was lying again, or somebody had access to her phone.
Trell.
I called once more.
“Where’s Trell?”
“Across the street from my house last I checked. Why?”
“Does he have access to your phone? Your messages, cloud, anything?”
Her breathing changed.
“He had my phone Friday night. I changed the code.”
“Did you change your Apple password? Email? Tablet?”
Silence.
“Kye.”
“My old iPad is at his apartment.”
I closed my eyes.
“Sign out of every device now. Change every password.”
“What happened?”
I sent her the screenshot.
She cursed.
“You think that’s him?”
“I don’t know. But somebody saw that voice note too fast.”
“I didn’t even listen yet.”
That made it worse.
“Change everything,” I said. “And save the account messages. Don’t block it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because if it is Trell, we need proof.”
My mother had come into the doorway. She read my face and didn’t ask until I ended the call.
“Friend trouble?”
“More than that.”
I reopened the anonymous account. “I think somebody’s watching one of my friends’ messages.”
“Police?”
“Not yet. We don’t know who.”
“Be careful with not yet. Women get hurt waiting for enough proof.”
I emailed the screenshots to myself and Kye. Then, I sent a message to Nae.
ME: Ari’s house tomorrow at 10. We all need to be there.
NAE: Did she ask for me?
ME: I’m asking.
NAE: She probably don’t want to see me.
ME: None of us are going because it’s comfortable.
At nine thirty, I opened DAY ONES OR DIES.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Neither option felt fair.
I typed:
JORI: Since we all telling the truth now, I’m at risk of failing pharmacology. I’ve been hiding it. I went to remediation Saturday and I’m getting help.
Nae read it first.
NAE: Why you ain’t tell us?
Kye read it next.
KYE: Because she likes being better than everybody in silence.
I deserved part of that.
Ari’s name appeared beneath the message.
She didn’t respond.
I put the phone down and finished the dosage worksheet.
Six questions later, I checked again.
The group chat had gone quiet.
The anonymous account had not.
ANONYMOUS: Bring tissues tomorrow, Nurse.