Blackout by Dhonielle Clayton

Made to Fit

Ashley Woodfolk

A brownstone, 6:37 p.m.

I’M STOMPING OUTa literal fire when she walks in with her dog. And all the senior citizens are screaming.

“Nella, be careful!”

“Don’t distract her!”

“This is your fault in the first place!”

“Yeah, Mordy!”

“Oh, shut up, Aida, wouldja?”

“Do you want us to be homeless?”

“Or worse—dead!”

“Won’t be long now for you anyway.”

“Can everyone just shut up?”

Seconds later, I’m breathing hard and standing over a singed playing card, which is still partially under my boot. The elderly residents of Althea House, one member of the senior living facility’s staff, and the girl in the doorway are staring at me. I’m looking down at the carpet. There’s a hole burned into the bluish-greenish rug and I can see clear through it to the hardwood underneath, even though the rec room is lit only by a dozen or so candles.

“Whoa,” the girl in the doorway whispers. She’s surrounded by a halo of light because the sun hasn’t set yet. The room we’re in is pretty dim, but it’s still light enough to see her. And she’s gorgeous.

She’s wearing overalls with a white midriff tank underneath, and I feel peak-gay when my eyes immediately go to the strip of soft-looking brown skin I can see beneath the denim. She has a ton of thick, dark hair, and it’s twisted into two heavy braids, one flopped over each of her narrow shoulders. She has a handful of silver bangles on each wrist and they tinkle every time her dog moves because she’s holding the leash so loosely.

Her dog—an all-black pit bull with a wrinkly muzzle—has a blue bandanna tied around his neck and is wearing a vest that says Love on a Leash. His tail wags so hard it looks like he’s twerking.

The girl’s wire-rimmed glasses are a little crooked and they’re sliding down her wide nose. But she pushes them back up, smiles at me, and slow claps.

I’m not proud to admit it, but staring is one of my (many) vices. And I’m still straight-up ogling her when my phone starts buzzing against my thigh. I jump like I’ve been caught cheating, knowing it’s a text from Bree, and my heart is racing, but I can’t tell if it’s because of my recent stint as a literal fire extinguisher, the message waiting for me, or the girl in the doorway.

I check my phone. It is a message from Bree. I swallow hard and don’t write back.

“Okay!” Mimi, the director of enrichment, says. She was leading the activities and was the one who suggested playing cards in a room full of candles. I suggested not playing in the windowless rec room during a blackout, but she disagreed. Said it would provide “atmosphere.” I glare at her as she claps her hands once, loud. “Card game over.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” says Queenie, my favorite old broad in this joint, tossing the rest of her cards on the table.

“I’m no good at poker anyway,” Miss Sadie says, shrugging. She used to be a kindergarten teacher and it shows. Everything from her pink cardi to her soft voice makes me want to recite nursery rhymes.

Pearl, who pretends to be above it all, elbows her best friend, Birdie, who just moved in. “Told you these people were crazy,” Pearl says, and Birdie looks nervous and adds, “Yeah, but at least it’s distracting me from thinking about how dark it’s gonna be in here in a few hours.”

Aida shakes her head, adjusts her hijab, and rolls her eyes at her husband, Mordechai, whose yarmulke is crooked atop his balding head, while setting down her cards too. (I still don’t know how the two of them ended up together.)

Grandpop Ike sighs and puts his heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Good job, kiddo,” he says, looking down at the burned rug.

But I’m still looking at her.

“Thank God you’re here, Joss,” I hear Mimi say as she walks over to the girl in the doorway. “I know it’s going to be a long night, and Mordechai already almost burned the place down. If Nella hadn’t been here . . .”

So this is Joss. Which means this dog is the all-time famous—

“Ziggy!” Mordechai shouts. He’s rolling his wheelchair across the room, leaning over to scratch the dog behind the ears as Joss says, “Oh, you remember Ziggy today, huh? What about me? Who am I, Mr. M?”

“You’re Jocelyn Williams, of course,” Mordechai says without hesitation, and I grin, pleasantly surprised. It’s touch and go when it comes to his memory these days. “What is it you kids say?” he continues. “Duh?”

Joss is laughing and now she’s hugging Mimi and telling her she came as quickly as she could. It’s like all the residents of Althea House have forgotten about the mortal danger they were in seconds ago because Joss and Ziggy are here now and nothing else matters. Ziggy is still doing his butt-shaking tail wag and is licking Mordechai’s face, and I’ve never seen Mr. M so happy. Even Aida, who is normally a total grump, is smiling, and when Ziggy flips onto his back, she bends down and gives him a belly rub.

Joss walks over to me and extends one of her jangly arms. I look at her bracelets and then up at her eyes. They’re such a dark shade of brown that they look black, and her gaze feels as heavy as the color. “Hey. You must be Ike’s granddaughter. He talks about you all the time. I’m Joss, and don’t tell anyone but,” she steps closer and whispers, “your grandpa is my favorite.”

Pop totally hears her, and he wiggles his eyebrows. “Feeling’s mutual, little lady,” he says.

I’m remembering all the things Grandpop Ike has said about Jocelyn, the girl who brings her therapy-certified dog to Althea House every Tuesday afternoon. That she’s pretty and sweet and so, so smart. That her dog has the purest soul on earth. That together they seem almost too good to be true. That I’d love her if we ever met. “I think Joss likes the ladies too, boo,” he told me with a wink just last week; icing on the She’s-Perfect-for-You cake he’s been baking since school let out for the summer, and really since I came out to him. I’ve never had a girlfriend, and it seems like everyone is really invested in changing that for me before I go to college.

It’s why I’ve avoided visiting him on Tuesdays—I didn’t want to bump into Joss and Ziggy, the dynamic duo he was convinced I’d be obsessed with.

But now, even though it’s a Friday, they’re here. And I’m here. I can’t hide from the possibility of her anymore, even in the steadily growing dark.

I swallow hard and reach for her hand, reminding myself that I can’t afford to fall for another perfect girl. When people seem too good to be true, they usually are, and if I learned anything at all from Bree, it’s that.

“Hey,” I say, trying to push thoughts of Bree far, far away. “Cute dog.”

“I know, right?” Joss says, glancing back at him. “Zig’s the best.” She looks at the burned carpet and makes a face. “So, like, what exactly happened?”

Althea House is an actual house: a hundred-year-old, ivy-covered brownstone on the Upper West Side where a pair of best friends, Marie-Jeanne Beauvais and Althea Walker, had lived together after their children grew up and their husbands passed away. They were friends until the literal end, and when Althea died suddenly a decade ago, Marie-Jeanne converted their house into a senior living facility and named it after her friend, hoping it would bring joy to the later years of other senior citizens’ lives the way it had for them.

Everyone calls Marie-Jeanne the Madame of Althea House, and though we often see her granddaughter, Lana, coming and going, we rarely see Marie-Jeanne herself.

The brownstone’s two top floors are home to the twelve residents—split between seven rooms (four doubles, three singles) and the attic apartment where Marie-Jeanne lives—and the main floor has a spacious living and dining area, the rec room, and a big, bright kitchen. The basement is at once the staff’s office, laundry room, and nurses’ station. Althea House has been my refuge all summer, the only place I’ve gone other than work and home. Grandpop Ike likes it here, too, and he hasn’t liked much of anything since Granny Zora died in January, so that’s really saying something.

I flop onto the big L-shaped couch and inspect the sole of my boots. The rubber doesn’t seem to be melted and that feels like some kind of small miracle.

“After the lights went out and everyone started to panic, Mimi thought it would be a good idea to try to maintain some of the activities she’d already planned for the evening. You know, to keep everyone occupied and hopefully calm—so we could all ride out the blackout in peace. So poker is what happened,” I say, answering Joss’s question. “The game was getting a little heated,” I continue, and Pop cackles. I roll my eyes and sock Pop in the arm. “No pun intended. But Mr. M got upset when he had to fold for the third time in a row.”

“He threw his cards,” Pearl says, and Birdie nods.

“Like a child throwing a tantrum,” Queenie says from the other end of the couch while examining her manicured nails.

“We could have died,” Mr. Alec Montgomery-Allen adds dramatically, clutching his knitting needles, a bundle of pale yarn, and what looks like the beginning of a blanket. His husband, Todd (the other Mr. Montgomery-Allen), nods and pulls his sweater (knit by Alec) around his shoulders more tightly, even though, since the air conditioner went out with the rest of the power, it’s getting warmer in here by the second. I hope the humidity doesn’t shrink my fro.

“One of the cards skimmed a candle, caught fire, fell onto the carpet,” I say, picking up the story again. “Then Mr. M blew on it. Like, I think he thought he could blow it out like you’d blow out a candle or something.”

“Except the floor isn’t a goddamn birthday cake,” Queenie says, fluffing her silver afro. Her hair is almost as big as mine.

I snort.

“Right,” Mr. Todd Montgomery-Allen agrees. “It most certainly is not.”

“I woulda done the same thing, honey,” Birdie whispers to Mordechai and pats his leg.

“So the itty-bitty fire got a tiny bit bigger,” Pop says, like we’re all being ridiculous. And maybe we kind of are, but it was fire. “That’s when Nella-Bear sprang into action.” He squeezes my shoulder again like he’s proud.

Sadie chimes in and whispers, “Mimi was texting, so she didn’t even notice until I screamed. Can you believe it?”

Joss presses her lips together, I think to keep from laughing, but then she shakes her head seriously. She can totally believe it, her eyes say. Mimi loves the residents, but the woman texts more than I text with Bree. (Which is to say, a lot.)

“So anyway,” I continue, “I stomped on it. By then everyone was screaming, not just Miss Sadie. That’s when you walked in.”

“Wow,” Joss says, her dark eyes on me again. “Sounds like you saved the day.”

I don’t think I’ve done anything exceptional. I’m too used to being the one who gets saved, not the one who does the saving. But when she looks at me the way she’s looking at me right now, like I’m some kind of hero, I can’t help but feel a little heroic.

Pretty quickly after that, everyone moves into the living room where we, thankfully, don’t need to use any candles yet. The Montgomery-Allens go back to knitting, Queenie pulls out her reading glasses and a smutty-looking romance novel, Miss Sadie starts chatting with Mimi, and everyone else, including Aida and Mordechai, surround Ziggy.

Joss reaches into the pink fanny pack she’s wearing and hands a baggie full of dog treats to Grandpop Ike. Then without saying another word to anyone, she strides purposefully over to the grand piano near the bay window, where the sun is blessing the living room with enough light to see the individual curls that fuzz around Joss’s temples. I try hard not to stare. And when she starts playing something contemporary and upbeat, I can’t help but think, Who the hell is this girl?

Grandpop Ike doesn’t head over to Ziggy with the treats, even though the dog has spotted them and his tail is thump, thump, thumping against the floor in anticipation. Pop’s watching me watch her.

I cross my arms and pull my eyes away. “What?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“Toldja you’d like her,” he says, then he drops this bomb before heading in Ziggy’s direction: “She sings too.”

And I don’t know how I’m going to survive an entire evening with a girl like Jocelyn Williams.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Bree. Like she can feel my spark of interest in someone other than her.

I heard there’s a blackout in the city.

You good?

My ex-friend-with-imagined-benefits (What do you even call someone you used to dream about kissing but never came close to actually kissing?) is spending the summer in Haiti, working at a children’s hospital that regularly loses electricity, and she’s checking on me. If I’m heroic, she’s basically Wonder Woman. Which is ironic, because she looks a bit like an Afro-Latinx Gal Gadot (darker skin and curlier hair, but just as gorgeous).

I’m good,I send back quickly. I have to force my thumb not to scroll up, so I won’t get lost in the things we used to say to each other. (Obsessively rereading texts is another vice of mine.)

I have another message too: this one from my cousin, Twig.

TWIG: Hey cuz, what time you gettin back to BK?

NELLA: Well hello to you too Twiggy-boo.

TWIG: Yo, you betta not call me that in public.

NELLA: Lol. I dunno. 9ish? With this blackout tho, I might not even make it.

TWIG: You HAVE to cuzzo! The block party’s gonna be poppin. Nothing else to do tonight with the lights out anyway.

Do me a solid and pick up more cups?

I tuck my phone away and shove my hands into my pockets. My cousin Twig is another person who is very invested in my love life, and he is always making me go to parties. He actually introduced me to Bree (“I think this chick I know likes chicks too, cuz!”) by dragging me to a house party I wanted to skip. So I didn’t have the heart to break it to him when what happened between me and Bree happened. Or rather, didn’t happen. He and everyone else on our block will be expecting me to show up at the party with her because we’ve been inseparable for months. They don’t know the truth about us, or more importantly about her. Just like I didn’t. I slide my hands down my face and groan, but no one notices.

“I met my Zora during one of these things,” I hear Pop say, just as Joss’s fingers go still on the piano. The Costas, who weren’t on the main floor with the rest of us, walk down the long front staircase. Joss turns, sees them, and smiles.

“Maria! Santiago! Glad you could join us,” she says cheerfully.

“Well, when we heard the piano, we thought it might be you down here,” Maria says, and I feel my jaw drop. I’ve only seen the Costas once all summer because they’re normally holed up together in their room watching telenovelas and making out like teenagers. And I’ve never seen Marie-Jeanne. I’m not even sure she’s real.

“During one of what things?” Joss asks, turning to Pop. She’s somehow listening to everyone at once.

“He’s talking about the 1977 blackout,” I tell her.

“That’s right, Nella-Bear. That’s right; 1977 it was. I’ll never forget it.”

Pop gets this faraway look in his eyes, the same one he gets whenever he talks about Granny. My chest feels tight because I miss her more when he brings her up, but it makes him so happy that I’d never ask him not to.

Joss says, “Well, don’t stop talking now. I need to hear the rest of this story.” She closes the piano and props her elbows on the lid. Her thick braids fall behind her lifted shoulders.

Pop grins.

“I noticed her right away. The day she moved in. It was her smile. She had the deepest dimples I’d ever seen on a woman. But she ain’t even know I existed,” he starts, and everyone, even Ziggy, seems to be listening. The dog curls up right by Pop’s feet and lays his big head on the toe of Aida’s orthopedic sneaker. Queenie folds her book closed and Alec and Todd stop knitting. Pearl and Birdie smirk. Mimi even puts down her phone.

“I was the super in her building. And I was trying to tell the tenants to stay inside because everyone was going nuts, looting, setting fires. The whole city was a mess. But she was dead set on walking all the way across town to check on her mama.”

I smile. I’ve heard this story dozens of times before, but I still love it, even more so since we lost Granny Z a few months ago. I turn around and kneel on the couch so I can look at him while he tells this part. It was just like my grandmother to go to any length for a person she loved.

“That girl. Head hard as a rock, even then. She wouldn’t listen. Trains wasn’t running, buses neither, and it was a half-hour walk, easy, without them. We argued for damn near forty-five minutes about it. But because I’d had a crush on her for months, I finally relented. Told her if she had to go, I was going with her. And she smiled so big and wide when I agreed, those puddle-deep dimples taking over her whole face, that I knew no matter what happened I’d made the right choice.”

“Okay, so, I definitely need to hear the rest of this,” Joss interrupts. “But do you have a picture of her?” She looks around and says, “I can’t be the only one who wants to see those dimples!”

“Oh, we know what she looks like,” Todd says. And everyone in the room nods.

Grandpop Ike shows his favorite photo of Granny to people constantly. Everyone here has definitely seen it, and I’m actually really surprised Joss hasn’t. Sadie even painted a portrait of Granny Zora based on the photo and gave it to Pop for his birthday. It’s hanging on the wall in his room.

Grandpop Ike smiles. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. But when he pushes back the thin flap that’s usually just in front of the well-worn photograph of my Granny Zora, he makes a strange face.

“Hm,” Pop says. He turns his back to us, empties his wallet, and then the rest of his pockets before turning around. Folded receipts, credit cards, a few wrinkled bills, and a dozen coins clatter onto the little side table closest to him.

“You good?” Queenie asks. But Pop looks at the table, then turns in a circle. “Hm,” he says again.

He walks over to the coat rack by the door and turns the pockets of his jacket inside out. They’re empty already, and now Pop is starting to look stressed.

“Uh, Mimi? You seen the photo of my Zora anywhere?”

Mimi shakes her head. “I don’t think so,” she says.

Pop walks to the couch and lifts the cushions, even tells me and Queenie to stand up so he can look under the ones we’d been sitting on.

“I don’t know where it could be,” he says. “Nella, you know how much I love that picture.”

I nod, thinking of the day we got Granny’s diagnosis. The day when he tucked the photo into his wallet and everything started to change.

“Pop,” I say. “Don’t worry. It’s gotta be here somewhere. You haven’t even left Althea House in like three days, right?”

He nods, but his eyes are still darting around the room like the photo is right in front of him, he just isn’t seeing it.

“So we’ll look for it when the lights come back on,” I promise him. “We’ll find it.”

But he shakes his head. “No, kiddo, you don’t understand. That photo hasn’t left my sight since the day I moved out of our apartment. I need it back now.”

Pop is level-headed when it comes to just about everything. Except Granny Zora. He went to a really dark place after she passed. It was why Mom thought it would be a good idea for him to move in here instead of staying in the apartment he’d lived in with Granny for forty years. It was a fight to get him out of their two-bedroom Harlem walk-up, but here Pop has built-in friends, no bills to pay, and me and Mom don’t have to worry that he’s not eating or that he’s spending all day sitting around alone.

Pop heads for the stairs and trips on the first one, probably because the hallway is more shadowed than normal.

“Pop!” I jog over and grab his arm. I pull him up even though he caught himself with one hand and didn’t fall all the way down. “I’ll look for it now, okay? You just go chill in the living room. I don’t want you to, like, break a hip, old man.”

He kinda smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Maybe because this blackout is reminding him so much of the summer he met Granny.

I walk him back over to the couch in the living room. Sadie puts a hand on his shoulder and Aida hands him Ziggy’s treats from where he’d dropped them when he first reached into his wallet for the picture.

“Ziggy,” Joss says from the piano. She’d jumped up when Grandpop Ike tripped. She walks over to where Pop has sat down and points to him. “Lap,” she says. And Ziggy pads over and puts both his paws on Pop’s lap. He rests his head on top and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Pop pats Ziggy’s head and then Joss says, “Off,” and Ziggy drops his paws to the floor. Pop hands him a treat and a little drool gets on Pop’s fingers when Ziggy eats it.

“Good boy,” Pop says, but he sounds sad.

“I’ll find it,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. Why don’t you finish telling the story? I’m sure it’s just in your room somewhere. I’ll be right back,” I say. I head for the stairs.

“Joss, why don’t you keep her company?” Grandpop suggests. “Would you mind?”

“Course not,” Joss says. When she comes up behind me, Ziggy follows. “No, Zigs, I’ll be right back. You stay, okay? Ike, can you give him another treat?”

Pop nods and Ziggy turns as soon as the other residents call him back. I hear Pop say, “So yeah, where was I?”

Mimi says, “You were both going to walk across town,” and I can see Pop’s smile return though it’s definitely a little dimmer than it was before.

I look at Joss. She smiles too. I feel fidgety because she’s so pretty, but I still want to know her.

I swallow hard and smile back. Then we both step away from the sunlit room and into the dark.

Her bracelets are a riot of bells.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone so I can see where I’m going on the shadowy stairway, and so I can check the stairs and floor along the upstairs hallway for the picture. Even though I don’t look back, thanks to Joss’s bangles, I can hear that she’s there.

“Pop’s room is right down the hall,” I say once we get to the top. “I bet the picture just fell out of his wallet in there.”

“No worries,” she says. “I’m happy to help you look around.”

I push open his bedroom door and step inside. I yank at my denim skirt because my minis always ride up when I climb stairs. It’s slightly brighter inside his room than it was in the hallway, maybe because the walls are closer out there. His only window faces the brick wall of the house next door, so though the sun still shines, long shadows paint the floor.

I prop my phone up on Pop’s desk, and Joss does the same with her phone on his dresser. The two beams cast a soft white light through the dim room. My grandfather left a sweater thrown over the arm of his lounger, and his bed is unmade, but otherwise the room is pretty neat. In the center of the floor there’s a blanket spread out with small packets of snack crackers and chips on fancy china, a ceramic teapot, and cups with the leftover dregs of tea. I blush, a little embarrassed, when Joss says, “What’s all this?”

“Oh, um.” This girl is cute. I am weird. I thought I’d have a little more time before she saw the freak flag I’m always trying to hide.

“We have vending machine tea party picnics sometimes,” I say quietly.

“Vending machine . . . tea party . . . picnics? But, there’s no vending machine in Althea House, is there?” Joss asks.

I kinda cringe, still facing away from her. “No,” I say. I move the blankets around on Pop’s bed like I’m looking for the photo but I’m mostly just trying to not look at her. “I grab the snacks from the vending machine at my job—I’m a lifeguard at a YMCA—and bring them with me when I come visit Pop.”

“What?” Joss asks. It sounds like she’s smiling, but I don’t turn to check. “Why?”

“It’s dumb,” I say.

Joss taps me on the shoulder, so then I do turn around. She’s smirking at me and she’s so beautiful, even with shadows falling over her face. She’s frowning a little too, like she’s confused.

“Nella.”

It’s the first time she’s said my name, and the way it sounds in her voice makes me feel even hotter. I blush more, grateful for the closeness of the room and my own dark skin. I don’t think she can tell.

“It’s just this thing. We used to do it with Granny Zora when she was in the hospital. You know. Near the end.”

Joss shakes her head, not really getting it, so I keep talking.

“Tea parties and picnics were her two favorite things. She couldn’t get outside anymore, and she hadn’t hosted a tea party since she’d gotten sick. So one day I got this idea. I picked up her favorite china from their apartment. I told Pop and my mom to buy a crap ton of snacks from the vending machine, and we spread them out on her hospital bed and had this combination tea party picnic. It made her so happy and cheered the rest of us up too. So now sometimes when I’m sad, Pop will tell me to ‘bring reinforcements.’” I gesture to the floor. “He’s always talking about this.”

Joss smiles. “Oh,” she says. “Oh God. That’s real adorable.”

I blush harder.

A moment later, she starts crawling around on the floor, moving the china and blanket gently aside. I realize she’s looking for the photo and remember that’s why we came up here in the first place. Then I’m pulling open drawers and lifting my grandfather’s sweaters and socks, trousers, and T-shirts. But I don’t see the photo anywhere.

“My Nan died a couple of years ago,” Joss says quietly. “She was a show dog trainer. Like, those women who run with the dogs across the blue carpet while they do tricks?”

I smile a little and nod. “You don’t see many Black people doing that,” I say.

“I know,” Joss agrees. “But she was real good at it. Every dog she ever trained was Best in Show at some point. Then, when she got older, she started training therapy dogs. It was a little less physically demanding, but she still got to be around animals all day.”

I think about Ziggy and ask, “Did she train your dog?”

Joss shakes her head and pushes her glasses up her nose. “I did. But she taught me everything I know.”

“How long did it take?” I ask her. I pull out the last of Pop’s drawers and push everything inside around.

“A few months. I adopted Zigs when he was like one-ish. He was this buck wild puppy. But he was so sweet and cute. I could tell, from seeing the dogs my Nan had worked with, that he had the right temperament to be a therapy dog. I couldn’t understand why no one had adopted him sooner.”

“A lot of people think pitties are scary,” I say. “There’s a lot of dumb stuff on the internet.”

“Oh, I know. It makes me so mad. Did you know that pitbulls are the most euthanized breed? And that black dogs, regardless of breed, are the least likely to get adopted?”

I shut the drawer and turn to look at her. “Really? Damn,” I say. “I didn’t know that. It’s almost like . . . dog racism.”

Joss shakes her head. “That’s exactly what it is. But anyway, Ziggy took to the training right away. Very eager to please. Very gentle. Very stranger-friendly. We started out visiting kids at the hospital and then started going to old people’s homes. I make hospice visits once a month with him, but I can’t do those too often for my own mental health.”

Joss stands up and lifts a stack of books on Pop’s bedside table. Then she flips through them all one at a time, which I hadn’t thought to do. Photos do make great bookmarks.

“This her?” Joss says, and for a second I think she’s found the missing picture. But when I look up, I see that she’s pointing to Sadie’s painting of Granny Zora that’s hanging by the bedroom door. I smile a little.

“Yeah,” I say.

In the portrait, like in the photo, Granny has all her long gray hair pressed straight, but it’s falling over her shoulders in fat waves because she always pinned it up before bed. She’s wearing an emerald-green dress and sitting at her kitchen table with her elbow resting on the tabletop, and she’s holding a cigarette, the very reason she ended up with the lung cancer that took her from us. She looks beautiful and badass and too much like Mom. I turn away.

I feel panicky sometimes when I stare at pictures of her for too long, because I realize that one day my mom’s gonna be gone too.

“She’s gorgeous,” Joss says, and something about the fact that she says it that way, in the present tense, makes my heart slow down, my breath even out.

“Yeah,” I say again. “She is.”

“You look like her,” Joss says. And I blink a few times too quickly.

“I do?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says, but she isn’t looking at me anymore. She’s leaning over, checking under Pop’s bed. Still, her voice rings as loud and clear as a pair of her bracelets chiming when she adds, “You’re gorgeous too.”

I want to tell her that I’ve been thinking the same thing about her since she first stepped foot in Althea House, but I can’t find my voice.

So I don’t say anything back.

We search around for a while longer. I shine my flashlight under the dresser and into his closet, and Joss pulls the cushion out of Pop’s chair to check the back and the sides of the lounger. But we don’t find the photo.

“Did Ike go anywhere else in the house? I mean besides, like, the bathroom and stuff. Oh, what about Queenie’s room?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, glancing at Pop’s saxophone where it sits on the floor in its case. “They’re always playing music together.”

“I know,” Joss says, grinning. I want to ask how she knows, but I don’t.

A minute later we’re back in the hall, heading to the opposite end of the floor.

“Why were you sad?” Joss asks as we pass the bathroom. I poke my head in and glance at the tile floor, but nothing’s there.

“Huh?” I say.

“You said Ike told you to bring reinforcements because you were sad. That’s why you had the picnic?”

“Oh, right,” I say, remembering.

“What were you sad about?”

I fluff my puffy hair.

“Honestly, I’ve been pretty bummed since the last day of school,” I say. “My girlfriend went to Haiti for the summer, but she didn’t tell me until the day before she was leaving.”

“Yikes,” Joss says. “Long distance is hard.”

“What?” I ask, and then I realize my mistake. “Sorry. My girl space friend.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I . . . actually had a pretty intense crush on her. And when she told me she was going, it was very much like, ‘You’re needy as hell. I’m going to a foreign country to get away from you. Bye.’”

“Ouch,” Joss says. She looks uncomfortable and I’m worried I’ve said too much.

“I mean, that’s an oversimplification, but we were just different, you know?” I yank at my skirt again—a bad habit I haven’t added to my list of vices simply because, as Pop has no trouble telling me, I could just get longer skirts.

“Different can be killer,” Joss says, and she reaches for Queenie’s bedroom door.

I feel a little weird stepping into Queenie’s room without permission. I pause, backtrack, and shout down the stairs. “Queenie, you mind if we check your room for the picture? Maybe Pop dropped it in there?”

She hollers back a second later, “Knock yourself out, sweetie. But don’t touch my top drawer.”

Joss giggles. “I bet she’s got porn in there,” she whispers, and a second later Aida yells, “That’s where she keeps her vintage Playgirls!” Joss and I look at each other and burst out laughing.

“Shut the hell up,” I hear Queenie say. We step inside so we can’t hear Aida’s reply, but I’m certain they’re still arguing.

I glance around Queenie’s room. I take in the patterned floor pillows and lacy curtains, the patchwork quilt on the bed and the stacks and stacks of books about astrology and gemstones and tarot. “It . . . looks like a hippie-ish catalog threw up in here. Except, you know, with less boho white girl energy and more realness.”

“Oh my God,” Joss says, nodding, “that is the perfect way to describe it.”

We scan the floor with our flashlights, and then check behind Queenie’s drum set. The old lady rocks out with my grandpa a couple days a week and they’ve been talking about forming a band, but I doubt anything will really come of it.

“I play the piano with them sometimes,” Joss says after we’ve been quietly looking around Queenie’s room for a while. “I bring my keyboard so Queenie doesn’t have to carry her drums downstairs. I told them we should form a band, play gigs at the little soul food restaurant on the corner. They have live music sometimes.”

“So that’s how you knew to check in here. And you’re where they got the idea,” I say. I nudge her a little with my elbow and she laughs.

“Guilty,” she says, then she gets this look on her face that I can’t quite read. “Different can be killer,” she says, repeating what she’d mentioned in the hall when I told her about Bree. “But I think, no matter how different you are from someone, if you want to make it work and both people are willing to try, you can usually figure stuff out. I mean, look at Ike and Queenie. They’re like polar opposites—your grandpa is this super logical, very straight-laced dude and Queenie’s room is full of . . .” Joss picks up a big piece of rose quartz from a small shelf and widens her eyes. “But they have this, like, undeniable musical chemistry. Enough that they really want to play together. They argue constantly, but they make it work.”

I shrug. “I guess that’s true. Aida and Mordy too.”

“Exactly. What I’m saying,” Joss continues, “is that different usually isn’t the real reason a relationship doesn’t work out. It’s more about what people really want. And how badly they want it. If someone didn’t want you?” She gestures at me with the rose quartz, like something about me is just as precious, just as imperfectly beautiful. “They missed out.”

I swallow hard and walk over to Queenie’s dresser. “You’re . . . sweet,” I say.

The part of the Bree story I didn’t tell Joss? Days before she left the country, I’d leaned against a fence beside her, held her hand, tucked a lock of her curly hair behind her ear, and whispered, “I don’t know if you know this, but I think I love you.”

She let go of my hand and took a step away from me. She said, “But Nella . . . you know I’m straight, right?” and I felt my chest collapsing in on itself.

“But we hang out all the time and hold hands,” I’d said. “We go to movies together and get ice cream late at night.”

“Yeah,” Bree agreed. “But I do that with all my friends.”

“But . . . Twig saw you kissing girls at all those house parties? That’s the only reason he introduced us.”

Bree bit her lip. “Oh. Damn. Well, that’s just something I do when I’m drinking.”

I didn’t buy that she was straight. But more important than my issues with how she identified, was my embarrassment: I thought I’d been dating someone who didn’t think they were dating me.

Three days later she told me she was leaving. Just like that. On top of the humiliation, I got to add heartbreak—I’d been dumped by someone I’d never even kissed.

So I collect Joss’s compliments like shiny pennies found on the ground: pocketed for safekeeping. They’re pretty, and nice to have, but worth very little. Because if someone I’d hung out with for months could toss me away as easily as Bree did, why should I care if a cute girl who just met me thinks I’m a catch?

Joss can tell.

“You don’t believe me?” she asks. And I shrug.

“Bad things are easier to believe than the good stuff.”

She looks thoughtful for a second, then she says, “I just try my best to always say true things. My ex was really different from me too—into metal more than pop. Wore more black than pink. They liked cats. . . . Cats, Nella. More than dogs. That bitch missed out too.”

I laugh. I’ve only known her for an hour (if I don’t count all the stories Pop’s told me about her), but I still can’t imagine Joss with someone like that.

She reaches for a tube of Queenie’s lipstick and keeps talking. “Taylor was their name. Went by Tay-Tay. Tay was my first, so I’ll probably love them forever. But while I wanted Tay just as they were, Tay wanted someone they had more in common with. And you can’t make someone want you back.”

I knew that all too well.

Joss leaned toward Queenie’s mirror and smoothed the color, a deep indigo, over her lips.

“She’s let me try this color before,” Joss’s reflection says when I give her a look. “I swear. I wouldn’t use it if I thought she’d mind.”

And now, in addition to Joss being very cute and very confident and very kind . . . her mouth is suddenly very, very distracting.

I turn away and remind myself I’m supposed to be looking for a picture, not staring at Joss’s lips. I scan the floor and Queenie’s bed, her shelf with all the books and stones, and then her side table. There’s a jar of butterscotch candies and I reach my hand in and grab a few. Queenie is always handing these out, so like with the lipstick, I know she won’t mind us taking some.

I toss one to Joss and sit down on Queenie’s bed. “I freaking love these things,” she says. She sits on one of the floor pillows, unwraps the candy, and pops it into her perfect, purplish mouth. Joss picks up a book from one of the stacks closest to her and asks me my sign.

“Pisces,” I say, and then, because she seems so sure of herself, so unapologetically exactly who she is, I ask, “Did you know, before Taylor I mean, that you were queer?”

“Nope,” she says without hesitation. Then she shines her phone light on the page and reads me my horoscope from the heavy book in her hands. It says a few vague things about ambition and transition and leaning on loved ones during difficult times, but I don’t really pay much attention to it. I’m watching Joss.

When she finally looks back up at me, I smile. “When did you know?”

“I met Tay-Tay when we were twelve. But we didn’t start hanging out a lot until we were in high school. I felt this, like, heat, whenever we were together. We were like magnets. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. So you know, we linked pinkies a lot and played with each other’s hair and cuddled when we watched movies and were best friends. I didn’t really think about it. Then, last year, they came out to me one night. Told me they were nonbinary and queer, and said that they liked me. Tay seemed so sure about everything. I could tell so much thought had gone into everything they said. And I think they could tell I was still questioning. I told Tay I wasn’t sure about my identity, and they looked really disappointed. But then I said, ‘I don’t know if I can tell you which boxes I check. But I know I like you too.’”

I nod. “It was kind of like that with me too. One of the most popular guys in school, this kid Tristán, gave me a love letter freshman year and when I showed it to my best friend thinking she’d laugh, she told me to go for it. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t at least talk to the guy. But I wasn’t interested in him because I had a crush on her. Long story short: she didn’t like me back. She got weird about it. I got clingy. We stopped being friends.”

“That sucks,” Joss says. And we’re quiet for a while. I slide off the bed and onto the floor pillow beside Joss. I take the astrology book from her and she angles the phone’s light toward me so I can find her horoscope. She’s a Taurus and hers is all about opportunity and being open to what the universe sends her way. Her eyes sparkle a little in the dark.

“I don’t think the photo is in here,” I say, even though part of me wants to stay here beside her for a while longer.

“Nope,” she says, but she doesn’t move either.

“Maybe we need some help,” Joss suggests a few minutes later. She pushes herself up and reaches down. Her outstretched hand is soft when I reach up and grab it. She pulls me up, but doesn’t let go right away, and I love the way the cold metal of her rings is such a sharp contrast to the warmth of her palm. We head to the door and Joss’s bracelets jangle as she opens it.

“Help?” I ask, following behind her.

She bounces down the stairs and reenters the living room, and Mimi and all the old people look up hopefully at us.

“Sorry, Pop. No luck,” I say, and Grandpop Ike says, “Well, shit.”

“I have an idea, though,” Joss says. “Ike, can I see your wallet?”

“Umm, okay.” He pulls it out of his pocket and Joss calls Ziggy over. She holds the wallet out and Ziggy dutifully sniffs it.

“I don’t know if this will work,” Joss says. “But I’m guessing the photo must smell like the wallet, right? Since it was usually in the wallet? Maybe it smells like the leather. Maybe Zigs can help us search more efficiently.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling too hard. This girl.

“That’s brilliant,” Birdie says.

“Genius,” Mordechai mutters.

“The girl could fight crime,” Mimi agrees, without looking away from her phone.

The Costas and Montgomery-Allens all laugh.

“Not without my faithful sidekick. Lead the way, Ziggy,” Joss says, then she looks over at me. I’m staring again. “What?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Just . . . you,” I say. And I start behind Ziggy. When I don’t hear her bracelets, I turn back and Joss is still standing in the same place. “Just me, huh?” she says, smirking.

“Oh my God,” I say. I cover my mouth, realizing what I let slip. But when our eyes meet, I decide to go with it. I grab her hand again because it felt so normal to do it upstairs. So natural. “Come on.”

Ziggy trots down the long hall that leads to the kitchen, so we follow him through the dim passageway. There are battery-powered tea light candles along the floor in the hall so the residents can make their way to the bathroom if they need to. But the kitchen is bright since there are so many windows.

Ziggy walks over to the sliding glass doors that lead out to a small balcony set at the back of the house. He nudges the bottom corner of the door and leaves a small heart-shaped nose print on the glass.

“I . . . don’t think he’s leading us to the photo,” I say. I slide open the door and Ziggy hops over the threshold, sniffs around, and lifts his leg before peeing a perfect arc through the railing and off the side of the balcony.

“Ziggy, no!” Joss shouts, but it’s too late and I’m cracking up laughing.

“Hopefully no one’s down there?” I say. I walk to the ledge and peer over. Lucky for us, there’s just a spattering of wetness on the concrete.

“Good boy,” I say. I pat his soft head and stroke his velvety ears. His floppy pink tongue hangs out and it looks like he’s smiling.

Joss says, “That was most certainly not good!”

“At least he didn’t pee on the balcony,” I say. I flop down in one of the Adirondack chairs and Ziggy pushes his head against my hand until I pet him more.

“They had the right idea,” Joss says. She sits in the chair across from me and looks at the building across the alley. The people have pulled out a charcoal grill and they’re blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker. Two older men are dancing together and their friends are clapping.

It’s weird sitting in the light knowing there are only a few hours of brightness left. I wonder what we’ll do, and how everyone will feel, once the sun goes down.

“It’s strange to think how we’re so used to being able to see everything. I bet it was pretty scary for my grandparents to walk all that way in the dark. Especially with looting and everything else that was happening back then.”

“Oh yeah!” Joss says suddenly. “I never got to hear the rest of the story.” She pushes her glasses up onto her nose and reaches for Ziggy. He goes to her immediately and climbs up into the chair with her. He’s huge and it’s hilarious and adorable to see his big body squished on top of hers. “Will you tell me?”

I feel suddenly lonely with the two of them in the same chair, and me a short (but impossibly far) three feet away. I nod and look across the alley again.

“They walked from their building north of Morningside Park all the way to my great-grandmother, who was living in East Harlem, on 116th and Second Ave. And back.”

“Whoa,” Joss says. I don’t look over to see her expression, but I can hear her bracelets and Ziggy’s panting. I fiddle with my necklace, a rose gold locket Bree got me for my birthday that makes me more acutely aware of my aloneness, that makes the distance from Joss seem even wider. I drop my hand and keep talking.

“Yeah. But they talked the whole way. She told him stories about growing up in Harlem, because Pop had just moved to New York. He told her what it was like to live in Charlotte, North Carolina, his hometown, and how glad he was to be up north. When they passed the Apollo Theater, Granny told him her mom had taken her to amateur night and they’d gotten strawberry milkshakes after. She told him how sad she was that the theater had stopped having live shows, and only showed movies now. That’s when he told her if the Apollo ever had another amateur night, he hoped she’d let him take her out.”

“He had to shoot his shot,” Joss says, bracelets singing.

“He did. And then, when they passed an ice cream truck, he bought her a strawberry cone with sprinkles, and said something like, ‘I guess they were out of shakes.’ I know Granny loved that,” I say, smiling. “And the ice cream must have won her over because a few blocks later, Granny Z reached for Pop’s hand when they passed a store that was on fire, and didn’t let go the rest of the walk. By the time they made it to my great-grandmother’s building, they knew each other’s middle names, hopes and dreams, and as Pop puts it, ‘that our hands were made to fit.’”

Joss sighs a contented sigh. “What’s your middle name?” she asks.

“Rose,” I say. “What’s yours?”

“Mae,” Joss says, and then, “My grandparents met at a baseball game. My grandpa was a player, and my Nan caught his foul ball. She asked him to sign it after the game and he wrote his phone number.”

I grin. “What about your parents?” I ask.

“They met in college. She was a Delta, and he was a Q. They met at a step show and swear it was destiny. Yours?”

“High school sweethearts. They got divorced when I was ten, but they’re still really good friends. It’s weird sometimes. But nice.” I smile to myself thinking about how they both came with me to the Pride parade, decked out in matching rainbow T-shirts and shorts. It was so dorky and adorable. “They’re cute.”

“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” Joss says. “I hope I get to experience something like that one day. So damn romantic.” And I think sitting here with her, telling love stories, is pretty romantic. I’m about to say as much when my phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and it’s her.

Power still out? Where are you?

“Ugh, Zigs, you’re on my bladder,” Joss says, gently pushing Ziggy off her lap. “Be right back, Nella.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering if she really has to pee or if she saw Bree’s name on my phone’s screen.

Against my better judgment, I scroll back through my texts with Bree until I get to the good ones. The mushy, sweet ones we sent each other before she rejected me and left for the summer.

NELLA: I miss your face.

BREE: Not as much as I miss yours.

NELLA: You have the best hair on earth.

BREE: Well your fro is pretty awesome too.

NELLA: You just get me. How is it that you just get me?

BREE: I don’t know, boo.

NELLA: How’d we never meet til now?

More like: How could I have been so clueless?

My chest feels tight with something like longing, something like pain. I scroll down and write back.

NELLA: Yeah, power’s still out but it’s not even dark yet. I’m at Pop’s. I’m good, don’t worry.

BREE: Call me. I need to hear your voice to know you’re okay.

NELLA: No.

BREE: Why?

NELLA: Because you broke my fucking heart.

I hear the door slide open and I slide my phone back into my pocket.

“I got the wallet from Ike. Let’s try this again,” Joss says.

She holds the wallet out for Ziggy to sniff, and I sniff at the same time. Dammit.

“Hey,” Joss says. She puts her hand on my shoulder and leans over so she can see my face. “Hey, are you crying?”

“Only a little,” I say.

“Wait, what? Why? What happened?”

“It’s stupid,” I say. I rub my eyes with my arm.

“Tears are never stupid,” Joss says.

“It’s just my stupid ex. Or whatever the hell she is. When we were hanging out, I thought she liked me. Like liked me, liked me. This is so embarrassing, but I actually thought we were dating. It turned out she was just being nice. She just wanted to be friends the whole time but I totally thought something else was going on. Now when she checks on me, it just feels so tainted. Like she sees me as this clueless little kid she has to take care of. It drives me nuts, but I miss her so much that I put up with it. I hate it.”

Joss kneels in front of me and uses her thumbs to wipe my cheeks. Except she kinda pokes me in the eye. “Ow,” I say. And then I’m laughing.

“Shit, sorry,” she says. “Do you need a hug?” I nod and grab her hands so that we stand up together.

We hug. It’s nice. She’s soft and she smells sweet and fresh, like baked bread or donuts. And because we’re the same height, I just fit.

“Now, let’s find that photo,” Joss says.

Ziggy’s a dog on a mission. He steps back into the kitchen and his nose doesn’t leave the floor. He leads us to the basement door, and when we open it, he charges down the stairs like he was born to do photographic search and rescue.

“The laundry room,” I say. “Why didn’t we think about checking the laundry room?” If the photo had fallen out of Pop’s wallet and into his pocket, whichever staffer did the laundry would have probably found it before washing his trousers.

“Ziggy’s a freaking genius,” Joss says.

There’s a battery-powered lantern at the base of the stairs, which Mimi probably left there just in case she needed to come down here to get anything. I pick it up and click it on, and the three of us head back to the laundry room, convinced we’re close to solving this mystery together.

I set the lantern on top of the washing machine and we use our flashlights to check the shelving and floor for pocket contents. There are marbles and loose change and keys in little jars all along the shelves beside the washer and dryer. But as we scan each shelf full of receipts and pens and buttons, there’s no photo.

“Ugh!”I say. “I’m so over this. Where else could it possibly be? This place isn’t that big. Pop doesn’t really go anywhere. It shouldn’t be this hard.”

Joss is still looking. Her bracelets are making music and Ziggy is following her from one side of the room to the other. She licks her lips, and she’s still wearing that lipstick. I’d forgotten since I was avoiding looking at her, trying so hard not to stare on the balcony.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I say. I start to worry she’s only helping because she feels bad for me. I think back to everything I’ve told her and I feel really pathetic. My granny died. My best friend didn’t like me back. I got dumped by someone I wasn’t even officially dating. And then I cried. Jesus.

“I really don’t mind, Nella.” She finds a laundry basket full of clean clothes and starts lifting the folded shirts and pants, meticulously checking between each article of clothing.

“Joss, stop.”

She stops. She looks up at me. Her mouth is so purple.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to help me.”

“I wouldn’t be helping you if I didn’t want to help you.”

I wince a little.

“Right. That’s the thing, though. I think there’s something about me that makes people want to help me? Like there’s something kinda pathetic about me. I mean, I thought I was dating a girl for two months and even my family members are always trying to help me with my love life. So people want to help, want to take care of me or whatever, but eventually that neediness is what makes them not want me around anymore.”

“You don’t need to be taken care of, Nella. You’re not some helpless little kid.”

“I know,” I say.

“Do you?” Joss asks, and she sounds kind of mad. “I’m not helping you because you’re pathetic. And to be clear, you’re not pathetic. You’re sensitive. You’re soft. You’re vulnerable and kind.”

I blink a few quick times, my eyes stinging and damp.

“I’m helping you because I wanted an excuse to talk to you, to get to know you, to follow you around this house in the dark. You’re . . . kinda amazing. Just like Ike said. But until you realize that, it’s not going to matter what I or anyone else thinks.”

I’m not sure what to say, so for a long minute, I don’t say anything.

“That girl, she probably led you on whether it was on purpose or not, because you’re warm and gentle and sweet. She’s probably only realizing her mistake now. You’re like the rose quartz in Queenie’s room: your energy is all love.”

I swallow hard.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, and then I’m speaking faster than I want to be. “You’re the amazing one. You trained your dog to help other people. You volunteer at kids’ hospitals and animal shelters and old people’s homes and hospices. You play the piano like a classical musician, and Pop told me you sing! And I mean, look at you. Your whole . . . being is a freaking work of art.”

I hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud. But it was true. I’d stared enough to know that. I yank at my skirt.

Joss steps closer to me, and I back away from her until the dryer is right up against my lower back. “Okay,” she says, her voice lowering in a way that makes my face warm. “And you came up with a way to keep your dying grandmother happy. You were brave enough to tell your friend you loved her, and you fought to stay friends even when she didn’t love you back in the same way. You’re still kind to the girl who broke your heart. I saw you texting her. You put out a goddamn fire with nothing but your boot-clad feet! And let’s not talk about people being art because . . .” Joss takes a step back, looks me up and down, and says, “Damn, girl.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, but—”

“But nothing, Nella Rose Jackson.”

Up this close, I notice again that we’re precisely the same height. And I see that her glasses frames are rose gold, like my necklace.

We match.

Her eyes, on the other hand, are the color of the room we’re in—the color of a room with all the lights turned off—but glowing and a little golden in the center like the lantern just beside us. And in here I can see that her skin’s a little lighter brown than mine, like the shell of a hazelnut, or the paper towels in the old movie theater bathroom downtown. I reach out and touch one of her long braids, and it feels soft and substantial, like everything else about her is too.

“Okay. Jocelyn Mae Williams,” I say. She smiles a little. “Okay. I get it. But the thing is . . .”

“You’re afraid,” she says. And I nod, thinking about Bree. Thinking about love and how it feels to lose it. Thinking about how much it can hurt.

“I can be brave enough for both of us, if you need me to be,” she says. “But something about this, about us, feels special.”

I never kissed Bree because I was too afraid. And it feels unsafe and much too soon to let someone new into my shipwrecked heart. But all at once I decide that you can’t be brave unless you’re at least a little scared.

I look at Joss’s dark lipstick, her dark hair, her dark eyes. And before she can say anything else, I swallow my fear and close the space between us.

When we kiss, it’s slow and warm. It’s thickly sweet, like the butterscotch candy we took from Queenie’s bedside table, but there’s something underneath the syrupy flavor that I know must be essentially Joss too. I want to taste more of that. I deepen the kiss and I wonder why we’ve wasted so much time on the opposite sides of rooms, so much time talking, so much time doing anything at all but this.

The first time we break the kiss, Joss says, “We’re gonna have to work on your pessimism. Don’t you think it’s possible that this could be good? That maybe this won’t lead to disaster at all? What if we find out that we fit together, like your grandparents and their hands? What if you, with your sweetness and your too-soft heart, those pretty eyes and very short skirts, are exactly what I’ve been waiting for?”

I blush.

I don’t know. I can’t know. But I kinda think I want to find out.

I lean in and kiss her more.

The second time we break the kiss, it’s me who speaks.

“I cry a lot,” I warn her. And she laughs.

“I think I can handle it.”

“I text Bree all the time,” I say.

“Maybe you should stop texting her and start texting me.”

“I didn’t want to meet you. I knew this would happen if I did.”

“I’ve been wanting to meet you since the first time Ike said your name,” Joss says, and then we’re kissing again.

I reach out and place my hand on the part of her belly that I’ve been staring at since she walked into Althea House. I thank the universe and current fashion trends and God himself for this particular midriff top and the access it affords me. I’m endlessly grateful for whatever lotion she uses because her skin feels smooth and silky. And then she’s touching my thighs and I don’t care how many times I’ve had to tug at the denim strip around my waist, I’m so glad I’m not wearing a longer skirt.

I want to kiss and touch her ’til morning, but it only lasts until Ziggy nudges his way between us.

“Not now, Zigs,” Joss says against my lips, trying her hardest not to break the kiss for the third time, but when I open my eyes, I see Pop standing in the doorway of the laundry room.

“Pop!” I say. I grab Joss’s hand and pull her around so she’s beside me instead of in front of me.

“We . . . were going to order some pizza,” Pop says, grinning. “Wanted to see if you girls wanted some.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Joss and I both say at the same time.

“You got a little something,” Pop says, and he smooths his thumb over his own lips.

The lipstick. It’s probably everywhere.

I cover my face and Pop and Joss crack up. Then Joss uses her thumb to rub some of the smeared lip color off my face.

“You still got my wallet, little lady?” Grandpop Ike asks Joss. She tugs it out of her pocket and hands it over. Pop folds it open, and I’m expecting him to take out his credit card or a few bills for the pizza, but he pulls out a small square that can only be . . .

“The photo?” Joss says.

“Where’d you find it?” I ask, not getting it until Pop gives me a look.

“It wasn’t . . . ever missing, was it?” Joss asks.

Pop shrugs. “You’ve been so low, Nella-Bear. And spending so much time here since Bree left. I just wanted you to get to know a sweet girl your own age. I wanted you to make a friend. I didn’t think it would develop this quickly. But I ain’t mad about it.” He smiles more.

I walk over and sock him in the arm. “I don’t believe you,” I say. But I kinda do.

Ziggy looks from Pop to me to Joss, tail twerking.

“Thank you,” I say to Pop, then I rub his arm where I’d punched him and hug him.

“So what kind of pizza do you want?” he asks, turning to head back upstairs. I walk back to the dryer and grab the lantern. I grab Joss’s hand too. And I may be high from the kiss and the dark, but I think something about us . . . fits.

“I like Hawaiian, and Ziggy will eat anything,” Joss says.

“Pepperoni’s good,” I say. “But you taste better,” I whisper in Joss’s ear.

My phone vibrates, and when I pull it out, it’s another text from Twig.

TWIG: You gonna get the cups or what????

NELLA: Yeah. Damn. Chill, Twiggy.

TWIG: Aye, what I tell you bout calling me that?!!

I smile, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “I have no idea how we’ll get there, but wanna go to my cousin’s block party in Brooklyn with me later?”

She smirks. “Obviously. Maybe we can walk like your grandparents did. Get some strawberry ice cream on the way?”

I smile wider, lean over, and kiss her on the cheek.

When we get back upstairs, the residents are whispering.

The Montgomery-Allens grin at us.

Birdie and Pearl lift their eyebrows and then look at each other.

Miss Sadie mutters something about “young love” to Mimi.

Queenie glances at our blushy faces and says, “Ummhm.”

Aida and Mordechai are bickering, completely oblivious to us.

There’s a gorgeous old lady I’ve never seen before sitting in the center of the sofa in a fur-fringed robe, holding a glass of wine.

“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” she says.

“Madame Marie!” Joss shouts, and I say, “Marie? As in the Marie-Jeanne Beauvais?”

“The one and only, honey.” She squints at us and sips her wine. She pets Ziggy like he’s a cat. “Y’all look just like my son did the first time I caught him kissing a boy.”

I swallow hard, looking down and away from her. Joss’s fingers go still where they’re laced through mine.

“Oh, I don’t care, little darlings. Not one bit. Love is love, girls. Best you learn that now.”

I blush, hard. Joss laughs, loud.

I let out a breath, glance at Joss, and say, “Maybe we should start walking to Brooklyn now?”

Marie-Jeanne hears. “Walk? All the way to Brooklyn? Oh no, sweetpeas. Not on my watch. I’m planning to spend the night at my son and son-in-law’s place in Bed-Stuy since my granddaughter and I are flying out of JFK tomorrow morning. You girls need a lift?”

Joss looks at Ziggy. “As long as you don’t mind bringing Zigs?”

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, hun,” Marie-Jeanne assures her.

Joss nods, says thanks, and grins wide.

“Are we ordering pizza or what?” Mordy yells.

And when Joss squeezes my hand, I squeeze back.