Chapter 2: Interlude A

I’m too old to run around a playground, but I still go to the park every Wednesday. If no little kids are around, I plant myself on a swing and try to kick the clouds.

I always arrive at 6:42 and leave at 7:12.

Always.

And sometimes he’s there waiting. Sometimes he never shows. Other times, he shows at 6:48 or 6:53 or 6:58. He doesn’t care about being prompt the way that I care about being prompt.

No one does.

On this particular day, he’s already waiting for me–with ice cream.

I sigh as I look both ways and cross the street. Ice cream means he wants something, some piece of information. And although I have information for him, I’m annoyed that I have to share it. I wish, just once, I could keep her secrets for myself.

I bet she’d wish that too.

I take the waxed paper dish from him as I walk to the swing, and he stands beside me as I push my Reeboks into the dirt.

He’s far too large to sit on a swing. People would definitely stare.

“She enrolled at BSU,” I say casually, avoiding eye contact.

“How do you know?”

“Savannah’s half-brother enrolled, too. He said he heard someone call her name, couldn’t figure there were that many Ra'Shelles in the world, and when he turned around… he said he couldn’t believe the resemblance. So he called Savannah, and she called me.”

“Where is she living?”

“I assume the dorms. He said she had a bunch of stuff with her.”

“Which dorm?”

I shrug. “I guess the one used for freshmen.”

“She have a roommate?”

“He said the girl who called her name was White, blonde, with a shrill voice, so I assume that’s what’s-her-name.”

“Joan. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“This is good,” he says. “You did good.”

From the right pocket of his relaxed, casual slacks, he pulls a blue pen, a small memo notepad, and a crisp twenty dollar bill. He knows I hate wrinkled money; he probably went to the ATM before buying ice cream.

He writes some numbers on the pad and tears out the page. “I may not be around as much for a while. If you find out anything else, call me.” He hands me the twenty dollar bill. “I’ll send money orders if I’m not here.”

And then he’s gone.

I hate these talks. I don’t even need the money. I don’t share it with my family or save it for an emergency; I spend it immediately, so I’m not reminded of what I’m doing.

The time is 6:45.

For twenty-seven minutes, my only goal is to escape into the blue abyss.