Midnight Taxi Tango Read Free Page B

of charismatic condescension he always gets away with because he knows I love him like a father. Uncle. Fatherly uncle. Whatever. I let it slide. Again.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œGood.” He ignores my blatant lie. “See you at three . . . ish.”
    â€œYou have a two-o’clock reading, and anyway, I have capoeira at three and I really hate being late.”
    â€œWho’s the reading for?”
    â€œEliades.”
    â€œOh fuck. He’s always coming with some bullshit. Keep him entertained till I get there.”
    â€œI’m not entertaining.”
    â€œJust tell him I’ll be a little late.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    The line goes dead.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Ishigu was a third-degree master of Shumanjo Levitating Robot fighting style, but Sunnyside Academy didn’t have that as an after-school option, so Giovanni took kenpo instead. Gio also was a lead alto in glee club, treasurer of the debate team, assistant editor at the school newspaper, and president/founding member of the Amiri Baraka Drama Club. Each met on a different day of the week, which I always took to be a special scheduling miracle devised solely to please my overachieving cousin—but it was really just a coincidence.
    â€œWhy you still wearing your tutu?” Gio narrowed his eyes at me.
    â€œBecause I’m a ballerina,” I informed him.
    â€œBallet is so girly.”
    I matched his sneer with one of my own. “You do ballet and you’re a boy.”
    â€œI’m not just a boy.” Gio’s hands extended to either side, palms out, like Ishigu does when he’s getting ready to levitate. “I’m the baddest boy in town, bitches.”
    I was laughing, but then I stopped. “Don’t call me a bitch.” Both my fists found my hips, and I frowned, creasing my brow to show I wasn’t kidding.
    â€œI didn’t mean you.” The apology was sincere. “I meant it universally. All the bitches in the universe! Anyway, it’s not a bad word if you say it right.”
    â€œIt’s not?” We started walking again all through the quiet suburbs of eastern Queens. When Gio was with me, I could ignore the creeping sensation that I don’t belong, I don’t belong; no matter where I am, I don’t belong.
    â€œShh . . . We on a mission.”
    â€œWhere we going?” I’d never been to this neighborhood before. Maybe driven past once or twice with my dad, but it was all white folks, and the feeling of
don’t belong, don’t belong
hung heavy in the air, like all the molecules wanted me to leave too. But I knew I was safe. Gio’d been studying kenpo since he was my age and he was a brown belt and not to be trifled with.
    â€œIt’s a secret mission.”
    â€œBut where we going?”
    â€œIf I tell you, it won’t be a . . .” I made the face that I knew gets him, the one that I used to make right before I cried. He caved. “Fine. But don’t tell
anybody.
” He lowered his voice to such a shrill whisper on the word “anybody” that a little spittle escaped and he had to wipe his mouth. “We’re going to see if Jeremy’s okay.”
    I rolled my eyes. For three weeks, all I’d heard about was Jeremy Fern. Would Jeremy like this red leather jacket? Does he read
Ishigu
too? What kind of cigarettes would Jeremy smoke? If Jeremy were a crayon, what color would he be? (Yes, no, Virginia Slims, and plain ol’ white, respectively, but who was listening?) The angle of Jeremy’s chin: divine architecture; the perfection of his frown when he was thinking about a math problem; the timbre of his voice: angelic. Jeremy the Brave, bringing in articles about oil drilling in Antarctica for social studies. Jeremy the Agile, bounding effortlessly across the gym in tights for his
Swan Lake
solo. Jeremy the Cryptic, explaining his theory of how all six