The Boy in the Black Suit by Jason Reynolds Page B

know how you can just . . . go to funerals every day? Like it’s nothing?”
    I thought for a moment.
    â€œThey won’t be every day, man. Plus, you don’t make money like this at Cluck Bucket,” I joked, pulling the wad of cash from my pocket again.
    Of course, I couldn’t tell him the truth. The truth that I was having a hard time telling myself. I liked the funerals. And in thinking about how I couldn’t tell Chris that, I started thinking about why I was actually so into them in the first place. I wasn’t just being a creep. Well, I sorta was, but it wasn’t for no reason. I know that now. I liked watching other people deal with the loss of someone, not because I enjoyed seeing them in pain, but because, somehow, it made me feel better knowing that my pain isn’t only mine. That my life isn’t the only one that’s missing something it will never have back. See? Reasons. I couldn’t explain that to Chris. I mean, he didn’t have a father, but he never had one. It’s not like having one and then losing him. At least I don’t think it is. And his mom was fine, so he wouldn’t understand. But Ms. Jameson . . . she understood. And Ms. Knight did too.
    â€œYeah, and you won’t keep money like that if you keep treatingme to food!” Chris popped me back into reality. And the guy was right. At Cluck Bucket he ordered a Cluck Deluxe, which was basically a huge chicken sandwich on a hero, with mayo, lettuce, tomato, onion rings, some kind of special sauce, and pickles on it, with a large fry and a large chocolate shake. Then he asked me if he could get a banana pudding, too. All I got was a three-piece, dark, and a biscuit. His: $8.50. Mine: $3.35.
    And guess who took our order?
    â€œYour total is eleven eighty-five,” Renee said, turning around to scoop the fries. She looked just like she had the first time I saw her, wearing that ridiculous net on her head, and that greasy purple shirt. She looked funny, but she probably thought I did too, with the suit on. At least she looked silly in a cute way. I thought about saying something to her. Maybe mentioning how the way she embarrassed that dude that day was hilarious. I don’t know, just something to spark conversation. But now that I was right in front of her, that seemed like a stupid idea. My mother used to say to simply start with “Hello, how are you?” but my mom ain’t grow up in this neighborhood. She grew up in the South where everybody’s nice. But, who knows? Maybe it would work.
    Just say it. Hello, how are you? Say it. It was on the tip of my tongue. Just. Say. It.
    Nothing.
    â€œEleven eighty-five,” she repeated, now holding her hand out.
    I didn’t say a word. I just pulled out my wad of money, like I was some kind of hustler—not a good look—and paid.
    We walked back to our block, stuffed. Chris looked ridiculousas he tried to get the last bit of chocolate shake up through the straw. His face was all sucked in and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. He made drinking a milkshake look painful. I saved some chicken for my father—the breast, and half the biscuit. I didn’t have much of an appetite anyway, and figured that he would need to put some food in his stomach whenever he got in. I was pissed at him, but what can I say, he’s my dad.
    In front of my house I asked Chris what he thought of Renee.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œRenee, man. The girl who took our order.”
    â€œYou know her?”
    â€œNo, not yet. But I want to know her.”
    â€œSo you stalking her.” He grinned.
    â€œNo, man,” I said, frustrated. “Look, I just wanna know what you think of her.”
    â€œOh.” He thought it over for a second. “She a’ight.”
    â€œA’ight?” I asked, shocked. To me she was way better than a’ight.
    Chris replied with a shrug. Damn.
    I