Chapter 24 - The Anniversary
Exactly one year after the premiere, Meridian held another red-carpet event at the Monarch Theatre.
Different film.
Different cast.
Same silver barriers.
Emily was working nearby on a documentary shoot.
She stopped across the street.
For several seconds, she watched camera flashes burst against the evening sky.
Her body remembered before her mind did.
Malik’s face.
Nia shouting.
Christopher freezing.
Emily continued walking.
She did not need to record anything.
Across the country, Christopher prepared for another theater performance.
A reporter called requesting comment on the anniversary.
Martin forwarded the request.
Christopher declined.
The reporter emailed a second question:
What would you say to Malik Johnson today?
Christopher stared at it.
A year earlier, he would have answered.
He would have produced a perfect sentence.
Instead he closed the email.
What he would say to Malik belonged to Malik.
And Malik had not asked.
Nia had taken the day off work.
Not because of the anniversary.
Because Malik had a middle-school orientation.
He was starting sixth grade.
They stood inside the auditorium while teachers explained lockers, schedules and after-school programs.
Malik whispered, “This is boring.”
Nia whispered back, “Welcome to adulthood.”
“I’m eleven.”
“Close enough.”
Afterward, they visited the cafeteria.
A girl recognized him.
Nia saw recognition flicker across her face.
She braced herself.
The girl walked over.
“Are you Malik?”
He nodded.
“You’re in my science class.”
Malik relaxed.
“Oh.”
“I’m Zoe.”
“Hi.”
She walked away.
Nia smiled.
Malik frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m your mother. It’s contractual.”
That afternoon, Rachel called.
“All compliance obligations from the settlement have been certified for year one.”
Nia leaned against the car.
“So we’re finished?”
“Legally, there are ongoing audit terms, but your active involvement is finished unless something fails.”
Nia closed her eyes.
Finished.
She had imagined the word would feel dramatic.
Instead, traffic moved behind her.
Someone honked.
A dog barked.
Life continued.
“Thank you,” Nia said.
Rachel’s voice softened.
“You did good.”
“We did messy.”
“That too.”
“Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Do people ever really get closure?”
Rachel laughed.
“You’ve known me a year and you still ask lawyers philosophical questions.”
Nia laughed too.
Then she hung up.
That evening, Malik had basketball practice.
Afterward, Coach Turner announced tryout results.
Malik made the school development squad.
Not varsity.
Not some cinematic triumph.
He was eleven.
Development squad was exactly where he belonged.
Malik ran toward Nia holding the paper.
“I made it!”
She screamed.
“MY BABY!”
“Stop!”
She hugged him.
“Mom!”
“Never.”
Another parent offered to take a photograph.
Malik handed over his phone without hesitation.
He and Nia stood together.
Then Malik paused.
“Wait.”
He looked at the other parent.
“Can you take a video first?”
Nia laughed.
“Why?”
“Because I’m sending it to Aunt Camille.”
The parent recorded.
Malik held up the roster.
“I made the team!”
Nia kissed his cheek.
“Mom!”
Everyone laughed.
Nobody online saw the video.
That was how Malik wanted it.
Later, Nia received a message from Emily.
Thinking of you both today. Hope it was ordinary.
Nia replied:
Very. Best gift possible.
Emily sent a heart.
At 7:43 p.m.—exactly one year after Malik asked Christopher for a selfie—Nia was cooking spaghetti.
Malik sat at the counter doing homework.
The television was off.
No anniversary specials.
No social media.
Nia stirred too much sauce.
Malik looked up.
“Can we take a picture?”
She froze.
“What?”
“A selfie.”
Nia stared at him.
“With me?”
“No, the refrigerator.”
He grinned.
Nia put down the spoon.
Malik lifted his phone.
They stood shoulder to shoulder.
For one second, Nia remembered the red carpet.
Malik holding his phone with both hands.
Excited.
Trusting.
Then Christopher’s face changing.
The shove.
The humiliation.
A year of lawyers and cameras and lies.
Malik leaned closer.
“Mom, smile.”
Nia looked at him.
He was smiling already.
Not nervously.
Not performing.
Just Malik.
She smiled.
Click.
He checked the photo.
“You blinked.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Again.”
They took another.
Then another.
The fourth was terrible.
They both laughed.
Malik saved all of them.
Nia returned to the stove.
The anniversary ended without Christopher Hale.
And in another state, minutes before walking onto a theater stage, Christopher glanced at the clock.
7:43.
He remembered too.
He stood backstage.
No phone.
No cameras.
No one applauding yet.
For once, remembering was all he allowed himself to do.
Then the stage manager whispered:
“Places.”
Christopher stepped toward the darkness.
And elsewhere, Malik took another photograph of his mother holding the spaghetti spoon.
Home.
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Safe.
His.
