CHAPTER 24 – Group Text: Rebooted
1297 Words
Imani West hadn’t missed Arroyo Mesa. Not for one second.
The streets were exactly as she’d left them: sun-bleached, dry as paper, and smug in their predictability.
Even her reflection in her mom’s bathroom mirror looked like it was waiting to see if she’d slip back into that old version of herself—the girl who let a boy talk her out of five hundred bucks and nearly a year’s worth of sense.
Hard pass. She wasn’t that girl anymore.
She tugged her silk bonnet tighter around her curls and pulled on her Spelman sweatshirt.
Her old room still wore its pastel accent wall like a bad habit. The framed photo of her junior-year science fair win glared at her from the shelf, as if daring her to peak in high school.
But there were new things now: A fat anatomy textbook cracked open on the desk. A college ID badge clipped to her lanyard. A quote scrawled on the dry-erase board by her door in her own handwriting: Discipline is the truest form of self-respect.
She stared at the quote for a second.
Still true. Even here.
But being home made everything feel… slower. Off-tempo. Like she was trying to dance to a beat only she could hear.
Downstairs, her father was stirring gumbo in the big red pot, humming low like he always did when he cooked. The smell curled up into her room, thick with garlic and pepper and a memory she couldn’t quite name.
Gumbo could fix a lot of things. But probably not this.
“Dinner in ten!” he yelled up the stairs.
Imani snapped her laptop shut and headed down.
Her mother was already plating cornbread, edges crisp and golden. Her grandmother sat planted in her armchair, nodding along to the evening news, glasses slipping down her nose, occasionally muttering Mmmhmm at politicians who couldn’t hear her.
They all sat. Plates clinked. The gumbo was hot enough to scald the roof of her mouth, which was the only correct temperature, as far as her dad was concerned.
“So how’s college?” her mom asked, passing the pitcher of sweet tea.
“Busy,” Imani said. “Midterms were brutal. I’m volunteering at the clinic next semester.”
“Proud of you,” her dad said around a spoonful of okra. Then he added, casual as anything:
“Oh—ran into that Maddox boy the other day. Jordan? You two were in that community program together, right?”
And just like that, the gumbo felt heavier in her stomach.
Of course. Even the gumbo can’t save me from him.
Imani didn’t flinch. But she did stop chewing.
Her dad kept going, oblivious:
“He asked about you. Said to tell you hi.”
Imani swallowed. Carefully.
Of course he did. Because Jordan Maddox always leaves breadcrumbs when he wants to be found.
“What gas station?” she heard herself ask. Too fast. Too sharp.
Her dad blinked at her. “Shell on Valencia. Tuesday night. Thought he looked familiar.”
Imani nodded, slow and measured. Like it meant nothing. Like her pulse wasn’t thudding behind her ears like someone knocking on a locked door.
She let her spoon scrape softly against the bottom of the bowl.
Keep it normal. Keep it small. Don’t give them a reason to ask questions.
“You okay?” her mom asked gently.
Imani forced a small smile. “Just tired,” she said. “Jet lag.”
The rest of dinner blurred into polite small talk and clinking silverware. Imani kept nodding, answering questions, pretending her gumbo didn’t taste like cardboard.
Survival mode: activated.
As soon as her bowl was empty, she excused herself, carried her plate to the sink, and slipped upstairs before anyone could stop her.
After dinner, Imani retreated to her room with a mug of tea that went cold on her nightstand.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, blanket draped over her knees. Her planner lay open beside her, color-coded and useless tonight.
The facts don’t add up.
Jordan hadn’t tried to contact her since prom. Not once. No texts. No hey, can we talk? Not even a passive-aggressive playlist on Spotify.
The night I helped set his world on fire—and mine with it.
And now he was popping up at gas stations and asking her dad about her like they were old family friends?
She hated what that implied.
She picked up her phone and opened the group chat. The last message was from Lia—a blurry meme about chaos and cinnamon rolls. It had made them all laugh once.
October felt like another lifetime.
Imani’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.
This is data collection. Not emotion.
She typed:
Should we catch up while we’re all in town?
She stared at it for two full breaths, then hit send.
The responses were fast:
Lia: Omg yes. I need chisme and carbs immediately.
Mila: I’m down. But we’re not going anywhere with linen napkins, Savannah.
Savannah: Fine. But I’m picking the playlist.
Imani: Sunday work?
Lia: 👍
Mila: 👍
Savannah: 👍
She set her phone down.
The silence around her felt different now—warmer, somehow. Like an old coat she’d forgotten still fit.
Even scientists believe in constants. Maybe this was mine.
She set her phone on the nightstand and reached for her tea. It was lukewarm, thin and bitter on her tongue.
She got up to pour it out—and that’s when she saw it.
A notification.
DM Request.
No username. No profile photo. Just a blank circle and one line:
You never paid the price. But it’s coming.
Imani stared. Her brain stayed stubbornly blank for half a beat, filing this under unclassified threat before the rest of her body caught up.
Then came the wave: cold, crawling up her spine, tightening behind her ribs.
She clicked into the message. No timestamp. No typing dots. Just white space, waiting.
Classic. He—or whoever—knows the rules. Leave no trail. Stay invisible.
She blocked the account. Deleted the message.
Then sat there, trembling, because for one second, she wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.
But she didn’t.
She set her phone down face-up for two seconds.
Nope.
She flipped it face-down and shoved it across the nightstand like it might bite.
It wasn’t until her hand dropped back into her lap that she realized she hadn’t taken a breath.
Because facts are facts—and this one just changed the equation.
She stared at her phone for another minute, then shoved it into the drawer like that might bury the threat along with it.
Out of sight. Not out of mind.
She paced her room twice. Checked her locks. Told herself she was fine.
Part of her wanted to text Lia. Or Mila. Or even Savannah. Just one sentence: Did you get a message too?
But she stayed quiet. Because once you said it out loud, you couldn’t unsay it.
Later, lying in the dark, Imani ran through the probabilities.
Trolls existed.
People got weird online.
Some folks lived for other people’s drama, piecing together half-stories from digital breadcrumbs.
Possible. Not probable.
But underneath all the logic, her father’s voice kept echoing in her head.
Jordan. Asking about her. Like prom night hadn’t even happened.
She stared at the ceiling. Counted the faint glow-in-the-dark stars she’d never bothered peeling off.
She could drop it in the chat. But that would make it real. And she wasn’t ready for real yet.
So she kept it to herself. For now.
But as she closed her eyes, one thought stayed sharp as glass:
Sunday can’t come fast enough. Because secrets only feel safe in silence—until someone else knows them too.
- Writer
