Every Variable of Us, page 6
Mom’s skinny as a rail, and her bones look like they could snap if she were to trip. I’ll give her this, though. She somehow managed to keep her ass. I know this because boys at my school love to point it out. They say things like, “Daammnn, your mom got a fat ass!” And once when she had to come to school to meet with Principal Garrett, I received a text from Dwayne that simply said: Dat ass tho.
“At least she got the money. It kept you alive, didn’t it?”
“If she’d signed up for that insurance, she wouldn’t have had to pay out of pocket. She didn’t do shit. If it weren’t for Aamani—”
“Who?”
I tilt my head, like come on. It’s her fault Aamani hasn’t spoken to me since that night. The least she could do is remember the girl. “You know damn well who I’m talking about. The Indian girl that went and got help.”
“I don’t know that bitch’s life!” Her voice rises an octave in disgust.
“Whatever. If Aamani wasn’t there, they’d have never gotten to me in time to rush me to the hospital.”
“Yeah, but your mom paid for those doctors. Rushing you to the hospital don’t mean shit. They rushed Pac to the hospital, too, and look how that turned out.”
“With seventeen new albums,” I state, obviously.
“Bitch, you know he’s dead.”
A loud thump crashes over our heads. Britt looks to the ceiling as though it’s the culprit. “Y’all better knock off all that noise before Marcus gets home!” She keeps her eyes locked on the ceiling, daring it to make another sound. When silence once again reigns throughout the house, she returns her attention to me. “At least your mom gave a shit to get the money. If I got shot you can bet your ass Marcus ain’t doing shit.”
We both laugh because it’s true.
“You’re right. Truth be told it’s nice having the house to myself. I don’t have to hear her and Randy going at it.”
Britt’s eyes grow two sizes. “She’s still getting with that broke-ass, Bobby Brown, pitbull-looking motha fucka?”
I picture Randy’s pitbull-esque nose and his played out New Edition fade, and start to crack up. It feels good to laugh.
“For real, though. They’re so loud. It’s disgusting. When I do eventually have sex, I won’t do it with a megaphone.”
“Ha,” Britt scoffs. “You need to find a man first. You’re the only light-skin girl I know that can’t get one. What, you got a diseased cooch or somethin’? Maybe you need to find a guy with a handicap fetish. There’s got to be an app for that.”
“I’m not handicapped. I just walk with a limp,” I protest.
“A limp that’s turned you into a grandma with your should-be-cane-using ass. Bitch, you handicapped. Shit, you should take advantage of it. See if Make-a-Wish Foundation will let you meet Drake.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how Make-a-Wish works.”
We share another mood-cleansing laugh.
Keys jingle in the front door. We both tense up out of habit. I can still recall the unadulterated dread that would engulf me every time he walked through that door. It was like being stranded in a field with a tornado headed right for you.
Britt smacks her teeth. “I really don’t feel like hearing his mouth.” Then she shoves the rest of her burger into her mouth as if she’s competing in a burger-eating contest.
Marcus tosses his keys on the Cum Couch and shuts the door behind him. You can hear the scattering of tiny feet upstairs as the kids make a desperate last-second attempt at cleaning their room. He glances our way and spots the McDonald’s bag on the table. He beelines it for us.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouts, clutching his right foot. He picks up the LEGO he stepped on and throws it against the wall behind the staircase. “Miles! Keyshawn! Get your asses down here and pick up these toys!”
The boys come racing downstairs faster than they did when they heard there was McDonald’s. Rashard hangs back at the top of the stairs, too scared. They drop to their knees and frantically begin picking up all the LEGO land mines. The entire time they look up at Marcus with watery, puppy dog eyes.
“Don’t give me that look. I told y’all yesterday to stop leaving your toys all over the goddamn house. Next time I see ’em not in their box, I’m throwing ’em in the trash.”
The boys nod and retreat back upstairs.
I know I should be concerned with the kids not losing what little toys they have, but all I can think about is how nappy Keyshawn’s braids are. I’m going to have to redo them tomorrow. I’d do them tonight, but I’m not trying to be here when Marcus is home.
Marcus makes his way into the kitchen, carrying a brown grocery bag. He sets it on the counter, then turns his attention toward us.
“I see you got money to eat out now, huh.”
“So? It’s my money,” Britt replies with a roll of her head.
“Oh, so you think you’re grown now. Get smart again and see what happens.” Britt sucks her teeth and looks away. “You sellin’ that shit again?”
“No, sir.” Britt says this to her chest, still avoiding eye contact. It’s like looking into his dickheaded eyes will send her to the Sunken Place.
He digs into the grocery bag and pulls out a bottle of Henny, some bread, lunch meat, and a pack of cigarettes. “You’re full of shit.” He takes out a cigarette and places it between his teeth.
Thankfully my presence has yet to be acknowledged, so I start to creep from my seat and go for a smooth escape. Only, my ability to creep is gone now that it takes me a year to get the strength to stand, and it hurts like a bitch.
“Nah, don’t let me break up y’all’s little spending spree. Sit your ass back down, Alexis.”
I do as instructed. Not because he told me to, but because I want to. Okay, and maybe a little because he told me to.
He lights the cigarette and blows a cloud of smoke our way.
“Did you fill out those lunch forms for the kids like I asked you to?”
Britt remains silent. I can see her anger boiling as she stares coldly at the table.
“I know you hear me talkin’ to you.”
“No,” she answers dryly.
“No what?”
“No, sir,” Britt revises. “I forgot. Too busy trying to feed everyone.”
Marcus smirks, then calmly walks up behind her. With a cock of his hand, he smacks her upside the head. I know it stings because (1) I’ve been on the receiving end of one of his slaps, and (2) he’s got that old man strength.
“What the fuck I tell you about following directions? Now I’m going to have to go down to the school and fix this shit. Your brothers and sister need their free lunch. Unless you plan on using your drug money to buy McDonald’s for them every day since you got it like that now.”
Britt balls her fists and clenches her teeth. I give her three taps under the table with my foot. It’s a code we developed when I lived here to tell the other to calm down.
But the next thing I know, he’s cracking her upside the head again. This time he curls his knuckles into a half fist. The half punch rings out through the kitchen and I hear Britt grunt, the pain catching her off guard.
She’s burying all her anger and trying her damnedest not to go off on him. A tear of frustration rolls down her cheek. I give her three more soft taps to let her know it’s going to be all right. Seeing someone as tough as Britt cry and be beaten down makes me squirm.
“If you ignore me one more time . . . so help me Jesus.”
“Man, you didn’t even ask me”—I quickly tap her again, this time harder so she checks herself—“I mean, yes, sir. I fucked up,” she admits through gritted teeth.
He takes another pull of his cigarette and again blows the smoke in our faces. He touches the ashes in the sink and grabs the bottle of Henny off the counter.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go down and fix your mess. Story of my life.”
God, I want to raise the point that he’s the adult here and it’s not her job to do his errands. But I bite my tongue because I know it won’t help matters, and I’m really not in the mood to get bitch-slapped.
“Make me a sandwich and bring it to my room,” he commands, leaving.
As I watch Britt begrudgingly get up and start on the sandwich like his fucking slave, I’m reminded I don’t want this life. The drive-bys. The foster homes. The drugs on every corner. My mom doing those drugs and every guy on those corners. I have to get out, scholarship or not. I don’t care if I have to crawl. I’ll find a way.
Chapter 5
I t’s been weeks since I’ve been back to Super Mart, since the day I had to outrun the fattest cop of all time. But after Devon denied me my last chance of making enough money to get out of here—he said, “Can’t no cripple work the corner. How you going to run from the cops or catch some nigga tryin’ to jack your shit?”—I figured I need to suck up my pride and go back. Because I really need a win right now. Or better yet, I need to binge the shit out of some Kit Kats to drown my sorrows. Also, Super Mart’s the only store in Hargrove that has the king-size Kit Kats for under a dollar-fifty. And without king-size Kit Kats, I’m not sure there’s a point to life.
The store’s empty and no one’s manning the register, which seems like a terrible way to run a business in the hood. But then again, what do I know about business and making money? I can’t even push drugs on the corner, and they let idiots like Kyle do that.
The top of my right Nike scrapes the linoleum as I approach the glorious candy section. It looks like Willy Wonka and the West Philly Chocolate Factory. My few physical therapy sessions have marginally increased my walking pace. Though it’s done fuck-all for the pain. The one downside is I now walk like a zombie, hence the shredded tongue of my right Nike. Even with all the noise the dragging of my foot makes, no one comes to check it out. No sign of Aamani or her pops. Maybe me, Britt, and Tubs are the only ones that shop here. It’s legit weird that this place always looks like it’s been hit by the rapture.
I put my hand in my pocket and run it over the ten dollars I stole from Mom’s drug stash. For some reason, she thinks I don’t know about it. I mean, she hides it in the most cliché place: under the mattress. What, she thinks I’ve never seen a movie? I’m good as long as I stick to taking a dollar here and there. Mattress banking isn’t the most efficient way of keeping track of your funds. Not to mention, it’s not like she’ll be auditing anyone anytime soon. Shit, she’s so strung-out that half the time she thinks Obama’s still president.
Now, normally I would just jack these Kit Kats and call it a day, especially since no one’s here. They’re pretty much asking to get got. But I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. And with my shitty luck someone would come out the back room right as I’m leaving, and except for a hundred-year-old woman on her deathbed, I’m not outrunning shit.
So I wait at the counter, money in hand, a perturbed look on my face. I sigh loudly every couple of seconds. When that doesn’t work I go, “Ay, anyone back there? Hell-o?”
I hear some movement in the back followed by a faint voice. “One second . . .”
Five long, impatient seconds later, Aamani comes stumbling out the back room. She has on the same pair of dark jeans from school today, except instead of the Iron Man T-shirt she was wearing, she has on a kurta and her hair is pulled back with a scarf hair tie. I only know this because I went on a Hindu Google binge the other day out of boredom. It’s what my life has come to now that I can’t play ball—Googling pointless shit and stalking celebrities on Instagram.
“Sorry,” she apologizes, tying her blue apron around her back and hurrying to the counter. “I had a serious Doctor Who emergency. The new Doctor regenerated tonight.”
“A doctor what now?”
Aamani looks up from her apron tying. When she realizes it’s me, her face folds into itself. “Oh, it’s you.” Her voice is coated with attitude. I almost go well, fuck you too, but refrain. “Can I help you?” She follows this up with a little eye-roll.
She clearly doesn’t want the ten dollars in my pocket. Whatever happened to service with a smile?
“I want to buy these Kit Kats.” Then I toss in a dose of attitude. “Obviously.”
Aamani grabs the candy, scans them with her pricing gun, and then points to the green lights displaying the price on the register.
I cock my face to the side. “Really? Are you that petty that you can’t even tell me how much they cost? Or are you still trippin’ about your doctor emergency? You get knocked up or something?”
“Doctor Who’s a Time Lord. Not an actual doctor.”
“I’m going to assume you’re speaking nerd.”
“Do you have the money or not?” she bites.
And to think I once saw her as this sweet little Muslim nerd with a transforming lunchbox.
I basically shove the money down her throat. “Fine. Be that way. I can barely walk because of what happened, but you go ahead and be all bitchy because I tried to be nice and introduce you to some new people.”
“Yeah, new people who want to exterminate me like the Daleks. Or did you forget about that?” She says exterminate in this robotic British voice.
“Okay, real talk. You have to chill with all the nerd shit.”
“Your friends want to kick my ass,” she translates sheepishly.
I give her a fed-up eye-roll. “For the hundredth time, I wasn’t going to let anyone kick your ass. I mean, yeah, they were about to beat your ass in the caf, so maybe I suggested they wait to do it at the party when there would be no adults around.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to take them back. “Okay, that sounds fucked up when I put it like that. What I’m getting at is my plan was to get you to the party and buy some time to think of a way to get you off my friend’s shit list. I mean, I’m kind of, like, a hero in all this. Just sayin’.”
Her eyes tighten, aloof. “Well, you did a poor job. Because correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your BFF’s exact words were, and I quote, ‘I’m still going to whoop her ass like we planned.’ Keywords ‘still’ and ‘like we planned.’ I know I’m new here, but that sounds to me like you guys are still very much planning to kick my ass.”
Yeah, I got nothin’.
“And one more thing. Who makes an elaborate plan with their friends to lure someone to a party with a fake invite? Who are you people, George Clooney and Brad Pitt?”
“What’s rich white people have to do with it?”
“They’re the stars of Ocean’s Eleven. It’s a movie.”
“I know what it is. I watch movies.”
“I’m trying to say you guys seem to like planning ways to steal things.”
I think for a second. “Isn’t there an all-women Ocean’s movie with Rihanna? That would’ve been a better comparison.”
“Yeah, except no one saw that movie. I was trying to give you a reference you’d actually get.” She smirks. “We see how well that worked out.”
“Look, yo. I’m trying to be nice here. But your little attitude is starting to get on my nerves.”
She stares in reply.
I gaze into her light-brown eyes. I don’t like this scarf hair tie. Hiding her long wavy hair is like hiding a shooting star. It’s selfish not to show anyone.
I stare.
She stares.
It’s getting weird.
I’m not entirely sure what she’s trying to accomplish, but I’m too invested in the staring contest to back out. Plus, I hate to lose.
Aamani blinks (Yeah! In your face, Aamani!) and shakes her head like I’m the childish one who initiated the staring contest. “Um . . . sixty-seven cents.”
“What?” The corners of my mouth pinch in confusion.
“You’re short sixty-seven cents.”
The green lights on the register display $10.67. I look down at my lonely $10, then take sixty-seven cents from the ashtray full of nickels and pennies by the cheap phone chargers on the counter.
She takes the change and drops it back in the ashtray. “You can’t use this. It’s for when you’re, like, five cents short. Not almost a dollar.” She hesitates. “Do you really not have sixty-seven cents?”
I can’t afford eight fucking Kit Kat bars. Of course I can put one back, but it’s the principle of the matter. Not to mention it’s a well-known fact that eight Kit Kats are better than seven.
Pressure starts to build in my chest and expands in the back of my throat like a balloon. I swallow, pushing the lump back down. No basketball. No money. No future. No eight Kit Kats. Sweet baby Jesus, are you even up there?
Stop being a little bitch. Don’t you cry in front of this girl again, you hear me? Don’t!
Aamani stares at me with these big, sympathetic eyes as if I’m one of those starving African kids rich white people sponsor to make themselves feel better.
Two tears spill down my cheeks. I turn and quickly wipe them away.
“Are you okay?” Aamani asks, her voice softer and less confrontational.
The lump I’ve been suppressing uppercuts through my throat and more tears escape.
“I can’t even afford a few fucking Kit Kats,” I rant, picking one up and slamming it down on the counter. “And since I lost my only chance at a scholarship, I won’t be going to college and I’ll never play in the WNBA. Shit, I can’t even get a regular job. You know I tried to slang heroin and they wouldn’t even let me do that. Like, how fucking pathetic am I for them to tell me I’m too worthless to work a corner? Like, what the fuck?! I shouldn’t be surprised. My mom’s life’s always been shit. I’m going to turn out just like her. I’m going to be messing around with broke-ass niggas like Randy. People will look at me and go, ‘There goes that crackhead Alexis. She was supposed to be the one to make it out. Now she ain’t shit.’”
