“Excuse me? Miss? We’d like some more sweet tea.” An older blonde woman at table seven waved her empty glass at me like a flag.
“Be right with you,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
I delivered the plates to table nine, then grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea. As I approached table seven, I braced myself. The mother-daughter duo had been working my last nerve since they sat down.
“Here you go,” I said, refilling their glasses.
“Oh, thank you so much!” the daughter chirped, all wide-eyed innocence in her designer clothes.
“So, we’re thinking about moving to this neighborhood. Is it safe? Like, you know, at night?”
What she meant was: are there too many Black folks around for her comfort? I’d heard this coded question a hundred times from gentrifiers like her.
“It’s as safe as anywhere else in the city,” I answered flatly.
“But what about that corner store? The one with all those men outside?” The mother leaned in like we were sharing secrets. That corner store was the most harmless place, and the men standing outside were mostly retired vets. They congregated there and played chess during the daytime. It wasn’t as if it were a bunch of YNs posted up drinking and shooting craps.
“You mean the place where people in the community gather? Been there over forty years.” I kept my voice even while my mind drifted to Yusef’s music camp paperwork sitting on my kitchen table.
Eight hundred dollars due by Friday if I wanted the early registration discount. He was a prodigy, already outplaying kids twice his age. This camp could open doors for him, maybe even scholarship opportunities. But eight hundred dollars might aswell have been eight thousand with the way my bank account was set up.
“Are there any good coffee shops nearby? You know, with like, artisanal beans?” The daughter was talking again, pulling me back to reality.
“There’san Ethiopian-owned spot three blocks down,” I said, thinking about my Sunday shifts at Grits that kept me from selling my baked goods at the weekend farmers market.
I’d told Larry five times now not to schedule me on Sundays. The farmers market was my chance to build my baking business, to eventually get out from under Larry’s thumb. But every week, there I was, serving overpriced shrimp and grits to people who acted like they’d discovered soul food.
“Your hair is so interesting,” the mother said suddenly, reaching out and touching one of my curls without permission. “Is it all natural?”
Something in me snapped. Before I could think, my hand shot up and slapped hers away. Hard.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice low but sharp enough to cut glass.
Her mouth fell open in exaggerated shock. “How dare you! I was just curious!”
“My hair isn’t an exhibit,” I said, stepping back.
The daughter’s eyes went wide. “Mom, I told you not to?—”
“Manager!” The mother’s voice carried across the entire restaurant, silencing conversations. “Your waitress just assaulted me!”
Larry appeared like he’d been waiting for his cue, all 300 pounds of him moving with surprising speed.
“What seems to be the problem, ladies?” His smile was all teeth, his eyes darting between them and me.
“She slapped my hand! All because I admired her hair!”
Larry turned to me, his smile vanishing. “Zahara, what the hell?”
“She put her hands on me without permission,” I said, standing my ground even as my heart raced. “I have a right?—”
“Ladies, I am so sorry about this,” Larry cut me off, turning back to them. “Your meal today is on the house, of course. And please, order anything else you’d like, also complimentary.”
“Larry,” I started, but he gripped my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.
“Kitchen. Now.” He dragged me toward the back, past staring customers and whispering coworkers.
Once we were behind the swinging doors, he let go of my arm like it burned him.
