“What the fuck was that?” His face was red with anger. “You don’t slap customers, Zahara. Especially not the well-paying ones who can afford to eat here every day!”
“She touched me without asking,” I said, rubbing my arm where his fingers had left marks. “I’m not an animal in a petting zoo!”
“I don’t give a damn! You think I can afford to lose customers because you got an attitude?” He ran a hand over his greasy hair. “That meal is coming out of your check.” He sported a Jheri curl. Yep, 2025, he was rocking with Soul Glo, leaving oil stains wherever he sat. And he was always sweating. I meanalways. It’s 50 degrees outside, but there is a line of moisture at his hairline and his mustache. Yuck.
“What? Larry, that’s not fair?—”
“Not fair?” He laughed, an ugly sound. “You know what’s not fair? Me having to comp meals because you can’t control yourself.”
“Larry, please. I need that money. My son?—”
“Should’ve thought about that before you went putting your hands on paying customers.” His eyes traveled down my body in that way that always made me want to shower. “Though I’m sure we could work something out…”
I stepped back, disgust curling in my stomach. “Um, no.”
He shrugged, smirking. “Your choice. But either way, you’re done for today. Go home.”
“What? The shift doesn’t end for four more hours!”
“You’re lucky I don’t fire your ass.” He moved closer, his breath hot and smelling of cigarettes. “Real lucky. Now get out before I change my mind.”
I stared at him, calculating how much money I’d lose from this, at least a hundred in tips, plus whatever he took from my check for the comped meal. That was a chunk of Yusef’s camp money, gone.
“This ain’t fair,” I said, my voice shaking with rage.
“Life ain’t right, sweetheart.” His eyes dropped to my lips. “My office is always open if you want to discuss your… position here.”
I grabbed my purse from under the counter and walked out the back door without another word, the cool air hitting my face like a slap. I leaned against the brick wall, tears of frustration burning behind my eyes.
Four hours of pay gone. Sunday shifts blocking my real business. A boss who thought my body was on the menu. And a brilliant child waiting for a chance I might not be able to give him.
I pulled out my phone and checked my bank balance: $342.17. Not even halfway to what Yusef needed for camp. I’d have to ask for an extension.
Something had to change. I couldn’t keep living like this, trapped between other people’s entitlement and my own dreams. As I walked toward the bus stop, I made a promise tomyself: this would be the last time Larry or anyone else made me feel small.
I just needed to figure out how to make that promise stick.
But I had no education, not even a GED, which is why I stuck working these dead-end jobs. Grits has been the longest job I’ve ever held down. I’ve dealt with unemployment too many times, which is why I needed to keep this job even if it meant fighting nasty-ass Larry off of me. My soul knew that change was soon to come.
I checkedthe time on my phone—two o’clock. Too early to go home. My mind kept running through the numbers as I rode the bus across town. Yusef would be at Brandi’s place until six, giving me a few unexpected hours of freedom I hadn’t planned for.
Brandi was a godsend. Another single mother from Grits with a son, Nigel, the same age as Yusef. We’d worked out our arrangement months ago. Whenever she worked late, I’d watch hers, and whenever I worked late, she’d watch mine. The boys both protested that they were old enough to stay at home alone. A part of me agreed, but a part of me was worried they would get into trouble with the other no-good boys in the neighborhood.
Her apartment was justdown the hall from mine, making drop-offs and pick-ups easy. The boys were thick as thieves, always getting into something, but they were good kids. Straight-A students with big dreams.
When the bus stopped downtown, I made a split-second decision. The central library was only two blocks away. If Larry was going to steal my hours, I’d make them count for something.
The cool quiet of the library wrapped around me like a blanket as I headed straight for the business section. By now, thelibrarians recognized me—the woman who spent hours poring over books on small business loans, marketing strategies, and bakery start-ups.
“Back again, Zahara?” Ms. Tompkins smiled from behind her desk.
“Got some unexpected free time,” I said, returning her smile.
I settled at my usual table by the window, a stack of books beside me, notebook open. I’d been perfecting my business plan for months now. “Sweet Zin” was a bakery built on creativity and love, named for me and my twin sister. My signature was what I called Zinnamon Rolls, the “Z” for us, the flavor for everybody else.
They weren’t your average cinnamon rolls. Each one was soft, buttery, and unapologetically indulgent, handcrafted from our own recipes and imagination. There was the Red Velvet Zinnamon Roll, swirled with red cocoa and cream cheese glaze that melted into every bite; the Peach Cobbler Zinnamon Roll, packed with caramelized peaches and brown sugar crumble; and the Bourbon Pecan Zinnamon Roll, sticky, smoky, and just a little sinful.
Then came the wild cards: Lavender Honey Zinnamon Rolls drizzled with gold-flecked glaze, Salted Caramel Apple Zinnamon Rolls that tasted like fall on a plate, and a Bananas Foster Zinnamon Roll made for pure drama.
