Zahara.
She was at a vendor’s table about thirty feet away, setting up trays of what looked like cinnamon rolls. Her hair was pulled back, her face focused as she arranged everything just so.
And standing next to her, looking small and vulnerable with a split lip and a black eye, was Yusef and a friend of his.
Everything else—Vivica, Rashid, the threats—faded into background noise.
All I could see was her.
16
ZAHARA
“If you think I’m gonna let you exploit my son and take him off my hands on Sunday while I work so he can earn a few dollars—you damn right! Yeah, I’m cool with Nigel helping you out on Sunday,” Brandi replied.
“I just didn’t want you to be upset if you found out I was using him for child labor,” I laughed.
“Girl, you know I don’t care about that. That boy needs to learn some responsibility. And he can earn a few dollars, that’ll keep him out of the house while I work all day at Grits. Besides, he needs to stay out of my pockets. His father’s been really stepping up lately, but that kid keeps needing more and more every day.”
“That’s good his dad’s coming through.” I knew that Nigel’s father was a small time hustler around the way. He didn’t move major weight, just enough to keep them in designer here and there.
“Yeah, he is. Bought Nigel some new Jordans last week. The boy been wearing them everywhere, even to bed.” She laughed. “But for real, Z, this is good for him. Nigel needs to see what hard work looks like. You’re doing me a favor.”
I hung up feeling lighter than I had all week. Having help at the farmers market would make things easier. And maybe having Nigel around would help pull Yusef out of whatever dark place he’d been in since the robbery.
Sunday morning came too early. I’d been up half the night baking the last batch of rolls at Grits, sneaking in after close like I’d been doing all week. My Instagram page—@SweetZin—had blown up from 100 followers to over 1,000 in seven days. I never showed my face, just the desserts. Close-ups of the red velvet Zinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting dripping down the sides. The peach cobbler rolls dusted with cinnamon sugar. The bourbon pecan ones that I’d just perfected.
People were going crazy in the comments.Where can I buy these?Do you cater?Take my money!
And now I was about to find out if the hype was real.
I knocked on Yusef’s door at 6 AM. “Yu, time to get up. We gotta load the car.”
Silence.
“Yusef.”
“I’m up,” came his muffled reply.
Twenty minutes later, we were loading insulated bags filled with trays of rolls into the back of the Uber I’d ordered. Yusef moved slowly, mechanically, his face still showing the bruises from last week. I’d kept him home all week, couldn’t stand the thought of sending him back to that school. But I also hated leaving him in the house all day while I worked.
He was a good kid, though. Never got into trouble. Just… sad. Stand-offish. Not himself.
Nigel showedup right on time, all energy and smiles, bouncing up the steps in brand-new Jordans that probably cost more than my rent.
“Morning, Ms. Z!” He was the only one of Yusef’s friends who called me that. “I’m ready to work!”
“Morning, Nigel. Thanks for helping out today.”
“No problem!”
“Nice shoes,” I complimented staring at his shoes.
“Yeah, my dad bought them for me, but my mom said I gotta earn my own spending money from now on. So this is perfect!”
I watched Yusef glance at Nigel’s shoes, then down at his own worn Nikes—a pair I’d gotten on clearance six months ago. The look on his face made my chest ache.
I knew part of why Yusef got bullied was because of his clothes. They weren’t name-brand. Weren’t flashy. They were clean and functional, but in a school where kids judged you by your sneakers, that wasn’t enough.
