Jamal King
“Mom, it won’t fit,” I whine, unable to fit my loose hair under the ball cap. “Not even when I unfasten the snaps. It sticks out like a big fluffy hairball.” I angle the phone in the hotel mirror so she has a better view. I’ll probably smell like peanut butter for ages.
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had to tell someone not to touch my hair, I would just be playing hockey for the love of it. My hair tends to frizz if left to its own devices. Being self-conscious about not wearing it braided goes back to elementary school because kids can be cruel.
She covers her mouth, hiding her smile. “J, I’m sorry. I’m glad it’s not worse. Good thing Theo was there to help.” Her brown eyes dance, and I can’t be mad at her.
“He felt guilty as hell, ’cause he knew he did that,” I scoff, and peer at my moms when she’s silent.
“J, I admire your healthy skepticism. You don’t take a person’s words at face value. You watch their actions and then make a judgment.” When I go to argue, she shushes me and continues. “Theo didn’t do this, and even if he felt guilty, he’s not obligated to help you. You should pay attention to his actions.” She gives me a pointed stare.
“I gotta get on the bus to the airport like this,” I complain, not wanting to examine my complicated feelings for Theo or realize I’m the bad guy in this situation.
“I’m glad Jada can fix it when you get home. Do you want to come over for dinner afterward?”
“I need to watch film and take a nap already.” My nervous system has been on high alert, and I can’t convince my body I’m not in danger. It’s exhausting.
“Text me when you land safely. Love you, honey.”
“I love you too.” I end the video call and decide to hit the vending machine instead of breakfast.
The guys won’t mean any harm, but I’m not in the mood to hear about my hair or answer questions. I’m stuck in my head, anticipating problems that haven’t happened. The truth is, my hair being half done makes me feel messy, and it’s out of my control. Historically, society has looked down upon natural Black hair, and it feeds my anxiety.
Theo’s mad confusing. He got me, like, damn, pick a lane. Is he hating on me or open to being friends?
Looking back, I’m shook I trusted him, but my moms is right. His actions say he’s trustworthy. He calmed me with one hand fixing my hair and the other kneading my tense muscles, all while murmuring in my ear. The words have faded, but their gentle rhythm rocked me like a lullaby.
I raid the vending machine with the intention of getting on the bus first and claiming a window seat. Maybe no one will notice.
My conversation with Theo replays over and over. I shouldn’t have insinuated he’s bi, but he made it so easy, and the man got ghostly pale.
With horror, I realize I acted like him.
In truth, I was uncomfortable.
My therapist would tell me I covered my authentic emotions by deflecting and lashing out. Theo could be struggling with being bi, and I joked as if it was meaningless. Some guys like Lucky can go with the flow after they realize they’re attracted to men. Some guys have an identity crisis. To set things right with Theo, I can’t use his insecurities against him.
Or he could be a straight asshole fucking with me. He brings out a side of me I’m not proud of.
But he didn’t touch me like he was confused. He spoke directly into my ear, and goosebumps erupted all over my neck. He had to have noticed, but he didn’t back away.
On my way out the front door, Mav yells to me. “Hey, King, 1985 called and wants the mullet back.” He snickers, but I don’t turn around. “Owww, what was that for?”
“No one talks about King’s hair,” Theo commands as if he has the final say.
The bus driver opens the door for me, and I hop on, find my seat, and sit with the back of my head against the window.
Detroit isn’t far from New York City, but it feels a world away.
“Here.” Theo throws a bag in my lap and sits next to me.
“That’s Brant’s seat,” I say warily.
“You’re welcome, and not today. You need better manners.”
I huff at Theo, Mr. I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit, schooling me on manners.
“Open it.” He holds the bag open. “There weren’t a lot of choices last night, but I did my best.”
