That random ass Monday in September always came back in bits and pieces of fuzzy blackness. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make out the faces of the LA County sheriffs deputies trying to get a glance at Ason Williams’ son in cuffs—I just heard their star-struck voices and the strain in them each time they read my charges out loud.
Marcus doesn’t close his eyes and shake his head. He keeps his eyes on mine and they drift down to the mural of LA tattooed on my stomach.
“So what’d he say when he called you?” I ask.
It’s the first time I ever get the chance to ask how he talks about me to real people when I’m not around—not to lawyers, reporters, sports agents, or recruiters but to real ass people that had nothing to gain or lose.
“You don’t need to worry about that. All you need to know is that I told him what he needed to do.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Told him to bring your ass back home for good. It took him two years to do it, but he finally listened to me. Shit,fuckLA.” He holds his hand out and I grip it while he pulls me into one of those post-prison embraces.
“And I don’t hurt her feelings on purpose,” he mutters into my ear. “But I ain’t as strong as you and her, a’ight? I—I can’t watch Mama waste away in that house. So when the end comes I wanna see her just like Daddy did—cheesing with a head full of hair and his name on her lips from the stands in that gym I never got a chance to play in. You know, back when he was trying to just be somebody—back before that stupid heart attack took him out on that court.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
Lourdes
There’s a lot of shit they don’t teach in school. They don’t teach you how to pay bills, how to cook a decent meal, what to do if your mama can’t keep breakfast in her stomach, or how to respond if that boy you hate and like keeps popping up at the wrong times.
I squint through the front door’s peephole at Ace gripping his backpack. “What the fuck?”
He pounds on the door again and I want to throw up the bacon I ate this morning while Mama cursed Marcus out on his voicemail for not answering. BeforeDivorce Courtcame on, the weatherman said we were on the fourth day of a heat wave and the evidence drips from Ace’s swollen bottom lip.
I glance down at Marcus’ dingy high school jersey. I didn’t have time to put on shorts and my legs are so hairy Chelsea can probably grip them for braids.
“I know you at the door, Phat,” he says, making my stomach drop. “I heard you.”
He turns his red neck as a car passes by and my eyes narrow at his head where Brandy kept touching it in the cafe. Chelsea’s stupid analogies dance in my head, but I can’t concentrate on them because his mouth starts moving.
“It’s hella hot and you playing games.”
Now, my eye burns because I’m too preoccupied with him to blink.
He smacks his lips. “Open your mouth, Lourdes. I’m not a mind reader.”
I listen because that was his plan all along—to turn me into one of Pavlov’s stupid drooling dogs like he did with Brandy. There’s no more ‘can you’ and it’s my fault, like he said. I’m not careful of what I agree to do for dudes that just… ask.
“Marcus ain’t here.”
“I know he not here. He called me.”
“That nigga calledyouand not us?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I mean, I thought he had talked to ya’ll. He said Mom had a doctor’s appointment, and you got an appointment at the nail shop.”
“And what’s that have to do with you?”
I hold my breath for his eyes to roll like Marcus’ do when I’m in the same funky mood as Mama. By now me and her are conjoined twins and I’ve stopped eating too.
He glances at his truck in the driveway parked next to Mama’s Honda. It’s the same fancy white Porsche with California plates he drove to our house when he came for dinner. When he turns back around, his lips tilt up and he leans in, smashing his ear to the door.
“What you doing?” I ask.
I’m supposed to frown but I can’t just like Brandy can’t keep her hands or eyes off of him, so my mouth gets stuck in this weird half-smile, half-frown.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me something good, kid.”
