He’s talking the same shit he talked in the driveway when he was drunk and I’m his lone teammate on Planet Ace, so I got to think of something good—something that won’t have him calling meLourdes.
“That’s what LeBron called you that time you hit that game winning buzzer beater against Villanova in the Sweet Sixteen,” I babble out. “The Kid.”
It’s another stupid thing I’m not supposed to say, but I’m used to my mouth betraying me when he’s around.
“Then Dough named his last mixtapeThe Kid. It was the second mixtape in history to win a Grammy for best rap album even though it wasn’t even an album. You were the only person he thanked during his acceptance speech. He didn’t even thank the academy.”
Now he knows more embarrassing things about me. One: I know about one of the most prolific nights of his basketball career because Marcus still doubles back to it on YouTube at least once a month. Two: I know every song on that mixtape better than I know my statistics formulas. Three: Boys I hate and like make me so nervous that I say things I should only think.
His ear lingers by the door, and he tucks his puffy bottom lip under his teeth.
Finally, he reaches up and taps his knuckles against the door. “Can you let a nigga in,kid?”
There’s another wet spot in my panties, but I don’t care because I’m too busy twisting the deadbolt and pushing against the screen door. When the sun hits his face, his eyes are soft like they were when I told him Mama won’t eat.
“Nobody calls me that anymore.” He smirks, glancing at my bushy, bottomless legs.
“Marcus still does.”
He nods, toeing his Jordans off but keeping his backpack dangling from his shoulder. “Marcus a solid dude.”
“If he so solid why he won’t answer for me and Mama when we call?”
Or help me get Mama out the bed? Or teach me how to cook for us since she can’t even stand up long enough to boil water some days? Or come home like he supposed to?
“Ain’t he your host nigga, anyway? Why you don’t be with him? Why you keep coming around us?”
He chuckles and yanks his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face. I swallow to quell the dryness in my throat from the sight of his inked up abs.
“I see the kid is angry today.” He drops the t-shirt and smiles. “Anger’s a good thing.”
“Is this one of your good and bad metaphorical, analogical bullshit answers?”
“Nah.” He turns and walks across the living room, toward the kitchen. “It’s just words. That’s all, Lourdes.”
“Yeah… whatever.” I follow behind him. “Don’t come up in here being loud either.”
The rest of my words get lodged in my throat. I can’t tell him that Mama’s wrenching stomach finally stopped and let her close her eyes—even if it’s only two hours before she has to be at the clinic.
His socked feet glide across the kitchen floor toward the bottle of Paul Masson Marcus left next to the sink, and I remember the satisfaction that washed over his face after he took his first sip of Hennessy at dinner the other night.
“It ain’t even eleven.” I cross my arms, bounding up behind him. “Should you be drinking that?”
He grips the bottle, and I keep my distance while trailing him. He pulls open cabinets around the kitchen until he finds the red solo cups Marcus keeps hidden behind the paper towels in the pantry.
“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t cook her heavy shit,” he mutters, opening the bottle and tipping it over an empty cup.
When he brings the drink to his lips, he glances around the kitchen at my desperate attempt to cook breakfast. The bacon was soggy with grease, Mama said the grits were too runny, and I forgot to grease the pan for the biscuits, so they’re cemented to the baking sheet. This time, she hid her plate under her bed.
“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.” I scoff. “It’s my mama—not yours. I can’t wait for days while she twiddles her thumbs trying to figure out what she wants to eat or—or for Marcus to stop fucking around and bring me to H-E-B. I cooked what’s in here.”
I sound like Mama because me and her been conjoined for too long.
His lips curl around the rim of the cup and water pools in my mouth because I want to taste him again. My words were supposed to sting, but his eyes stay soft, like he understands that nothing I say has to do with him. His swollen lips climb into a sympathetic smile because I think he can read my mind sometimes.
“You know…I was mad as fuck that night LeBron called me The Kid,” he says after taking another sip.
“What you was so mad about?” I garble out. “I don’t think it’s much you could’ve been mad about that night. People still talk about that shot.”
