by Matson , TC
“You’ve got my word.”
Let’s hope Kenlyn is the understanding type.
Chapter Five
Zandrea gives me the rundown of the kids I have today, and I get class started. Last week I gave the older kids an assignment of mandalas. Anything and any way they want to create it. The younger ones got to decide an animal or flower of their choice. I think of it as homework in hopes it keeps them off the streets and out of trouble.
Volunteering for One2One Change, a mentoring program, is something I’ve loved doing. The kids have hard lives. Some are without permanent housing, missing the security of knowing they’ve got a roof over their heads at night. A few have been adopted and are acting out, and others have parents who are incarcerated. The boys are great but in need of guidance from someone they can trust and somewhere to go to keep them off the streets, even if it’s for an afternoon. The hours they’re here with me are hours they’re not getting in trouble and are safe.
A handful is all I normally have, their ages ranging from six to fifteen, with attitudes full of “alpha male wannabe” resentment and mouths worse than any sailor.
What’s my specialty? Art. Of course.
“What’s your story this week?” Oliver asks over the hushed room.
We’re not supposed to have favorites. We treat all the kids the same, stand by them and help them build their future. I do, but Ollie? He’s my ten-year-old child star who has taken residence in my heart.
The “my story” started months ago when I told them about an enormous and very intricate tattoo I did for a man. As I described the back tat, they all stopped and took full interest in it. It’s about the “sickest” most “dopest” tat of the week.
I grab a chair, spin it, and straddle it. “This chick—”
“Was she hot?” Jody, one of the fifteen-year olds whose head below his belt has been stealing blood, interrupts.
Cody smacks his teeth from under his hood and shakes his head, never making eye contact. He’s my other soft spot, the one I break the rules for…a lot. He lives with his grandfather who is an alcoholic, but when he gets ornery and abusive, Cody stays with me. Zandrea knows and keeps a tight lip about it because she understands the boy just needs a safe place to put his head.
“Does it matter?” I retort looking Jody in the eyes.
He lifts a shoulder and I continue. “We drew up an elaborate tat for her thigh—Henna style with dahlias and a sic hidden phoenix. Vibrant coloring too. Took us four hour-and-a-half-long sessions but we finished a few days ago.”
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Jody quips.
I pull out my phone, open the gallery and turn the photo around to him.
A wolf whistle comes from Ollie. “I’d hit that.”
Ten. He’s ten. “Ollie,” I chastise.
“What? She got a butterface or something?”
Jody cracks up. “Butterface or not. Doubt you can even get your dic—”
“Stop.” My interjection is stern. “Don’t finish that. You’re all too young to be thinking that way.”
“Yeah? When’d you lose your V card then?” Shawn leans back in his chair looking smug as hell. He’s fifteen and comes from a line of gang bangers inherited by their incarcerated father. His mother has been desperately trying to save her baby boy from making the same mistakes as his four brothers. Their rap sheet is long, and unfortunately, Shawn doesn’t see that life as a problem.
“I don’t kiss and tell. No one should. It’s disrespectful,” I say.
“You saying you don’t sit around with your homies and talk about the latest pussy you hitting?”
Benny gasps. “Why do you hit cats?” The seven-year old’s eyes are wide with horror.
“I don’t hit cats, B. It’s a figure of speech. One you should never repeat.”
The shit-eating grin on Shawn’s face threatens to obliterate my restraint. “To answer your question. No. My private life stays private. Less chances for rumors to spread, lies to take off, and no drama. You should try it.”
Shawn rocks the chair on its back legs and tips his chin high like he owns the place. “You saying you don’t brag? Boast and show off the latest…” His eyes slide to Benny and he reconsiders his words. “Bitch? Sounds lame, bro. I figured you’d been around the block a time or two, but now I realize you probably waiting around for some princess bitch.”
Cody jerks around in his chair. “Dude. What the fuck’s your problem?”
“Cody,” I growl my warning, jerking to my feet. The chair scratches across the old wooden floors and the room falls quiet. Shawn’s looking for a fight. I can see it in his eyes, the way he’s puffed up, the smirk on his lips. I bend, placing my palms on his desk in front of him and lower my face to his. Gang banger or not, he doesn’t scare me. “I got better standards than to discuss my life with a boy. Younger kids than you are in here. Watch that mouth of yours or I’ll make sure Zandrea moves you to a new program, let’s say the dance meet, and out of this one. Which would be a shame since you’re talented with a pencil.”
Shawn smacks his teeth, wearing a scowl. “You’re all talk.”
Zandrea pops through the squeaky door, but I don’t lift my gaze from Shawn. “Everything okay in here?” she questions warily.
Arching a brow, I dare Shawn to test me. “Yeah, Z. It’s all good.” The smug glare never falters from his face.
“Okay good. Everyone clean up and put your stuff where it belongs. The bus is outside.” She claps her hands and shows off her pearly white teeth.
Zandrea pretends to be straightening up some papers on my desk, keeping her back to the kids. “Shawn giving you hell?” It’s under her breath, barely a whisper.
“He’s in quite the mood today.”
Her shoulders sag and she lets out a somber sigh. “His mother called yesterday. Said he’s been hanging around his brothers all week and his attitude reflects it.”
Brothers are supposed to be protectors. Someone their younger brothers look up too. It’s a shame to say, but Shawn doesn’t have much to gain from them. Instead of learning from their father’s mistakes and breaking the mold to become successful, happy, grown men, they’d rather follow their father’s footsteps. Their futures will be behind bars or under the dirt. It’s a shame, really.
“Sometimes I wish I could shake some sense into these kids. They’ve got so much potential,” Zandrea says.
“I won’t say nothing if you won’t,” I chuckle. “We can’t save them all.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “Wish we could, but we can’t.”
“Yo, Z.” Ollie steps up beside us. “You care if A takes me home? I… I, uh…” He glances around the room nervously.
Asking for something is hard. “As long as it’s fine with him I’m okay with it.”
“I brought my bike,” I inform him. “We can hang out here or at your house.”
His little face lights up with a smile. “Hell yes.” He rushes off to finish putting his supplies up.
I pause beside where Cody is sitting with his phone in his lap. “You good?” It’s for only his ears.
“Yeah.”
“Where you heading?”
“Thinking about going uptown.” Our code word for my place. If the other kids found out he stays with me, they’d eat his ass alive.
I nod. “Be safe. Make smart decisions.”
* * *
I take the longer route home and open it up on empty streets to hear Ollie laugh carefree. I like to let him enjoy the finer things his life doesn’t offer and I take for granted. Moments like these remind me of the hell I’ve overcome.
I park in front of the dingy-looking house with two flowerpots holding dead plants on the decrepit porch. The sidewalk leading to the home is cracked with chunks missing from the concrete and weeds taking root between the cracks. The house doesn’t fare much better. The soft yellow siding is stained with years of wear and tear, and the windows are dirty and missing most of their screens.
Ollie hop
s off and hands me the helmet that was too big for his head even after I tightened it down as snugly as it could go. “Mom brought home a new guy last week.” He kicks a rock under his foot.
I lean against my bike, crossing my ankles. “Yeah? Is this good or bad?”
He keeps toeing that rock. “My pops is still in jail and she’s out doing her thing. None of it’s with me either.”
Ollie’s mother adores him. It’s in her eyes, on her smile, in the way she tries so hard for him. “Your mom’s been working really hard to provide for you. You meet him yet?”
He nods.
“And? You like him?
“He tossed the football with me the other day.”
Fastest way to a football player’s heart. Ollie loves the game and is damn good at it too. I’m not just blowing smoke out of my ass either. Kid can play and if he stays on the right path, I bet my savings account he’ll have agents knocking down his door.
“That had to be fun.”
He doesn’t respond and keeps his head down.
I push off my bike and squat in front of him. “Just because this guy is in your life doesn’t mean you stop loving your dad. Your pops made his mistakes and now he’s paying the price. Your mom deserves to be happy. So do you. I bet this new guy is just as nervous to get to know you as you are him.”
“He’s not mom’s type. Hell, he ain’t like what’s around here. Business-like. Always clean cut and wears expensive-looking suits. He’s got a sic ride too. He bought us groceries last week.”
“Do you feel safe around him?”
“Ain’t been around him a lot.”
“You have every right to be wary. You’re the man of the house and protecting your momma. But I know she would never put you in a bad situation. She’d die before that happens. She loves you a heck of a lot.” I nudge him trying to ease the seriousness. “What was your first impression of me when we met? Be honest.”
His little grin is devilish. “You were bad news. Take no shh-stuff off no one. A hard ass.”
I like how he stopped from saying shit but let ass roll right on. “Dude, you didn’t go easy on me, huh?” I chuckle. “And now what do you think of me?”
The corners of his mouth curls up. “You’re cool as hell, A.”
“Take it from me. Don’t judge someone because of what they wear or how they look.”
He nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Give him a try. You never know. He may move you all out of the slums and into some nice, richy neighborhood with a high ranking school.”
His laugh is empty. “They won’t let me in no high rank.”
I shove his shoulder. “You’re smart, Ollie. Smartest kid I know. Don’t sell yourself short.” I get to my feet. “Besides. One look at how good you play ball and they’ll be begging you to be on their team.”
Finally, his hazel eyes find mine and they gleam. “You think?”
“Dude, I know.” And I’m dead serious.
The grin on his face, all teeth and ear to ear, shines. “Thanks, A.”
“You got my number. You need me, you call. Anytime, any day.”
We knuckle bump and I stay behind to watch him until he’s safely in his house before climbing back on my bike to head home.
Chapter Six
The communal table looks like the art supply aisle blew up. Construction paper, markers, scissors, glue, tape, and scraps of different colors litter around it. Even the walls aren’t safe from the brainstorm explosion. Post-It notes line the tall poster boards, the clusters all color coded for ideas and patterns. Heather and Jana work on prototypes of tabloid-sized prints. David pitches the commercial ideas. Lucia and I focus on the gallery-style advertisements. It’s the chaos I live for—creativity bursting from every crevice of our heads and personalities. It’s what happens when we have a large project.
“I’d say after this hellacious week, we deserve a night of drinks. Whatcha say?” Lucia tucks away a stack of unused construction paper.
My fingers dig into my temples. I’m brain fried. “Hot bath, wine, and soft pillows sound far superior.”
“You’re right. I doubt I’ll make it to nine.” She checks her phone, her thumbs working as she types. “I’ve got another session with Ash tomorrow. Come with me and then after we’ll go out and celebrate getting through the week.”
No freaking way I’ll sit across from Ash and watch him work. Seeing him peek out from his concentration mode as he flashes a small smile… Nope. It’s a fluster I don’t need or want.
“Why don’t you text me when you’re almost done and I’ll meet you somewhere,” I counter.
Her brows notch up. “You don’t want to stare at the eye candy while he works on my tat?”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to come,” I admit. “It’s awkward to just sit there.”
“He’s totally into you.”
“Pffft.” I roll my eyes with a huff. “He likes the thought of me. You heard Delia. Virgin skin and all.”
“Ever heard of opposites attract?”
“It’s one thing to be opposites. It’s another to be polar opposites.”
“It could be a Sandra Bullock and Jesse James love,” she says, batting her eyes.
I scoff. “And look how that ended. Ash is the type of man who doesn’t do real relationships. Probably wants his freedom and the permission to screw anyone.”
“You sure your awesome pessimistic accusations aren’t stemming from your past experiences?”
“No matter how unbelievably sexy he is, he’s a total bad boy and I’m not too keen about being turned rogue myself.”
“Wow, Lyn…” She exhales a heavy breath, scratching her manicured fingers across her forehead. “No one said you have to love him. Just have a good time. Get properly fucked because apparently you need it. Quit limiting yourself. Look how far it’s gotten you with your type.” She air quotes the last words.
“Ouch. Damn.” I rub my arm like she just punched it. “You’re brutal. Are you sure you’re not the one who needs a proper night in the sack?”
She laughs. “The world won’t stop if you let loose. Try it. Go rogue. Be reckless.”
“My last two relationships ended the same way. I don’t do casual hookups. Scratch that. I can’t do them. Apparently my heart is attached to my vagina. I want to take some time out for me. I need to be good enough for me before I can be good enough for someone else. I need to fix my broken parts so I can give someone my all.”
“There’s noth—” She stops and a deep frustrated growl rips from her throat. “I want to get my hands on your piece of shit mother and strangle her for causing you all this. You are good enough to be loved. More than enough. You’re a damn gem, Lyn and I wish you’d see it.”
My mother proved I wasn’t worth loving, nor was my brother or my father. A mother’s love is supposed to be tender, powerful, pure, devoted, and unselfish. Instead, she walked away from her family twenty years ago and never looked back. We meant nothing. We weren’t good enough for her. She abandoned us. So if she couldn’t try, why would anyone else want to?
“So drinks and dinner tomorrow?” I reroute the conversation. Talking about her will only bring me down.
Her expression softens. “Of course.”
* * *
Who knew the act of picking out spaghetti noodles was so arduous? I’ve been standing and staring at the same noodles for what feels like a damn eternity while everyone passes by us as if we’re the store’s new permanent fixtures.
“Dotty. They’re noodles. Grab one.” I speak through a gritted smile.
“Why’d they get rid of the kind I use? I was content with mine.”
“I don’t know.” I pick up a box and hold them out. “I’m sure these are just as good.”
Noodles are noodles, right?
“I know why they got rid of them. I haven’t made spaghetti in so long, God took them away. He cleared up space on the shelves.”
“I’m certain there wer
e no divine interventions on the shelves of the grocery store.”
Her hazel eyes narrow as they slide over my face. “That man works in mysterious ways. He knows things we couldn’t understand. Maybe this is a sign I shouldn’t make spaghetti.”
Please, Lord, grant me the patience today.
“We spent fifteen minutes picking out the right tomatoes. I will not allow you to change your mind on dinner and start over. God doesn’t care if you make spaghetti. He’s probably thrilled about it.”
“Do you really make your spaghetti sauce from a jar? That’s horrible.”
Just a little more, Lord.
“It’s quick and easy. I can add seasonings to make it taste good,” I reply, still…staring…at…noodles.
“Nonsense. Nothing tastes as good as homemade. I started cooking for my family when I was nine. Ma and Margy, rest their souls, brought our food in from the garden. Pop hunted our meat.”
“Welcome to 2020, Dotty. Those days are long gone and today is filled with preservatives and not enough time in a day. Now. Could you please pick some noodles?”
“Everyone’s in a rush to die,” she grumbles, finally pointing to the box I grabbed when we first stopped here over a hundred years ago.
What’s scarier than a murderous clown in the sewers? Dotty on a motorized shopping cart. She’s almost taken out the end of three aisles, four displays—succeeding in one with chips—multiple toes including mine, and when the automatic doors didn’t open fast enough she about made the store a drive through had I not grabbed her brakes. I was smart enough to have the taxi wait until she was stopped before pulling up beside us.
You should have a license to operate these things.
The cabbie was awfully sweet and helped us carry in the groceries, but he was met with a shotgun and a threat of a bullet hole between the eyes if he stepped into her apartment. I tipped him extra and sent him on his way. Dotty may look and be sweet, but she’s also as mean as a starved junkyard dog. As for her gun? It doesn’t have ammunition, but you don’t know that when the barrel is pointed at you.
