“Ma’am, I just need to bring him in for a few hours,” I begged.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t accept him without documentation. I mean, we have no way of knowing if he’s been kidnapped, if he’s allergic to the foods we serve, or if he has some kind of emotional problem that would put the other children in danger.”
“But I just need—”
“And we’d have to make some special provisions for him because he’s a school-age child. We don’t normally keep schoolers during school hours. Do you have documentation showing he’s been suspended? I mean, if a state inspector comes and sees we’re keeping a child who, by law, should be in school, we have to be able to show them why he’s in day care, not school.”
Okay, I was getting nowhere with this woman. “Never mind.”
I called two more day care centers and the YMCA. I even called a church—they take everyone, right? Same long list of questions I couldn’t answer, claims I couldn’t prove. What has the world come to when kids can’t be ditched, no questions asked? What happened to the whole “village” concept?
I blame the parents. The government. Somebody.
As we approached the city, I fought the urge to wake DeAndre so he could marvel at the lofty buildings and steep highway overpasses. He would have enjoyed the sights, I’m sure, but I enjoyed the sight of his little brown, quiet head propped up against the window even more.
When we finally arrived at my place, I shook DeAndre out of his sleep and announced, “We’re here.”
He swiped the spittle from his mouth and stretched while taking in the immediate surroundings. My apartment building’s garage was pretty uneventful. Gray, dark, nothing but rows of cars.
Nonetheless, DeAndre took one look at the stairwell and gasped, “Ooh! You got a two-story house!”
“Not quite.” I laughed under my breath. “This is an apartment.”
He crumpled his face. “I thought you was rich?”
“Who told you I was rich?”
“My granny.”
Figures. “I’m not rich, but I’m not poor, either.”
“Then how come you live in an apartment instead of a house?” he quizzed me sharply. “My momma said rich people live in houses, mostly brick houses with stairs in ’em.”
His momma was wrong, of course, but I couldn’t call her out like that. “I choose to live in an apartment. People have choices, you know? And sometimes an apartment costs more than a house. Just depends on where you live. The city is different from the country.”
By the confusion scribbled across his face, I’d given him enough food for thought to last a week.
We had a few hours to kill in the apartment. DeAndre checked out my place and pronounced it officially “cool” on account of the Dyson desktop fan in the living room, which didn’t have blades but seemed to blow air from an invisible source. This little wonder wasn’t actually a necessity. When Kevin was home, he lowered the thermostat to an un-environmentally-friendly freezing temperature that kept me covered in blankets. This fan he’d purchased was nothing more than a hyperengineered conversation piece.
Once DeAndre had had his fill of the fan, I sat him down in front of the television with a Lean Pocket and apple juice, then hustled onto the Internet to sync my client files in real-time.
I hopped in the shower, changed into business attire, and tore DeAndre from the couch and cartoons. “Where are we going?”
It took nearly all the commuting time from my apartment to the office to explain where we were going and exactly how I expected him to behave. The fact that he was suspended hadn’t escaped me, though it didn’t seem to phase DeAndre anymore. I wondered how many times he’d been suspended, but the foyer entrance to NetMarketing didn’t seem quite the place to inquire about his previous offenses.
“This office is big,” DeAndre commented as the building receptionist, Alma, buzzed us past the front desk.
“Your son?” she wanted to know. I swear, I’d all but walked past this woman tens of thousand times, but never once had she been so interested in my business.
“Cousin,” I replied, pulling DeAndre out of her sight. I led him straight to my abandoned cubicle, hoping this home-away-from-home had not been ransacked by fellow employees needing pens, Post-it Notes, or legal pads. Since we arrived during the lunch hour, the office was pretty empty. Bad enough I was telecommuting, now I’d brought a kid into the office. Now, more than ever, I wished I’d had an actual work space with a door so I could hide DeAndre.
I pointed, he parked himself in my seat. “Sit here until I get back from my meeting.”
His eyes traversed the countertops in my space, then he questioned, “What am I supposed to do while you’re in the meeting?”
Do? Who says kids always have to be doing something? “You’ll sit here and wait.”
“You want me to just do nothin’?” DeAndre looked at me like I had lost my marbles.
I opened my desk drawers and pulled out an issue of Essence magazine. “Here. Read this.”
“Ewww. This is for girls,” he whined. He eyed my computer. “You got any video games?”
“Umm . . . maybe there are a few on the Internet. You have a favorite Web site?”
“Web what?”
“You know, like w-w-w dot something-something-something dot com,” I tried again.
“Oh, you talking about the infernet?”
“In-ter-net. Yes.”
“No. We don’t have the Internet in my class, just at the library.”
He was right about that much. We’d have to go “old school” with his entertainment. I grabbed a notepad and pens with various ink colors from another compartment.
“You like to draw?”
“No.”
I checked my watch. “Look, I don’t have anything else. I don’t have any kids, DeAndre. This is all new to me. Give me a break on this one, okay?” Then I resorted to something I’d seen plenty of parents do in grocery stores. “If you sit here and quietly occupy yourself until I come back, we’ll go do something fun later. Okay?”
His eyes lit up. “Fun like what?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out. Just draw for now. Practice your multiplication tables, too.” I drew an imaginary line across the entrance to my cubicle. “Do not move from this area, and don’t talk to anyone. If anyone comes by and asks you who you are or what you’re doing here, just tell them you’re here with Tori Henderson.”
“Your last name ain’t Lester?”
“No, my last name is not Lester.”
“So, are we real cousins or play cousins?”
“Real.” Why did any of this matter right now?
DeAndre’s face brandished a full smile. “Okay. I’m glad, Cousin Tori.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
With DeAndre settled, I proceeded to the conference room and took a spot near the head, where I knew Preston would sit. Though I hadn’t been away long, already the room possessed a foreign air. The table seemed longer, ceiling higher, lights brighter.
Most of my team (minus Preston) entered at once. Lexa entered first, wearing a power blue suit and black pumps. Brian next, in his signature gray. Two other associates, Kellie and Shane, followed. Obviously, they’d gone to lunch together.
“Hi, Tori!” from Lexa. “Good to see you. How’s your grandmother?”
“My aunt,” I corrected her fake inquisition. “She’s much better. They’re releasing her from the hospital Monday.”
Brian jumped in. “You’ll be back next week, then?”
I tilted my head. “Not exactly. She’ll be going to rehab.”
They moaned collectively: oh, I see.
Lexa took the seat across from me, furtively glanced at the room’s door, then blurted out the question I’m sure was on each of my colleagues’ minds. “Tori, exactly when will you be coming back?”
Something about the sharp tone in her voice didn’t sit well with me. Sounded like a teenager home alone, scheming to figure out
how much she could get away with in her parents’ absence.
Preston saved the day upon entrance. “Hello, Tori! So glad you could make it.” He clasped both of my hands in his, a fairly warm gesture for our office.
“Glad to be here.”
Preston sat and got straight to business, asking for updates on each person’s caseload. I chimed in with the reports, hadn’t missed a beat. He shared data supporting everyone’s satisfactory productivity and then braced us for his big announcement.
“Looks like we’re all on track for another great year, but we’ll have to step things up. We’re taking on a new client. The biggest one we’ve ever landed, thanks in great part to Lexa.”
Jealousy coursed through my veins. Lexa? She flashed a beauty-queen smile and waved as though gliding down Main Street on a float. My cohorts chuckled at her antics.
Since when did they all find Lexa so humorous? And what on earth could she have done in the few weeks I’d been gone to secure a client worthy of me driving more than three hours to hear this groundbreaking proclamation?
“We just inked a two-year contract with Inner-G drinks. . . .” Preston could barely finish his sentence before the room filled with oohs and aahs. Inner-G’s founder, world-renowned rapper G-Cash, had partnered with a host of basketball players and Hollywood celebrities to launch his version of an energy drink. By all appearances, this line was the urban version of Red Bull.
Why would Preston involve our firm in such a trendy venture? Most of our clients were respectable, mainstream businesses with whom we had proven track records in reaching majority consumers. Researching and accessing a new niche would take us completely out of our marketing expertise.
Furthermore, I questioned how Lexa had managed to work this deal. I wondered whose behind she’d kissed. Literally.
“In light of this acquisition, we’ll be reassigning and hiring. Lexa will, of course, head the Inner-G account. Her enthusiasm and tenacity will lend itself well to their campaigns.”
A round of applause for Lexa ensued as a haughty grin snaked across her lips. I forced my hands to clap, but my brain boiled.
“To back Lexa, however, we’ll add Tori’s experience to the equation.” Preston pointed in my direction. Another stupid clapping spell.
Me? This was great. Just great. I don’t know what else Preston said in that meeting. He lost me when he basically appointed me assistant to Miss Corporate Bootie-Smacker.
The meeting concluded with my attitude a total wreck. Didn’t help to find a group of fellow employees flocked around my desk. Why are all these people in my work space?
Before I could say anything, DeAndre hopped down from my seat and stepped toward me. “I’m sorry, Cousin Tori. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Didn’t know what to do about what?”
The small crowd of adults dispersed, their heads hung low, avoiding eye contact. Behind them, one of the custodians emerged toting my trash can with gloved hands at arm’s length, as though it might contain nuclear fallout. He walked past me, shaking his head.
“What happened, DeAndre?”
He stood in fig-leaf formation. “I had to pee. But you told me not to go anywhere or talk to anybody. So . . . I peed in the trash can.”
Anger and disbelief crawled up my face. “You did what?”
Seth, one of the younger administrative assistants in the office, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “I walked by and saw his little rear end sticking out above his pants. You might want to let him know, if he wants to sneak-a-leak, use the opening in his underwear. That’s why guys have a flap in the front.”
I turned slightly to gauge Seth’s facial expression.
“Are you serious?”
He held back laughter. “Trust me, it’s a life skill for males.” He winked and walked away.
Maybe Seth was used to peeing in trash cans, but this kind of thing was not normal in my world. I returned my attention to DeAndre, still quietly standing in the center of my cubicle.
He rationalized, “Sometimes we pee in the wastebasket at school.”
“Who is we?”
He confessed, “Me and my friends do it, when we’re in the restroom. But one time we got caught, and we got suspended.”
“So you thought it was a good idea to pee in the wastebasket at my job?”
His blank face piled even more fury on top of the Twilight-Zonish feeling that I was caught in a nightmare. This boy done peed in my trash can!
“DeAndre, it’s no wonder you’re in trouble all the time.” I grabbed his elbow. “Let’s go.”
Suddenly it all made sense. I could understand now why parents always look so stressed and why teachers need two months off in the summer. These kids will drive you crazy.
Chapter 13
All the silent way home, I kept wondering what I should do about this peeing incident. Spank him? Ground him? Make him pee in a wastebasket a hundred times to break him from this nasty habit? Maybe if I Googled “my child peed in a trash can” I might get some ideas, but every kid is different, and this kid wasn’t even mine. Was it my fault for telling him to stay isolated in the cubicle? Would I have been more accepting if he’d peed in his pants trying to hold it?
Probably.
Lexa’s darn-near promotion (over me) also scraped my nerves. Was there no loyalty at NetMarketing?
Probably not.
I needed to get back to work soon and scrounge up a few good clients, too. Now that we were going hip-hop, taking money from anyone who’d dish it whether we knew their market or not, I was game.
Kevin’s bright red Mustang GT always seemed to protrude from its row in our underground parking garage. What’s he doing home?
I noticed DeAndre pouting as we approached my doorway. How dare he have an attitude. “What’s your problem?”
“You said we would go do something fun after your meeting if I didn’t leave from your desk,” he fussed.
He was almost comical at this point. “DeAndre, you don’t get to have fun when you urinate in trash receptacles at people’s jobs.”
“I didn’t u-ron-ate, I peed.”
I gave up. “Whatever.”
He muttered, “I knew you were lying.”
An image of me backhanding DeAndre flashed through my mind. Scared me, actually, to know I could envision such violent scenarios, and to realize my temper could go from zero to sixty in thirty seconds flat with this little boy.
Breathe. Count to ten.
“I wasn’t lying, DeAndre. The deal is off because of you, not me. And don’t you ever accuse any adult of lying ever again. You understand?”
Momma mode was in full effect, but I’d have to get this boy back to Bayford quickly before he forced a brief jail stay upon me.
I fumbled through my key ring, searching for the right one. All I wanted was to get inside, fall on my bed face-down, and scream into a pillow. For the past twenty-four hours, I’d been doing nothing except jumping through hoops, thoroughly ashamed at DeAndre’s school, upstaged by Lexa, only to be mortified moments later by my cousin’s actions. A meltdown would do me just fine.
Alas, I still had DeAndre in custody. And now Kevin, who knew hardly anything about this child. As of this morning, that made two of us.
I leaned down to address DeAndre at eye level. “Listen, my boyfriend, Kevin, is inside. He’s probably tired from work, so you need to keep it down,” I instructed.
“You got a boyfriend?” DeAndrew asked, a twinge of disappointment lining his question.
“Yes.”
“How long is he gonna be here?”
“He stays here.”
DeAndre covered his lips with both hands. “Ommmm. My granny said a woman ain’t supposed to stay with a man she ain’t married to.” Now he scraped one index finger over the other, giving me the shame-on-you signal. “That’s bad, Cousin Tori, super bad.”
Give me a break.Yo momma is in the pen.
“Just be quiet, DeAndre.”
K
evin’s “Hey babe” was cut short at the sight of our little guest. The three of us did a little eye-cutting dance. Kevin confused, me apologetic, DeAndre unimpressed.
I formally introduced them; they shook hands. Kevin promptly called a meeting of the minds in our bedroom. I gave DeAndre orders to stay on the couch, adding, “If you have to use the restroom, it’s down the hall.”
Once in our bedroom, Kevin closed the door behind me. He barked, “What’s he doing here?”
I stepped out of my heels and sunk into the chaise, hoping my routine actions would calm Kevin’s impending freak-out. “He got kicked out of school for a few days. I had to bring him with me.
“What are you doing home already?” I continued. “I thought you were in St. Louis for the week.”
“Plans changed. They needed Romie there instead. Language translation issue. I’m heading out for Milwaukee tomorrow, but don’t try to change the subject. Why is there a kid in our apartment?”
“You’re acting like I brought home a giant squid in a fish tank.”
“Might as well. What are you trying to do here—make a little family for us?” He peered into me; I read into him.
“This is not about you, Kevin. Don’t flatter yourself.”
I brushed past him and took a seat on the toilet to relieve myself, at least physically. Though I was just as upset about having DeAndre in the house, I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. Save that for Joenetta.
“Don’t worry. I’m taking him back to Bayford tomorrow, and I’ll come back to Houston as soon as I possibly can so I can work with Lexa on the new client she single-handedly won over. Preston’s really tooting her horn right now.”
“What’d you expect? You left your job to take care of family. Now they know where your priorities lie,” he fussed from the closet.
“Since when is family so wrong?” I wailed from the bathroom.
He sighed loudly. “Since it slows down production. Everybody knows that’s why women don’t move up the career ladder as quickly. They’re tied to the family rung. Plus they’re too loyal. Can’t navigate through a dog-eat-dog world when you’re tied to people.”
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 11
