by Mj Fields
I hear Patrick and Brisa moan, open the bathroom door, and peek my head out. “We’ll be up soon.”
I watch Patrick chuck a pillow at the bathroom door. “You’ll be up to help. We hosted last weekend.”
“Hung over?” Dad asks him.
“Little bit,” he admits.
“Deserve that shit, Tricks. Shouldn’t even have one drink if you’re supposed to be behind the wheel. You’re lucky the girls were around.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Patrick rolls onto his side, his back facing Dad as he raises a brow at me and repeats, “No doubt.”
“Where’s the Jeep?” Dad asks.
“A friend drove it home for me.” Patrick rolls back over and sits up. “Gotta get ahold of her later and grab it.”
“Feel free to invite her for a meal. Tags and Bella are coming in. One of his friends is in town, so we’re gonna have a few extra bodies, anyway,” Dad offers.
“Need help getting some extra chairs in?” Patrick stands and stretches.
Dad looks at the new ink that Justice added to Patrick’s growing body art—on the down-low, of course—and shakes his head. “Justice’s work?”
Patrick smirks then shrugs.
Dad sighs. “Kid’s got talent, but a heads-up would always be appreciated.”
Patrick looks at me, eyes dancing with amusement, then back at Dad. “Truth is getting real good at body modification.”
“What?” I squeak. Yes, squeak, like a pubescent boy.
Patrick continues, “By the last rung of my Jacob’s ladder, I almost fell asleep.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I throw the bathroom door open, slip on the wet tile, and fall on my ass, because apparently, I’m more worried about the towel falling than getting hurt.
“Truth!” Dad’s voice echoes through the wall.
“I’m fine,” I tell him as I jump up. “Fuck!”
Patrick beats Dad to the door. “Jesus, T, I was just fucking around.”
Brisa finally shows up in the conversation. “Oh, Truth, look at your ankle.” She smacks Patrick on the back of the head. “Look what you made her do!”
“Lemme see, little bird,” Dad says in a much softer tone.
“Could you all let me get dressed, please? And rest assured, I didn’t pierce his”—I make a gagging sound—“thing.”
He tosses a glare at Patrick then looks back at my ankle. “Looks bad, Truth. Get dressed, and I’ll look it over.”
I nod, looking down, unable to give him eye contact. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. Go do what you have to do. I’ll be up after I get ready.”
He doesn’t move for a couple seconds.
“Guys, I’m in a freaking towel. Come on.”
I close the door and listen to them as I quickly throw on some joggers, a minimizer sports bra, and a sweatshirt, trying to ignore the new ache not only in my ankle but now in my ass, too.
“Gonna go grab a quick shower in JT’s room and throw on some of his clothes. Won’t take more than five minutes.”
“You sure you don’t need time to do your hair?” Dad pokes fun at Patrick.
“Might wear a headband today. You got a pink one, T?”
“Pussy,” Dad mumbles as he walks out the door.
Hair hanging wet, I gimp out of the bathroom as Patrick closes my door behind him as he walks out.
“Freaking genius, right?” Brisa grins.
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, if he buys it.”
When Dad picked me up like I was still five years old and had just busted my knee open while trying to keep up with Justice and Patrick on a bike and set me on the counter to inspect my ankle, I was a breath away from spilling the beans.
The truth matters, and even though I didn’t lie about my ankle, it was deceitful to let him think my slipping caused this.
Reality does need to play its part, as well, and the reality is that they treat me different because I’m a girl than they do Justice, my younger—okay, not much younger, but still—brother.
When I insisted I didn’t need to go to the hospital and walked around, proving my point, which hurt like a bitch, I knew that the Holy Spirit, or the spirit of truth, kicked me square in my already aching ass, but I persevered. Then realization came to the gang bang of my conscience with a whispered reminder that Justice will find out the truth, and then I will be met with his judgmental glares until I either confess or he gets busy with something else.
Note to self: hand pick the ‘something else’ of his liking and dangle it in front of his face like a big, fat, juicy steak.
Also note to self: make that steak of the tall, blonde variety with attachment issues.
Boys. I shake my head, inwardly sighing.
So, now I sit, leg propped up, ankle iced, watching Mom, Dad, Patrick, and Brisa set the table for, as Dad calls it, Steel Sunday, feeling like I should be doing my part.
When Momma Joe, our grandma, and her husband Thomas come in carrying two huge pans of lasagna and two baskets full of garlic knots, I feel even worse.
“Where’s Truth and Justice?” Momma Joe asks as she kisses Patrick on the cheek after he takes the baskets from her.
“Uncle Cyrus and Aunt Tara asked to trade up,” Patrick jokes.
“Is that so?” She laughs as she makes her way to Brisa and kisses her, as well.
“JT is on his way here. He spent the night with—”
“Carter and Bella, honing his craft,” Momma Joe finishes for her. “So many of you now. It’s hard to keep track, but not impossible. And Truth?”
“She fell and jacked up her ankle,” Brisa answers, looking down as she wraps silverware.
“Over here, Momma Joe,” I call to her and wave.
She quickly kisses Dad and Mom before walking over. She removes the cold compress, lifts my ankle, moves the pillow, sits down, and rests my leg on her lap.
I lean in and give her two quick kisses then shrug. “Honestly, it’s no big deal.”
She nods once as she looks over my bruises then looks back at me.
You know the game never have I ever? Yeah, well, never have I ever lied to Momma Joe, and I can’t start now, so I say nothing at all.
After a few seconds, she pats my knee. “You’ll need to get it looked at if the swelling doesn’t go down by school tomorrow. Don’t want a small fracture to heal wrong. It could mess up your dancing, Truth. And there’s nothing I love to watch more than you dancing.”
I’ve yet to break the news to her that I don’t think dance will be in my future. It’s hard enough to admit to myself, let alone out loud to another.
I nod. “No gym class tomorrow, so I’ll be sure to hit the clinic if it still looks like this after school.”
She leans in and asks quietly, “But otherwise, you’re okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, of course.”
Within fifteen minutes, the table is set, the house is noisy, and everyone is seated around two tables, chatting as we wait for Justice, Bella, Luna, Tags, and his friend.
Kiki sits next to me, looking exhausted but happier than I have ever seen her. Both she and her sister Bella are pregnant and seem to carry their babies up front. Bella is all belly, whereas Kiki seems to have twins up top and a soccer ball under her shirt.
“Is it the baby hormones or all the newlywed sex?” I ask.
She leans in, ignoring me completely, and asks, “Have fun last night?” She then casts her eyes to my ankle then looks back up at me, frowning.
“It was interesting.”
“Fun interesting, or a mesh up of drunken TikToks that ended in a messed-up ankle interesting?” she whispers.
We both look to the head of the table where we see Dad, sitting back, arms crossed over his chest, as he averts his eyes as if he hasn’t been suspiciously staring at me for the past hour.
“Chat on our way to school tomorrow then?” she suggests.
I nod.
Through the ever-thickening cloud in my head and heart of lies and deceit, I h
ear the door open then Carter’s, aka Tags, voice comes through the entry. “He fell, little moon. He’s okay.”
“But he needs a bunch of Band-Aids,” Luna says in her little voice with a tinge of demand.
“I’m good, little bit.” The guest that Dad spoke of chuckles.
“But you have whole bunches of boo-boos.”
“Hand to God”—he laughs—“it’s all good. But you know what will make me feel better?”
Luna asks, “What?”
“Eating whatever smells so good.”
“It’s basagna,” Luna tells him. “Come on.”
He chuckles. “Lead the way.”
Bella is the first to appear, with Luna behind her, still looking back.
I get kicked under the table and look at Brisa, whose eyes are wide and nervous.
“Ankle,” I hiss.
She doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking straight ahead as she whispers under her breath, “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What the hell is wrong—”
“He’s here,” she whispers.
I snap my head back, expecting to see one of the horsemen and should be relieved when I don’t, but it’s Manbun.
I look back at her and whisper, “We are so fucked.”
Kiki nudges me and whispers, “What’s going on?”
“I’m sure you’ll know soon enough, and, Kiki, I’m moving in with you and Brand when shit hits the fan.”
“Jesus, man,” Dad says, standing up. “Luna’s right; you do need a Band-Aid … or twenty.”
“Big fall.” Manbun winks and gives Dad a bro hug. “Good to see you again.”
I look across the table to Patrick, who scrubs his hand up his face then looks at me and smirks.
If I were closer, I’d pull back that damn pink headband he is wearing to mess with Dad and let go so the elastic snaps back and bites him in the head, but doing so would be a dead giveaway and, well, I guess it wouldn’t matter. We’re screwed now anyway.
“Been a few years.” Dad steps back.
“Certainly has.”
Justice appears, walking in behind Mom, and kisses her cheek. Then he moves to Momma Joe and gives her the same.
Uncle Jase stands up. “And a few haircuts, too.”
“Jase,” Aunt Carly whisper-warns him.
Manbun chuckles. “Went from the military back to the streets for a bit. Did a stint in Haynesville, and then the show. Kept it tight back then. Figured that might have been the problem.” He reaches over and shakes Uncle Jase’s hand. “So, I’m letting it grow out.”
“I knew he was a criminal,” I whisper to Brisa.
“Don’t judge. We are now, too,” she whispers back, scowling.
“Excuse me?” Kiki whisper-gasps.
“You all might remember Ranger. He was on Convicted Ink’s first season,” Dad says, and we all look at him.
Ranger raises a hand. “Thanks for the invite, and sorry about the face. Had a rough night.”
“Have a seat, Ranger,” Momma Joe says. “You’re just in time.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” He nods.
After he sits, Momma Joe stands and takes the foil off the pans of lasagna. “Joe is fine. Why don’t you all introduce yourselves to our guest?”
After table one’s intros are complete, it’s now our funeral … I mean, turn.
Brand introduces himself, and Ranger asks, “You the kid on the radio?”
Brand nods.
“Not a huge country fan, but I dig your music,” Ranger says.
Brand looks at Kiki and laughs.
“I remember this one.” Ranger points at Kiki. “Tags told us all her name was Jailbait. Looks like someone didn’t get the message.”
Silence falls over the room, and then Kiki raises her finger and flips him off. Everyone laughs.
Brand raises his hand. “That would be me.”
“And you’re still breathing, huh?”
Brand smiles. “Right beside her every day, for the rest of our lives.”
“Cool, man, cool. Hope it works out for you all.”
He looks at me, and I quickly say my name so he doesn’t say he remembers me, “Truth.”
He smiles. “Always prefer that to a lie.”
Fuck, I think but quickly add, “My name. Justice’s sister. Cyrus’s daughter, and Tara’s, too.”
He nods and sits back. “I got you.” Then he looks at Brisa. “And how about you?”
Brisa opens her mouth then shuts it, and then does it again.
We. Are. So. Fucked.
Zandor clears his throat and, in a deep, protective tone, tells him, “My oldest, Brisa.”
“Interesting,” he says, looking over at Patrick.
“Patrick,” he says quickly.
“My boy,” Xavier adds.
“Got it.” Ranger smiles coyly. “Totally got it.”
“We’re missing a couple,” Jase informs. “Our youngest, Max, and Z’s youngest, Amias, and Tris, should be here soon. They wanted to finish their game and walk over from Z and Bekah’s place.”
“You have any kids?” Aunt Carly asks him.
“Never plan on doing so,” Ranger answers, his eyes sweeping around the table, stalling briefly on me, Brisa, and Patrick, before he smiles brightly at Momma Joe. “But I sure do appreciate you allowing me to borrow yours for a Sunday afternoon.”
Chapter Seven
Idiom
It’s a piece of cake.
Truth
Cake has too many calories.
Lying in bed, after the most fucked-up weekend of my life, attempting to emotionally prepare myself for a Monday morning, a Monday morning that I expect to be worse than even the first day at Suckshore, or the first day after seeing shit about Kiki on The Sound, or even the first day after seeing shit about myself, my Snapchat notifications start popping up.
Kiki invited Brisa and I to chat.
I love Kiki, but she has already taken on the momma role, and the little Falcon is still in her basketball of a belly. But she wasn’t wrong; last night could have been so much worse.
Of course, Brisa and I started a side Snap, with me apologizing profusely that I left her side for one second and her confiding in me it was the best two minutes of her life, encompassed by the best night of her life.
She went into great detail about how Patrick basically football held her through the crowd, which happened to be celebrating and not about to riot as I had assumed, following the direction we’d gone. He had deposited her outside the doorway in the hall, told her to stay put and, one second later, Ranger, who we now know as Wyatt Dalton, charged toward her and asked her if she was okay before she planted a kiss on his bloodied lips.
I went on to tell her that it was completely unsanitary to kiss a rando who was bleeding and that she had no idea if he had any diseases that could be transmitted through bodily fluids and that it was totally illegal, to which she replied:
- Okay … Kiki
Again, I apologize.
When little bit Brisa pops up on my screen, a conversation cloud above her head, I watch the jumping dots for a second before getting:
- Unsanitary, illegal, or otherwise, that kiss saved our asses.
She then goes on to send Snap after Snap in great detail about how she:
- Got an airdrop message from Ranger with his number, while you were piggybacking as we left the warehouse.
- I didn’t reply because I read somewhere to leave them hanging, no matter how excited I am to reply so they don’t think I’m clingy or desperate.
- We’d been texting for hours, leading up to my life being ruined.
- By answering his questions with all kinds of lies.
Bit Brisa peering up at me without clouds or dots above her head, I tap out:
- What do you mean all kinds of lies?
Bit Brisa and the cloud appear immediately, while I ignore notification after notification from Kiki.
- Age, last name … You know, just little white
lies.
I start to type back that they aren’t really white lies when her next Snap comes up.
- He blocked me before I could explain after the ‘Last Supper’ of Steel Sundays.
My response to her uber-dramatic Snap:
- Last Supper?!? A little dramatic, don’t you think? We got off easy, don’t you think?
She comes back immediately with:
- My heart is broken, my soul lost. He was my one true love, I just know it! I’ll die now, never knowing what it’s like to connect body and soul with the man that God made just for me.
I start to tap out a response, considering her feelings and the fact that this was partially my fault for putting her in the situation, but when bit Brisa, the conversation cloud, and dots appear, I delete it.
- Don’t take this away from me. Don’t tell me there are more fish in the sea or something lame like that. I know my heart, and I know I unequivocally am in love with Wyatt Dalton and will be for the rest of my life.
Jesus, Brisa, you are not even sixteen, is what I want to reply, but another Snap comes in.
I open the picture and see a heavily filtered Brisa crying with rain pouring down the screen.
I reply with the only thing I can:
- If it’s meant to be, it will be when the time is right.
I jump back on the Kiki chat to tell her we will be more careful, that I will see her in the morning, and that I love her.
I receive a notification from Brisa next.
It’s a portrait of sorts, albeit a photoshopped portrait, of her merged with a screenshot that she must have taken from Convicted Ink’s website of Ranger, and yes, added a manbun to his then short hair, along with a dog and three kids.
I am so glad we aren’t FaceTiming right now, because I can’t stop laughing at it. God Bless her, I know she actually thinks she is in love with Manbun.
As if my to-do list in life isn’t long enough, and me figuring out what it is I want to do with my life now that dance has a big-ass X over it, I am determined to add searching for an unbloodied, appropriately aged, non-felon with a manbun on the top.
