“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best,” Dara said, making a beeline for the door.
And just then, Lauren’s oversized Prada saddlebag began to vibrate. Jermaine. Lauren furrowed her eyes and stared at her bag. There were still two more periods left until school ended. Like clockwork, Jermaine always called after school was over, no doubt because he knew she’d be more likely to pick up without repercussions (calling, receiving calls, and texting were strictly forbidden at Brookhaven, and violators were subject to a two-hour detention—a penalty Lauren had paid one too many times). So what was he doing calling her now?
The phone finally stopped vibrating but then started back almost immediately, and then again, and again. Lauren’s eyes darted back and forth between her TAG and her purse; with each vibration, her heart beat faster and faster still. It had to be some kind of emergency—otherwise, why would he keep dialing? She put her purse on her lap and held it close to her stomach.
Three more minutes listening to Ms. Girard’s drivel, and she was going to find out.
“About practice today—I think we should do it outside so the new girls get used to cheering in the cold…” began Elizabeth, Lauren’s new number two on the squad since Dara departed, jumping up in Lauren’s face as soon as the bell rang.
“Yeah, listen, I make the decisions about practice,” Lauren said, distracted. She was fighting her way through the rush of students making the mad in-between class dash to their lockers before the late bell rang; she needed to get to the bathroom, pronto.
“But it’s supposed to be really cold this Friday, and the girls aren’t really acting like they’re up for—”
“Elizabeth? Seriously? I don’t have time for this,” Lauren said, pushing the door to the girls’ bathroom open. She let it swing in Elizabeth’s face and secretly hoped that it bumped her just a little—payback for putting her business with Jermaine on blast on YRT (she knew it was her—incurable gossip that she was).
Immediately, Lauren started digging for the phone, her fingers rushing over her compact, various M.A.C. Lipglass containers, a pack of Orbit gum, Breathsavers, notebooks, bobby pins, her wallet, a tube of L’Occitaine shea butter hand cream, a bottle of Dasani water she’d been sipping since that morning—there. Got it. Just as her fingers touched the phone, it vibrated again. She snatched it out of her purse and rushed into the handicapped stall at the end of the bathroom, where she’d have room to spread out and a little more privacy. She flipped open the cell, fully expecting to see “My Boo” flashing across the screen.
But it wasn’t Jermaine.
It was her home number.
Lauren dropped the phone like it was as hot as fire and watched in terror as it slid across the tiled floor. It spun to a stop next to the garbage can, making a loud crashing sound that echoed off the walls of the spacious bathroom. The phone’s vibration made the small metal can rattle. Lauren’s hands were at her mouth—trembling.
Someone at the Duke Estate was calling her on Jermaine’s phone.
Too afraid to answer, Lauren stood there and watched the phone rattle on and on, until, finally, it came to a rest. The sound of the bell made Lauren practically jump out of her skin. Quickly, she reached down and picked up the phone, pondering whether she should trash it, or use it to call Sydney to let her know not to bother coming back home, or use it to call 911 and report that Jermaine might be somewhere hurt, or worse.
Again, the phone vibrated.
Again, it was home.
Again, Lauren trembled, unsure of what to do.
Again, the phone went to voice mail.
It rang, again.
But this time, it wasn’t home. It was a familiar 678 area code—Jermaine’s house. Lauren swiped at the tears running down her face and smiled. He had to be okay, right? He was calling on the phone from his house. Somehow, Altimus or Keisha found his cell phone, but they didn’t find him. Maybe, just maybe, they didn’t find him.
“Hello? Jermaine?” Lauren whispered.
“No, this ain’t Jermaine,” the voice said shakily. There were muffled sobs and sniffles. It was a woman. “This is his mother. Who is this?”
“It’s…this is…this is Lauren,” Lauren said, returning her sobs with her own.
“Lauren? Lauren who?”
“Duke, ma’am,” Lauren said. “I’m Lauren Duke.”
“Duke?” she spit. “Duke? You mean Jermaine was still calling you even with all that’s going on? Even though I told him to leave you alone?”
“What do you mean was?” Lauren interrupted.
“I should have known, Lord, have mercy, I should have known. I found the phone bills in his room—got this number all over them. I didn’t know he even had this little phone. Of all the people, why you?”
“What do you mean ‘was’?” Lauren repeated. “You said, ‘was’ calling me. Where is Jermaine? Is he there with you?”
“I was hoping whoever this phone number belonged to would be able to tell me. I haven’t seen my son since yesterday morning. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be today. Now, where is my child?” Eugenia Watson demanded.
“I…I…I don’t know, Mrs. Watson,” Lauren insisted, crying harder still. “I just don’t know.”
Lauren and Sydney sat in silence in the back of the massive SUV, staring at the back of the seats, each one lost in her own thoughts and fears. Lauren could hear each and every deep breath Sydney inhaled and exhaled. She imagined that this is what it must feel like to walk that long, lonely stretch to the executioner’s room. And how it must feel to plan a funeral for someone you love—perhaps even your own.
Her heart beat faster with every street turn.
And faster still when Caesar pulled into the long, circular driveway, past the branchless crate myrtles and the prized purple hydrangea and the magnolias and encore azaleas and outstanding oaks and the fountain.
When they turned their eyes toward the front entrance to the Duke estate, both of their hearts seemingly stopped beating altogether.
Altimus and Keisha stood tall, arms folded, eyes deliberate.
Waiting.
Acknowledgments
DENENE
In the 12 books I’ve authored or co-authored, I’ve told the people who matter most to me how much they inspire my love of writing; they continue to do so, and I thank them every day for that. But this time around, I want to reserve my prettiest words for the two people who played a much larger role in my becoming a successful writer than they will ever know—they are my 11th-grade honors English teacher and my high school guidance counselor. The teacher told me my writing sucked; the guidance counselor insisted that I, an A-student/VP student council rep/school radio show host, was unqualified to win a much-needed college scholarship and that I should “try” to get into the community school down the block from my house. A hearty “thanks” to you both for the rousing support; your doubt in my abilities—and me—made me step up my game and become more successful than either of you suspected this little black girl could ever be. Good looking out.
For my co-author, Mitzi, the funniest, most energetic, tell-it-like-it-is girl I know: I tell you often that you need medication and Jesus, but I don’t really mean it. I love you exactly the way you are (and I don’t think pills or the Lord would help anyway). No girl could ask for a better late-night-gossiping/giggle-inducing/Crunktastical.blogspot-loving/fashion-advice-having/road dog/partner-in-crime than you.
For my agent, Victoria: All the way, baby! Attica!
And for the good folks at Scholastic, especially Andrea Davis Pinkney, Aimee Friedman, Abigail McAden, Jennifer Sanger, and Samantha Wolfert: Thank you for seeing the vision, appreciating the words, and making “Hotlanta” sizzle!
And lastly, my mom, Bettye Millner, and my sweet niece, Zenzele Thornton—two angels who make a home in Heaven, but always have a place in my heart.
MITZI
As a daughter of Yemaya, I am always grateful for the abundant blessings and opportunities that orisha brings i
nto my life.
I would like to thank all of the family and friends who surround me with love and light.
Special acknowledgements are due to:
My mom, Elsa Miller a.k.a E-Dub; the rock star I’ve been emulating my whole life.
My dad, Guillermo Miller; who still allows me to be the Queen of Hartswood Rd.
My sister, Melissa; for always helping me find my keys and courage.
My Tia Puchi; your resiliency continues to amaze.
My Uncle Rick; may the good times in your life continue to roll.
My ‘favoritest’ cousin Roy & the boys; my personal militia of gentlemen.
My godfather and his partner in crime; Carlos and Israel; a million thank you’s.
My godson, JJ; the apple of my eye.
My second family, Mommy Sally, Reginald, Chelsea, Pam, Maggie, Velma, Mary and all the kids; who still love me even though I used to pee in my pants.
My lifesaver, Maureen Davis; the best transplant coordinator an incorrigible noncompliant patient could ask for.
My mentors, Dr. Mitchell, Joyce and ABM; effortlessly leading by example.
The ladies on my short list—Mali, Joan, Shayla, Carmen, Carla, Kenya, Lisa, Daina, Toya, Juleyka, and Rhea.
The NYC clique—Sharae, Karina, Nicole, Bettina, KD, Takara, Christina, Melissa, Crystal, Geoff, Djena, Aliah, Tricia, Helen, Kiss, Monique, Daria, and K-Borders.
My FAMU family—Dara, Satonja, Nikki, Anika, and Kia.
My writing partner in crime (and real life superhero)—Tracee, a.k.a Trace-ba-Dace.
The fantastic men who inspire me to grind harder—Frank, Anthony, Dean, Malcolm Datwon, Wes, Ilan, Lo, XL, Musa, and K-Hova.
Thank you to the phenomenal Scholastic team. Andrea, Aimee, Abigail, Samantha, and Jennifer. You ladies have gone absolutely above and beyond to make this series a success. It is a pleasure working with you.
To Victoria Sanders, thank you for making sure all the i’s are dotted and t’s are crossed.
To my co-author, Denene; it’s so hard to believe that something this fun is considered work. Thank you for the countless hours of laughter and tomfoolery. I rest easier at night knowing that in case of emergency you possess the knowledge to spring me out of the county clink.
Last but not least, my only child, Drama; because I know you understand English and despite your stinky farts and doggie breath, I honestly don’t know what I would do without you by my side.
Also by Denene Millner and Mitzi Miller
Hotlanta
(With Angela Burt-Murray)
The Angry Black Woman’s Guide to Life
The Vow
Also by Denene Millner
The Sistahs’ Rules:
Secrets for Meeting, Getting, and
Keeping a Good Black Man
Dreamgirls
Also by Denene Millner
(with Nick Chiles)
What Brothers Think, What Sistahs Know
What Brothers Think, What Sistahs Know about Sex:
The Real Deal on Passion, Loving, and Intimacy
Money, Power, Respect:
What Brothers Think, What Sistahs Know
Love Don’t Live Here Anymore
In Love & War
A Love Story
STAY ON TOP OF THE DRAMA.
TAKE A SNEAK PEEK AT
WHAT GOES AROUND
A HOTLANTA NOVEL
by Denene Milner and Mitzi Miller
SYDNEY
“Oh, so you think you cute,” sneered the twins’ evil-looking mother, Keisha Duke, from the open doorway as Sydney stood by her desk, disconnecting her iPhone from the charger.
Refusing to make eye contact, Sydney simply looked down and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” questioned Keisha as she stepped into Sydney’s bedroom and closed the door firmly behind her. “Well, please let me break it down for you. I’m talking about that little boy sitting in my living room, waiting on you. Because for some reason, he thinks that the two of you are going on a date.”
“His name is Jason,” Sydney retorted as she turned away from her mother to throw her wallet and cell into the silver Balenciaga bag sitting on her bed. “And for your information, we are going out on a date.”
“Is that so? ‘Cause it seems to me, I already done told you how I felt about that situation months ago. But maybe I wasn’t clear enough,” Keisha sneered. “Here’s the deal, princess—your father and I donated a lot of damn money to Councilwoman Greene’s campaign. Not just this past election or even the last; I’m talking on a continuous basis. Donation, dinners, gifts—you name it, we gave it. And it all equals way too much for you to be ‘going out’ with someone other than her beloved only son.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, no, you heard me correctly,” Keisha continued as she walked up directly behind her daughter. “Every hand greases the wheel. The security and longevity of our family business depends on making the right connections. And be clear, your little star quarterback sitting in my living room looking crazy ain’t part of the program. So you can play dumb as long as you like, but at the end of the day, a winning pass ain’t gonna save none of our asses from jail!”
Sydney turned around slowly and looked at her mother from head to toe with newfound contempt. “You know what? I really don’t care how much money you and my stepfather donated to Marcus’s mom’s campaign. Everything done in the dark eventually comes to light. And there’s no amount of money or greasing palms that’s going to save either of you. And remember, I said you, not me!”
“Oh, please, who the hell are you kidding?” Keisha laughed. “You are me, little girl!”
“No, I’m not,” Sydney retorted angrily.
“Wow, I always thought you were the smart one,” Keisha mused nastily.
“Whatever, mother. You may be able to dictate what goes on in this house but you can’t tell me who to be in a relationship with. And I’m certainly not about to stay with Marcus to help save you when you wouldn’t even stay in your marriage to help save my father!” Sydney grabbed her bag, stepped around her mother, and headed for the door.
Jason waited nervously on the edge of the living room couch, where Sydney’s mother had left him waiting. Looking at his watch, he increasingly regretted with each passing second his decision to arrive five minutes early. Suddenly, the door connected to the kitchen swung open and Altimus’s figure filled the entire frame.
“Good evening, Mr. Duke,” Jason said as he jumped up to offer his hand.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Altimus replied, gruffly choosing to dismiss both Jason’s greeting and out-stretched hand.
“Um, no we haven’t. I mean, not formally,” Jason replied nervously. “My name is Jason. Jason Darden. I’m a friend of Sydney’s from Brookhaven. I was at the holiday party at Lake Lanier…”
“I see,” Altimus countered coolly. “Well, there was a lot going on that evening. You’ll forgive me for not remembering you. In my line of work, I rarely forget a face.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Jason interjected, secretly relieved that Mr. Duke didn’t recognize him from the tangle of bodies involved in the melee at Sydney’s holiday-party brawl.
“Yet, I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“Well, yeah. Sydney and I just started hanging out recently. I’m not from here…”
“And just where would you be from, Jason?”
“Well, my folks moved down here about two years ago from New York City. So I just recently started going to school with Syd…I mean Sydney,” Jason continued nervously.
“I see. And what brought your parents down to Atlanta?” Altimus asked, continuing his poker-faced interrogation without so much as a blink of an eye.
“Well, actually I did,” Jason explained as he ran his sweaty palms down the front of his dark indigo Evisu jeans. “I wanted to play football in an area where I could easily ge
t noticed by the college scouts, and my coach recommended the Atlanta area—”
“But Brookhaven doesn’t win games.” Altimus cut him off sharply with a raised eyebrow.
“This is true,” Jason concurred. “But there was no way my parents were going to let me go to a school that didn’t have a strong academic program, and let’s just say Brookhaven has the best reputation by far. So my hope is that over the next year, I can help turn the football program around.”
“Hmm, I’d have to agree with your parents. Reputation is very important,” Altimus said simply. “Sydney has worked very hard to build and maintain her outstanding reputation both academically and socially.”
Jason cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “Sydney’s definitely a great person. I, uh, I’m looking forward to getting to know her,” he started awkwardly.
“So it goes without saying that both Mrs. Duke and I have great expectations for our daughter. None of which will be achieved if she becomes sidetracked.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while neither her mother nor myself would ever propose to choose who our daughter spends her time with,” Altimus continued, “I’m sure you can understand my concern after years of walking into this room and greeting the Honorable Councilwoman Greene’s son, Marcus. You do know Marcus Greene don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know him.” Jason bristled slightly at the mention of Sydney’s ex-boyfriend.
“Well, then, I’m sure you can understand how I might feel about finding you here now,” Altimus continued unapologetically.
“Understood,” Jason responded from between clenched teeth.
“As long as we’re clear,” Altimus concluded just as Sydney bounded down the staircase into the living room. She paused at the end of the staircase for effect. Altimus reflexively clenched his teeth.
If Only You Knew Page 18
