AVERY (The Corbin Brothers Book 2) (18 page)

Chefs chopped and minced, preparing their stations for the night. It smelled fragrant and delicious even if no one had put in an order yet.

“What do you serve?” I asked, eyeing the veritable army of kitchen professionals dashing around the room.

“Tapas,” Mama said. “Lord, I don’t know what the customers love about them. They’re just teeny tiny plates. I have a pretty healthy appetite myself. I hope you do, too. We also have a chef’s special that changes every night.”

Mama turned from the grill and handed me a plate. On it sat an enormous burger, steaming and fully dressed with a side of home fries. It was the most food I’d seen—or been prepared to eat—in weeks.

“Now, let’s go somewhere where you can relax and eat and talk,” Mama said. “Cocoa, you did a fine job with Jazz. Better go out there and help those girls get everything together. Five minutes till open.”

Cocoa hurried out of the kitchen and I found myself following Mama into a lounge area adjacent to the kitchen. It was hard to remember that I was Jazz—not Jasmine, and not a shadow on the streets. If the burger was any indication, I could have a good thing going here.

“The girls come in here if they need a break from the floor,” Mama explained as we sat at a small table. The room was sparsely furnished, but comfortable enough. There was even a framed watercolor painting of a flower hanging on the wall. I guessed that the room served its purpose—a quick refuge but not a place to stay for a long time.

“Eat, child!” Mama exclaimed, laughing as I jumped. “I know you’re hungry—not an hour ago you were digging through my dumpster!”

I didn’t need any more encouragement. Closing my eyes in ecstasy, I tore into the sandwich. The meat was tender and juicy, cooked to perfection. The crisp lettuce and succulent onions combined with the ripe tomato slice, offering a bouquet of tastes. I groaned softly in appreciation. Now this was a good burger.

The memories of dumpster banquets faded with each subsequent bite. The food warmed me from the inside out. Almost as an afterthought, I balanced a mound of home fries on my fork, drizzled them with ketchup, and shoved them into my mouth. The outside was crispy and the inside was soft—perfect. Everything was perfect.

In what seemed like a matter of seconds, my plate was clean. I looked up, embarrassed by what was probably an appalling display of table manners. Mama only smiled and offered me a napkin and a glass of water.

“I always keep food in the kitchen for everyone,” she said as I contemplated the divine fullness I was experiencing in my shocked belly. “There’s a fridge marked “Girls” in there—that’s the one you eat out of. Everything else is nightclub food, not yours.”

I nodded eagerly, looking forward to having a refrigerator at my disposal again.

Mama smiled, leaning back and watching me. “Look at me, getting ahead of myself,” she said. “I want to know how such a pretty girl ended up gnawing leftover McDonald’s in my dumpster.”

I took a long sip of water while I weighed my options. I was eighteen now. Mama couldn’t turn me in to the authorities for being a runaway anymore. I was done hiding from police cruisers in the night. I was an adult. I figured I had nothing to lose with the truth.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I said by way of introduction.

“I’d be happy to hear it,” Mama said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her fist.

* * * *

Though it felt like it sometimes, I hadn’t always been on the streets. There was a time when I’d been a normal girl, going to school and talking to my girlfriends about crushes I had on boys.

I lived with my mom. It had been only The two of us for as long as I could remember. When I was very young, I rubbed my tan hands over her coffee-colored ones, the difference in color and size too apparent for my curious mind to ignore any longer.

“Mommy, when I grow up and get big and strong like you, am I gonna change colors like you, too?”

Mom laughed. “My sweet Jasmine,” she crooned, taking me into her arms, “my smart girl. This is your color, and this is my color. This is the way we’re both going to be for the rest of our lives.”

The explanation wasn’t enough to satisfy me. “But you’re my mommy,” I protested. “Why aren’t I brown, too?”

Mom sighed almost sadly and as little as I was, I knew I shouldn’t have asked the question. I tried to wriggle away, but Mom held me tight in her armchair.

“You’re a big girl now, and you’re asking big girl questions,” she said, smoothing the braids in my hair. “You deserve big girl answers.” She paused, her mahogany eyes tracing the patterns on the peeling wallpaper around the room as if by deciphering the flowers and squiggly lines she would find the right words.

“Your daddy was white,” Mom said finally. “White as milk. White as the clouds. When he put you inside of me, it was like mixing paint colors. I’d dipped my brush in brown, and he’d dipped his brush in white. God mixed them around and out you came.”

I looked at my hands in wonder. Mixing colors was what we did in art class. This was something I understood perfectly.

“I’m a work of art,” I said dreamily.

Mom’s shriek of laughter burst my reverie. “You are that, Jasmine,” she agreed. “And now you know why you’re your color and I’m mine.”

“Because of my daddy, who was white as clouds,” I said, “white as milk. White as snow?” I looked at Mom for approval, and she nodded, smiling.

I was a big girl. I was getting big girl answers. I asked the most natural follow-up question.

“Where’s my white daddy?”

“He’s gone, baby,” Mom said. “We shared our lives for just long enough to make you, my work of art. Then my life had to go one way, and his life had to go the other.”

My brain worked to understand this. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mom and my white daddy standing at a stop sign. I was the stop sign. Beyond me, the road split. Mom had to go right, and my white daddy had to go left. It was simple as that.

“Is he ever going to go our way?” I asked. Even as the stop sign, I was following Mom on the right road but looking longingly at my white daddy on the left road.

Mom shook her head and smiled at me, and I knew in the way that children can sometimes know things that I shouldn’t ask any more questions about him.

I was always happy with Mom. She kept a calm and safe home, kept me from knowing things I didn’t need to. It wasn’t until I was in middle school that I even realized we were poor. She struggled to make ends meet, but our home was always a joyful one—wherever it was.

When rent was too much to bear sometimes, Mom would wake me up and quietly tell me to pack my things. We didn’t have many material possessions, so it never took too long. With my school backpack stuffed with shirts and jeans and pajamas and my little suitcase carrying the rest, we’d slip out like ghosts into the night. Mom would smile at my squinty eyes as she used some of her precious coins on bus fare and we settled down for the night.

We’d ride the route and sleep, covering and recovering familiar landmarks and corners until the sun was up and Mom could see about signing a new lease.

“I’ll pay the other place back,” she said every time that we moved into a new furnished apartment. “I’ll send them a few dollars every week until we’re settled up.”

I’m not sure that she ever did, but I appreciated the thought—the illusion, if that’s what it was.

But moving around felt like an adventure. I was glad to share it with Mom.

The adventure ended when she met
him.

Mom was holding steady work at a call center and he was her supervisor.
Jack
. Even his name was abrasive, setting my teeth on edge whenever I had the misfortune of hearing or uttering it.

Jack
.

I first met him in middle school when Mom had us pack up again and move. But instead of yet another shady apartment, it was a house—a real house. There was even a tree in the yard. None of our old complexes had so much as a square of grass beyond the front door. The house was small but neat, its outside painted a cheerful yellow I would grow to hate.

“How is this possible?” I asked her, old enough to understand that this was well beyond her means. At this point, I was making bracelets and wallets out of duct tape, selling them at school to help earn a little extra cash to supplement Mom’s meager paycheck.

“Because we’re moving in with Jack,” she said, her eyes shining as we climbed the steps to the little front porch and its lone rocking chair.

Jack.

Mom had talked about Jack before. About how nice he was, how he’d brought her Starbucks at the beginning of the shift. How he’d ask her to come outside with him on his smoke breaks to keep him company. How they’d gone to lunch together and he’d paid for her sandwich or soup or taco, or whatever they’d gone for.

I stopped short of the stairs at the little house. It felt wrong. Something was definitely off about it—the suddenness of the situation, the shape of the house, Mom’s eagerness.

Mom turned around when I didn’t follow. “What are you doing?” she asked, her brow furrowed in consternation. “I don’t want to keep Jack waiting.”

Jack.

“I’ve never even seen him,” I said, dumbfounded. “You’re asking me to move in with someone I don’t even know.”

Mom walked down the stairs again. “This is good for us, Jasmine,” she said. “Jack is good to me. You’ll see. He’ll be good to you, too. He’s excited to meet you. Just wait.”

All I wanted was to make Mom happy. That’s why I walked up those stairs.

But I still wondered sometimes what would’ve happened if I’d refused to enter that hell house. Would it have altered anything? All I had left from those next few years were doubts and regrets.

And scars.

I joined Mom on the porch, eyeing the rocking chair. An enormous ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts rested on the concrete next to it. It looked like Jack spent a lot of time out here.

The door opened.

“Fiona,” the man said, grinning. “Looks like you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”

“Oh no, we didn’t,” Mom said, beaming and giving him a long peck on the cheek. “It’s just where you said it would be.”

I couldn’t help but stare at Jack. His skin was milky white, white as clouds, with sand-colored hair. Could he be my white daddy, come to walk our path at last?

“Hello,” I said eagerly. “My name is Jasmine.”

“It’s rude for little girls to speak without being spoken to,” Jack said, his ice blue eyes looking past me and out onto the road.

“Be polite, Jasmine,” Mom said. “Lord knows I’ve tried to teach this child manners, but I do leave her alone too much.”

What had I done wrong? I was 14 years old. I knew how to behave and what to do to misbehave. Was Mom insane?

It was a struggle to straighten out the scowl that wanted possession of my face.

This milky white man wasn’t my white daddy. And he never would be; I decided that immediately.

When we got inside, I couldn’t help but appreciate the surroundings. Everything was clean and straight—practically sterile—and supremely organized. There was no spread of magazines or newspapers on his coffee table in the sitting room. Publications were organized by type and date and neatly stacked in bins. A rug that looked like it had never been walked on covered a portion of a pristine tile floor.

Even the pillows on the couch were arranged precisely. Every couch we’d ever claimed ownership of had permanently haphazard pillows, some ending up in a bedroom, others tumbling across the floor.

Jack kept a running commentary of the furnishings in each room, talking about where and how he’d acquired each piece. This one was by this designer and that one was by another. His obsession was more than apparent. I realized that he might tolerate Mom sitting on his precious furniture, but there would be none of that for me. No. I was not welcome.

“This is your—and my—room,” Jack was saying. The furnishings in the master bedroom matched the quality of everything else in the house. The bed coverings seemed to be some sort of silky satin, maroon to match the color on the walls.

“It’s beautiful,” Mom breathed, covering her chest with her hand. “But where will Jasmine sleep?”

In all of the apartments that we’d collected over the years, I’d never had my own room. As a child, I’d slept with Mom, tangling my limbs with hers in slumber. Now that I was getting older, I preferred the privacy of the couch.

“Your daughter has her own room upstairs,” Jack said without looking at me. It wasn’t lost on me that he emphasized “your.”

“How about that?” Mom exclaimed, smiling at me. “Your very own room. Go check it out. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Stairs through the kitchen,” Jack said, the tone of voice telling me I shouldn’t be wandering around anywhere else.

Still toting my backpack and suitcase, as I had done so many times before, I walked into the kitchen. Where were the stairs? I definitely didn’t want to have to ask Jack that and have him ridicule me in front of Mom. I eased open what I thought might be a cupboard and was surprised by a dusty, neglected set of stairs.

I climbed them and set my suitcase down with a thump that I hoped they heard downstairs. This was a joke. It had to be.