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Authors: Briseis S. Lily

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BOOK: Of Hustle and Heart
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CHAPTER 10

ZACARIAS

 

I
f I don’t want to go, my brother John sure as hell will never surrender.

“Move back in with you?” My heart stops. I sit down on the sofa across from my mother, loosening my ponytail enough so my tight curls would fall free, and run my hands through my sandy hair. I can’t think of anything to say that would secure both my freedom and my mother’s favor.

“Yes, son,” she says, crossing her legs as she nestles back in John’s chair. She beams at me, obviously excited by the idea. “I want y’all to come home. Moving out was nice. It was something you boys had to go through.” She rests a falsely empathetic hand to her breast. “But y’all have experienced it, so now let’s call it a day.”

Her tone mocks every decision John and I had made for the past two years. Leaving our mother’s home was not a phase for us. We had stayed with her for as long as we could take it; John did, anyway. I would still be there if my father and Francisco hadn’t pushed me to leave with John. So now I choose to say nothing.

I hear John moving around in his room and then water running in his bathroom. The vibrations of my phone go off. It rattles on the coffee table until I am forced to pick it up.

I didn’t want you to leave
, the text reads.
I want a better relationship than the one we have
.
I’m sitting outside. Can I come in
?

I put my phone in my pocket and consider Whitney’s request. It’s really not a good time for her to come in. My mother has sensed the hostility between us lately, so she’s been on a “you could do better” campaign.

“Zacarias, I’ll make us a pot of tea,” my mother says as she gets up, tossing her purse into the chair. She stands up straight, smoothes the wrinkles from her skirt, and frowns. “Where the hell is your silly brother?”

I open my mouth to reply, but she silences me.

“Go get him, please, or I will,” she says and heads for the kitchen. “I came to speak with the two of you, not just you.”

Just then John comes out of the bathroom, a towel tucked around his waist. He arches both eyebrows at me and folds his arms. I can’t help but think he looks like some kind of a big, tanned genie.

“What the fuck is she yelling about?” he mutters at me.

“Man, just come out here. I’m tired of hearing it.”

John rolls his eyes, and our mother chooses that moment to stick her head around the corner.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, son,” she calls from across the apartment as she waves two cups in the air. “Go put some clothes on and hurry up.”

I haven’t forgotten about Whitney; my phone continues to vibrate in my pocket as the three of us sit around drinking tea.

“Who is that?” John asks.

I look at him but don’t respond. As I slouch back on the couch, I meet my mother’s intrusive gaze. She stirs her tea without looking at it and watches as I fidget. She knows I’m avoiding something. When she finally speaks, she manages to bury the aggressive, demanding tone she’d used to coerce John into the living room and sounds like our wonderful, caring mama again.

“Zack, I haven’t seen Whitney in a while,” she says as she sips her tea.

“That cuckoo-ass girl…” John mumbles.

“John!” Somehow, our mother can still silence us with just one word, because John clams up tight. “She’s still working at Rico’s with you?”

“It’s her texting me,” I confess.

“So why aren’t you answering?”

“I’d rather not say, if that’s okay with the two of you.”

My patience wavers and mingles with my lack of sleep. My devotion to my mother, Madeline, is untested, and John is both my best friend and my brother, but I have no desire to continue this tea party with them. All I can think of is Whitney downstairs and the unfinished business between us. I want to talk to my girl. I need to sit with her. I just need her—I need
somebody
. I get up from the couch.

“Mama, I’ll be back,” I say, walking toward the door. She watches me go but doesn’t respond.

“Zack!” John calls out from behind me, and I pause at our front door, opening it a crack.

“She rotten, bro. Nothing good about her.” He shakes his head and reaches for his cup.

It’s a sour moment, hearing my brother refer to my girlfriend in such an unpleasant way. John’s comment makes me so angry that I storm out the door. Whitney catches it with the palm of her hand as I try to slam it behind me.

“Who’s rotten?” she says, pushing the door open enough so she can slide her slim physique through the doorway.

I follow her back inside, dreading what lies ahead. When John sees Whitney, he mutters something under his breath—obscenities, probably, but it’s hard to tell. My mother is glowing, and she smirks in anticipation of the confrontation. She’s been waiting awhile to see Whitney. I’ve kept them apart as long as I can.

John glances over at our mother. The look on her face is telling—he knows, like I know. John laughs out loud, rubs his palms together, and raises his teacup high in the air.

“Here’s to you, Whitney!” he says and smiles. “Our mother has been missing you, girl.”

CHAPTER 11

ZINA

 

D
uring the fifty-three-minute bus ride, I question why a boy like Shannon—with a girl like Beatrice—would bother to sweat it out with me, even after the girlfriend busted him. It’s so stupid. And so confusing.

To say my family needs income is an understatement; we need a lifeline. And though I’m saving every single dime of my lunch money and allowance and go hungry more times than not, it’s not nearly enough. I put in four job applications this week, six the week before that, and eight the week prior. There are jobs everywhere, millions of people working every day. I’m just not one of them. I need to be.

I’m at the corner of Kingwood and MLK Boulevard, in front of Ms. Kim’s convenience store, hustling goddamn bootleg media. Nothing about this shit feels right. So far I’ve sold to a few passersby. Some are older cats, excited by the crappy job my little brothers did, copying the digital images of booty videos for the cover of one my CDs. Most of the people shopping here at this time of day are old, and they ask a lot of inaudible questions. The women are rude, and the men flirt too much. They insinuate that if they buy my stuff, I’ll owe them something. The first time I heard this, I was stunned. Then I got angry. Cuss words boiled up in my throat, but I held back. Now when it happens, I ignore it and stick straight to the business of things.

“Are you buying something or not?” I snap at them when I grow too hot and frustrated to deal. I hunch my shoulders and refuse to communicate with them anymore. Forget selling, because they’ve pissed me off.

I make ninety-seven dollars in the next two hours. More money per hour than my mama. Fuck, yes. I take thirty out for myself and recount everything in the back corner of Ms. Kim’s store. I use their restroom to cool off. I take off my shirt, pull down my jeans, and stand under the air-conditioning vent for about ten minutes, wiping myself down with brown paper napkins I’ve wet in the sink.

When I come out of the restroom, the parking lot is crawling with kids. Some are waiting for their buses, some wait for friends to arrive, and others wait their turn to go inside Ms. Kim’s.
Oh lord, yes!
Some just see a bunch of kids, but I see customers. When I count heads, I tally up a nice little grip of cash…And when I multiply today’s change by the number of school days in a week, I almost jizz myself.

The rule at Kim’s is that only two kids are allowed in the store at a time, and you gotta leave your backpack outside. I hit the in-store shoppers first. They obviously have cash and the will to burn it, so why not spend it with me? My first two customers are fourteen-year-old girls. They go half on a two-for-five deal on music by two femcees and then come back to buy two DVDs. They beat me outside and do what Rachel was supposed to do around Chesney: they tell everyone. By the time I buy myself a Nestlé’s iced tea and three packs of sunflower seeds for my little brothers, the kids are popping their heads inside the store, asking me for this and that type of media. They’re excited but not nearly as much as I am. I have every fucking thing they want. It’s rare that I thank God, though I don’t know why, but today I smile hard and do just that.

I sell out of all the good stuff, with demands for more. I’m actually surprised by the uproar. But when I think about it, it makes nothing but sense. This is a heavily populated area, full of kids like me. We all go through the same financial shit storms. Had I been more confident, I would’ve seen it.

I get bused out of the hood every day to a part of Houston that 89 percent of my neighbor teens have only heard about. I go to school with rich kids and white people. And sometimes that feels like a burden for someone like me. My people over here want the same things those kids want—they want good things, and they want quality. They want to know that if they choose to have things, there’s a way to make it happen. I think I brought them a choice today, in a way they could understand. And they’re happy about that shit. We’re all super excited right now.

And then Phillip’s punk ass rolls up to Ms. Kim’s in his rusty, old, powder-puff-blue Oldsmobile. I shake my head when I see him coming. It’s 4:38 p.m., and I thought he got off at 6:00 p.m. I
knew
he didn’t have a job. You busted, nigga.

I remember that day when I wanted him gone as soon as I saw him bringing his old shit into our house in those black trash bags, but there was a reason for him moving in with us—more than one, actually. The house we rented was owned by his second cousin, or uncle, or somebody like that. Mama told me he helped her get the house, and he helped her with the deposit and first month’s rent. And if that wasn’t enough…my mama was lonely. I sat in silence, swallowing my disapproval. I understood, and I couldn’t argue with that.

I’m not sure if he sees me when he gets out of his car, but as he walks into the store, he glances at me. I’m sure of it. We are not on speaking terms, because I don’t talk to him. He is a blemish on our household. He walks out of Kim’s with a carton of Newport and a six-pack of generic beer and nods at me.

“How was work today, Phillip?” I call to him as he steps from the store into the gravel in Ms. Kim’s raggedy parking lot. He nods, smiling the way he does when he knows I’m coming for him.

“It was good,” he says. “How was school?”

I shrug. And that’s it. He chuckles as he gets into his car and pulls off. I cross my arms and frown, because even though Phillip didn’t say anything to me, I know he asked the guy behind the counter how long I’d been at the store. His smile was too big and genuine. I’ll be boosting that carton of cigarettes when I get home.

It’s about five twenty, and I’m ready to pack it up and go home. The sun is starting to dip a bit, and most of the other kids have traveled back to the streets. I’m still at Ms. Kim’s, trying to unload some gospel CDs to the adults who are stopping for gas, sodas, beer, or whatever on their way home from work. I’m about to pack it in, when the argument begins. I’m not fazed by the fussing, but it sounds pretty heated. Some of the grown-ups have heard it too. I make eye contact with a few of ’em. We’re all wearing that same what-the-hell look on our faces.

Most of the noise is coming from a man behind the wheel of a Mercedes that had stopped at the edge of the parking lot. Turns out the car is stolen, but that’s a whole other story in itself. Anyhow, the man is hanging out the car window, spewing all kinds of bullshit. When he throws the car into park and opens the door, folks start to leave.

I pick up my bag and go into Kim’s. I’m scared to walk home with the fight going on outside, but finding the store empty scares me more. I walk to the front of the store and stand before the clerk, a five-foot-eleven, twenty-something, Vietnamese dude with brown highlights and blue contacts.

“Niggas be trippin’,” I say.

“I’m ’a lock that door,” he replies.

I’m too tripped out to laugh and can’t seem to find my voice, so I just nod. Locking the door sounds like a good idea, but it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like I don’t want to be locked inside this store. When my phone rings, I’m so off my game, I answer without checking the caller ID.

“Hello?” I say.

“I know you not at home, ’cause I already beat you to the house!” my mama yells.

I pull the phone away from my ear. “I’m at Kim’s.”

“Bring me a Dr. Pepper,” she says. “And hurry up!”

As she hangs up, I make a mad dash toward the cooler. “Don’t lock it!” I point to the door. The clerk doesn’t hear me, though; he digs around in his pocket for the door key. Then my phone rings again. This time, I look to see who it is before I answer it.

“You skipped out,” Blanca says before I can even say hello. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I looked for you all day at school.”

“Man! Don’t give me shit about it, Bee. I had a good reason,” I say as I struggle to pull the cooler door open, my cell phone wedged between my chin and my shoulder. I snag a Dr. Pepper from the cooler, Bee bitching in my ear the whole time, and hurry to the front counter.

“I wanna buy this. Then I’m outta here,” I tell the clerk.

But he insists I stay put till things settle down outside, where a crowd has gathered to witness whatever’s about to go down.

“Who you talking to?” Blanca asks.

“I’m at Ms. Kim’s,” I reply. “Who told you I skipped?”

“Shannon told me.”

“What? Do I have a stalker?”

“Girl, he’d have no time to stalk you with that bitch up his ass. I saw them when I left school.”

“Beatrice?”

“You know it.”

The men outside grow more and more nuts. The louder they get, the more I want to leave the store and the more the clerk is against it.

“There’s some dudes arguing outside,” I tell Blanca.

“Arguing about what?”

“I don’t know, but it looks real bad, and sounds even worse.”

I peer out the window, and my heart drops so far I feel it in my pelvis. Two of the men aren’t men at all. Corey and Bryan stand at the edge of the parking lot, face to face with the murderous Mr. Mercedes. None of them show any signs of relenting.

“It’s Bryan and Corey…”

“Who?”

“Bryan and Corey. They’re my brothers’ friends.” I turn to the store clerk. “Let me out!”

There’s a scuffling on the other end as Bee is saying something to someone as she hands her phone over.

“Leave the store,” Uncle Tony says after taking Blanca’s phone. “You only live ten minutes away—less, if you cut through some of those houses.”

“I know,” I reply as I yank on the store’s door. The clerk locked it, and I could’ve been home by now. “Open this door!”

“I’m on my way,” Tony says. “Stay on the line.”

“My uncle’s on the way! He’s gonna break your damn face if I’m still locked in this store when he gets here.”

The clerk looks at me, his face stone serious, as he heads toward the door. “Go ahead and go,” he says, unlocking the door.

“He’s letting me out,” I tell Tony. I push the door open slowly and take a peek outside.

“Okay,” Tony says. I hear his car start. “You run straight home. I’m on my way to check on you.”

“I’m hanging up so I can run.”

“No, you don’t, Zina. Stay on the phone with me until you get home.”

Corey, Bryan, and the man are still arguing, but it has quieted down a bit. Their hushed tones are eerie and don’t really settle well in the air.
Pop!
The shot is loud, undeniable, and poisonous. And then another pop and then five or six more follow, no spaces in between. On instinct, I duck down as gunshots blast in the night. Cory’s body jerks from the impact and falls sideways. As Bryan makes a run for it, Mr. Mercedes turns his gun on him. I hear three consecutive shots and glance around to see Bryan jerking from impact as he runs, but I don’t wait around to see more.

“Holy fuck!” I take off running at top speed. I grip my mama’s Dr. Pepper around the nozzle in one hand; I refuse to drop it or leave it behind and clutch my phone tight in the other. I sprint behind the store and down the back street, ducking between houses and cutting through flower beds, tearing through bushes and ditches. All I hear is my ragged breathing and Tony’s voice, so far away, screaming my name.

BOOK: Of Hustle and Heart
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