For about an hour, I’m genuinely polite to Ms. Edna Mae Hamilton. She’d always been my favorite babysitter, even if she smelled a little bit like lanolin. Last week, Mama told me she wanted to stay sharp, so she’s studying Mandarin. At seventy-five years young today, I say to her, “Go ’head wit your bougie-level grammarin’!”
Now, some of y’all might think I’m insulting her or finding fault with her, but that’s just me exalting her and maybe even forming a cult for her. And for good reason.
When Ms. Edna Mae looked after me, she taught me with exceptional alchemy her mastery of how to scramble eggs with a pinch of salt, pepper, and pure rhapsody. To this day, that’s the only thing I can cook quite happily, and if I may say so myself, passably.
So, I’m cool with being at her birthday party, in all actuality. Even when she hugs me and kisses me and tells me how handsome I be, and how I should not tease my four stepsisters, please, and how she will shatter my stepfather’s knees with a sledgehammer forged beneath all Seven Seas, which she will swing with strength and the greatest of ease, so he better treat my mother like the Queen of All Bees and start by taking her for at least two weeks in Belize.
My stepfather is in the kitchen, so we all know he heard that. But in case he didn’t, Ms. Edna Mae will Blurb that. I keep quiet because I don’t want to disturb that. Oh, shit, here we go; my stepfather responds and chirps that.
I’m not ready for Ms. Edna Mae’s TruTell petty, so I go out to the porch where me and my boys can mean-mug stock images for Getty.
What? Don’t look at me like I’m speaking Yeti. We all know they got sat-cams high up over the Serengeti moving around the world seventy-two times faster than the great Mario Andretti.
The first person I see is E. We knock shoulders hard enough to break boulders ensconced wit four-leaf clovers and change the formation of the White Cliffs of Dover.
“Sup, yo.” He gives me a pound.
I look around to see who came down for Ms. Edna Mae’s Birthday Get Down—one, two, three—I frown. They all here, except for that class clown, who been passed down by the Black Gowns since sundown at Fun Town. He know who I’m talkin’ ‘bout.
“Where Reese at?” I ask them.
“Tryin’ to get him some pussy,” Big Sherm says, feelin’ no shame to blast him.
“Try is all he gon’ do,” Pretty Boy Blue adds, well on his quest to drag him.
We all laugh. Reese our boy, but that don’t mean we can’t slag him.
“From who?” I ask, genuinely wonderin’ who would shag him. Pro’lly that quiet girl who always like to TruTell tag him.
“That bougie redbone ’round the corner on Crandon who parents tryin’ to gentrify The Manor but ain’t gettin’ nowhere,” Nate says, an’ pantomime referee-flags him.
“Bougie-ass Naëma?” I ask him, tryin’ not to laugh ’cause he got bad breath so bad she gon’ have to gas mask him. “He ain’t gon’ bone her. He ain’t redbone enough.” Hollywood for damn sure wouldn’t cast him.
“He been tryin’ since right after y’all moved.” E says the last part in a voice so small I might as well gagged him. Or even worse, just out of the blue smacked him.
To be straight up honest, I want to give him a pound, a shrug, a playful mean mug, and then say, “Sorry ’bout my parents, man,” as I give him a hug.
But I don’t.
Wait. Why am I apologizing for them? The decision to move me and my stepsisters to the North Shore was made by Mama and him, and not on a whim, but to escape the gangs, drugs, and other Jeffery Manor gems.
We all go quiet an’ shift an’ fidget on Ms. Edna Mae’s porch, not sure what to say next. Then, my boys look at me. I don’t think I ever seen them this vexed.
They look like they ’bout to flex pecs an’ snap necks wit me bein’ they next work project. Nah, man, I ain’t ’bout to get wrecked, an’ I for damn sure ain’t about to jeopardize my cerebral cortex.
But it’s too late. It’s on an’ already out the gate.
Big Sherm lands a feathery left jab on my chin. I counter with a light right to Big Sherm’s temple an’ my fist hits like a water vapor rollin’ pin. Pretty Boy Blue grins as E spins the blow-by-blow wit Nate on color commentary to Big Sherm’s annoyed chagrin.
But our impromptu play-fight boxin’ match is over almost as soon as it begins: immediate an’ wit the quickness ’cause Big Sherm gets serious agin.
“I see y’all done went an’ got all uppity an’ bougie on a nwafa.” He kisses his teeth at our Conquest Knight XV in Ms. Edna Mae’s driveway an’ then look at me sideways.
I swear this motherfucker ’bout to find at least five ways of how not to give me high praise fo’ my prodigal return to The Manor an’ its wild ways.
But I ain’t gon’ be fazed. An’ I for damn sure ain’t gon’ be dazed when my boys unleash they shade ’bout my cut-by-a-white-boy fade an’ the grape Kool-Aid I made in the third grade that should have left most of they teeth decayed ’cause of my full-on sugar cavalcade.
But I’m gon’ say it now: Don’t y’all get played.
My boys gon’ say they was so afraid that they prayed my drank wouldn’t do them like nightshade, set it off like a hand grenade, or cut they insides easy, sharp, an’ swift like a switchblade wielded by a drunk South Chicago bridesmaid.
But for real for real, they was all up in it, like it was a Kool-Aid drinkin’ contest an’ each of them was doin’ they best to win it.
“Yo, y’all ’member when Raf used to be ghetto?” Nate asks almost depressedly, as if he misses the best of me and isn’t happy with what he sees that’s left of me.
“How old was he when this nwafa designed, sketched, an’ built that Kool-Aid dispenser he hooked up to his mama’s kitchen sink?” Big Sherm asks this almost aggressively, but wit such gravitas that maybe he thought that should have been my destiny: ghetto Kool-Aid dispenser magnate Rafa Carnegie.
“That nwafa was juss seven years old.” Pretty Boy Blue says this cheerfully, wit all sorts of levity.
“But wait, y’all forgettin’ the good part! Not only did that nwafa hook up a Kool-Aid dispenser to his mama’s kitchen sink, but he made sure it came in two different flavors: red drank fo’ the left knob, an’ purple drank fo’ the right knob.” Nate says this almost breathlessly, an’ we all know he gon’ post that word-for-word on his social feeds successively fo’ maximum hilarity.
“He was a smart motherfucker.” Pretty Boy Blue says this wit no hint of jealousy.
“Was? Still is!” Big Sherm says this wit an air of definity.
“I bet he get straight A’s an’ he on the high honor roll or the dean’s list or some shit.” Pretty Boy Blue says this wit confident certainty.
“Yeah, at one of those good-ass, rich-ass white schools where they teach you to speak an’ write in allegory, but make it mandatory, unless you really don’t want to ’cause it’s an elite an’ exclusive Montessori.”
E doesn’t say that out loud, but his suss is clear and proud, as if all of a sudden he’s a Stater avowed. Never would I have thought my best friend would suss about me in a InTell so wretchedly, and yet so professedly.
But I shouldn’t be upset (or surprised). Stanford Sutton (South Side despised, and definitely not a saint like Blanford Sutton, who the Sovereign State has canonized) can use his omnipresent sensors (shady and disguised) to actuate anyone the way he wants (compromised and colonized).
Like wit my best friend. Which, if you ask me, is not a good blend, especially for Stanford Sutton, since this is Blanford Sutton’s network and could be his end.
See, I never, ever wanted to know E’s thoughts ’cause we were cool like that an’ we always talked. Not once wit him was I gon’ say somethin’, but stopped ’cause I was gon’ bey somethin’, which really meant I was gon’ slay somethin’.
Yeah, I see only some of y’all followed me there. Unlike my boys, who don’t appreciate my flair.
I know. It’s not my fault my boys think I’m bougie. It’s not my fault my moms didn’t want me to be cut down by Uzis with bullets in my throat and my spine and my intestines and my mind and my lungs and my heart while playing ball at the park until it’s no streetlights and it’s dark, so my mother and Michael thought it better if we cycle on the North Shore for survival because stray bullets aren’t choosy so they made a decision while boozy and bought a mansion from Suzy with an in-floor Jacuzzi and a waterfall of a doozy and Chef Fabien the foodie and six bedrooms and six bathrooms that are all kinds of roomy, but the three-car garage that’s heated is just looney.
I can dig it, though.
My moms and stepfather wanted to give their children a life with no ammo, but all impresario. So they told me, Jade, Jordan, Jocelyn, and Michaela it was time for some paella at a North Shore gala and then on to Venezuela to smoke a panatela.
They even handed us a cigar each, though Michael went full asshole and tried to hold it up out of Michaela’s reach. He probably thought she would throw a fit and screech, but he didn’t know she had mad hops from working out on the beach.
Y’all, none of us smoked that cigarillo (yeah, shows you how much I know). But if they told us they bought a wide-brimmed chapeau from some five and dime in Fargo that came with a backhoe to move mountains of snow, then we still wouldn’t know how much dough went into that weird as hell cigar show.
So, they tried to explain in synchronized voices not at all strained that they didn’t want their porch bloodstained or their favorite Black boy detained. That I understood. It was my scenario, in all likelihood.
But Mama and Michael wouldn’t let me be felled by that blow.
So, they used their cash flow to buy a bougie-ass chateau in the North Shore suburb of Glencoe and escape the kilos of coco for our own private Idaho. Complete with an Italian grotto and three acres of well-manicured meadow.
But my boys don’t understand that. They probably think I should demand that my family return stat to the South Side and The Manor where our friendships began at.
Yeah right. As if I’m the man, Jack (I think in my Richard Pryor voice), and I want to hang back (as if I really have a choice).
But it’s cool.
I can’t fault my boys for getting on me about my intelligence and my school. I mean, every single day Black people come into some money (or don’t) and go full on bougie fool (I won’t), buying McMansions furnished with red carpet stanchions to protect their semi-precious jewels from thoughts of forty acres and a mule.
Not that Mama or Michael adhere to those hard and fast bougie rules. But they’re getting there. They’ve stuck their big toes in the wading pool.
(Next week, they interview RecSoc planners to get recommendations for Jocelyn on the best riding schools and manners.)
“I bet he got him a white girl.”
Pretty Boy Blue look down the street as if his words complete an incantation so offbeat it would only summon the beautiful an’ the sweet: my girl Kee-Kee to join us in this midsummer heat. I hope his ghetto-spell is weak, ’cause right now I really don’t want to hear her speak.
I know that’s wrong, but it juss gon’ be a prolonged argument ’bout how I act like my shit don’t stink. I know it do, but that ain’t what she think I think.
“Yo.”
One by one, I look at my boys, darin’ any one of them to interrupt me.
“Why y’all talkin’ ’bout me as if I ain’t here?”
The kickoff of this one-sided dick off is startin’ to bug me.
“Y’all got somethin’ to say to me, say it.”
It’s been a minute, but my boys should know they can still trus’ me. I mean, if they really want, all they have to do is suss me.
“Y’all got somethin’ to ax me, ax it.”
An’ they should know I ain’t gon’ get mad if they cuss me.
“So is this gon’ be the last time we ever see you?”
E’s look dares me to flee. I swear, no matter what I say, he gon’ flat out judge me.
“’Cause Ms. Edna Mae turn seventy-five juss once.”
How I really want to answer is, “E, my ace boon coon since Covey One and Ms. McMahon’s homeroom, please don’t begrudge me.”
“An’ it ain’t like you got no other reason to come to the Wild Hunneds.”
Man. This new look on his face. Yeah, he’s already misjudged me.
I lift my chin at the Conquest Knight XV. Y’all, this bad bitch is beastly.
“My moms an’ stepfather didn’t drop buckets of ducats on that fo’ nothin’.”
It was made in Canada, juss like Jason Priestley.
“They knew they was gon’ be comin’ to the Wild Hunneds e’ry now an’ then to visit Ms. Edna Mae.”
My moms an’ stepfather bought it wit a big splash of cash an’ said to hell wit a lease fee. Nah, the two of them don’t do nothin’ cheaply.
Especially when they go see me in Fiji test-fly a top secret exo-suit while speaking Swahili. And then do the same thing in Tahiti—all on the down low and State of Illinois ROTC sneaky.
(Y’all don’t know this, but an entire family can get top secret clearance when your parents have so much money it’s misconstrued as superior brilliance.)
“Do what you need to do, nwafa, but juss know she be axin’ ’bout you.” Nate says that as if I’m done wit The Manor an’ this is my last appearance.
“Yeah, man. She think you got a white girl ’cause you ain’t respond to none of her TruTells since y’all left.” Pretty Boy Blue say that as if I all but said to my girl is “good riddance.”
“Don’t trip. White girls can suck a mean dick.” Typical Big Sherm. Pullin’ shit out of left field to justify his entire existence.
“Nwafa, yo’ mama can suck a mean dick, but don’t ax me how I know.”
The fuck? Since when did I say bogus-ass shit like a motherfucking schmuck?
Don’t nobody say nothin’ fo’ ’bout a minute. My boys are as surprised as I am that I just went and put my foot all up in it. Talking about how each other’s mamas try to conversate wit the dirty llama has always been off limits.
So, I’m not quite sure how the fuck I just did it. Pissed off my boys, I mean, so bad they gon’ picket. Yeah, from them I don’t need to hear it. I know I’ve been a supreme asshole and motherfuckin’ idjit.
Just take a look at what my dumbassery elicits. It’s on ag’in like a surfboard an’ Gidget.
Big Sherm lands a soft straight right jab on my chin, but I take it like smallpox took the borough of Brooklyn and that swordsman took the swarthy head of Anne Boleyn. I counter feint with an Ali Shuffle left and an Ali Shuffle right before I unleash a vicious left uppercut with all my blustering might.
To be honest, I’m surprised Big Sherm doesn’t take flight (bang! zoom! straight to the Moon), even though that fluffy swing can bring the impotent power only a nonexistent Category Five hurricane would sling.
Y’all, my fist alights upon Big Sherm’s chin as softly as a sprite, an’ e’rybody is surprised it’s this wispy haymaker scrunch punch that ends the whole goddamn fight. Big Sherm don’t know it yet, but it’s time for him to tell Ms. Irene good night.
I send him rumblin’, stumblin’, an’ bumblin’ onto his big ass where he scatters twigs an’ grass. But my overweight pugilistic mate refuses to lose an’ admit his chin made of glass.
Instead, he struggles to his knees, but can’t see the forest for the trees—or find his mouthpiece while wearing skis. Yeah, this is Mike Tyson making cheese in front of hundreds and hundreds of Japanese after Buster Douglas just knocked him out with (seemingly) the greatest of ease.
And just so y’all know, I admit that with some unease, but I for damn sure won’t say Buster Douglas threw his punches with any sort of technical expertise.
Nate drops to his knees an’ give Big Sherm a ten count as he wheeze. But when Big Sherm finally stands, it’s too late an’ Nate wave his hands, puts his arms ’round Big Sherm to make sure he understand, an’ then raise my arm to declare me champion of The Manor, Slag Valley, an’ all the South Deering land.
“Yo.”
This time, I duck my head so I can’t look my boys in the eye. Juss like I did the day I was leavin’ ’cause I was damn sure ’bout to cry. I didn’t, but that don’t mean my eyes couldn’t be hidden.
“I’m sorry. I went too far wit that one.” My apology for my boys comes unbidden.
“Too far?” Big Sherm make a face like he juss walked in the kitchen an’ his mama cookin’ chitlins.
“Nwafa, yo’ dumbass didn’t juss go too far. You done drove off the end of the pier.” Nate also got a face, but his look like he sittin’ on the toilet shittin’.
“I bet that’s how them white boys do up in Bougieland.” Pretty Boy Blue ain’t got the stank face, but I can tell in his tone (an’ his word choice) he don’t give a damn at all ’bout that northern suburban white space.
I have a feeling that what I’m about to unpack from this metaphorical suitcase will have my boys questioning my birthplace and me wondering if I’m just a test case. But yet, I push on like astronaut King Kong out into deep space.
“Y’all won’t believe how them white boys do yo’ mama jokes up there.”
There’s a part of me (somewhere in this headspace) that absolutely must show my boys what’s lackin’ in their white people knowledge base.
“Them motherfuckers say some cruel-ass shit.”
But now as I try to do that, all I can see is me in a blue hat driving away from The Manor with nothing but a gotdamn cool point disgrace.
“It threw me at first. I was like, what the fuck? Who the fuck are these assholes?”
So instead, I play the role, front like my ego just got swole, even though my awkwardness has definitely put me in my place.
“But I caught on quick. I had to make sure I kept up wit them white boys an’ held my own.”
But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun as I tell this story as part of my Raf’s Chopp’d an’ Screw’d Comedy Showcase.
“Man, them white boys ain’t seen a yo’ mama joke they don’t like. The more offensive, the better.”
But my boys are looking at me as if I’m in the process of rebooking my flee back to my bougie disgrace.
“So I brought it an’ then some. E’ry. Damn. Day.”
That line was supposed to be strong, like the United States in the 1980s and the Cold War arms race.
“An’ that’s the problem. I’m used to bringin’ the heat like that on a regular basis, so I guess I juss got caught up in the moment.”
Instead, it don’t got no chill and registers nil, like set to zero, which engenders Euclidean flat space.
“Tole y’all Raf was turnin’ white.”
Speakin’ of no chill, it’s about time for me to go die on a hill, ’cause what Pretty Boy Blue juss said was ill.
“Black on the outside. White on the inside. Straight up Oreo.”
But then Nate gotta go an’ get all up in my grill.
“Double Stuff Oreo.”
And Big Sherm start lickin’ his lips like he ’bout to go get his fill. Where, I don’t know, but it’s lookin’ less likely I’m gon’ have to die on this hill.
“Nwafa, you juss wanna get yo’ grub on.”
See, E is blessed when he says shit like this in jest. He’s always known to squash the noise between me and my boys. More than once, he has saved us all from the oncoming squall of a nasty and permanent friendship downfall.
I give E a slight but grateful nod for deflectin’ these attacks an’ awful prods, but I make sure I keep a straight face so I don’t tip off the rest of our squad.
“You goddamn right. Ain’t no shame in my inhale game.”
Big Sherm pats his big belly (which fondly remembers Welch’s grape jelly), remindin’ us all again he could be the Black avatar of the philosopher he thinks was born in Delhi. Or how he think Tupac is the real Machiavelli.
“This motherfucker need to go wit Raf an’ ’em back to Bougieland so he can eat up all they cows an’ pigs an’ horses an’ chickens an’ shit in that castle they got.”
Nate don’t know the half of it. Nah, he wouldn’t even be able to do the math of it. If Big Sherm came home wit us, multiple nuts would be bust once he saw how our enormous refrigerator an’ freezer was stocked an’ stuffed.
“Y’all ’member when I ate forty-two chicken wings at that block party when we was eight years old?”
Big Sherm say that like he proud an’ extremely chuffed.
“Nwafa, of course we ’member—”
“—yo’ motherfuckin’ ass had so much chicken grease—”
“—all over yo’ mouth—”
“—yo’ mama wiped it off, put it in a plastic container—”
“—an’ then put that in the freezer until winter—”
“—so she could use it to moisturize yo’ dry ass, cracked up, ashy-ass lips—”
“—an’ when winter came an’ yo’ mama put that chicken grease on yo’ lips, Kee-Kee—”
Nate starts jumpin’ up and down because saying my ex-girl’s name lays that TruTell electricity all the way down and brings four times the disapproving frowns.
“TruTell, disable the Kee-Kee Protocol.” That’s E initiating the closedown.
“I thought we needed majority assent to do that.”
“We do.”
“But Reese isn’t here.”
“Reese don’t got to be here.”
“Yeah, he done already gave his approval.”
“When the fuck did that happen?”
“When you was fuckin’ eatin’ caviar in Bougieland.”
“That’s not fair. I didn’t ask my parents to move me to the suburbs.”
“We all know you like it there better than you like it here.”
“How do you kn—”
“When was the last time you looked at the Protocol?”
“The day he left the Manor.”
“The last time we saw him.”
“The last time Kee-Kee saw him.”
“Yo, I been busy an’ shit tryin’ to—”
“—make sure you don’t talk like that ’round all them white people?”
“What?”
“Look, man, ain’t nobody tryin’ to get no seizures juss ’cause you—”
“—ashamed to have Kee-Kee—”
“—sussed by them white people up in Bougieland—”
“—so you ain’t gon’ think about her—”
“—dream about her—”
“—or TruTell about her—”
“—wit them white people—”
“—us—”
“—or anybody fuckin’ else.”
“It’s completely fuckin’ obvious you straight wiped her entirely out of yo’ life.”
“Which means you pro’lly don’t e’en know she be axin’ ’bout you—”
“—’cause you pro’lly set up auto delete for all TruTell comms from her—”
“—so she be axin’ us—”
“—when you comin’ through next—”
“—or tellin’ us—”
“—to tell you stuff—”
“—but ain’t none of us tryin’ to twitch out—”
“—wit no motherfuckin’ dampenin’ enhancements—”
“—so yeah, fuck a Kee-Kee Protocol.”
“I’m not ashamed of her.”
“Then TruTell her that.”
“Nah, let’s start wit us first, since—”
“—we ’posed to be yo’ boys an’ all, so—”
“—turn yo’ damn SussShare back on—”
“—so we know how you really feel ’bout us—”
“—’cause ain’t that why our mamas voted to let Stanford Sutton Industries—”
“—put this shit—”
“—inside us? I mean—”
“—well, I really did it fo’ the scratch, ’cause—”
“—you scratch my back an’ pay my mama’s rent fo’ life—”
“—an’ I scratch yo’ back an’ give you unfettered permission to invade my privacy fo’ life—”
“—so activate that shit again so we can know if we still yo’ boys or not.”
For the second time today, don’t nobody say shit. It’s as if we all can’t move as we watch the embodiment of laryngitis hit. I swear, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m ’bout to have a fit.
I’m talm ’bout so apoplectic that I’m gon’ start speakin’ in tongues, includin’ Sanskrit. But then Big Sherm’s older brother rolls up on us in his electric blue Honda Transmitt an’ stops on the street in front of Ms. Edna Mae’s house where the curb is split.
He don’t get out the car ’cause the Transmitt can let him talk to people from afar by usin’ a holographic image of him as Jafar.
“Bring ya ass. Jamaal was playin’ ball at Trumbull Park an’ got popped.”
I think it’s bizarre that people who live in such poverty spend money on shit they can’t afford like they just won the lottery.
“Some fools rolled up on the courts in a matte black Nova, an’ we know who be ridin’ an’ glidin’ in that. That nwafa D Scone.”
It’s almost as if they’re inexorably drawn to the worst sort of gaudery.
“J was hit four times. I sussed e’erbody else.”
Yeah, I know. That’s just my North Shore snobbery.
“Let’s be up.”
So I should stop this sidity mockery. And I do.
Before E gets in the Transmitt, he turns and lifts his chin to me. I lift my chin back at him to say goodbye properly.
I want to actually say something to him. But I just sit there on Ms. Edna Mae’s porch, because my world is about to go dim. I’m certain this will be the last time he and I are in the limn. And yeah, I know; that is fucking grim.
I’m still sitting here when they skurr!!! away from the curb. I promise y’all, though; I’m not perturbed.
I’m just trying not to cry.
But I do.
No sound. No shakes. Pre-grief come true.
After about fifteen minutes, a voice behind me speaks, as if in a Black Hand Side clinic. She’s not sure if my tears have reached their limit.
I don’t say this, because I’m damn sure I already convey this, but yeah, the salty runoff has diminished. Right now, at this very moment, I’m finished.
I don’t wipe my face before I turn to see who it is, because, between you, me, and her, she already up in my biz. I bet she can tell me exactly what just happened, if I gave her a pop quiz.
But no need to go that route. My boys clued her in, no doubt.
She sits down and I frown at the red digital countdown beneath the skin around her neck. I’m shocked, y’all; an Electric Resurrected Kee-Kee is something I didn’t expect. I’m not sure her showing me this, though, has the desired effect.
“Why?” I ask her.
She puts her soft, small palms on my face and slides them down to wipe the tears away. I have somewhat of an idea about what she’s going to say.
“Not all of us have a rich mama and step daddy to move us out of The Manor.”
True. But does that mean this was the only thing left for her to do?
“Stanford Sutton Institute?”
“No. Virginia. Women’s basketball in The Forty-Eight isn’t suspicious and afraid of the Electric Resurrected, like how football is. Like how you are.”
That’s a low blow, if I ever felt it. It’s even worse, because she dealt it.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then prove it. Stanford Sutton said if I convince you to undergo Electric Resurrection, then he’ll give me an extra 8,760 hours of battery life. A redshirt year.”
That motherfucker. Yeah, no pressure. Right now, he’s probably smiling wide and bright, full-on Cheshire.
“Do you believe him?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Two months ago, my mama and I signed my Electric Resurrection contract. The redshirt hours clause is in it, along with my official brand name: Nyanza Swift. The next extremely fast Electric Resurrection point guards—second gen, third gen, fourth gen, whatever gen—will wear my brand and have my face.”
Holy shit. Sounds like her mama bargained with only one thought to wit: a brand spankin’ new one-of-a-kind identi-kit.
“So, you not mad at me?”
“Watchu think, nwafa?”
Kee-Kee smirks at me, and I want her to stroll down green tea aisles with me.
“You lucky we movin’ next door to y’all next week. You also lucky me holdin’ a grudge against you will shorten my battery life due to the vitriol. I’m not about to live less minutes and hours because of you. I’m trying to live my life in numeric digital red, for as long as I can.”
I got that covered.
I smile and throw my arm around her neck, kiss the countdown charm around her neck, and spread some lip smarm around her neck.
“I’m sorry.”
“Damn right you are. On more than one level.”
I don’t dispute that. She came correct; I don’t need to compute that.
“You know how you can make it up to me, don’t you?”
“Already on it. Just sent Stanford Sutton an InTell and told him I’m down for Electric Resurrection. Told him I’m doing it for you. Also, made a demand: 8,760 free redshirt hours for me, and if he agrees, you and I will be his first-gen spokesmodels.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. She’s pro’lly wonderin’ if she wants to be this highbrow wit me.
“It’s cool. I’ve thought it through. We’re going to lead the Electric Resurrection Athletes Squad (yeah, I made it up; we’re superheroes). We’ll tour college campuses in The Forty-Eight and show them that Electric Resurrected athletes aren’t overpowered and dangerous. Stanford Sutton’s pockets will get fatter, and because he’ll forever need us, we’ll live long Electric Resurrected lives.”
Kee-Kee twists her mouth to one side. Yeah, she’s still pissed off at me. I bet if she could, she’d twist off my feet.
“Superheroes? Nwafa, you think you slick. This is what you were diabolically devising instead of answering my TruTells, right?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
“Being an asshole to you.”
“At least you know what you are.”
“I think we all need to connect with our inner being every now and then.”
“Not like that.”
“I know. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Is that what happens when you move to the North Shore?”
I want to tell her yes, and be definitive, but that’s such a loaded question, and she’ll misconstrue my indicative.
So, instead I say:
“Let me know in a week.”