Fiasco
A journalist from Vibe magazine called. She wanted an interview with Fiasco. It had been a while since his music had gotten any national exposure. A small article buried in the Source, maybe three years before, was the last thing he even remembered. Vibe magazine wanted to rap with him? Of course Fiasco said yes. The writer wanted to talk about the current climate in hip-hop. A subject Fiasco had a lot of opinions on. He was game. More than game. He’d talk. Talk plenty.
He was good at that. Talking.
Talkin’ crap, especially.
That had been Fiasco back in the day, a natural at it. And he could back it up, too, easily. Violence wasn’t nothing but a thing for him, coming up in Camden. If he had a penny for every head he’d cracked, he wouldn’t have to ever rock a mic again, he’d have himself a fortune. And girls. He’d gotten much love from the females ’cause he knew what to say to get them in a down-for-whatever mood. Talkin’ crap. He had swagger in spades, everything ’bout him screamed that he was someone, a VIP. How he walked, the stylish way that he dressed, just his overall presence. The females couldn’t say no.
And he couldn’t stop himself from indulging.
He remembered one, as he sat reflecting with the Vibe journalist.
He’d been extra bold with her. He’d run up on her in a club, as usual.
“I can tell you ain’t ever been loved good,” he’d told her.
By loved he meant sexed.
“No?” She smiled. Intrigued. They all were.
“Uh-uh. You most definitely haven’t.”
“How ya figure?”
He’d nodded at her waist. “Your hips.”
“What about ’em?” She’d looked down at herself, smoothed her skintight dress. Her body was right. What was he talking about? But he got her to thinking just the same. Maybe she needed to get herself a membership to Curves?
“You good and all that,” he’d said. “Don’t get me wrong. But your hips would be wider if a real n----ever put it on you for sure.” Talkin’ crap. “You got that slim waist, a nice fatty, but your hips is lacking,” Fiasco went on. “After I run through you’ll be on some J-Lo-slash-Beyonce.” After he’d said. Confidence. Swagger. And this was before he’d dropped a record. His first album was months away from release at that point.
“Is that so?” she’d said.
“No doubt.”
“How I know you ain’t just talking yap?”
“Real n-----do real things.”
She’d eyed him, hard. “I must be crazy, but I’m considering this.”
Fiasco smiled. “Coquetry then coitus.”
Webster’s Dictionary. He’d read the entire thing.
Every letter had a story with it.
“What’s that?” the female asked. “Them words?”
“Flirting then…loving.” He’d almost said the F-word, but edited himself. Keep it clean. He had her. No use messing it up by being too raw. Same principle he applied to his rhymes.
She nodded, impressed. “You got a vocabulary. What, you in college or something?”
The year 2000. The new millennium. He was twenty-one. Should have been graduating from Howard.
“Nah. I’m an MC,” he’d said.
MC. Not a rapper. MCs were artful, intelligent, expert with words, lyrically nimble.
Rappers weren’t necessarily on that level.
She’d frowned. “MC? What’s that?”
“I spit. Rock the mic. Rhyme.”
“A rapper?”
“Yeah,” he said, though it pained him.
“I ain’t ever seen you on MTV, BET,” she said. Smiled, proud of herself, as if she’d gotten one off on him.
“You will. Finishing up my album now.” Said it with a confidence that couldn’t be denied. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Mona. You?”
“Fiasco.”
“Your government?” she said.
“Fiasco’s enough.”
Mona appraised him, head to toe. Crisp white sneakers, looked like they were right out of the box. Designer jeans that lay down perfectly over the sneakers. Black hoodie. And not some Wal-Mart nonsense, either. The stitching let her know it was expensive material. He smelled good, too. Cool Water, she believed. She looked him in his eyes. They had an Asian slant to ’em, but he was definitely black. Put her in mind of Tyson Beckford. She licked her lips. “Fiasco the rapper. You any good?”
Instead of nodding, he demonstrated. “When we speak it’s like vagina monologue/ you want what is mine as yours/ and that’s a minor flaw/ but we could shine or soar/ or I could rhyme some more/ convincing / you with every word/ to walk with me out the door.”
Off the top.
A freestyle.
Delivered with swagger, too.
Mona had gripped his hand and pulled him out of the club. Pulled him out. Their one-night stand lasted a couple of years. She’d been one of the better ones. Actually came to the studio as he was finishing up his album, offered her support as he recorded his word magic. Believed in him. Believed in him before he blew up.
Even Mya liked her.
And Mya didn’t like any of ’em.
But Fiasco was wild, then. He didn’t listen to Mya as much as he should have. One female wasn’t enough. Destiny Broadnax replaced Mona. Actually, she overlapped with Mona, but whatever. Destiny was beautiful, and wounded. Her five-year-old son had gotten killed the year before. Gang mess. Right on the sidewalk in front of Destiny’s mother’s place. The little boy playing with some action figures. Cut down when some fools drove by and sprayed the block, thwat-thwat.
Wrong place, wrong time.
The experience had warped Destiny.
She didn’t care about nothing; she went for it all.
Fiasco liked that; it reminded him of himself. He benefited from it. Destiny was down for whatever. He made sure “whatever” was usually an MC named Fiasco.
His second album had just dropped. A critical and commercial success. Write-ups in all the major mags. Vibe. The Source. A single getting heavy play on the urban stations. Nice little video on rotation on MTV, BET and VH1. His swagger was bigger than ever. The females loved him. Mona and Destiny had actually gotten in a fistfight over him. Destiny won. Wasn’t a female anywhere that wouldn’t throw down for a chance with Fiasco. He was a hot commodity with the females.
Dudes were another story.
Bunch of cats around his way were serious haters. He stayed away from Camden as much as possible, but he wasn’t a sellout Negro; he had to go back to the old neighborhood from time to time. Had to breathe that Camden air just to keep himself on point. Not that it helped with sales from where he really wanted them. It was cool the ladies liked his records, but he wanted the dudes to respect his flow, too. That was a lost cause. He didn’t get love from dudes anywhere. They complained that his music was too soft. Eventually he moved his focus. Screw ’em. They didn’t buy records anyway. The ladies did. And Fiasco had enough rugged nonsense in his life; why would he waste his energy spitting the same thing on a song? Let ’em hate.
He had fine-ass Destiny.
They got busy in motels most weekends he came home.
Didn’t even speak during the week. Didn’t really speak much in the motels, either.
But this one night, Destiny was in a talkative mood.
“How long were you in prison?” she asked.
Fiasco frowned. “Who said I was in prison?”
She’d glanced at him knowingly.
“A minute,” he admitted. Little over a year, over some foolishness. He’d learned.
“Tell me about it,” Destiny said.
Fiasco shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Destiny pouted. “Bet that’ll help you sell records. Street cred.”
Fiasco plopped down on the bed, started disrobing. “I’m keeping all of that quiet. I’m gonna sell records ’cause my flow is tight.”
Destiny grunted.
“I’ve got skills,” Fiasco said. “That’ll prevail. Me getting locked up isn’t relevant.”
“Street cred,” Destiny said a second time.
Fiasco frowned. “Suppose I should walk around talking about all the times I’ve been shot at, too?”
Destiny seemed to shrink away from him at the mention of getting shot, dropped her eyes, got playful with her hands. He’d never seen her look shy like that before.
It turned him on.
“Come and get this Yao Ming,” he said.
Destiny seemed uncertain, but she moved to him, dropped to her knees. Fiasco closed his eyes. Destiny worked his pants off. They were shackled around his ankles. He felt the coolness of the room when she dropped his boxers. “Tell me about prison,” she said in a shaky voice.
On that again?
Fiasco kept his eyes closed. “A mistake. But I learned from it. Grew. I read the dictionary, cover to cover. Learned a lot of words.”
“You learn a word for ‘stay completely still,’ n----?”
Fiasco felt more coolness. On his temple.
He opened his eyes.
Some strange dude stood beside him, gat resting on Fiasco’s head.
“Move one inch,” the dude growled, “and they’ll have to wipe you off the walls.”
It had gotten hot for Fiasco quick.
The air in the room was thick enough to spoon in a bowl. Fiasco wanted to wipe his brow. He didn’t. Sweat beaded on his skin.
“Okay if I pull my boxers and pants up?” he said.
A click sound reverberated through the room. The release of the gun’s safety. That meant no in gun talk. Fiasco spoke gun talk fluently. He left his boxers and pants around his ankles. Felt a tick in his blood.
Fiasco looked at the gunman. Big ugly dude. Had his hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it Jet Li-ed his eyes. He was dressed head to toe in black. A worker bee.
“What’s this about?” Fiasco asked.
He had his ideas, of course. Dude turns his burner on you only two things it could ever be about, really. Money. Or some female. Dudes acted tough and whatnot, but a female could get the baddest n----twisted up in a second. Fiasco glanced over at Destiny. She stood stock-still in the corner of the room. Shocked, it seemed. It wasn’t about her.
“I ain’t hardly Bill Gates, son,” Fiasco said.
“I’ve heard otherwise,” said the Black Jet Li. “I want your ATM card. And your PIN.”
“Don’t even have—”
The gat pressed harder into Fiasco’s temple, bit into his skin. “Don’t lie, Fiasco. Don’t even.”
“I’m saying…” Fiasco searched his mind for something. “I can get you some money, though. But it’ll take me a minute. I don’t have it on hand like that.”
The Black Jet Li backhanded him. “Don’t play me. Destiny said your dumb ass keeps all your money in a savings account. And she said you be at the ATM several times a week.”
Fiasco’s head swam. He’d lost some of his sharpness since he’d started recording. Misread everything in this situation. He’d been set up.
He glanced at Destiny again, met her steely gaze. Something in her eyes said I’m sorry. Something in his return glance said Eff you. She turned away, trembled. Her eyes were moist. An actress. Playing a role. He’d fallen for her lines. And she’d betrayed him good.
“Wallet’s in my right pocket,” Fiasco said. “PIN is zero, zero, twenty-two, seventy-two.”
No sooner had he said that than the gun went off.
Shot four times. Something he never mentioned in interviews. A media secret. Fiasco wasn’t about to sell records off of his unfortunate past. Didn’t want his destructive past life feeding the young and impressionable minds of his fans. Didn’t want them buying CDs because they thought his past brushes with thuggery, getting shot and whatnot, was cool.
Getting shot wasn’t cool.
Living was, though.
Living allowed him a second chance.
Allowed him to leave that life behind, focus solely on the music.
And he’d done that for the most part. He’d come close to selling his soul last year. Recorded a hard street record under the alias Murdaa. But at the last moment he scrapped that project. Just couldn’t go through with it. The near tragedy with Alonzo and Eric’s sister had refocused his mind. He made good music as Fiasco. Intelligent and thoughtful music. Uplifting music. The Murdaa record was reckless, a mistake he narrowly avoided. Mya was happy. One of the few times he made her happy last year. And his fans still had music. Fiasco. They still had a choice.
And they’d made it.
His album was tanking. Sales were thin as Calista Flockhart.
Meanwhile, all these talent-challenged rappers were moving units. Yung Chit, a primary example. The Southern rapper’s CD had come out around the same time as Fiasco’s and was two times platinum already with no end in sight.
Two million in sales.
Everybody loved Yung Chit.
Even Eric’s little girlfriend.
That bothered Fiasco. Really put him on edge.
And Yung Chit was everywhere. Constant reminders in front of Fiasco’s face. Ubiquitous. One of the words Fiasco had learned. Yung Chit in magazines. On the radio. TV. Trumpeting the time he’d gotten shot as if that made him a better artist. As if taking bullets had increased his lyrical ability on the mic. It hadn’t.
Fiasco had a choice now, too.
What was that saying? If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Should he speak about his past? Talk about the shooting? Would it even help at this point? And did Fiasco want that kind of help?
The Vibe journalist sat forward in her seat, her recorder playing, interest in her eyes.
He’d told her the entire story up until the shots.
A Latina with sexy, large eyes, and a warm, winter-proof smile, not to mention a thick li’l athletic body. She flashed that smile, batted those sexy eyes. Fiasco felt her smooth fingers on his knee. Wasn’t even sure how it had gotten there, she was so subtle.
Vida. That was her name.
“That is some story,” Vida said. “You haven’t told it before?”
He shook his head. “No. I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Focused on my craft. The art.”
Vida nodded. “Congratulations on your newest release.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Congrats on a dud?”
“I have all of your songs downloaded in my iPod. There isn’t a weak song on the entire CD.”
That was something he could get behind. “Thanks. Glad to hear you feel that way. I worked hard on this album.”
“It’s evident,” she gushed. “Nas famously said ‘Hip-hop is dead’ a few years back. How do you feel about that statement?”
“A lot of truth to it.”
“Meaning?”
Fiasco shifted in his seat. “Meaning real music isn’t getting made anymore. A bunch of jingles masquerading as songs.”
Vida smiled again. “Your album is critically acclaimed, but according to SoundScan you’ve sold only 135,000 copies. Reconcile your sales with the artistry of your music.”
She’d done her homework.
One hundred thirty-five thousand. Worse than he knew.
“It’s disappointing. But I don’t get enough spins on the radio. I don’t get the interviews anymore. The young kids that buy the music are led like rats to cheese. They’re influenced in what they buy. And I’m not the cheese anymore.”
“Interesting.” Vida’s eyes glowed. So did her smile. “Why do you feel—in your words—you aren’t the cheese?”
Fiasco shrugged. “I don’t know.” He did. Why avoid the truth? He cleared his throat. “The marketing of rappers has changed. It’s about the backstory more than the music.”
Vida laughed lightly. “That’s the truth. A compelling backstory helps sell records. You haven’t been arrested. Your name doesn’t come up in anything negative. As opposed to, say, a Yung Chit. He’s burning up the charts right now. He’s been arrested, shot, everything. The critics aren’t kind to his music, but it still sells. That boosts your theory, I’d say.”
Yung Chit.
Everywhere.
Ubiquitous.
Fiasco wasn’t letting Yung Chit steal another second of his shine.
He shifted in his seat again. “Dude doesn’t make good music. Let’s be real. But everybody is caught up in all the arrests and the shooting as if that means something. And Yung Chit harps on that because he knows his music isn’t noteworthy.”
Fiasco paused. This was the moment of truth.
“What’s funny,” he continued, “is I could have went that same route, but didn’t. I think he’s a fake thug, actually. Real thugs don’t announce the shit on billboards. I could have done the same thing as him, but I wanted my music to be the focus, not the fact I’d gotten shot in a motel room with my pants down. And spent time in prison.”
Vida’s eyes widened. “Are you saying—?”
“That I’ve been shot? That I’ve been to jail? Yes. I told you some of my story, but not all of it. Let me keep it all the way real with you…”
Spanish music was playing softly on the restaurant’s jukebox. The singer, a female with a voice like velvet, kept singing the same two words: amor, corazon. The musical backdrop consisted of guitar licks and what sounded like an accordion. A couple in the rear of the restaurant danced around a pool table. Lark didn’t want to be there. But her father insisted. And you didn’t tell Earl Edwards no.
“Heard the barbecue here is off the hook,” Earl said.
Off the hook. Lark’s father still thought he was young.
“Your father’s talking to you,” Honey said. “Answer him, girl.”
Was he? Lark hadn’t realized. “Oh yeah?”
Earl chuckled. “You weren’t even listening. It’s all good, princess. Your night, live it how you will.” He paused, picked up his glass, took a swallow of the amber-colored liquid inside. “I’m getting faded.”
Johnny Walker Black, Lark believed.
How embarrassing. Lark sighed as Honey fixed her gaze on her, eyes tight, jaws tense. A slap would have followed if they weren’t in public. Honey was blaming Lark for her dad’s drinking. Convoluted logic, but whatever.
“Thanks, Dad,” Lark said. “I really appreciate this celebration.”
Celebrating her leaving for school.
Earl waved her off. “Sure you do.”
Honey’s eyes tightened even more.
Lark’s father swimming in the Johnny Walker.
It was bound to be a long, suffering evening for Lark.
Donovan had gone back to Jamaica with his parents to visit relatives. She wished he were here. She wished her parents would have let her bring Kenya.
Speaking of Kenya, she hadn’t heard from her friend in hours. That was unusual. Lark pulled out her phone, kept it shielded under the table, sent Kenya a text message: I’m dying over here. Parents have me out for dinner.:(
Their dinner orders arrived.
Baby back ribs, a side of black beans, Carolina coleslaw made with apples, apple juice and cider vinegar. Same order for all three of them. Lark was in the mood for chicken. But her father had ordered. And you didn’t tell Earl no.
Guy who served the food had blond dreadlocks, blue eyes, walked with a serious bop. Bob Marley mixed with Brad Pitt. Lark thought he was cute. She couldn’t help but stare. The only good thing about the evening so far. She was at the point of noticing guys more than ever. Hormones in overdrive. Girls went through the same things boys went through in puberty. But how could you not notice this guy? Big and beefy, looked like he could have played linebacker for Nebraska and then moved on from there to the NFL. He’d ruptured his ACL rushing the quarterback, had his career cut short, came back to Jersey and opened up this quaint little restaurant. He wasn’t just a waiter; he owned the joint.
Lark created a complete story around him.
Just looking at him opened the floodgates of her mind.
Flannel shirt, opened, a gray T-shirt under that, sleeves of the flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. He wore a white apron over everything; it was covered in long, maroon squiggly stains. Barbecue sauce, Lark hoped. His blue jeans were torn in both legs, a hairy sunburned knee visible in his right pant’s leg. He placed their food down before them, unsnapped linen napkins and dropped them on the table beside their plates. Lark noticed a bracelet of different color rubber bands wrapped around his thick right wrist. His hands were huge. He could have been a cornerback maybe?
Lark had to gather herself. Donovan was teaching her football, but she couldn’t imagine he’d be happy she was using the new knowledge for this, fantasizing about some hot white man in a restaurant. She looked away from the blond dread, eyed her parents. Fantasy was better than reality, though.
The blond dread said “Rail up” after he’d settled their food in front of them.
Accent. Jamaican.
Oh boy!
God seriously had a sense of humor.
Lark’s father rubbed his hands together and nodded. Dug in right away. Honey bowed her head and said a quick prayer. Hypocrite, Lark thought. At least her father didn’t pretend to be friendly with the Lord.
The blond dread nodded at her father’s empty glass. “More libations?”
Earl shook his head. “No thanks. But I will have another Johnny Walker Black.” He cackled, found that so funny.
Dumb. Lark wondered how come she was so smart. Where did it come from?
Honey? Earl?
As Kenya would say, Oh hells no.
“I’ll bring dat straightaway, nuh?”
Lark’s stomach rumbled. For a second she’d thought, hoped, her father wouldn’t get drunk. She wanted to tell Brad Pitt-slash-Bob Marley of how bad things got at the apartment when her father drank, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t even shared that knowledge with Kenya, her best friend. Best friend who wasn’t returning her text messages. Three so far.
The blond dread paused, his blue eyes unblinking behind the curtain of nappy blond hair. His jaw muscles were tight, rippled his skin. He glanced at Honey. “You, ma’am?” She shook her head. Then he turned to Kenya. Didn’t speak, asked with his eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. “No. I’m good,” Lark said.
She wasn’t.
He seemed to realize it, too.
His eyes stayed on her for several beats.
She noticed his Adam’s apple, dancing in his throat.
He finally looked away, scooped up her father’s empty glass. “Soon come.” He stepped away, bopping, dreads flapping.
Lark snuck another text message to Kenya. This made four.
“A blond dread,” Earl said. “Is that the Twilight Zone or what? Where’s Rod Serling?”
“Who?” Lark said.
Earl chuckled. “Wow! I know something you don’t know. Wow!”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Earl barked. “Whatever. Whatever.”
Honey laughed a nervous pitter. She knew her husband. Knew he was teetering on the edge. Knew what that meant for her. Nothing nice.
Lark bit into her ribs. “Ribs are good, Daddy.” They were.
Earl, neck deep in his own, grunted.
They ate in virtual silence. Food was good, better than good. Ribs tender. Barbecue sauce tangy and sweet. Black beans firm and flavorful, dusted with cheese. The non-mayo Carolina coleslaw top-notch. Earl grunted after every bite. Honey hummed every so often. Lark just ate.
And thought.
What was up with Kenya?
Lark was up to six messages. No reply.
“You never did say how that school visit went.” Earl bit into his tender ribs; barbecue sauce dripped to his chin. He didn’t bother wiping it away. His shirt looked like the blond dread’s apron. Embarrassing. “You need to learn to share your experiences with your folks.” Slurring.
“We just the piggy bank, Earl,” Honey said. “Ain’t you figured that out? Ain’t no sharing with us.”
Scholarships, scholarships, scholarships.
Part-time job, part-time job, part-time job.
How were they the piggy bank?
Lark was doing it on her own. Like with everything.
“It’s nice,” Lark said. “Sorry you guys couldn’t visit with me.”
“I bet you’re sorry,” Honey said.
Lark ignored her. “I’m thinking about joining a sorority.”
Earl grinned. “Delta Alpha Sigma Phi Theta Beta Sigma Gamma. That’s my princess.”
Oh, he was definitely drunk.
“Kenya and I might join,” Lark said.
“Following behind that girl on everything,” Honey barked.
“She’s my best friend.”
“But you ain’t no Kenya yourself. Sooner you learn that, the better.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mama?”
“What I said. You ain’t no Kenya. That girl’s beautiful and talented and…”
“…got a phat ass,” Earl finished. “Not that I’ve noticed but a time or two or three.”
Honey acted as if she hadn’t heard that.
Lark bit her lip.
Honey smiled. “Don’t worry about it, girl.” Soft tone, as if she cared. “Everybody ain’t meant to be special.”
Lark wasn’t even mad.
Kenya was special.
The best friend a girl could have.
But why wasn’t she returning her texts?
Lark was worried.
The blond dread returned to clear their plates. He glanced at Lark briefly. She smiled. He looked away, launched right into business. The place offered two desserts only: apple pie or ice cream. Or, if they were truly ambitious, apple pie with a scoop of ice cream on top. If they wanted coffee, there was a Starbucks two blocks over. Keep it simple.
Nobody at the table wanted dessert.
“Best barbecue ever,” Earl slurred to the blond dread.
“Sassafras and applewood.”
“Come again?”
“The wood we use to cook-up on,” the blond dread replied. “Makes it good, nuh?”
Earl nodded. “That’s ups what’s.” His tongue was a weight.
The blond dread fixed his steel-blue eyes on Earl, brushed aside a handful of blond dreads. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
“Thought you didn’t serve coffee?”
“My private own.”
Earl waved him off. “I’m straight.”
“I’m driving,” Honey said.
“To hell you are.”
“Earl, please…”
“To hell you are,” he repeated.
Honey let it go.
“Long as the Pope pisses at the Vatican, I will be the man in my house,” Earl slurred. He slammed his fist on the table, shook silverware, made the salt and pepper shakers dance, keep up beat with the Spanish woman singing about amor and corazon.
The blond dread stepped away.
That disappointed Lark.
She glanced at her cell phone again.
Nine messages.
Kenya, where are you?
The drive home had been uneventful. Not much happened. The real fireworks were when they first left the restaurant, getting Lark’s father to hand over the keys. After some fight, he did. Now, the streets were dormant. It was an unseasonably cool evening. The hawk was actually out, keeping the criminal element at bay. Earl was asleep in the passenger seat. Honey drove carefully, had made one stop, at 7-Eleven. Bought a handful of items that would have been cheaper at the grocery store. And her lottery. Cash 5, Quick Picks.
Night had fallen hard, painted the sky black.
Honey pulled down the alley of their project building. One of her shortcuts. They were blocked. A Lincoln Continental, dark blue, late model. Out-of-state tags, Indiana. The car’s brake lights were blinking like Christmas decorations.
Honey honked her horn. Nothing. “Go tell them to move,” she told Lark. “I ain’t got time for this.”
Lark slid out of the car, took tentative steps toward the Lincoln. Brake lights were still blinking like crazy.
She moved to the driver’s side, was about to tap on the window, but stopped abruptly. Inside, a middle-aged man’s trousers were pooled at his ankles. A woman, crooked brunette wig on her head, was bobbing up and down in the man’s lap. She wasn’t bobbing for Granny Smiths, either. The man’s head was thrown back against his headrest, his foot tapping the car’s brakes unintentionally.
Lark stumbled backward.
Honey honked her horn again.
Lark stumbled a couple more steps.
Honey rolled down her window. “Girl, what you doing?” she yelled. “Tell them to move.”
Lark stumbled down the alley.
In the opposite direction of her mother’s yells.
“Girl, where you going? Lark? Get your narrow behind back here.”
Lark ignored Honey, started running.
She had to get away.
Kenya’s house.
That’s where she’d go.
She ran for three blocks before her legs started to get weary. Panting, lungs burning, she slowed from a full-out trot to a leisurely walk. The image of the man and woman in the Lincoln was burned into her brain. It had horrified her. But it had excited her, too. That was hard to admit, but true just the same. All kinds of thoughts swirled in her mind. Kenya was her best friend, no doubt. And she was worried about her girl, true. But. But. But. The Lincoln episode, as she was now calling it, had stirred something in her she couldn’t deny. Passion. Desire. Want. Donovan had fumbled with her bra straps more times than she could count. Fumbled over his words every time she covered his hands with her own and let him know things had gone as far as she would allow them to. Maybe it was time to move beyond the fumbling. Maybe it was time to seal the deal. She felt something, right down between her legs in that naughty place, that she couldn’t pretend away.
Kenya was her best friend, no doubt.
And she was worried about her girl, true.
But.
She was growing up, getting ready to leave for college. Having these feelings. These desires. These wants. The man and woman in the Lincoln had just reminded her of what she already knew, of what she was already aware. She wanted to feel a man, experience a man, the way a woman did. There it was.
Donovan was away.
But there were more than a few boys that had been sniffing after her that weren’t away.
Some of them lived in the vicinity.
She contemplated making that bad move.
But God works in mysterious ways.
The loud honk of a horn startled her. A dusty Jeep Wrangler, looked like it hadn’t been washed since it was driven off the lot, had moved up next to her at the curb. She glanced at it, then looked straight ahead, kept moving. The sky was black, the street covered in shadows. Another light tap sounded on the horn. That time she didn’t glance in the Jeep’s direction. Picked up the pace of her walk.
“Hey.”
She picked up the pace some more. Not quite a run, but more than a walk.
“Hey” again.
She didn’t have Mace. Did have her house keys, though. Gouge an eye with the sharp, jagged keyhole end if need be.
“Don’t be alarmed. Cool ya heels a moment.”
Something in the masculine voice caught her attention. Something familiar. Lark knew better, but she still slowed. Looked over at the Jeep. Squinted her eyes. He’d brought the car to a complete stop, was leaning over, his head visible in the passenger-side window.
Lark should have been startled.
Red flags everywhere.
But she wasn’t.
“Did you…did you…follow me?” she asked.
“No. No,” he said then shook the blond dreads from his eyes so she could see the sudden sincerity in them. “Well, yeah, I guess. Yeah, I did.”
“Why?” The only question that came to mind. Later, she’d think of so many other things she should have said. So many other things she should have done.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.” In a few months.
He groaned. “You’re beautiful. Never would have guessed it.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Something Lark didn’t hear often. Even from Donovan. Despite the compliment, she managed to gather herself. “Why did you follow me?”
“I didn’t. At first.”
She just looked at him.
“Look, my name’s Trent.”
“Lark.”
“Beautiful name, Lark.”
“Uh-huh. Why did you follow me?”
He sighed. “I got off shift after you and your folks left. Saw you all in the parking lot, twenty minutes after I’d cleared your table, trying to get your father in the car.”
Lark closed her eyes briefly, relived that nightmare.
“I shouldn’t have followed,” Trent said. “I know better. But something about you…”
Lark heard it then. In his voice. Unmistakable. Lust. Highly inappropriate, she knew. “How old are you, Trent?”
“Closer to forty than twenty.”
Lark came to her senses. Remembered Kenya’s drama last year. Her friend’s thin escape. The tragedy that could have happened because Kenya got in a car she shouldn’t have. Kenya was her friend, no doubt. With her always, even now. So many unreturned text messages. Lark was worried, had to get over there. The feelings the Lincoln episode had stirred in her, gone. The older blond dread, as sexy and intriguing as he was, just couldn’t happen.
“I’ve g-gotta go,” she stammered and started moving.
“Wait, wait.”
She didn’t. Let her legs move her up the block, where she hid in the cover of shadow.
He didn’t press. Thank God. Didn’t follow.
Only a couple blocks from Kenya’s, her heartbeat settled and she started to feel better. Some sisterhood laughter with her best friend was all the medicine she needed. On Kenya’s block her pace picked up. She couldn’t wait to tell Kenya about everything.
And then…
A sight she was familiar with around her way, around the projects. But Kenya’s neighborhood was quiet, uneventful, calm. Usually. The hood still, but a gentler variety of hood.
A sight that didn’t cause Lark any pause at her project housing.
The flashing strobe of a police car.
In front of Kenya’s house.
And the sound of Kenya’s mom, wailing.