by RM Johnson
“Jahlil was sent home with notices to you. I assume you never got them.”
“No.” Sonya shook her head.
“Are you sure he’s been absent that much?” Caleb asked.
“I checked the attendance records of all Jahlil’s instructors and the absences are consistent.”
Caleb sat quietly, teeth clamped together, angry.
“Is there any explanation whatsoever for this?” Mr. Burke asked.
Caleb narrowed his eyes and turned to Sonya.
“I don’t know,” Sonya said, shaken. “A year ago, his father and I—”
“Mr. Burke,” Caleb said, interrupting Sonya. “Is this the only problem you needed to speak to us about?”
“Your son’s grades have obviously dropped because of the classes he’s missed. If he continues, he’ll be suspended. And if his grades continue to fall, he may have to repeat his junior year.”
“Understood. Thank you.” Caleb stood and shook the man’s hand. He turned to Sonya. “C’mon.”
Outside the school, Caleb walked beside Sonya silently, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he continued to grind his teeth. Sonya stopped beside her aging Nissan Altima.
“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me he was missing school?” Caleb asked.
“Because I didn’t know.”
“But it’s your damn job to know.”
“He’s your son too.”
“You put me out. How do I find out about this when I barely see him? This is your fault.”
“Come again?”
“You could’ve let me stay,” Caleb said.
“You cheat, and you expect me to let you stay.”
“It was one time.”
“And that makes it right?”
“You pushed me to that.”
Sonya chuckled, shaking her head.
“You stopped believing in me, respecting me,” Caleb said.
“Caleb, we’re past that. That was then. Jahlil missing school is now. You gonna take care of it, or what?”
Caleb turned, sighed heavily, angrily. “I need to be back home, and you know it. We need to be a family again.”
“That ain’t happening, Caleb,” Sonya said, turning toward her car, sliding her key in the lock.
Caleb grabbed her by the arm, spun her back to him. “No! Do you know what I’ve done for you and Jahlil? When you were about to be thrown out because you were more than half a year late on rent, when there were expenses you had to pay but couldn’t afford?”
“What? What did you do for us that was so big?” Sonya asked, as if there was nothing he could say to impress her.
Caleb stared at Sonya, so angry he felt his entire body trembling. He forced himself to calm down. “Nothing,” Caleb said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Just like I thought. You need to find your son and talk some sense into him. He needs you.”
“Do you still need me?” Caleb said, hopeful.
Sonya stared at him a moment. “No,” Sonya said. “I don’t.”
7
Monica sprang up in bed, her entire body drenched in sweat. She huffed, her heart pounding in her chest as she whipped her head around, looking for the man that had shot her.
Even though this was not the same house she had been shot in, her eyes settled on the bedroom door. It was closed.
In her dream the door was open. She had just stepped out of the shower. Her ex-husband, Nate Kenny—the man she had moved back in with only weeks before, the man she was going to remarry—was in the kitchen, baking cookies with his adopted son, the son Monica was also going to later adopt.
Things were perfect, how Monica had always wanted them.
In the dream, she had heard her husband talking. She thought he was speaking to her, so Monica approached the door.
When she stepped into the doorway, she saw another man. She knew him—Freddy Ford. He was the best friend of Lewis Waters, the man Monica had dated after she had divorced Nate.
Freddy was pointing a gun at Nate. Before Monica could comprehend what was happening, Freddy had shot him.
Monica screamed, then Freddy turned the gun on her. She heard her husband yell and saw a spark of orange burst from the gun. Monica experienced the most extreme agony of her life, as she felt her skull explode.
She always woke up just after that, screaming, sweating, and clawing at the sheets as she had done only moments ago.
Bullet fragments had had to be cut from her brain. She had been in a coma for weeks, but her doctor said she was lucky. It could’ve been worse. If the bullet had struck a centimeter or two to the right, she would’ve been dead.
Monica climbed out of her bed and cautiously approached the bedroom door. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. It didn’t turn. The door was locked, as she had left it last night before going to bed.
She pressed her back against it, relieved, and slid down to sit on the carpet.
Placing a hand to her cheek, she thought about last night, her head pounding from the hangover she was suffering.
She remembered begging some man to tell her he loved her. She remembered sobbing.
How did she get home in that condition? She could’ve killed herself, she could’ve killed someone else.
In the shooting, Monica was the victim, the innocent one. She had nothing to do with Freddy or with whatever Nate had schemed against him, yet she was the one that had been near death. She was the one who was without the son she was to adopt with Nate. She was the one who lost the future she was so looking forward to.
It was Nate’s fault, yet he hadn’t spent even four days in the hospital from his wounds. He still had the adopted boy, his business, the house Monica was supposed to move into with him, and most of all, she was sure he still had his sanity, when it felt like Monica was losing hers.
She was almost certain, if she were to ring his office right now, that he would pick up as if the shooting had never taken place.
Monica stood, her eyes resting on the bedroom phone. A thought skittered across her mind and she found herself standing over the phone, her fist around the receiver.
No. What good would it do? Confirming he was not affected by any of this would only serve to drive her crazier.
Monica lifted the receiver anyway, pushed the two digits to block her call from appearing on the caller ID, and dialed Nate’s direct office line.
It rang once. Yes, she was calling him, but no, she didn’t really want to hear his voice. At least that’s what she was telling herself.
It rang twice, and she thought of hanging up but could not.
The sweat accumulated in her fist as she held the phone tighter. After the third ring, she moved to hang up, when she heard, “This is Nate Kenny.”
It felt as though an icicle had been jabbed down her spine.
“Hello? This is Nate Kenny.”
Monica breathed heavily, looking over her shoulder as if she were being watched. She opened her mouth to speak but was struck with silent anger. She clenched the phone tighter in her grasp, wishing there was an action she could commit to cause him harm, but there was nothing. She was helpless, and she hated feeling that way. There was nothing more that she could do than slam the phone back into its cradle and forget the man ever existed.
8
Daphanie sat in her SUV, trying not to cry as she stared up at Trevor’s house.
She had made the worst mistake of her life, and now she had to fix it.
When Daphanie had gotten pregnant by Trevor, she hadn’t known she would have an opportunity to reunite with Nate, the man she truly loved. The problem was that Daphanie knew Nate wouldn’t accept her back, carrying another man’s child. So she lied, telling Trevor that the baby wasn’t really his, and telling Nate that he was the father. The plan worked. Nate told Monica he would leave her to properly be a father to his child, but somehow he found out that Daphanie had lied about the pregnancy.
Nate left her.
But later, she felt she was granted a mira
cle, because Nate came to her and said he would marry her, give her a family of her own, if she would just sign over her baby to Trevor, the real father.
A contract was drawn up. Daphanie signed.
In the delivery room, when Daphanie gave birth, she heard her child crying. It broke her heart to tell the nurse she didn’t want to hold it, didn’t even want to see it.
Daphanie had cried for the loss of her child every day leading up to her wedding. But things would be better once she was married. Daphanie told herself she would start trying to get pregnant again immediately.
On the big day, she waited nervously in her wedding gown for the groom to arrive.
Nate never appeared.
It was a scam. A hoax. A trick to get back at her for lying to him about the baby’s being his. Nate had convinced her to sign her baby away, and now Daphanie was left single, with very little money, and alone.
Daphanie saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look back up at the house she was parked in front of. Trevor stepped out the door. He wore a dark suit and carried a leather briefcase.
Daphanie was out of her SUV, hurrying across the street.
Trevor turned, startled to see her there. “What do you want?”
“My baby. You have to give him back to me.”
Infuriated, Trevor started down the porch stairs toward her. “You lie to me about him not being mine and tell another man that he’s his. Then when you’re found out, you try to cut a deal, using your own baby.” Trevor was in front of Daphanie now, hatefully yelling at her. “Now you think you can have him back! You—you—” His finger trembled before her eyes, as he appeared to hold back from striking her. “Get out of my face!”
Trevor took a step past her. Daphanie grabbed him by his arm. “I want him back! Give me my baby back!”
Trevor spun, pushing Daphanie. She stumbled and fell to the sidewalk.
“You are pathetic. I loved you, and you lied to me,” he said, shaking his head. “Today, I’m filing a restraining order against you. Come near me or my child again, I will have you in jail.”
9
Jahlil stood in the middle of a block of uninhabited storefronts and run-down apartment buildings. Three cars sat parked on the street; one was charred, had no windows, and looked to have been in an explosion.
Jahlil had not gone to school today. This was far more important. He needed this money.
“Got that fire weed,” Jahlil said to an old, bearded man that hobbled by in tattered shoes and a weathered coat.
Jahlil had been selling for about an hour and had gotten about two hundred dollars. Things were going as smoothly as he had hoped. It was still early, around 11 a.m., and he didn’t see any other sellers nearby.
Bug was fifty yards down the block, keeping an eye out for the police or any gang members who might roll up. Toomey was on the other end of the street, looking like he was about to wet his pants.
“Gi’ me ten dollars’ worth.” The man who had just passed Jahlil now stood in front of him.
Jahlil fished two five-dollar bags of weed out of his pocket. Casually shaking one of the man’s dirty hands, he took the ten-dollar bill, then, grasping the man’s other hand, left him with the two small bags of marijuana.
The man shuffled off. Jahlil heard a whistle. It was Toomey. Jahlil looked down the block. Toomey nodded at the two boys who were walking Jahlil’s way. They had been sitting on one of the vacant apartment building stoops for the last half hour, watching Jahlil sell.
The two boys wore sagging jeans and hooded zipper jackets, the hoods pulled up over their heads. One stopped twenty feet short of Jahlil, while the other walked right up to him.
Jahlil stared down at the kid, who was barely five feet tall. He looked even younger than Jahlil first thought when he yanked the hood back from his skull. His face was scrunched into a frown. He looked like an infant who had just crapped his diaper.
“This G-Stone corner,” the boy said, his voice high-pitched like a girl’s.
“Who is you?” Jahlil said.
“Don’t matter. This G-Stone corner. You need to be up outta here.”
Jahlil wanted to laugh in the boy’s face, but he knew the little ones would whip out a gun as big as they were and blow a fool’s head off. They were recruited to do dirt, vicious stuff, because if they were caught, they wouldn’t do hard time. Jahlil looked the boy up and down. His arms were crossed. He didn’t look like he was packing. But his little friend standing in the middle of the street might have been. If the other kid pulled a gun, that would force Jahlil to dig into the waist of his jeans, whip out his 9mm, and although he had never fired it, he wouldn’t be taking it out just for show.
Jahlil looked back at the boy in front of him. He wanted to make an even three hundred dollars before he left. “I’ll be done in an hour.”
“Naw, you need to be done now.”
Jahlil took a step toward the boy, towering over him. The other little boy started toward Jahlil. Out of the corners of his eyes, Jahlil saw Toomey and Bug hurrying over from opposite directions, halting a short distance away.
The boy standing before Jahlil looked to his left and right, acknowledging Bug and Toomey. He looked back up to Jahlil. “You leaving or what?”
“I said an hour, I’ll be gone in an hour.”
“Yeah, okay,” the boy said. He turned, walked over to the other little boy, and they both headed off.
Bug and Toomey rushed over to Jahlil.
“You okay, man?” Bug asked.
“I’m cool,” Jahlil said, trying to laugh, although he was shaken. “They get younger every day.”
“They wanted you out of here, didn’t they?” Toomey said, looking over his shoulder at the boys. “They were gangbangers, weren’t they?”
Jahlil laughed. “They were like nine years old. Did they look like bangers? They were trying to cop, I wouldn’t sell them none, and little dude was throwing a tantrum, that’s all.”
“You sure?” Toomey asked.
“Positive.”
“So how much longer we staying?” Bug said.
Jahlil looked up and down the street, wondering if the boys truly accepted what he’d told them, or if they were on their way back, with boys much bigger—men. “We made a little over two hundred dollars. I think that’s cool for today. What ya’ll think?”
“Cool wit’ me,” Bug said. Toomey agreed.
“Then we need to get out of here.”
10
AERO was the name of the Magnificent Mile’s fine men’s clothing store and day spa that Monica owned. Monica had taken money from the millions she’d won in her divorce settlement with Nate and had bought the two-store chain. It was the only positive thing that had come from her union with Nate Kenny, Monica thought as she pulled open one of the double glass doors and walked into her store.
She walked across the granite floor, into what looked like a warehouse-sized loft apartment, with wooden rafters on the ceiling and exposed brick on the walls. The store was busy for a late afternoon. A dozen or so men browsed through the racks of suits. On the west side, where Monica had built the day spa, she peeked in and saw four men in black smocks in the waiting area, reading magazines and watching SportsCenter on the flat-screen.
Monica headed back to the front, toward reception, where Roland, her floor supervisor, was now finished with his customer. He wore a pink-and-white-striped Ralph Lauren oxford with a lime green scarf tied around his neck, and a pair of black Gucci eyeglass frames.
Monica walked up the two stairs to the elevated register area, where the tall, thin man gave her a kiss on each cheek.
“Miss Monica, looking radiant as always today.” He looked her up and down. “Love the open-toe sling backs. What are they, BCBG?”
“Correct as always. Roland, you should be in New York or Paris somewhere designing your own line.”
“Don’t tempt me, girl. You know this store would go to hell if I left.”
“You kn
ow, I think you’re right.” Monica smiled. “Where’s Tabatha?”
“In the back office, acting like there ain’t enough work out here for the both of us.”
“Thanks, Roland.”
Monica walked the long corridor to the back office, feeling exhausted from too little sleep last night. She’d put on the happy face for Roland. She didn’t need him worrying about her again. She had gotten enough of that when she first decided to come back to work after the shooting.
Monica opened the door to the back office she shared with Tabatha, her best friend and manager of her flagship store.
“What’s up, boss?” Tabatha said, reading glasses sitting low on her nose. Tabatha was slender, wore her hair brushed back, with a long ponytail clip-on. She glanced away from her computer screen at Monica and did a double take. “Geez! You look like hell.”
“Thanks, Tab,” Monica said, closing the door and setting her purse down on her desk. She walked to the leather sofa and lay across it. “I can always count on you to make a girl feel her best.”
“I mean, if you have something, maybe you ought to go back home, ’cause I don’t wanna catch it,” Tabatha joked.
“I don’t have anything,” Monica said softly.
“Then what’s up?” Tabatha said, walking closer and standing over Monica. “Want me to get you some coffee? Can’t be coming in here freeloading on the job. That’s what Roland’s for.” Tabatha chuckled.
Monica said nothing but sniffled a little.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” Monica sniffled again and covered her eyes with her hands.
Tabatha sat down on the edge of the sofa, grabbing Monica’s wrists, trying to pull them away from her face.
Monica fought her for only a moment, then let her arms down to expose the tears that fell from her eyes.
“Girl, what’s wrong?”
“I went out to a bar last night.”
“That’s good. I told you you should get out. Get your mind off those loser men you’ve been dealing with.”
“I met a guy, and he started buying me drinks.”