Deja’s tear ducts began to well up.
“Me or her?” she asked again.
“Hold on,” he said. “I’m waiting on God to give me an answer.”
She thumped him in the head. “I’m tired of waiting, Rodrick! I need you!”
“I can’t think. Now is not the right time for this shit. Why did you make that post on my wall? You fucked everything up.”
“That was my intentions. It forced you to make a decision.” She touched the sides of his face and forced a kiss. She laid him out on the bed and straddled him. Her huge booty enveloped his whole waist. “And I need you to make the right decision, baby. Please?”
She arched her back and lifted her tush slightly. She reached around and grabbed ahold of his beefy member, but it was flaccid. She flopped it around in her fist, trying to agitate it.
“You can’t get hard again?” she asked. “Is it my face?”
“No,” he said. “It’s Tyesha’s face. I keep seeing it when I close my eyes. It’s my daughter’s face. I don’t even have to close my eyes to see her. I can’t do this no more, Deja. I have to go.”
He shoved her to the side and started putting his clothes on.
Deja grabbed his arm desperately and hugged it to her busty chest. “Don’t do this, Rodrick! Please, baby! Don’t leave me!”
He pulled his arm free to slip into his LV zip hoodie. He walked out the room, and Deja would have chased him but the thought of him leaving made her nauseous and she made a dash for the toilet. She dropped to her knees and vomited into the bowl, crying hysterically as she heard her front door slam shut.
* * *
“Momma, it itches,” Kylie whined.
I was driving on the highway and couldn’t do much to help my daughter right now. “We’re almost home. Stop scratching it, okay?”
“But it itches.”
“Rub it. Don’t scratch.”
There was no way in hell I was going to let my daughter spend the night at her grandmother’s house again. Kylie had an inch-long razor cut on her forearm from digging in one of my mother’s boxes. As she pulled out, a blade sliced her open. Velma Fenty said it wasn’t that bad of a cut, but any cut on my daughter was bad. And how old was the blade? My daughter could be infected.
First thing tomorrow morning I was going to put her back in daycare. I took her out of the last one because the ghetto staff there didn’t feed her adequately. She was always hungry when I went to pick her up. I hated that I might possibly have to choose between hunger and harm, but I’d choose a little hunger any day. Hopefully this new daycare off 350 Highway that one of my Site friends recommended would be a great facility.
“I saw Uncle La’killer today,” my daughter said.
My brow creased in confusion. “You saw who?”
“Uncle La’killer.”
I prayed I was hearing her wrong. “Did you say Ladykiller?”
She nodded.
“Where did you see him?” I asked, my heart rate escalating.
“Today. At mall.”
“Where was your grandmother at?”
“In the bafroom. I wait on da bench and he see me.”
“Did you tell your grandmother?”
“No. He told me not tell her.”
“Kylie, you listen to me. If you ever see that man again, you scream, okay? He’s not your uncle.”
“Okay, Momma.”
When we got home, I tore off her Band-Aid and checked out the cut. It was sealed, thankfully. I put some peroxide and Neosporin on it, stuck another Band-Aid on her and told her to go lay down. I needed to lay down myself. My head still felt fuzzy from the alcohol I downed last night and I couldn’t sleep because I had been crying into my pillow until six this morning. The knuckles on my left pinky and ring finger were swollen painfully but I still found myself sitting at my desktop computer, typing in my password.
In a couple clicks, The Site was on my screen.
I was shocked to see I had more notifications than I ever had in my life. On my wall was a video that I was tagged in, which was linked to a popular hiphop website. The thumbnail was a blur of two women fighting, and it instantly registered that me and Deja’s brawl had been caught on tape. My heart started beating faster as I clicked the play button and the video started streaming.
The first frame was of me choking Deja up against the hood of a black Chrysler 300. The camera was extremely shaky, from some boy filming us on his smartphone. A second later, I threw Deja to the ground, and that’s when her breasts flopped out.
“Oh my God,” I gasped.
The camera boy zoomed in on her nipples. “Don’t break it up!” he yelled in amusement. “Get back yall! Let ‘em fight!”
I watched myself pummel her face in and I couldn’t believe it was me. The camera circled around and got another close up—between Deja’s legs.
As I looked at the footage, I started to get teary-eyed. I didn’t mean for Deja to get embarrassed like this in front of the world. I just wanted to beat her ass. Shaking my head, I tapped the Esc button and clicked on the comments.
Harold the Moneyman: She got knocked the fuck out!
Shake-it Girl12: This remind me of one of Floyd Mayweather’s fights.
Julius Taylor: Damn, I didn’t know Tyesha had hands like that.
Velma Fenty: That’s my baby! I didn’t raise no punks!
Rita RealSpit Gibson: Can yall stop commenting on this, please? These are human beings yall are making fun of. Two beautiful women who were friends with each other. Let’s try to bring them up, not celebrate their disagreement.
Michael StreetLawyer: I don’t know if this is an assault case or manslaughter.
VVS Vernon: I don’t care what yall say. That girl getting her ass beat is fine. You see them nipples? You see that pussy? I’d still take her out to eat, even if I gotta feed her through a straw.
Fedbound Marley: @Tyesha816. Oh, so that’s what you meant! LOL! If you need bond money, I got you, player. I sold out last night!
A wistful smile appeared on my face. Marley was just joking but I was worried that I could really face charges. And I wished my mother wouldn’t have commented, but what could I do about it? My emotions were doing somersaults right now.
My phone started ringing. I looked down at the screen and saw Rodrick’s face. I tapped the volume once and his call silenced.
I leaned back in my chair and started to question my love for him. He’d put me through so much bullcrap. But if I pushed him out of my life, how would Kylie take it? Would she blame me when she got older? I didn’t know what to do. Times like this I would call Deja and we’d talk for hours. I felt like I had nobody now.
Well, I had one person. I had my Kylie. I got up and was on my way to lay down with her when there was a knock at my door.
I looked through my peep hole and, closing my eyes as a tear fell, I sighed heavily.
“Tyesha!” Rodrick called out, knocking again. “I know you in there. Let me in, baby!”
“Go away!” I screamed.
“I’m sorry. I know that don’t mean much right now but I’m saying it anyway. I’m stupid as fuck, I know. You probably think I’m the most trifling nigga in the world.”
“Probably?! Get the fuck away from my house! You hurt me sooo bad, Rodrick. My whole adult life has been dedicated to you, and you repay me by pissing on me constantly. I can’t think of what I’ve done to deserve this.”
He jiggled the knob in vain. “You didn’t do anything, Tyesha, baby. It was me. I made so many mistakes, trying to please everybody. But I realized it doesn’t work like that. I’m supposed to be with you and you only. God gave me an answer.”
“He gave me one too!” I shouted through the door. “He told me to tell you to get the hell away from my house! I’m through, Rodrick! I’m done!”
“Just open the door so we can talk. Please?”
“No!”
He kicked the door. I looked through the peep hole and saw him with his hands on his
hips in frustration. I didn’t care what he said—he wasn’t getting in this house.
“When can I see my daughter again?” he asked calmly.
“We’ll work something out,” I said.
“Okay.”
He trotted back down my steps and disappeared into the day. Honestly, if it weren’t for Kylie, I wouldn’t care if I ever saw him again.
-
Rodrick Al-Bashir: “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” Matthew 6:14-15
August 18th, 6:44 a.m.
CHAPTER 11
Moonlight still bullied the dark sky as I walked out of my house the next morning. As I neared my G6 in my driveway, getting my ignition key ready, I saw a white four-door BMW parked on my side of the street.
What the fuck?!
It was dark out, but the man in the Beamer looked like Ladykiller. So when the car cut on its headlights and pulled forward, I got in my car and sped to catch up, barreling down E. 67th Street and across James A. Reed Road. I was going to pull alongside the car at the stop sign at the end of the street to be sure it wasn’t him, but as we neared the corner, the BMW zoomed through the sign without slowing down.
I stopped and watched the white car propel off into the distance, the tail lights growing ever smaller. My heart rate began to slow down.
Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I’m seeing things.
* * *
As soon as twelve o’ clock hit, I went to the break room and pulled me out a seat. For lunch, I packed myself a grilled chicken sandwich with ranch dressing leftover from last night. I sipped some of my low-sodium tomato juice—it’s supposed to protect from numerous cancers—and flicked the lock off my phone’s display.
I didn’t know what to update my status with. What was I supposed to post after being captured on video beating my best friend’s ass? I wasn’t going to gloat; that wasn’t classy. I wasn’t going to apologize either; Deja would have to do that first. And even if she did, I didn’t think I would give her one in return.
The video had reached over 400 Likes. What worried me the most was not knowing if my supervisor would see it and try to terminate me. As far as I knew, Ruth didn’t have a Site page, but one never knew these days. If my mother had one, Ruth could have one. To be on the safe side, I tapped the video link and deleted it from my page.
Then I went to Rodrick’s and read his status.
I couldn’t help but think it was directed toward me. It was sad. He was trying to force me to forgive him by using a scripture. A trademark Rodrick Brown move: make somebody else feel guilty to get his way. I wanted to comment on his status and ask him how many times was a person supposed to forgive a habitual liar and cheater, but I knew he’d respond with something slick and we’d go back and forth over the internet and both end up looking like idiots. I thought about changing my relationship status—he’d get the picture then. But I knew if I changed it, guys would be messaging me like crazy and I didn’t want any new attention right now.
And, I hated to admit… deep down… I wanted to see if Rodrick would get a wake-up call this time and see that I was the woman he needed. I know I’d said I didn’t care if I ever saw him again… well, it still held true if he didn’t change.
“You always on yo phone.”
I looked up and saw Stuart Bradshaw sitting across from me. He was the security guard over the DMV. Eagerly, he started taking the clear wrap off his bowl of turkey salad.
“So?” I said jokingly.
“You know I got handcuffs, right?”
“And I got pepper spray.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
He laughed. And after gobbling down a few forkfuls of salad, he said, “Ruth told me to keep an eye on you. She told me to tell her if I saw you on your phone while on the clock.”
“I hate that B.”
“Me too. I wonder if she got somebody watching me to see when I get on my phone.”
I chuckled. Stuart was my Site friend also, though he rarely made updates. His girlfriend, Joanne Dunley, however, posted every five minutes, it seemed. And they were some of the bitterest stats ever. It seemed like every other day she had an issue in her life—car broke down, dog died, airborne virus, stress bumps. I was surprised Stuart was still with her.
“How’s Joanne?” I asked.
Shaking his head, he replied, “I don’t know. She’s at home right now looking for a job. She got fired for writing up the owner. I told her not to do that.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. And I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to yo daughter’s birthday party. I had to go get her car fixed and when I went to pay for it, her card got denied and I didn’t have mine on me—”
“You don’t have to explain. I understand what you’re dealing with.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He finished his meal and got up to leave. Before he walked out the break room, he turned back toward me with a knowing grin.
“I’ll see you later, Mayweather.”
I blushed. But how could I be surprised that he’d seen the video?
My phone beeped in my hand. I had a notification. When I clicked on it, I saw that Rodrick had tagged me in his status update about forgiveness. Now the stat showed up on my profile page. He was trying to make sure I saw it, and I know he wanted me to respond.
I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.
* * *
When I walked in the new daycare center, I had no idea where the kids were. I had no idea where anybody was. The place was empty.
“Hello?” I said softly.
I pushed through the first set of doors I saw and was surprised to see at least thirty kids sitting on the floor, legs crossed, paying close attention to the police officer at the front. I thought this was some kind of drill until one of the staff members came up to me.
Her eyes were full of grief. “Which child is yours?”
My eyes scanned the rows of kids. I didn’t see Kylie.
“I don’t see her,” I said.
The woman swallowed. “Was her name Kylie Brown?”
Was? I repeated to myself, looking confused. Why was she speaking about my daughter in the past tense?
“Her name is Kylie Brown?” I corrected her. “What’s going on?”
“Your child is missing.”
CHAPTER 12
I called Rodrick to find out if he picked Kylie up. When he told me he didn’t even know where the daycare was, the reality of my daughter being kidnapped became very real. My chest felt tight, skin started to perspire, and I felt dizzy all of a sudden.
I had to sit down. But as soon as the police officer pulled out a chair for me, I shot back to my feet. “Find my daughter now!”
“That’s what we’re trying to do,” said the officer, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Calm down. Is there anybody else who could’ve picked her up?”
My mind raced. And then a surge of hope went through me. Why didn’t I think of her sooner? I called my mother fast and asked her did she have Kylie.
“No,” my mother said, and my heart sank. “Am I supposed to?”
“These people at this daycare can’t find her. Momma, I’ma loose it here in about ten seconds!”
“Have you called Rodrick yet?” she asked with panic in her voice.
“I just talked to him. He didn’t even know where the fuckin’ daycare was. Momma, what am I supposed to do?!”
“She’s probably just hiding somewhere. You know she likes to hide. It’s her first day at that daycare. Maybe she went off by herself and got lost.”
I watched a parent walk past with two of her kids, straight out the door. The rest of the kids were still sitting on the floor. They looked restless, probably would rather be playing. Tears started to come down my cheeks.
“Momma, I’ma call you back.”
“I’m on my w
ay. Keep it together, Tyesha.”
I put the phone in my pocket and threw my hands up helplessly. “I don’t know where she is. I need to find her. I need my daughter!”
I collapsed into the seat and started sobbing into my hands.
The cop said, “Are you sure no one else could have picked her up?”
“No!” I shouted. “What kind of place would let anybody come get her? There are only three people that are allowed to pick her up—myself, Velma Fenty, and Rodrick Brown. None of them have her!”
The same daycare staff member that told me my child was missing came over after the cop called her. He asked her a couple questions about the safety precautions they used to make sure kids didn’t fall into the wrong hands. According to policy, anybody coming to pick up a child had to sign off. Nobody signed for Kylie.
Then the lady told us some news that stirred me to the core.
“One of the children mentioned that they saw Kylie leave out the back with a man. I’m not sure how accurate a 5-year-old can be, but I don’t want to leave it out if it helps.”
I instantly responded, “What did the man look like?”
“He said the man had a light skin color and was tall. But to a 5-year-old, everybody’s tall, right?”
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