“Is that what you did, Mother?” The words flew out of Elle’s mouth.
Violet froze.
Elle pressed on. “Huh? Because the last argument I overheard you and the good reverend having, he said you’d come from a long line of thirst-bucket, panty-dropping, drunkard hoes. And that if it wasn’t for him, you’d still be one of them. So, tell me, Mother, when exactly did the good Lord save you from yourself? Before or after you became the precious reverend’s bottom bitch!”
Whap!
“Ahhhhhh!” Elle screamed as Violet reared her hand back and slapped Elle with such rage that snot shot from her nose and she stumbled to the floor.
Tears flooded Elle’s cheeks as she frantically crawled into the nearest corner and covered her face. Violet leapt behind her, prying Elle’s hands away, then pressing her elbow beneath her chin. Speckles of spit flew into Elle’s face as Violet tightened her lips and said, “What kind of devil’s cum drip are you! You gon’ cuss me? Your own mother?” She pressed into Elle’s neck. “And here, I made sure you had everything! Everything! Things I could’ve never dreamed of! Let me tell you something, this bitch has been on her own since she was fourteen years old, and I know what it is to have nothing and nobody. A world where your own mama thinks that once you get some titties and ass that you should be her secret piece of meat. You don’t know shit about me, little girl.
“And, yeah, I was out there in the street. Doing what I had to, to survive. But I made sure that you never lived that life. Which is exactly why I will never allow you—or anybody else—to destroy our perfect family by lusting after that vile butch.” She moved her elbow from Elle’s throat.
Elle coughed and struggled to catch her breath. She wanted to say something, but the words were stuck behind the iron knot in her throat.
“Get up!” Violet screamed, practically snatching Elle from the floor. She tossed her back before the mirror and stabbed an index finger into her reflection. “You have a calling on your life, and it is my mission to ensure you are made to be the perfect wife and mother. Clean. Holy. Powerful. And ambitious. Oh, you will do us proud, even if it’s the last thing you do. ”
Violet shoved a sniffling Elle out of the mirror. “Now, stop all this crying and sniveling, and pull yourself out of the devil’s den! Put on that dress and heels, then get in the car we bought for you, and take your ass straight to the church’s social gathering.” She turned toward the door, then quickly turned back around. “If I find out that you left here and didn’t do what I have ordered you to do, there will be other measures taken.”
Chapter 9
Monty
“What the hell you doin’, boy?”
He wished his father’s voice wouldn’t haunt him.
And his mother’s face wouldn’t dance beneath his blindfold.
But.
They did.
Forcing his heart to race and his right leg to twitch.
“You hear me calling you, boy! Hmm?”
This was the third day of his indoctrination into The Family—an illuminati of sorts, but real.
There were no secret handshakes, pyramid pins, code words, sacred colors, or aliens.
It wasn’t Scientology.
Mythology.
Or paganism.
It was The Family. The most powerful and exclusive organization of brother- and sisterhood, hidden in plain sight. Who secretly ran the world by way of evangelical prayer groups. It didn’t matter to them if you were blue, red, purple, or green. It was all the same machine, used to make the masses believe they had a choice about how their government was run. Though they didn’t. It was all an illusion, because all politicians and political decisions were created right here, in this room.
He shifted in his seat. Out of everything he’d pledged his way through—the paddle beatings, the ice baths, and the three hours of sleep—it was being made to wear a blindfold so that he wouldn’t see the true face of this society that goaded him the most.
“Where is Doll at?” His father’s voice was back.
Doll was his mother, and he had no idea where she’d gone. All he knew was that one morning she didn’t wake him up for school.
“You hear me talking to you?”
“Yes.” He was pretty sure he’d said that out loud.
Sweat dripped down his brow and gathered in his armpits. The last thing he wanted to do was fuck this up. After all, the head of The Family was due to walk in at any moment and declare whether he’d been selected as the Chosen One or not.
His chest pumped hard.
His shoulders were stiff.
He felt exposed.
Naked.
Judged.
He wasn’t a fool, and he knew what he was getting into . . . but he had never expected it to be this intense.
It was his friend and college roommate, Dominic, who had pulled him in to all of this by asking him, at their college graduation, if he wanted to move across the country to Southern California. They would stay at one of Dominic’s parents’ mansions, along with another one of their friends, Carson.
He’d jumped at the chance.
Dominic’s mother was old money, and his father was a California state senator. Moreover, moving across the country with Dominic meant he would never have to go back home to New York again.
There were just a few things expected of him.
He had to shoot hoops.
Join their prayer group.
And become one of The Family.
Little did he know they’d already taken note of his every move. Since the day he’d stepped foot on the posh grounds of Princeton University, courtesy of a full academic scholarship and an affirmative action quota, they’d measured him. Soundlessly. Systematically. Scientifically.
His father was an army vet and an NYC police chief, who suffered from PTSD and raging alcoholism. His mother had disappeared when he was eleven and never looked back. Giving him the perfect pitch of sellable struggle.
He was meticulous. Always on time. Maintained a 4.0. Sharp thinker. Ambitious.
He was a ladies’ man, and most of the women they’d sent his way said that he could be charismatic, charming, and was a bit arrogant. But he drank too much and had a callous streak.
He was the right height: six foot one; the right build: one hundred and seventy pounds, and his complexion was nonthreatening. Not too light. Not too dark. The perfect center of the polychromatic sphere of brown skin. He had no children. And his friends actually liked him. He could be molded. All of which gave him a crossover appeal. White privilege would accept him. The African American elite would be proud to call him friend.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“At dinner, last night.”
There were footsteps and a sudden scent of bergamot and evergreen cologne in the air. He felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. “Good evening, so they tell me that you are who I’m here to meet.” The voice was masculine. Clear. Articulate.
His words fumbled in his mouth before they came out. “Yes, yes. Good evening.” He sat up straight.
“Did she tell you she was leaving?” His father’s voice slammed into his ears again.
He shifted in his seat.
“Don’t be nervous.”
“It’s the blindfold. It’s been on for a while, you know.” He let out a hesitant sigh.
“Think of it this way. The world that you saw before putting the blindfold on will no longer exist once it comes off.”
“No, she didn’t tell me that.”
“Then, what she say?”
His leg twitched a little more than it had before.
The hand squeezed his shoulder. “How would you like to become president of the United States?”
He paused. “President? The first African American president?”
“Not quite. We’ve already selected him. You’d be the second one. With more grit, edgy, more relatable. But first, we’d have to mold you. You do know the pledge of loyalty?”
“Of course. Death before dishonor.”
“Absolutely. Never let them see you sweat.”
“Ever.
“You must listen to everything we tell you to do.”
“I will,” he agreed.
“Do not deviate from our strict instructions.”
“Never.”
“Or there will be hell to pay.”
“Understood.”
“We’ll have to build you, get you moved through the ranks as mayor, and on to governor. We’ll have you join an evangelical church. Then get you married. Have some children. Then, and only then, will you be ready to take your place as the Chosen One. Welcome to The Family.”
His tight shoulders slumped.
“She said when I grow up I’ma be powerful. ”
“You ain’t gonna be shit.”
Chapter 10
Brooklyn
“She was tired of him beatin’ her ass, er’body knew that!” Brooklyn yelled as her mouth twitched and her dry tongue searched for spit.
“Please, calm down, sweetheart,” said a high-yellow black woman with faint purple blush streaked across her cheeks, and a skunk stripe of gray hair brushed to the back of her head and pinned into a bun.
“And who is you?” Brooklyn planted both hands up on her hips.
“I’m Mrs. Grace, the CPS worker. So, please, baby, I need you to stop screaming.”
“Baby? I’m thirteen years old, lady. And sweetheart? I ain’t nobody’s sweetheart. I’ma bad li’l bitch. Respect that. Now where is these jakes tryna take my mama?”
Brooklyn stood in the living room’s doorway with one bare foot on the living room floor and the other over the kitchen’s threshold. She did her all to move around Mrs. Grace, who blocked most of her view. All she could see of the kitchen was her mama’s blood-speckled feet and the police officers’ black shoes.
“You have the right to remain silent,” said one of the cops.
“Silent?” Brooklyn screamed. “Lady, move!” Again, she tried to twist around Mrs. Grace, who was stronger than her slim frame looked. She held Brooklyn back with one hand and shook the other hand from side to side. “Little girl, you have to relax. You’re upsetting your sisters.”
Brooklyn gawked at her sisters and yelled, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”
Hell, Brooklyn was scared too.
Her heart thumped.
The backs of her eyes burned with tears.
The iron fist in her throat threatened to choke her, but she refused to let this lady or the police know she felt seconds from dying.
She turned toward Mrs. Grace. “Look, these jokers don’t know the whole story. She had changed her mind and listened to me. For once, she put him outta here. Dumped his shit in the street and er’thang. But days later, here he come, smoked out, yanking on my mama’s arm. She ain’t want her arm yanked. But all he saying was, ‘Let’s talk, let’s talk.’
“Psst, please. Ain’t no talkin’. ’Cause all he wanted was to sell her pussy and steal her money. And he knew she ain’t have nothin’. She done gave him er’thang. Er’ree-thang! And what she didn’t give him, the nigga stole: the rent money, the EBT card, my baby sister’s Pampers. My cherry. The tricks’ money!”
Mrs. Grace tapped the balls of her black high heels and eased in a breath, then blew it out. “He touched you?”
“This ain’t about me. I’m just sayin’, don’t nobody give a fuck about him, so you need to let my mama go and cut the bullshit!”
Mrs. Grace placed a hand on Brooklyn’s shoulder. “You have to tell me if he touched you.”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.” She knocked the woman’s hand off her shoulder. “Besides, er’body been touched, shit. It happens. Now, back to Stony, he got what he deserved. But my mama don’t deserve this!”
“Everyone has not been touched. You’re a child, Brooklyn, and he had no right to—”
“SHUT UPPPPPPP!” Brooklyn squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her hands over her ears.
One.
Two.
Three.
She opened her eyes and dropped her hands. “Lady—”
“Something happened to you, and I need you to know it’s not your fault. I just want to be sure you understand that.”
“Don’t play me. I understand er’thang! I live here, you don’t! I know what we go through, do you?”
Silence.
“I ain’t think so! I be in here when my mama’s cryin’ and complainin’ about the kind of love he wanna lay on her back and grind into her hips. He promised her romance, flowers, and shit. Not this!”
Mrs. Grace looked at Brooklyn suspiciously and sized her up. She tapped the balls of her shoes again.
Brooklyn spat, “Look, lady, I don’t have to lie to you! When she pushed him off of her arm, he snatched her by the hair and threw her to the floor. His boot print got to be in her face!”
Silence.
“Plus didn’t nooooobody like him, so he won’t be missed. She should’ve left him where she met him at. But noooooo, she dragged ’im home. All ’cause he was a red nigga with curly hair, makin’ promises and drivin’ a Cadillac. Only to find out a month later the Cadillac was stolen. I’m telling you, lady, there’s no-good niggas and then there’s Stony!”
“Young lady, you need to watch your language!”
“You ain’t my muva!”
“You have the right to an attorney,” drifted into where Brooklyn was.
“Lady, move! Just let me talk to the police and tell ’em he got what he deserved!”
“No one deserves that,” Mrs. Grace insisted.
“He deserved it! And you’d do the same thing if some wild fist-fiend was hittin’ you upside the head damn near every day! How would you feel if after you worked all night, and all you wanna do is come home, listen to some Luther, and chill a li’l bit, here comes this beast wantin’ to beef? You’d be pissed off too.”
“Please calm down.”
“Lady. Move!”
She didn’t.
“What I say, bitch?” Brooklyn reared her left arm back as far as she could and stole on Mrs. Grace, catching her in the chin and forcing her to stumble from the doorway.
Brooklyn and her sisters ran, then stopped.
Bev stood with one foot on the yellow linoleum tile and the other foot covering a space where a tile block used to be. Her eyes were blank, and all she did was blink, and breathe. Her hands were behind her back, locked together by the silver handcuffs on her wrists. There were flecks of blood splattered across her face and speckled over the top-knotted, coffee-colored stocking cap on her head.
Blood was all over the kitchen sink and smeared a bloody trail into the white cabinets, making a plasma path as Stony’s body had slid to the floor and slipped into a bloody pool. His eyes were bugged, his throat flesh oozed out, and their only knife jutted out of the right side of his neck.
There were two men dressed in white hazmat suits standing on either side of his head, and a detective who leaned into his bulging eyes and snapped pictures.
Mrs. Grace was back in Brooklyn’s face, breathing heavy, and struggling to hide how pissed off she was. “Honey, don’t ever do that again! Now, you all get back into the living room!”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, let her go!” Brooklyn grabbed Bev around her knees. An officer peeled away her grip, while another pushed Bev out the apartment door.
Brooklyn heaved and panicked as she escaped the officer’s hold. She jumped to her feet, then tripped over Stony’s dead body, splashing into his bloody pool. She popped back up; blood dripped down her legs as she kicked Stony’s arm out of her way and took off.
Mrs. Grace and an officer were both on Brooklyn’s heels as she zipped down three flights of stairs, taking two at a time, passing the neighbors who stood watching from their doorways.
Finally, she was free. She hopped over the stoop’s three concrete steps to the crowded courtyard.
People were everywhere. Some buzzed about what
they assumed happened; others shook their heads and swore, “It’s a damn shame!”
Spinning blue lights and cops lined the street. Brooklyn hustled around them until she found her mother being pushed into the back seat of an unmarked cruiser.
She ran. “Mamaaaaaaaa!” She was a hair away and the officer slammed the door shut.
Brooklyn pounded on the cruiser’s barred window. “Ma-maaaaaaa!”
Bev never looked up.
“Get back here!” Mrs. Grace yelled, slapping both hands on Brooklyn’s shoulders, yanking her back.
Brooklyn’s arms flailed as she wrestled from Mrs. Grace’s grip, knocking her to the ground. Brooklyn looked back toward the street.
No mama.
No cruiser.
Just the sounds of sirens fading off into the distance.
Brooklyn took off for the middle of the street.
She didn’t know which way to go.
Her thoughts zoomed.
Her body froze.
Her knees gave way, and she dropped like a stone. An invisible pallet of bricks toppled on her head and pressed her to the asphalt.
Tears flowed, blurred waves danced in her face, and she screamed until snails of snot slid over her lips and burning hiccups jutted out the base of her throat.
Chapter 11
Elle
This had to end.
Tonight.
There was no way Elle could continue to live behind a mask.
A mask that no one had ever asked her to wear.
She was simply decorated with it.
And no one cared that she couldn’t breathe through the fucking thing . . . or think . . . or exist. She just needed to accept it . . . or else.
But there was a way out.
She could jump at the darkness.
And it would fall off.
Yes! That was it. She would do it.
The night sky crackled with thunder and silver streaks of lightning, as Elle drove her navy-blue Accord into the church’s parking lot. She pulled into the space closest to the edge of the mountainous cliff where she used to stand as a little girl and wonder, if God could do all things, would He turn her arms into wings and let her vanish into the wind.
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