The Exorsistah

by Claudia Mair Burney

  If I could make it until Barnes & Noble opened. I could lay my head down on one of the corner tables in the café. I used to go there a lot before I met Kiki. But I didn’t go every day so I could stay cool with the management. A few times I woke up to find a steaming mocha and a pastry materialized beside me. I didn’t know where it came from, but I’d say a thank-you to God, and to the anonymous angel who fed me.

  But I had more than a few hours to kill before the “Big Noble” opened its doors. I felt so tired, I yawned every few minutes, the fatigue wearing on my shoulders like I was rockin’ a Baby Phat jacket made out of lead.

  Speaking of jackets, I wished I’d thought to grab my jean jacket and purse from Kiki’s kitchen chair. I felt like I was freezing. It always took hours for me to warm up after feeling demon cold. Goose bumps still rippled up and down my arms. My stomach growled like a pit bull about to snap somebody in half, too. All of which made Emme Vaughn one miserable sistah.

  I fast a lot—sometimes on purpose and sometimes forced—but this time my empty stomach, heavy heart, and weary body combined to make me a little woozy. I had to eat something.

  God, you understand I gotta do what I gotta do, right?

  I tucked the novel under my arm and let my feet lead me into temptation—also known as the candy aisle.

  Just one little candy bar.

  Immediately my heart condemned me for even thinking it. And that still, small voice inside spoke up. Do you want to do that?

  Must’ve been God talking. I was too hungry for morals. “But you gave Moses manna from heaven. I don’t see no free manna bin up in this piece.”

  Trust Me.

  “I’m trying to, but it’s easy for You to say. You’ve got more than a quarter in Your heavenly pockets. It’s rough out here, Lord.”

  Go to the bubble-gum machines.

  You’d think God would have known that most of the stuff in those machines cost fifty cents. But I trudged over to the machines, thinking about Kiki. That woman was always singing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” I wrapped my arms around myself since nobody else was there to hug me.

  “If You’re so faithful, why am I at Walgreens at three o’clock in the morning, hungry? While Ray’s nasty behind is at home asleep in his bed, probably with a belly full of the French fries I peeled?”

  I told myself it wasn’t right to be mad at God. He didn’t force me out of Kiki’s house. And I wasn’t really starving. A whole lot of people didn’t eat yesterday, like I did.

  What were the lyrics to that song?

  Thou faileth not, Thy compassions, they change not.

  Something like that. I’d forgotten the words of the song, but I could rail at God for forgetting me.

  “Where were Your unchanging compassions, or whatever, when Ray had me up against the stove? Where were my angels of protection?”

  My mama used to read Psalm 91 to me every night before I went to sleep.

  “For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. Why didn’t it say, ‘They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thy friend’s husband take advantage of underaged thee’?”

  The bubble-gum machines.

  Focus, Emme.

  I made it over to the entrance of the store and parked myself in front of the bright red glass and metal dispensers. A bunch of junk: tattoos, stickers, and miniature Disney theme cups—all costing fifty cents—mocked me. One dispenser had tiny plastic aliens for a quarter, but what kind of help could E.T. offer me? I didn’t even have a home to phone.

  My quarter could get me a rubber friendship bracelet that said BFF, but I didn’t have any friends anymore, except for Kiki, and if she were anything like my legal foster mothers, she wouldn’t have another thing to do with me. One thing I’d learned in my seventeen years was that sistahs will turn on you if their man shoots a move—even if it wasn’t your fault. They have a way of making it your fault. And in my experience, if a woman had to choose between her man and me, she’d pick him every time.

  Ignoring the useless machines full of stickers, I saw, cowering in the corner, God’s ram in the bush for me. It was an ancient-looking dispenser from the Lion’s Club offering Red Hots, Chicklets, or peanuts for a quarter.

  I had to make a wise choice. The machine looked like it had been there since the sixties, and the peanuts looked about as old as creation. I’d probably break my teeth on those fossils. I’d gobble the Red Hots down too fast, and they’d be gone and I’d still be starving; but the gum had possibilities, and some of my quarter would go to charity to help some kid get new glasses. It’d be my contribution to domestic missions. How could I lose?

  Having decided, I put my only quarter in the slot, cranked it, and waited for some of the multicolored squares to tumble into my hands.

  Nothing.

  Oh no it didn’t play me like that!

  I put my hand on the top of the machine, trying to keep my hunger-fueled wrath in check, then glanced around to see where National Enquirer Boy had gone. Predictably, I spotted him next to the cash register area at the point-of-sales display. I gave the snack dispenser machine a little shake.

  More nothing.

  A bell sounded, startling me long enough to reconsider destroying public property. I looked toward the main entrance. The sight of the brotha coming through the glass doors made my stomach do a cartwheel, and it had nothing to do with hunger.

  Oh Lord, he was too fine. I take that back. Brotha man was three, four, five fine.

  He could have been my ninja twin: dressed in all black, down to his leather Timbs; only he wore a loose-fitting men’s T-shirt tucked into his Levi’s.

  He was a little taller than me, and I wasn’t mad at him for that! His baggy jeans hung low, giving a nod to hip-hop chic, but not so low that he’d cause a scandal. A thick leather belt secured them on his hips, which from where I stood, looked as lean and muscular as a Masai warrior’s. A black rosary hung down his neck like the masculine version of the one I wore.

  My heart went crazy, beating like I’d run a marathon, and my face warmed, flushed from my excitement. My breath came in shallow sips. Usually I wasn’t stud’in’ these knuckleheads in the streets, but something about this one captivated me.

  He’d paused at the entrance when he saw me, and stared with a stunned expression on his face. Recovered, collected himself, and strutted over to the newspaper stand, which happened to be right next to me. He picked up a paper and perused the front page.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and not because I found somebody checkin’ out a copy of the Ann Arbor News to be a riveting activity.

  His attention didn’t waver from the paper which gave me a few moments to absorb his fineness: shiny black curls cut in a low top-fade. Skin the color of cocoa and red clay. Fine-chiseled features with a kinda Latino vibe.

  Blacktino! With a hint of sadness around his eyes.

  I swallowed hard. The brotha had me counting the days until my eighteenth birthday—exactly thirty-three. I knew Mr. Foxy Brown was no teenager. He wasn’t no old-timer … looked like maybe he was in his early twenties.

  Of course, with the way my day had gone, he’d be like the bubble-gum machine: promising looking, but ultimately disappointing. And cutie might be the kind of man who could take more than twenty-five cents from me.

  My stomach howled again, bringing a flash of righteous indignation with the pangs. I gave the Lion’s Club machine a hard, swift kick.

  Nothing came out, but National Enquirer Boy took off running. Cutie looked at me, smirked, and went back to his paper.

  I took a deep breath and let out a sigh of resignation. “Okay, fasting it is.”

  Without my permission my gaze went back to Mr. Fine. I tried to talk myself out of scoping him.

  He kept his eyes on the newspaper, but smiled, and man, what did he do that for? One deep dimple stretched a vertical path down his cheek. Then he spoke, and h
is voice wrapped itself around me like a cashmere pashmina.

  “It’s not nice to stare, pretty morena.”

  “What makes you think I was staring at you?”

  Now he did face me, though he ignored my question. “Shouldn’t you be at home in bed?”

  See, Emme? All it took was five seconds for him to reveal he’s a canine like all the others.

  “Dang, dog! Can’t you ask me my name first?”

  He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “I take it that when you called me dog, you weren’t saying I’m your boy.”

  “You’re a smart puppy, too! Are you housetrained?”

  “Take it easy, ma. That wasn’t a proposition.”

  “Tell it to Dateline NBC, predator.”

  “You’re the one who was staring. I happen to value my freedom, spicy little mamacita. I’m just sayin’. It’s a school night, and I’m sure it’s past your bedtime. What are you, fifteen? Sixteen?”

  His ghetto Spanglish confirmed what I thought about his ethnicity: Blacktino. And fine as he wanna be. But that didn’t mean I was gon’ answer him.

  “And you’re still tryna get personal information?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “It ain’t no school night, and I ain’t got to be in bed.”

  The brother laughed at me. “Whateva,” he said. “I just don’t think you should be hangin’ out in the streets alone this time of night, little one.”

  “Streets? Does it look like I’m prowling Washtenaw in stiletto heels and a leather miniskirt? This is Walgreens, hombre. And I ain’t little.”

  “You’re little enough, and you’re definitely young, chica. Too young to be out in the middle of the night alone.”

  “Maybe I’m not alone.”

  He gazed at my chest, or so I thought for a second. “I see you’re wearing a rosary.”

  I pointed to the rosary hanging from his own chest. “What’s the deal with you? Are you tryna make a fashion statement with your rosary?”

  “It’s not a statement. I use them to pray.”

  “Well, maybe the One you pray to is with me.”

  “You must need Him bad, since you’re out here assaulting bubble-gum machines.”

  “It took all my money.”

  “You must not have very much.”

  I opened my mouth to say something smart, but he didn’t wait for my retort. “I don’t think you’re really fasting, either. When did you eat last?”

  “Yesterday, and I don’t need no charity.”

  “Are you hungry, little girl lost?”

  “Naw. And I ain’t no little girl.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. You must be hungry.”

  Before I could respond he sighed and gave me a weary look. “You’ve got ‘runaway’ written all over you, ma, and you do look like a little girl lost. Why don’t you relax, tryna front like you’re all big and grown. …”

  “I’m almost grown. I’ll be eighteen in—”

  “What? Two years? Three?”

  “Thirty-three days so, you might as well say I’m grown now.” I put my hands on my hips for emphasis.

  “You ain’t grown if you can’t vote, ma. You hungry?”

  “I said I don’t need no charity from you.”

  “What’s wrong with charity? Charity is just love. The Bible says, ‘As it is, these remain: faith, hope, and love, the three of them, and the greatest of them is love,’ or charity if you’re a King James Version sorta girl.”

  “Maybe I don’t want your love, Bible boy.”

  “God wants you to eat, and He wants me to feed you. So, you wanna eat? Or do you wanna flirt with your hands on your lil’ hips, acting like you a woman? Even though I ain’t havin’ no part of that.”

  He had the prettiest light brown eyes with tiny, luminous flecks of gold circling his pupils like rings. They mesmerized me and I forgot myself.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Too old, chica.” He looked at me, those eyes like two treasure chests brimming with gold, teasing me. “But you are a doll baby, and you’ve got great taste in clothes. What’s that you’re reading?”

  I glanced at The Demon Hunter still in my hand. “Nothin’.”

  “The Demon Hunter, huh? You into stuff like that?”

  “I just picked it up. Can’t a sistah read?”

  “A sistah can read whatever she wants. I like a literary chica.”

  Okay, he was feeling me. And even though he could be a dog, I thought I’d pet him just once.

  “You’re just saying that because you wanna keep talking. And we’re dressed alike. You been following me around, haven’t you? Dressing like me so you can get my attention.”

  “You got my attention because you reminded me of somebody.”

  “Who would that be? An old girlfriend?”

  He ignored my question and fired another one without missing a beat. “What got my attention most is you being out here broke, hungry, and probably exhausted. Which means you don’t have anyplace to go. Am I right?”

  “You just gon’ blow off my question?”

  Okay, now I was tryna get information out of him. But only because I couldn’t help it. Somebody released a nest of butterflies in my belly, and their wings brushed up against my insides.

  For real, I’d never seen such compassion as I did in his eyes, and the kindness in his voice broke through my emotional armor.

  “Maybe I got someplace to go. Or maybe …”

  Shoot.

  I’d fooled around and sounded vulnerable. I knew better. In the streets you can’t show your tender underbelly. That’ll put you in harm’s way.

  But wasn’t he showing me his?

  He stared into my eyes and I saw a kind of solidarity. Like he’d been there, and he was feelin’ me—and not in the way Ray tried to.

  Okay. I couldn’t hang with Mr. Intense gaze. I looked away. Took a step toward the sticker and tattoo dispenser, but he called me that pretty Spanish thing again.

  “Morena.”

  His voice resounded in my insides like the first sweet notes of a song he wrote for me alone.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I did. Had to.

  He spoke two words to me—two perfect words: “I know.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I could feel my eyes sting, but I didn’t want him to see me break down. I willed the traitor tears away.

  He repeated, “I know, chica.”

  “What does chica mean?”

  “God’s baby girl. At least that’s what it means to me.”

  I sho’ didn’t feel like God’s baby girl.

  I shook it off, but not before he must have seen the shine in my eyes. He didn’t make any move to touch me. If he had I may have collapsed into a crying mess in his arms. Or given him a beatdown.

  He reached inside his back pocket, pulled out a worn leather wallet, and took out two twenties. He didn’t offer the money to me; he set it on top of the Red Hots dispenser.

  “There’s a Denny’s across the street. I’m not going to ask you to get in my car. I hope you’re too smart to do anything like that. But I’ve got a feeling there’ll be some old cat in there in a few minutes, wearing all black, who’d be happy to buy you breakfast. All you have to do is go over there.”

  What the heck?

  Any hint of tears disappeared.

  I put my hands on my hips again. “Punk! You tryna pimp me just because you put forty dollars in front of me? I might be hungry, but I ain’t about that.”

  Shock left him openmouthed for a moment. Then he laughed. “I’m the old cat, and all I want is to buy you breakfast. This is a God thing.”

  When I didn’t respond he acted like he thought I’d never heard of God.

  “You know? The New Testament? Jesus saying, ‘I was hungry and you fed me’?”

  “I know what it says.”

  “I’m tryna feed Jesus through one of his little ones. You look sorta little to me
, ma. Okay?”

  My stomach answered him with a roar. I clamped my hand over the traitor.

  He gave me that dimpled-on-one-side grin again. “I’ll take that growl as a yes.”

  My belly may have said yes, but Emme wasn’t so sure. I bit at my lip. I hadn’t had the best luck with men tonight, or ever. He seemed sweet, but he was older than me, and my mama said most of the time older meant experienced, and they’d want to experience me. I didn’t know him, no matter how fine he was or how nice he seemed.

  Frustrated, I contemplated my choices. Remain hungry and cautious, or go get a Grand Slam breakfast with the Scripture-quoting hottie?

  I didn’t exactly mull that one over for long. My stomach wouldn’t let me.

  And then I smelled something. Sulfur and stank. Demon funk crept into Walgreens.

  My gaze flew to the entrance. I didn’t see anything around cutie. The bell rang—ding—and some character straight out of a Stephen King novel walked in through the entrance doors.

  He wasn’t outwardly strange. He looked like a regular guy. White, medium height, brown hair. A little chubby. Dressed okay, nothing special or weird. But a hazy, gray cloud hovered around him, giving off evil vibes.

  Shoot. That meant one thing. Dude was into something foul, and I wasn’t tryna deal with his mess, too.

  Let him keep walking, Lord. I’m worn out. And this fine brotha offered me breakfast!

  I see crazy clouds around people all the time. Weird-colored auras. People’s faces morphing into the shapes of animals. Or worse! Little black men, and I don’t mean short brothas. You name it.

  I had already fought a big demon. I didn’t feel like dealin’ with another one. I tried to ignore the man and the evil he brought with him. Did I have to get personally involved every time a whack preternatural being showed itself?

  But shoot. It’s hard for me to ignore seeing evil. As it was, demon and friend were headed toward the cash register. I didn’t know if the hellish thing was gon’ influence his human host to rob the store or what. National Enquirer Boy couldn’t even hang with me. He certainly wasn’t ready to rumble with a demon.

  I fixed my eyes on the pair. The cloud slowly turned as black as smoke from a burning house. Its shape began to shift, unfurling into a human-like form—like a person made of smoke. My heart sank. I knew somebody was about to clown, and the most likely suspect was the dude it came in with.