Smash It!

by Francina Simone

  When we’ve ordered our food and have our shakes, I savor each sip—strawberry-banana. It’s definitely a strawberry-banana kind of day.

  Eli’s laughing at me again. “You look like a kid.”

  Okay, first of all—he better watch it. It can turn into a chocolate day real quick if he starts slinging insults.

  “Wow.” He’s taking in my squinty eyes. “Don’t get mad. I just mean, you look so happy and blissful. Like a kid eating ice cream. It’s cute.”

  The server drops off my fries and Eli’s cheeseburger, saving me from having to deal with the cute comment. I used to like when he dropped a random you look cute. But I want him to find me sexy.

  “So, what’s up?” I say, because Eli must have something on his mind. We don’t normally do impromptu drives out of the way for Steak ’n Shake. It is not close to our neighborhood.

  He’s looking at his burger and messing with a few of his fries. “I wanted your advice.”

  Yep, I knew he was buttering me up for something. “Hence Steak ’n Shake.”

  He looks up, and his curls are so messy and silky, I could run my fingers through them. He really does wake up looking flawless. I require a slather of lotions and have to carefully braid or twist my hair in order to look semi-presentable. Guys have it so easy.

  He chews on a few fries before he drops it on me. “Why do you think I’m single?”

  This is the downside of having guy friends. They think I represent all girls. “Okay, that’s a loaded question.”

  He’s staring at me now. “Just your opinion. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

  I laugh. “Why do you think I’d say something bad enough to hurt your feelings?”

  He shrugs. “Because the answers involve what I’m lacking.”

  I shake my head, because he’s just like Dré. They have a very skewed idea of how people see them. Or maybe what’s skewed is how they see themselves. I don’t know, but the fame really hasn’t helped in the self-esteem department. “You aren’t lacking anything.”

  He snorts like I’m trying to spare his feelings, and it’s kind of maddening, because I want to shout, I like you. Obviously you’re single because you want to be. But that’s not going to help anything.

  “I’m serious. If anything, you’re intimidating.”

  He’s about to argue, but I keep going.

  “Girls see you onstage, they see your Instagram, or they hear about you from other people, and you have a larger-than-life persona. That’s intimidating. Then when people get to know you, they realize that all that’s—you know—not real. But it’s a hard barrier to cross.”

  Eli eats a few more fries. “Okay, so what about after I’ve gotten to know them?” I can guess he means Kara. I notice she hasn’t been as friendly with him in the past week. I haven’t asked why, because honestly, I don’t even want to talk about this with him, let alone why she’s all of a sudden gone cold.

  Maybe she liked the idea of Eli, not the actual person. And even though having this conversation with him kind of hurts, what’s the point of being his best friend if I can’t be a shoulder to lean on?

  “Then she’s not worth your time. Honestly, if she isn’t into you by now, she’s either an idiot or just not worth it.”

  “That’s kind of harsh.”

  Yeah, defend the girl who drops you once she realizes the fame is all imaginary—that you’re a real person and that’s not as cool as what she expected. My speculations are rarely off. “I’m not saying she’s a terrible person. I’m just saying she isn’t worth your time.”

  He nods. “So, I just spend my life waiting for someone who is worth my time.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re all doing?” I take a long drink of my shake.

  He picks up his burger. “What if we get along really well—isn’t that worth fighting for?”

  Maybe Eli and I are the same person, sad and pathetically pining after someone who just doesn’t see us. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a colossal waste of time.” I can’t help but think about the text I still have from Kai that I’ve left unanswered. “Maybe by not moving on, you’re missing out on the people who actually want you the way you want them.”

  Eli looks at me. He’s not just making eye contact because we’re talking. He’s looking at me. He’s doing that thing he and Dré do, the silent speak. And though normally I don’t know the language, the message is loud and clear this time: he knows that I’m really talking about me and him. I feel like he knows I’m telling him I’m moving on.

  He nods and takes another bite of his burger. Chews. Swallows. “Maybe you’re right.”

  I take a deep breath, because this really sucks, but it is what it is. Since he’s still my best friend and that means more to me than anything else, I smile and tell him he’s got ketchup on his lip.

  We spend the rest of our time making small talk in between long silences and, in the car, I text Kai back.

  It’s time. I’m ready to let Eli go.

  * * *

  I’m outside in the employee parking at my job. It’s the middle of the night, kinda cold, and my mom is late again. It’s not like I could get kidnapped. The security booth is right behind me, and Al’s sitting next to me on the bench—but damn, this woman really doesn’t care about her too curvy for khaki shorts daughter sitting on a bus bench in the middle of the night.

  This is Florida. People drive here in diapers to kill their husbands. They take drugs and turn into zombies. They jump into whale tanks naked and try to have sex with orcas. It’s not the best place to leave a kid stranded.

  “You gotta cut her some slack,” Al says. This is the third time he’s sat with me, and I’m so embarrassed. I know he’s doing it so I’m not waiting alone, but it makes me feel like I’m the kid with the irresponsible mom. What makes it worse is I’m black. Everyone expects my mom to be single and late. They also expect me to have siblings without the same father. We’re checking off some boxes here, and I know I shouldn’t care, but I really do. I want to be that special Negro. The one with the two-parent family, the kind who don’t try too hard—you know, Family Matters, Winslow-style, not the Huxtables.

  Even that sounds stupid. I just don’t want people to think we’re like this because we’re black—but maybe we are. I don’t fucking know, and I’m tired of thinking about it.

  “Come on, kid.” Al’s handing me his bag of gummy worms. We had candy shop duty today. I’ve got my own bag of licorice, but again—I don’t say no to free shit. “Adults are people, too, you know?”

  I grumble. Al’s right when he’s preachy, but I can’t admit he might be onto something when I’d rather be mad at my mom.

  “You kids think we’re perfect and infallible.”

  I raise my brow. “Do we?”

  He laughs and snatches his gummy bag back. “I have a daughter, too. I told you that, right?” He’s told me only a thousand times. She’s in New York, working at a publishing company, and Al sometimes lets me borrow the books she sends him. “She was just like you.” I’ve heard that a thousand times, too. He might be getting senile. “Always crucifying her mother for every little mistake.” Al stops, and I know he’s probably thinking about Veta.

  We sit for a while, and I kinda wish we hadn’t stumbled onto Veta. He’s getting more and more choked up about her lately. I’d ask why, but I’m boss at avoiding things that make people uncomfortable.

  “Good judgment—you listening, Livia?” Al’s looking at me like I’m his daughter, and for a minute I think he might think I am. I swear, if this old man goes crazy on me, I’ll lose it. He’s the best thing about work. I can’t have his ass catching dementia. “Good judgment,” he says again, “comes from a string of fuckups.”

  When I think about it, that makes a lot of sense. Only when I constantly started having my ass handed to me did I realize that, if I just took the chic
ken out of the freezer before my mom got home, she’d stop yelling at me.

  “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes, Livia.” My mom pulls into the parking lot, and Al nods at her car as she’s whipping around the bend. “And remember, she’s still got some to make, too.”

  I gather my stuff and say bye to Al. He’s walking to his car when my mom pulls up in front of me. “Who’s that?” she says, eyeing him like he’s a perp on How to Catch a Predator.

  “Good evening, Mother.” I’m putting on my seat belt. “That’s Al.” I’ve told my mom about Al countless times. I don’t think she listens to anything I say. She’s always doing something else at the same time, saying, Yeah, baby. I hear you. But is she listening?

  “I don’t like you hanging out with old men.”

  “Oh. My. God.” I don’t say anything else or point out that Al’s more reliable than her late ass. That will get my head mushed against the window.

  She reaches into the back seat. We have this old Toyota. It’s small, and my mom drives it like a bat out of hell. So when she reaches back to grab something, her boobs hit me in the face and I try to take cover.

  “Jesus, Mom. Personal space.”

  She drops a bag on my lap, and she’s holding back a smile as she puts the car in gear and whips us out of the parking lot. We’re in third gear before we’re on the street.

  It’s a gift bag.

  My mom buys me stuff all the time. I’m spoiled, I won’t lie, but I have no idea what this might be. I reach into the bag and pull out an Othello DVD—my mom still doesn’t trust digital movies. There’s also an envelope, and when I open it, I have to hold the tickets by the dashboard to see they’re for the Aida Broadway musical that’s playing over Christmas break.

  My cheeks hurt, because I’m both smiling and trying not to smile. I hate this woman. She always does some shit to piss me off, and then she does really awesome stuff like this that makes me realize she knows my heart song. I know these tickets had to be hard to find and super expensive, because they’re great seats to a show that is a month away.

  “Mom.” It’s all I can say, because I’m starting to tear up like a little bitch. I hate crying.

  “I’ve been looking for these damn tickets all week. I used a hookup. Don’t even ask me how I got them, but Mother comes through, don’t she?”

  I’m hugging her arm, and she’s hiding her smile, too. We’re so lame. “I love you, Ma.” I’m always judging everything my mother does, and sometimes I’m so busy judging that I don’t see what she’s doing for me.

  My mom sniffles. “You’re out here doing big things. I’m so proud of you. You know I always got you.”

  My eyes burn. Even when she’s smothering me, I want her to be proud of me. It feels so good, knowing she’s behind me.

  Chapter 17

  Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I’m too black not to love this day. My grandparents live ten minutes away, and all my extended family is in a 250-mile radius. Everyone from Miami, Jacksonville, and Fort Lauderdale comes to Orlando for Thanksgiving. I’ve got aunts, uncles, and cousins for days.

  I’m at my grandparents’, hiding in the garage with my granddad and great-uncles. The women are in the kitchen, and my grandmother gets a little uptight when things get busy, so I leave her to my sister, who is bomb at cooking and the perfect yang to my grandmother’s yin.

  Cleo’s in the kitchen, too, and this is another way in which we completely differ. She’s always been into being around the mother hens. I can’t stand it; they fuss over everything and make me chop up the holy trinity—onions, green bell peppers, and celery—for days. What are the onions, bell peppers, and celery for? Everything. My family can’t cook without them. Cleo’s vegetables are always diced into perfect squares, and I don’t have the patience to be criticized about my lopsided onions and funky-looking celery pieces.

  The door to the kitchen opens, and my mom and Aunt Rachel come out to grab something from the deep freezer.

  “Don’t start, Rachel,” my mom says between tight lips.

  Aunt Rachel rolls her eyes. “Ain’t nobody paying attention to you.”

  My mom reaches into the deep freezer and pulls out huge pitchers of mango lemonade. I love that stuff. Especially when it’s chilled. “Green is not your color, yet you stay jealous.”

  I don’t even know what set them off this time. It could be anything. Literally anything. Once it was who got my grandmother the lame Hallmark movie box set some years before. They both did—but did that stop them from bickering over this year’s Mother’s Day dinner?

  They walk back in and the door slams behind them.

  My granddad and great-uncles and I are sitting around a table playing poker for quarters. I sip a Coke as they pretend they didn’t hear anything. In my family, we sweep things under the rug until we start tripping over the lumps.

  My granddad puts his cards facedown on the table. He’s good at existing in tension. A self-proclaimed shark, and even though now he’s a straitlaced businessman, he used to own a grocery store back in the day and I think he was a real loan shark—possibly a bookie, too.

  When we’re sitting around the table like this and they’re throwing out old stories, I get the sense that he wasn’t so straitlaced back then. I dig it. The old man’s cool. He taught me how to drive—lots of yelling and asking why I can’t park straight—and how to shop for fish and buy odd stuff off the side of the road—my turtles were from the back of a truck and so was the shrimp he had three days ago. He taught me how to exist amid tension.

  I’m waiting for the rest of my cousins to get here though, the ones I see only a few times a year. We get together, and you’d swear we all came out of the womb at the same time, hugging each other.

  Keith and Kole live down South, and when they pull up, we take over the garage dancing and playing video games. “Shorty got skills. Now go put on a jacket. Walking around here like you grown.”

  I’m wearing jeans and a loose blouse. I do look good, but it’s a family thing so I don’t look that good. I smile anyway, because it’s their way of saying I’m beautiful.

  Denise and Emerald arrive, and the house fills to the brim with laughing, loud voices shouting stories on top of stories, and the fumes of okra and tomatoes, mac ’n’ cheese, fried turkey, and ribs. I’m the freest I’ve been in a while. I’m me without thinking about it.

  We’re sitting around the kiddie table in the kitchen when I hear my mom at the adult table in the dining room talking about me being in the school play. I look at Cleo without meaning to, because I hear my granddad saying, “Wait, I thought Cleo was doing theatre?” and my sister is telling him to be quiet, because she, like everyone else with a modicum of social awareness, knows it’s sensitive territory. The thing is, half the time my granddad can ride out the tension because he rarely has a clue what’s going on.

  I peek into the room and see Cleo’s mom, Aunt Rachel, is gripping her fork, and I know it has nothing to do with me but rather the smug look on my mother’s face, but it still makes me feel like I can’t celebrate my success—like I have to keep it to myself for the sake of family dinner.

  Cleo looks at me and then sighs. “Actually, Liv got one of the main roles. She beat out a lot of people. She’s gonna smash it,” she shouts for them to hear.

  I blink and give a small smile to Cleo. I don’t know how I feel about her being—supportive. It’s too strange and new. If anyone would have told me Cleo was going to pay me a compliment—and now, of all moments—I’d have called them a dirty liar. It’s not that I think Cleo hates me, it’s just that she’s been more distant than Twinks when I get out the vacuum. She barely talks to me during rehearsals—granted, we haven’t had many—and I understand she’s on crew and they’ve got their own stuff going on, but she walked past me onstage once and didn’t even bat an eye.

  So, to say I’m surprised that she thi
nks I’m going to smash it is an understatement. “Thanks,” I say, and I really mean it.

  She shrugs in normal Cleo fashion, and dinner moves on. However, when we get to dessert and it’s just me and the cousins standing around the island grabbing seconds, Denise is egging me on to give them a sneak peek and before I know it, I’m out of my seat singing my audition song. It comes so easy, and it’s fun. Everyone is looking at me like I’m the next Beyoncé—they’re being so extra because we’re family—but it feels so damn good.

  Aunt Rachel gives me a small smile. “I’m glad to see you’ve gotten over your shyness.” It’s a backhanded compliment, but I’ll take it.

  Even Cleo’s smiling and giving me my props.

  We’re both packing away some of the food when I just blurt out, “So, I’m sorry if me auditioning made you uncomfortable.”

  Cleo looks up from wrapping up some turkey. She’s got her mom’s deadpan blank stare. “I don’t own the theatre, Liv. It’s cool.” She stops for a minute. “Actually, it really did bother me at first. When I told you I’d help you with lines, you never took me up on my offer, and it made me feel—I don’t know, like you think I’m not good enough to help. But obviously you didn’t need my help.”

  Oh, I feel so greasy and wrong. “I thought you only offered to be polite.” She did walk off before I could take her up on it.

  She has a way of opening her eyes only halfway, and I swear her and her mother spend time in the mirror on this look. The how to make a bitch feel dumb look. “We’re family. We’re never polite.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I spent the weeks leading up to auditions completely freaking out.” I’m scooping macaroni and cheese into a container when Cleo moves away from the counter and crosses her arms.

  “No. It doesn’t. I don’t want to see you fail, and it bothers me that you think I do. I thought the bullshit between our moms was just between them. Not us.” She’s looking over her shoulder just like I am to make sure no one heard us. One thing about our moms is you can’t call them on their bullshit, because they’ll take all that pent-up sibling rage and wipe out any and everyone who tries to point out they have a fucking problem.