The Second Jam

by Lila Felix

  My goal in life lately was to avoid any and every confrontation—especially the important ones.

  The one I would eventually have with Scout.

  The one I would eventually have with my parents.

  The one I assumed I would have with Uncle Nixon and probably every other family member until my ass looked like Swiss cheese and working as a janitor seemed like heaven.

  I knew it was coming—it was procrastination rooted in the deepest fear of my life—rejection from my family.

  I hadn’t even given them a chance. As soon as the news came down, I flew the coop.

  Yes, another chicken reference.

  I slunk up the stairs and packed my shit in ten minutes. It didn’t take long because there was hardly anything to pack. I didn’t even bother with the air mattress. Hell the thing mostly ran out of air two hours after I got to sleep. I woke up in a flat nest of plastic tarp every morning with an aching back to prove it.

  I didn’t care. I’d always been a simple guy. It wasn’t until I’d discovered the disapproval of others that I thought something was wrong with me. Well, I knew something was different about me the first time everyone else was seeing the word dog and all I saw was letters that were jumping around faster than I could even attempt to pronounce them.

  With one duffle bag in my hand and a backpack slung over my shoulder, I raced down the stairs with no sentiment toward the sullen apartment I was leaving behind.

  After grabbing a burger with the last of my cash until the next day, I parked on the side of the garage and smiled a little at the convenience of living twenty feet away from my job. The stairs were right in front of me. I’d treated Beatriz unfairly. I’d snapped at her. It wasn’t as though I’d expected any other reaction. I knew the faces people made when they found out and inevitably they found out. Regardless of the newest technologies, some things still had to be written. Some things still had to be read.

  If my mom or any of my aunts had seen the way I’d spoken to her, they would slapped me so hard that my teeth would see next year before the Thanksgiving turkey was carved.

  My mom brought me to the grocery store one time. I brought my own money for candy since the one thing she refused to buy was candy unless it was Halloween. She had checked out her food and was waiting for me to check out when the girl cashier, maybe four years older than my thirteen year old face, dotted with pimples, mentioned that it had been a while since she’d had a candy bar. When I didn’t respond soon enough, my mom gave me those wide eyes that I knew meant I’d better think of the right thing to do or else.

  I bought that cashier two candy bars.

  That was my first purposeful lesson in chivalry. The rest I learned by watching how my father treated my mother.

  Beatriz had helped me get a job and now a place to crash and I’d jumped her guns just because of my own insecurities.

  It was times like these that I would’ve usually confessed everything to Scout who would, with gentler words, set me straight and tell me what to do. I opened my phone to just look at her contact information when I noticed a new message.

  My reaction warranted a word that would’ve caused my grandmother to grab her heart in feigned appall.

  It was a simple message and it probably took her some guts just to type it. It was almost refreshing—her pointed response. Most people would just ignore the whole thing.

  Can we talk about it?

  I guessed I owed her that, at least. My pride would have to take a back seat.

  Sure. You know where I live.

  I’d already pushed send before I realized that even that sounded snide.

  I’m on my way.

  Not snide enough.

  I rushed upstairs and put my sheets on the real mattress. There was a bathroom that wasn’t much bigger than my old one, but the shower was newer and a quick test revealed the hot water was actually hot.

  I couldn’t resist. I was sure I could get myself scrubbed and decent smelling before she got there. Not that Beatriz was coming for me. She just wanted to examine the specimen.

  I was out of the shower in minutes, but it wasn’t fast enough. I’d just wrapped a towel around my waist when a knock at the door made me groan. I fisted the towel at the portion that linked the two edges together and opened the door to find Beatriz on the other side. Her hair was piled up in a bun that gave me a look at the side that was shaved. I didn’t know what it was, but her hair seemed to match her personality—sweet with a razor edge.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I thought I could get out and get dressed before you arrived. Sorry.”

  She shifted from one leg to the other fisting her hands together while she did. I knew the whole ‘I can’t read’ issue was uncomfortable, but there was no reason for her to be nervous enough to act like that.

  “I’ll just stand here while you get dressed.” Her brown eyes flicked down to my towel and back up again.

  “Just come in. I can go into the bathroom and get dressed. I don’t want you to stand out here alone at night.”

  “You have an issue with night, don’t you?”

  “No,” I reached out and pulled her in, despite the fist now on her hip defying me. “I have an issue with unsafe conditions. I’m not gonna flash you, just get in here.”

  Her constant stiff defensiveness was grating on my ego—and there wasn’t much of that left.

  I grabbed some shorts, boxers, and a white t-shirt and went into the bathroom, not bothering to check for her reaction. While I dressed, I couldn’t help but think about how she looked. She must’ve gone to skate by herself. I knew the derby schedule by heart and Tuesdays weren’t practice time. She wore tight black shorts and a tank top that read, ‘I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumbass’, which was completely appropriate given the situation.

  I didn’t even bother with a brush, just pulled my hair back and tangled it in a black band. Looking at myself in the mirror, I mouthed the word no. Jacob had mentioned Peter and Beatriz getting married. Though her behavior at the café told me everything to the contrary—I wouldn’t even attempt to flirt with someone who was taken.

  Not to mention, she was probably blinded with pity.

  I walked out to Beatriz pacing back and forth in front of the bed. It made me chuckle. The dance of death—that’s what it was.

  “Why are you pacing? It’s not like haven’t heard it all. Have a seat, you’re making me jittery.”

  With eyes still trained on the floor, she stopped and sat down on the bed and I took the older recliner in the corner.

  “I think I can help you.”

  Her hands slapped her knees with a purpose. Sincere intentions glowed in her eyes.

  Give me strength if she pulls out a pamphlet.

  “I’ve tried it all, Beatriz. The tutors and the ‘no one left behind’ games. I’ve been taken for evaluations and testing. I’ve been sounded-out and flash-carded to death. They finally figured out that I was dyslexic in high school, but it was too late. I was a lost cause.”

  She didn’t lose any steam.

  “No, I mean me. I’ve taught adults to read before. Obviously, you know some things. I can help and maybe you could help me in return. I mean, you don’t have to. I just thought it would benefit the both of us. I mean, you don’t know me and I really don’t know you, but I kind of need help with some things and I would be happy to help you. ”

  Tingling settled in my chest. She sounded just like Scout on one of her over-explanatory rants.

  Except this was so not Scout.

  “Just hear me out.”

  I hadn’t said anything in argument, but I was sure my eyes spoke for me—they often did. I had to admit, the proposition sounded hopeful just because she would be the one doing the teaching, but then again, that was a good reason to decline it.

  “What do you need help with?” Anything to deflect the conversation from Hooked On Phonics.

  “I’m a bitch.”

  I was sure laughter wasn’t the response she wanted fro
m me, but the snort escaped nonetheless.

  “You’re not a bitch. You found me a job and a place to crash. That’s a far cry from being a bitch. Anyway, no woman deserves to be called that name—I don’t give a shit what she does. So, whatever deal we are making here starts with you never calling yourself a bitch again.”

  She looked like she’d been slapped. Fire bloomed on her otherwise olive-toned cheeks. A smile took over her face, replacing the shock.

  “This is what I’m talking about. You’re a no bullshit kind of person. I need that. I’m opening this place to help kids from my neighborhood, to learn life skills and get out of here if they want to. The thing is, most people can’t see past my attitude. If I can’t reach them then it’s not gonna work. If I could help you read…”

  “Then I could help you be a little less…sandpapery.”

  “Sandpapery. That’s one word for it.” Beatriz reached up and with a comb of her fingers, pushed the front section of her hair over the rest of it. She didn’t put it behind her ear, just a little gentle discipline.

  “You sure this is all right with the suit?”

  It took her a few seconds, but the light bulb clicked. “Peter?”

  “Yeah. I know you two are engaged or together or whatever. Is this going to be cool with him? He didn’t strike me as the trusting type.”

  He didn’t strike me as any type, really. But after her dad talking about them nearly tying the knot, I needed to know.

  “He won’t care. Why would he care?”

  I shrugged. “I’m just making sure.”

  This whole thing scrubbed me like steel-wool. I knew I’d come out shinier on the other side, but damn it if I liked the process. Her hands pitter-patted on her thighs, waiting for my answer. Except, I didn’t have one. It was a cruel thing for a person like me to have pride—but I did. It took more effort than anyone would ever know to admit to her that I needed help with paperwork that most people would view as child’s play.

  I was caught in a real trap—I was sticky that way. I always seemed to walk right into a trap and stuck to the walls until only through ripping myself away gained freedom.

  I owed this girl—if nothing else for the job and the bed.

  “I’m going to think about it, okay?”

  It wasn’t the answer she wanted. “Sure. That’s fine. Just text me when you decide.” Beatriz’s demeanor had flipped to icy as she shrugged. She got up and made for the door. She was pissed and the emotion was written all over her face.

  “Thank you.” I blurted. “It’s been a long time since anyone offered to help—like really help.”

  I was not counting burger boy’s pamphlet speech as genuinely trying.

  She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t’ take me up on it.”

  I let the notion settle for two days. She hadn’t come by the shop once and I found, against my better instinct, that I wanted to see her. Hell, I missed her spark—her fire—whether she wanted other people to see it or not.

  Pedro entered the work area with a dozen boxes, all taped and topped with a piece of paper. Jacob had been expecting parts for the Buick he was working on and by the beam on his face, I assumed this was the delivery he’d been waiting for.

  “Cyrus, check these boxes against the inventory sheet. I’ve got to get the phone.”

  It was a flat-assed lie. The phone never rang. I wondered how the owners of the cars were updated, but they must’ve just come around.

  One look at the smudged, printed piece of paper and the edges of the room began to fade. This was where I would usually bolt—head for the hills like a cat with firecrackers tied to its tail.

  With one heavy breath, Jacob headed in my direction. “I hate these things. I’ll show you the trick.”

  Showing me the trick actually entailed making me feel like even more of a lost cause, though that wasn’t his intention. He pointed to each number, which could’ve been my social security number for all I knew because when I got nervous, there was no sense in looking at anything at all—it all mushed together like wiggling spaghetti.

  That’s when my mind was made up.

  There was humiliation and then there was a time when humiliation snapped. Looking at Beatriz’ father explain things to me—I could hear the crack in my ego.

  I had to let Beatriz help me. I couldn’t live like this much longer, hanging by a string.

  There was always a time and a place to put pride aside.

  Chapter Nine

  Beatriz

  Cyrus Black pissed me off to no end.

  But no one could know—ever.

  “We are painting not tarring and feathering, mija.”

  I need a class on hiding emotions.

  I’d been painting the same wall for an hour, not even paying attention to the strokes, just slapping tangerine paint on what was once a shit brown canvas. I had less than a month now. The inspectors had come by and though I only had two issues to take care of before I could open¸ this place, in color, still looked like a depressing home for the elderly.

  “Shut it. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  Zuri was the only person in the world who got to talk to me like that.

  “Nothing. I’ll be fine as soon as this place gets settled.”

  There were two reasons I couldn’t tell Zuri what was going on. First, she was Zuri. She would be on me in a flat second and never let go if I told her about Cyrus—and Cyrus’ beard—and Cyrus’ towel. But mostly, I couldn’t tell Zuri about Cyrus because it wasn’t my secret to tell.

  It wasn’t even my secret to know.

  I rolled my eyes and pushed my glasses up on my nose. I’d thought I was Superwoman going over there and offering my assistance like there weren’t a thousand places he could seek help. And it wasn’t like he was a kid. He was a grown man who probably thought I was pitiful.

  Zuri whistled while she painted, knowing that extraneous noise make my teeth hurt. I could take a lot of things, but whistling wasn’t one of them.

  “It looks good in here.” A small voice echoed in the still empty room. Zuri and I both turned, without letting go of our brushes, to see who had come in. I’d left the doors open so that we didn’t die of fume inhalation.

  The voice belonged to Sammy, a kid who, if I remembered correctly, was almost eighteen now. She was on the junior roller derby team of New Orleans under my influence. The first time she got a real heavy dose of rink rash along with a black and blue the size of Cuba, I’d cried for her. I brought her home from her first bout, guilty as sin.

  The thing was—Sammy’s mother was so drunk, she didn’t even notice.

  The house was a disaster. When she showed me her room, it smelled like a dirty sock had dysentery all over her clothes. Her kitchen was stocked with food, but nothing was cooked.

  Sammy didn’t even know how to wash her clothes or prepare a meal.

  She’d begged me not to call the cops or social services.

  So, I’d taught her how to survive.

  I’d brought her back to my house several times a week, when I could between my own college classes, and taught her what I could. Eventually, she could at least keep herself in clean clothes and make herself a decent meal.

  Then one day, she showed up with a friend who didn’t know how to cook anything beyond making a bowl of cereal.

  And that’s when I realized—these kids were missing basic life skills.

  These kids would leave their homes, their parents, without even the basic knowledge of how to be a responsible adult.

  I grew up in a neighborhood that most people would call the bad side of town. It wasn’t as tough as some places I’d heard of. We had books that fell apart in school—we ended up sharing the good ones. We couldn’t ever take books home from the classroom. Ceiling tiles and paint chips fell off the walls. Walking home from school was a war zone.

  Gang activity was rampant.

  There was no hope for anythi
ng more.

  That’s why I’d named this place the Hope Place.

  When I’d asked my high school guidance counselor for applications to scholarships and grants, she’d asked me why I wasn’t going to work for my dad.

  Not that what my dad wasn’t honorable—it was. He worked harder than anyone I’d ever known. He started a business for himself. He’d paid off his house and business by the time he was thirty.

  It was the lack of options that sent me into shock.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to work for my dad. I wanted the choice. That’s what I wanted for everyone—to be given a choice.

  That’s what this place was about—giving kids around here options for more.

  They could go to college.

  They could buy their own house or rent their own apartment.

  They could travel the world if they wanted to.

  And I would give them the options for doing that.

  I’d contracted several businesses to lend a hand here. Tutors, guidance counselors, college advisors, people who could teach skills and point the kids in the direction they wanted to go.

  And for those who had already fallen behind—there was a place for them too.

  Like Cyrus.

  It wasn’t too late—there was hope.

  “It’s coming along. How are you, Sammy?”

  “I’m good. On my way to practice.” She flaunted the skates slung over her shoulder. I loved that she used them as a badge of honor. Plus, she could knock the shit out of someone with them if they bothered her.

  “How long before I get to bounce you around the rink?”

  She beamed. “I’ll be eighteen in three months. Next season, I’ll be fresh meat—I hope.”

  “Nice. I heard Storey Black is heaven on a stick compared to Nellie.”

  “Pfft.” The girl had balls. It was refreshing to see her evolution from a girl who could barely tie her shoes to killing it in derby. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  No one was fine in the shadow of Nellie Black—no one.

  “Okay, Hot Shot. What else is going on?”

  Zuri and I continued to paint while we chatted with her.

  “I got into UNO. I’m just waiting on the financial stuff to come in.”