Of Hustle and Heart

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Of Hustle and Heart Page 2

by Briseis S. Lily


  I’m a good enough guy, even labeled a sweetheart from time to time, but the whole charm thing escapes me sometimes. I tend to be nervous when I’m out of my element, and I’m too honest to jerk anyone’s chain. I hope to overcome this unstable nature one day. It’s a weakness the women in my life find tiresome.

  The catering vans are being loaded out back. We’re expected to check in with the principal of Albert Chesney in twenty minutes, and the school is twelve minutes away. We’re running behind. I intended to have the vans fully loaded with our food and outdoor banquet sets twenty minutes ago. As I’ve grown from a seventeen-year-old busboy into a twenty-four-year-old staff supervisor, I’ve gotten good at keeping my emotions in check with a little bit of prayer. But this morning I feel the stress. I pace in front of Rico’s van with my phone positioned next to my ear. I’m calling Bruno, one of my staff at Rico’s, for the second time, but his voice mail picks up. The taste in my mouth is bitter; I don’t bother to leave a message. And now some of the staff who helped load the van are watching me. They stand behind the van, glancing at each other, their eyes full of questions, but no one dares to ask. Then Whitney comes outside. She sees me sweating and fidgeting with my shirt as my insecurity makes a bitch out of me. She stands behind the staff, annoyed by my emotional status but keeping it cool and professional.

  “Excuse me, Zack,” she calls out. I walk toward her, breathing deeply to calm myself. When I get to her, she whispers in my ear that Bruno is not coming. My head spins. She nods stoically, as I glance at my watch; time has run out. The restaurant will be short-staffed because it will take three of my regular servers to fill Bruno’s shoes at the senior picnic. I’m peeing myself for a different reason.

  “So…he’s not coming?”

  In Rico’s back office, I cock my head, lowering it in defeat as my Whit shakes her head. She walks over to me and taps my foot, signaling me to remove my legs from the desk, and looks at me from the corner of her eye.

  “No, baby, he’s not coming.” She hopes I won’t be knocked down by the sudden news and that Bruno’s blatant disregard for the restaurant’s business will not affect me in a negative way. And although I am completely bothered, I attempt to put on a phony sense of clarity and lightheartedness for the sake of my girlfriend’s pride.

  “He called in.” She walks around the desk and places her palm down at the corner. She leans in, studying my face, her eyes rolling over mine. She needs to see if I’ve given up. I’m not surprised by Bruno’s decision. He’s been upset with me for a while now, and as a result, his performance at the restaurant has suffered.

  “I can fill in for him,” Whitney offers. She’s only a hostess, so I decline, raising my hands in protest of the idea. She could fill in, but I won’t have her do it.

  “No.” I sigh. “I need to go. Just stay here.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ZINA

  Should I stay…should I go?

  Shannon is sitting two rows over, staring at me like a big, green-eyed puppy. He looks as if I yanked on his tail and then kicked him out of the way, as if my plan to skip the senior picnic has wounded him in some dehumanizing way.

  He’s a biracial baby—a mix of white father and black mother. At first glance he’s white; second glance he’s weird. And on the inside, who knows? Until this year, I never had a real conversation with him. The type of close friendships most kids form in school happen only when you have a class together. We hadn’t been so lucky till now. We share a second period, AP trig class, this semester, and he’s the nicest boy ever. A quiet, insanely popular jock, hanging in the shadow of his obnoxious friends and teammates, who has somehow managed to pick the most obnoxious girlfriend in the world. For this, he truly sucks.

  Shannon and I write letters to each other, sometimes two or three a day. We started it on accident, initially passing one-line notes to each other, asking to borrow each other’s notes or homework. Those letters soon transgressed into the following:

  What are you eating for lunch today? Man, I’m tired. I don’t feel like practicing. Come to my locker after third period. Shannon’s smart, but he has to work for it. He puts in crazy study time in order to pull the grades I’ve been pulling since kindergarten just from reading the chapter and study text once. He told me in a note that he had taken the AP placement test three times in order to get into AP classes.

  Really? Wow, that’s dedication! I wrote back.

  It’s impressive that he didn’t give up but embarrassing as hell that it took him three whole times to pass. Nonetheless, I was shocked on the first day of class when he started talking to me about locker assignments. After the first day, we never stopped talking.

  He’s a gorgeous boy—a delicious mix of striking green eyes, pale-white skin, and wavy grayish-brown hair. To me, he’s an ethnic white boy, down as they come with a passionately intense understanding of blackness (because it’s a part of him). And a voice with as much bass as an 808 drum. Damn. From the corner of my eye, I see him hunched over his desk, scribbling something in his notebook. I sigh and shrink down in my seat, reconsidering my plan to fake sick, ditch school, and get back to the southeast. I hadn’t paid my dues to attend the picnic anyway, so it wouldn’t be a good idea to go. I’d asked my mama for the money, but she didn’t have it. I got the same response the next four times I asked, too. Eventually, I gave up and forgot all about it.

  My mind is sidetracked these days. All I can think about is money and that my family doesn’t have any. If I don’t leave school early enough today so I can get to the MLK strip center and hustle, I’ll lose an opportunity to make a few dollars. I got kids from my side of Houston waiting on me and my new releases. Special orders for seasons of True Blood and K’s new album. I tap my foot on the floor, fumbling my pencil through my fingers. Shit.

  Someone drops an eraser on my desk. When I look up, the kid who sits between Shannon and me hands me a folded sheet of paper. When I open it, I see Shannon’s tiny handwriting warning me about how I’m going to miss out on everything. I chuckle at his lame attempt to coerce me into attending day one of senior events. And I feel bad. If Shannon ain’t happy about me ditching senior picnic, then B. de la Vega will not be having it either.

  I stare at Shannon’s note and consider the fact that this boy with a crazy girlfriend is really, really trying to get me to stay at school. And Blanca, my bestie, will kick me down the stairs the next time she sees me if I don’t show up. I laugh to myself, but the laughter passes quickly. Shannon’s leaning forward on his desk, but I don’t look his way. His arms are folded, his head propped on top of them, and he’s watching me, waiting for my response. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look around to notice the stragglers walking in well after the tardy bell. Shannon waits for me to make my move.

  Making enough money to pay our light and water bills with these bootlegs ain’t likely to happen. And those things will be disconnected within the next ten days or so. Even still, I have to try. Shouldn’t I? Somebody has to do something, right?

  Shannon stirs in his desk but maintains a watchful eye. He’s patient—more so than I’ll ever be. I don’t really understand why Shannon cares about what I do. But the fact that he does makes me fond of him in a way I never expected. My eyes sting, and as my face flashes warm, I can’t seem to react fast enough to keep a few teardrops from spilling onto my desk. I shift uncomfortably and rub my hand across the wet spot in front of me. I fight hard to pull rank over my thoughts and emotions. Stop! My face turns to stone; I steady my breathing.

  Shannon continues to watch. His head shoots up as he straightens, his mouth gaping. He looks terrified. I look at him and grin, scribble on his note, and then crumple it up and toss it a row over. He extends one arm and effortlessly snatches our note from the air. He does this without taking his eyes off me. I bury my head into my arms and lay my head down on my desk, turning away from him. I’m worn out, and Shannon’s sentiments are draining wha
t’s left of my energy. I need a moment for myself. I don’t want to look at him right now.

  But then I hear the scuffling of a desk. A long arm extends itself and nudges a crumpled sheet of paper under my elbow. I raise my arm and see Shannon’s tiny words on the flip side of our note.

  It hurts my heart to see you cry.

  CHAPTER 4

  ZACARIAS

  I nab two of Rico’s most promising new hires to fill Bruno’s abandoned spot as head of the events team, and we head for the school at breakneck speed. After running three lights and praying to God we’d make it in time to meet Principal Aubrey Logan, I swerve into the parking lot, tires squealing, and park the catering van as close to the front as I can get. I instruct the staff to begin unloading the banquet equipment and vault from the truck, adrenaline beating in my ears. I straighten my collared uniform shirt as I walk through the parking lot. My business face is on, thanks to Whitney’s coaching.

  I hurry up the outdoor cement steps leading to what looks to be a hallway entrance to the bottom floor of the three-story school. As I pull open the heavy glass door, I catch a glimpse of my long, unruly brown curls in the door’s reflection. I wish I’d taken more time getting ready this morning. I brush my hair back behind my ears with the palms of my hands.

  I round the corner to find Principal Logan and her assistant principal standing in the hallway in front of the main office. Seeing me turn the corner like a maniac raises their guard and puts them on high alert. They whip their walkie-talkies to their ears, ready to call campus security.

  “Hello,” I say, extending my moist palm to the graying high-school principal. “I’m sorry I’m late.” They look me up and down, the older woman’s glare lingering on my strong features. As they stare, they notice the logo on my shirt. Principal Logan’s colleague speaks first.

  “Oh, you’re from the restaurant?” she asks, extending her hand in return. I grab it for dear life, and she smiles, her brown skin gathering at the corners of her mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m—”

  “Bruno?” Principal Logan asks as I turn to introduce myself to her.

  “Uh, no,” I say with a sheepish smile. “I’m Zacarias. I’m one of the supervisors at Rico’s.” The women nod in unison, perfectly timed bobbleheads.

  “Oh, okay. Well, I’m Mrs. Welch. I’m the assistant principal.”

  She’s a black woman, her hair cropped short and cut close to her head, and her voice is warm and informal like the khaki dress suit she’s wearing. Every time she speaks, I feel a little better about being late.

  “Well, I rushed on in so I could check in with the front office and you, Principal Logan. My crew is unloading…” I laugh nervously, still trying to catch my breath. “Again, I’m sorry I’m late.”

  The two women read the sincerity in my voice and take it to heart. They wave away my apology.

  “Honey, I don’t even think you’re late,” Mrs. Welch says as she pats me on the arm.

  “How old are you, Zacarias?” Principal Logan asks.

  “I’m twenty-four, ma’am.”

  “Are you in school?”

  I hesitate; I’d considered dropping out. “Yes, I am. I attend Baylor.”

  The women coo, raising their eyebrows and smiling at me the way my mother does when she’s pleased.

  “Well, you are a very nice young man. Well mannered, and he goes to Baylor!” Mrs. Welch cackles softly and raises a hand in the air, signaling a high five. I laugh and return the gesture.

  “Well, Zacarias, we have a few parents here to help out with the picnic,” Principal Logan explains. “They’ll meet you in the visitor’s parking lot and show you where to set up.”

  “Okay, that sounds good. Is there anything else you need from me before we start?”

  Mrs. Welch smiles directly into my eyes. “Yes,” she says. “Ignore our senior girls. Some of them think they’re the cutest things in the world, honey.” She waves her hand, dismissing the antics of Chesney’s senior girls. “And they will flirt with attractive young men.”

  The volunteers from the PTO are remarkable to work with. With their help, the catering and service of the senior picnic is not only as perfect as any of Rico’s events has ever been but is also actually rather amusing. The high-school girls come on to us full force, batting eyelashes and wriggling hard in their tight tops and jeans.

  The flirtation and advances are distracting to my servers and bothersome for the parent volunteers and the senior boys. These girls have no shame; in fact, adult supervision does nothing to slow them down. If anything, it sparks them up even more. The girls seem young—not from lack of makeup or fancy hairstyles, which they all have in common. But it’s the immature nature of their advances. They giggle more than a twenty-year-old would, they ask irrelevant questions, and they linger at the serving table way too long, failing to take the cues that would tell an older girl it’s time to leave. The senior girls are indeed cute, and they know it, like Mrs. Welch had warned. But that’s all. Thank goodness, they are in no way a temptation for me, but my servers eat it up, reveling in the adolescent adoration. It makes me happy to embrace my upcoming twenty-fifth birthday. I am a grown man—at least I try to be anyway, for Whitney’s sake.

  Within the picnic’s first forty-five minutes, the food choices dwindle down to a few long trays of quesadillas and fajitas, leftover shrimp and steak, and a couple pieces of grilled chicken. The tortilla chips and sides vanish, as does the pico and guacamole, and we run out of rice. The athlete boys eat multiple servings of everything, which triggers the memory of how much my brothers, John and Francisco, and I ate when we were teenage boys. My mother always cooked, and we always devoured it. The memory makes me smile.

  After lounging on the school’s front lawn for almost an hour and taking enough selfies for a month’s worth of Instagram posts, the kids come looking for leftovers. Fortunately, the PTO group steps in, obliging Chesney’s seniors with freshly baked cookies and more sodas and water. Much to the kids’ delight, one of the parent volunteers picks up cinnamon rolls from the Cinnabon store located in the galleria a few blocks away, to top off the event.

  “Must be nice to be graduating from Albert Chesney,” I say to Fred, one of the servers, who chuckles under his breath. “At my senior picnic, we got Taco Bell soft tacos and Otis Spunkmeyer cookies.”

  Fred nods. “At my senior picnic, they gave us sandwiches and chips. No dessert, though,” he says, his eyes cutting to a group of senior girls sitting on the lawn, staring at us.

  I check the time and decide we have twenty minutes till cleanup time. The sun has subdued a bit, and the wind blows pleasantly around the picnickers and those who work to satisfy them. Whitney has called twice, but I’d missed her calls, so she has texted me:

  All is well? How is everything going?

  I text back: Will be back at the restaurant in an hour.

  There’s a girl sitting in the stairwell in front of the school. I first noticed her about forty minutes ago, after the initial rush of food had been served. She hadn’t come near the food tables or any of the kids. She stood in the middle of the stairwell, watching, her arms folded behind her. She gazed out on all of us, taking in the scenery, but never left her place. And now she’s reclining on one of the middle steps, legs tucked underneath her, seemingly content in her solitude and scrutiny. I lean back in my fold-out chair at Rico’s buffet table and watch her. I have no choice. She’s interesting to watch and seems different from the girls who are sprawled out on the lawn for display. I break my gaze, realizing it is inappropriate to sit there, purposefully staring at a high-school girl. I force myself to look away and catch sight of a tall, muscular boy staring at her just as hard as I’d been. Aside from the pretty girl whose head is in his lap, he has every right to.

  He knows her. I can tell by the genuine concern smeared all over his young, handsome face. He talks with his
group of friends and pays just enough attention to the girl in his lap to keep her satisfied, but it pales in comparison to the obvious interest he has in the russet-skinned black girl posted in the stairwell. The tall boy’s eyes shift from his group to the girl at such a troubling rate that I feel it must be exhausting to be split between two things so far away from each another.

  I get tired of watching, so I debate whether I should take her something to eat. I hear one of the boy’s friends ask, “Why is Zina sitting over there by herself?”

  He looks at her for too long, and the pretty girl in his lap notices. He shrugs. “I don’t know why she wouldn’t come to the picnic. I tried…” he says. “But she’s okay.”

  I turn my gaze toward this Zina. So she is a senior. Strange. I frown. So she’s not hungry? No way. I gather a plate of leftovers and tell my staff we’ll start to clean up when I return. I cover the plate with a couple of napkins and head toward the stairwell. Man, oh man, I am nervous as hell.

  CHAPTER 5

  ZINA

  I almost got it out, and if the second-period dismissal bell hadn’t rung when it did, I might’ve. I didn’t want Shannon to think I was being weird and antisocial about the senior-class-events stuff, but this pride shit wouldn’t let me tell him. I lower my head and drag my knees into my chest, squeezing them against my round breasts, grieving for the fun and the experience I’m missing out on. Today is beautiful, and I can’t even see it.

 

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