I get bused out of the hood every day to a part of Houston that 89 percent of my neighbor teens have only heard about. I go to school with rich kids and white people. And sometimes that feels like a burden for someone like me. My people over here want the same things those kids want—they want good things, and they want quality. They want to know that if they choose to have things, there’s a way to make it happen. I think I brought them a choice today, in a way they could understand. And they’re happy about that shit. We’re all super excited right now.
And then Phillip’s punk ass rolls up to Ms. Kim’s in his rusty, old, powder-puff-blue Oldsmobile. I shake my head when I see him coming. It’s 4:38 p.m., and I thought he got off at 6:00 p.m. I knew he didn’t have a job. You busted, nigga.
I remember that day when I wanted him gone as soon as I saw him bringing his old shit into our house in those black trash bags, but there was a reason for him moving in with us—more than one, actually. The house we rented was owned by his second cousin, or uncle, or somebody like that. Mama told me he helped her get the house, and he helped her with the deposit and first month’s rent. And if that wasn’t enough…my mama was lonely. I sat in silence, swallowing my disapproval. I understood, and I couldn’t argue with that.
I’m not sure if he sees me when he gets out of his car, but as he walks into the store, he glances at me. I’m sure of it. We are not on speaking terms, because I don’t talk to him. He is a blemish on our household. He walks out of Kim’s with a carton of Newport and a six-pack of generic beer and nods at me.
“How was work today, Phillip?” I call to him as he steps from the store into the gravel in Ms. Kim’s raggedy parking lot. He nods, smiling the way he does when he knows I’m coming for him.
“It was good,” he says. “How was school?”
I shrug. And that’s it. He chuckles as he gets into his car and pulls off. I cross my arms and frown, because even though Phillip didn’t say anything to me, I know he asked the guy behind the counter how long I’d been at the store. His smile was too big and genuine. I’ll be boosting that carton of cigarettes when I get home.
It’s about five twenty, and I’m ready to pack it up and go home. The sun is starting to dip a bit, and most of the other kids have traveled back to the streets. I’m still at Ms. Kim’s, trying to unload some gospel CDs to the adults who are stopping for gas, sodas, beer, or whatever on their way home from work. I’m about to pack it in, when the argument begins. I’m not fazed by the fussing, but it sounds pretty heated. Some of the grown-ups have heard it too. I make eye contact with a few of ’em. We’re all wearing that same what-the-hell look on our faces.
Most of the noise is coming from a man behind the wheel of a Mercedes that had stopped at the edge of the parking lot. Turns out the car is stolen, but that’s a whole other story in itself. Anyhow, the man is hanging out the car window, spewing all kinds of bullshit. When he throws the car into park and opens the door, folks start to leave.
I pick up my bag and go into Kim’s. I’m scared to walk home with the fight going on outside, but finding the store empty scares me more. I walk to the front of the store and stand before the clerk, a five-foot-eleven, twenty-something, Vietnamese dude with brown highlights and blue contacts.
“Niggas be trippin’,” I say.
“I’m ’a lock that door,” he replies.
I’m too tripped out to laugh and can’t seem to find my voice, so I just nod. Locking the door sounds like a good idea, but it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like I don’t want to be locked inside this store. When my phone rings, I’m so off my game, I answer without checking the caller ID.
“Hello?” I say.
“I know you not at home, ’cause I already beat you to the house!” my mama yells.
I pull the phone away from my ear. “I’m at Kim’s.”
“Bring me a Dr. Pepper,” she says. “And hurry up!”
As she hangs up, I make a mad dash toward the cooler. “Don’t lock it!” I point to the door. The clerk doesn’t hear me, though; he digs around in his pocket for the door key. Then my phone rings again. This time, I look to see who it is before I answer it.
“You skipped out,” Blanca says before I can even say hello. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I looked for you all day at school.”
“Man! Don’t give me shit about it, Bee. I had a good reason,” I say as I struggle to pull the cooler door open, my cell phone wedged between my chin and my shoulder. I snag a Dr. Pepper from the cooler, Bee bitching in my ear the whole time, and hurry to the front counter.
“I wanna buy this. Then I’m outta here,” I tell the clerk.
But he insists I stay put till things settle down outside, where a crowd has gathered to witness whatever’s about to go down.
“Who you talking to?” Blanca asks.
“I’m at Ms. Kim’s,” I reply. “Who told you I skipped?”
“Shannon told me.”
“What? Do I have a stalker?”
“Girl, he’d have no time to stalk you with that bitch up his ass. I saw them when I left school.”
“Beatrice?”
“You know it.”
The men outside grow more and more nuts. The louder they get, the more I want to leave the store and the more the clerk is against it.
“There’s some dudes arguing outside,” I tell Blanca.
“Arguing about what?”
“I don’t know, but it looks real bad, and sounds even worse.”
I peer out the window, and my heart drops so far I feel it in my pelvis. Two of the men aren’t men at all. Corey and Bryan stand at the edge of the parking lot, face to face with the murderous Mr. Mercedes. None of them show any signs of relenting.
“It’s Bryan and Corey…”
“Who?”
“Bryan and Corey. They’re my brothers’ friends.” I turn to the store clerk. “Let me out!”
There’s a scuffling on the other end as Bee is saying something to someone as she hands her phone over.
“Leave the store,” Uncle Tony says after taking Blanca’s phone. “You only live ten minutes away—less, if you cut through some of those houses.”
“I know,” I reply as I yank on the store’s door. The clerk locked it, and I could’ve been home by now. “Open this door!”
“I’m on my way,” Tony says. “Stay on the line.”
“My uncle’s on the way! He’s gonna break your damn face if I’m still locked in this store when he gets here.”
The clerk looks at me, his face stone serious, as he heads toward the door. “Go ahead and go,” he says, unlocking the door.
“He’s letting me out,” I tell Tony. I push the door open slowly and take a peek outside.
“Okay,” Tony says. I hear his car start. “You run straight home. I’m on my way to check on you.”
“I’m hanging up so I can run.”
“No, you don’t, Zina. Stay on the phone with me until you get home.”
Corey, Bryan, and the man are still arguing, but it has quieted down a bit. Their hushed tones are eerie and don’t really settle well in the air. Pop! The shot is loud, undeniable, and poisonous. And then another pop and then five or six more follow, no spaces in between. On instinct, I duck down as gunshots blast in the night. Cory’s body jerks from the impact and falls sideways. As Bryan makes a run for it, Mr. Mercedes turns his gun on him. I hear three consecutive shots and glance around to see Bryan jerking from impact as he runs, but I don’t wait around to see more.
“Holy fuck!” I take off running at top speed. I grip my mama’s Dr. Pepper around the nozzle in one hand; I refuse to drop it or leave it behind and clutch my phone tight in the other. I sprint behind the store and down the back street, ducking between houses and cutting through flower beds, tearing through bushes and ditches. All I hear is my ragged breathing and Tony’s voice
, so far away, screaming my name.
CHAPTER 12
ZACARIAS
My mother grins as Whitney forces her way inside.
“Please, Whitney,” I say. “I want to be alone with you.”
But she glances, flipping her hair from her face, and steps around me.
“Who’s rotten?” she asks, walking into the living room and settling at the far end of the sofa as if she’d been invited.
“So, Whitney, you’re still dating my son?” my mother asks, as if she’s surprised Whitney has lasted this long. Her face, however, is devoid of emotion.
John holds his position on the sofa, watching our mother from the corner of his eye. His expression, too, is stony and detached. She is not John’s biological mother, but as the years have passed, our mother has given all three of her sons distinctive parts of herself. Blood means nothing here; loyalty is everything.
Whitney doesn’t even blink. “Yes, Madeline, I’m still here.” She smiles as she crosses her legs and settles herself comfortably against the couch cushions.
I take my place between her and John.
“Zack?” she says, her voice higher than usual.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Could you bring me a drink?” She smiles sweetly at me as she leans close and wraps her arms around my neck.
I look at her, wondering why she would let me sit down and then send me for her drink. Her smile fades a bit as we stare at each other a moment too long. I hear John clear his throat, and Whitney looks around me.
“I missed you, John,” she said. “You and Madeline.”
“Really,” John grumbles. “Why is that, Whitney?”
“You’re Zacarias’s family. I should be around more.”
Whitney’s arms are still coiled around my neck. With every word she speaks, her grip tightens.
“You okay?” I whisper to her.
“I’m fine,” she replies without looking at me. “I’m not intimidated by your brother.”
“John’s not trying to intimidate you,” I reply.
“Zacarias!” My mother rolls her eyes. “Go ahead and get Whitney’s tea. She did ask, didn’t she?”
“I’m not thirsty anymore,” Whitney says.
“Get her some tea,” my mother says as she takes a sip of her own.
I free myself from Whitney’s arms and do as I’m told.
“So, Zack was ignoring your calls,” Mother says. She looks at Whitney curiously and waits for a response. My girlfriend’s eyes narrow, her breath caught in her chest as she glances toward the kitchen at me.
“Was he?” she says. “I thought he was distracted by something…or just busy.”
My mother nods.
“So you just thought you should barge in.” She is not going to let this go. “Actually, he was busy. We were talking.”
I know this is about to get ugly, so I add a long pour of honey and some lemon to Whitney’s tea and stir like a madman.
“I don’t get to see my boys too much since they moved out,” she says.
It’s happening.
John, who’s restless with the whole situation, lifts his head and looks warily at our mother. He recognizes the impatience in her voice and raises an eyebrow. He apparently doesn’t think enough of me or Whitney to hide the satisfaction on his face. My mother would not be playing nice for much longer.
John once had a girlfriend of his own, but he hasn’t dated for more than a year. He likes the same type of girls our mother likes—the kind who do what they’re told and don’t want much more from their partners than a little attention and affection from time to time. John only has room in his life for one demanding woman, and our mother, Madeline Ciccone Moreno, already holds that spot. And she will never retire it.
From time to time, John could appreciate our mother’s spastic impatience and overbearing zeal, especially when he believed the person on the receiving end deserved it. John does not like Whitney, so he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.
“You know my car, don’t you?” my mother asks.
“Yes, I saw your car outside when I came up,” Whitney says.
“And you still chose to interrupt us.” My mother shakes her head at what she considers insolence.
Whitney bites her lip and sighs, her own patience running thin. I arrive with her cup and hand it to her, but she refuses to take it, staring up at me as if I had betrayed her.
“I agree with what my mother said.” John can’t help but keep the fire burning. “You saw her car downstairs. I mean, it’s obvious she was here visiting us.”
I set Whitney’s cup on the coffee table in front of us. “Wait a minute!” I say. “She came here to see me. She didn’t know you’d be here visiting.”
“But she did know, Zack,” John says, mocking the conversation. “She just said she knew mom…”
“Shut up, John,” Whitney says. “In fact, I’m not going to take any more of this from either of you.”
She pulls on my arm, biding for my attention, but I’m too busy glaring at my mother and John. The battle lines have been drawn, and everyone is waiting to see whose side I’m on.
“But we’re family, and this is how we are with each other,” John says, only half kidding.
“If you want to be part of the family, this is what it will be like.” John gets up and leans over to gather the empty teacups from the table. “All of a sudden you’re sensitive?” he says to my girlfriend. “Bullshit! You’re as worthless as they come.”
Whitney’s gasp is barely audible, but I know she’s stunned. She’s not accustomed to being on the receiving end of a fight. She only endures my family—or at least she did up to this moment—because our relationship is very close to shit city. She snaps at John before I can open my mouth.
She laughs at first, and it’s so unsettling. She removes her hands from my arm and scoots over, creating space between us.
“Worthless,” she repeats, her tone impatient and bitter. “You need to learn how to talk to women.”
“I don’t have a problem with women,” John says. “I treat all women the same—with respect, even when they don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t deserve it? Who are you to make that decision?” Whitney says, her voice tinged with venom. “Please, you’re a heathen. But you know, it’s not your fault. No one ever taught you to watch your damn mouth.”
My mother sits in silence, satisfied with just being a spectator…at least for now. John has worked himself into such a frenzy that he’s standing over Whitney like a snake ready to strike. Finally, I’ve had enough.
“Whitney, shut up!” I say, desperate to end the turmoil that has invaded my house. I turn to John and give him a hard push; he stumbles back from the impact. I am taller than John, and my arms are longer, but I have no intention of fighting him over this. Once he regains his footing, he steps closer to Whitney, who is now on her feet and attempting to push her way past me.
“Look what a psycho she is!” John yells. “She’s trying to push by you as if she could fight me!”
Then my mother is standing in front of John. I didn’t even see her get up.
“Do you actually think you could fight a man?” she asks Whitney.
“No, Mom,” I say. “She doesn’t want—”
“I’m talking to her!” My mother snaps her head around and glowers at me. “Don’t speak for her, Zacarias!” She turns back to Whitney. “Answer me! Do you think you can fight a man?”
“I’m not going to let anyone disrespect me,” Whitney says.
“And what about me?” my mother asks. “If I disrespect you, what will you do? I don’t like you either, Whitney. I don’t want you around my sons. You don’t have the right to barge into their house, interrupting my time with them.”
My mother’s voice grows louder and more agitated with every word
. She shifts her weight until she stands directly in front of Whitney. “When we ignore our calls, you stupid little girl, that usually means we don’t want to see you.”
“Zack wants to see me, and he doesn’t appreciate you or John getting in our business,” Whitney says. She waves her hand through the air, and when she does, my mother snatches her by the hand and then shoves her. Whitney stumbles backward, but I catch her before she falls. My mother walks toward Whitney and reaches around me to grab her.
“Ma! Stop!” I put my hand out to hold her back. “What the hell?”
John and I are shocked at our mother’s aggression. He steps up and holds her around the waist, pulling her away slowly.
I tell Whitney to go to my bedroom. She hesitates but not for long. Then I ask my mother to leave. I’m done with this.
“I’m sorry, Zack, but I don’t trust her. I thought she was swinging at me,” my mother says.
“She wouldn’t do that, c’mon! You did that for John.”
I am disgusted. Fuck. When I woke up this morning, I prayed to God that today would be better. I didn’t want to see my mother or my girlfriend until I was ready to speak to them. They both intruded, and now I’m forced to choose between them.
“Don’t be mad at me, man,” John says.
“You know what? Shut the hell up, John. You started this. Mother, I need you to get out,” I say, pointing toward the door. “Now! And don’t be here when I come out.”
I sit on the edge of my bed, cradling Whitney on my lap. She isn’t as upset as I thought she’d be. We don’t really talk about the fight much at all after we escape to my bedroom. Whitney apologizes for barging in on my family, and I tell her it’s okay. When she apologizes for accusing me of cheating on her with high-school girls, I remain silent. Part of me wishes she hadn’t brought it up.
“Don’t be jealous of teenagers,” I say. “I don’t want them.”
She sits on my lap, her hands resting on top of my head. When she leans over to kiss me, I feel the warmth in my chest.
Of Hustle and Heart Page 6