Of Hustle and Heart

by Briseis S. Lily

  I should’ve seen it coming, but I’ve been blind for a while now. My eyes narrow. “Don’t play with me about my kid.”

  “What about the baby?” I step closer. “I will sue you for full custody,” she says.

  “Bullshit! You’re not getting full custody.”

  “Don’t screw with me,” she says as she steps into my face. “You won’t win.”

  “Whitney, I don’t want to screw with you.” I shrug. “I don’t want to win. I just wanna break up. Isn’t that obvious? I fucked someone else after our engagement party, the most beautiful girl ever. How could it be any clearer?” She stares at me, anger and tears rippling through her eyes. “I’ve been missing her like crazy ever since.”

  CHAPTER 35

  ZINA

  The flashbacks come as dreams, and they start the same night it happened. I wake up sweating, clutching my stomach because I feel him inside me. That is the worst part. That I can still feel him. God.

  It takes a while for me to fall asleep. Night after night, I lay in bed clutching my phone, watching the minutes and hours tick by. I’m unable to think about anything but Zack and how he could leave me so confused and terrified all in one aching thrust. As a brand-new hobby, I cry every night after the third or fourth flashback grips me. The images are too much for me to see. They repeat nightly and don’t stop until I get out of bed for school. Every morning, I roll over to the edge of my full-size bed and lie there until I hear one of the twins go into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I fear a lot of things now. Speaking my mind is one of them. The fear is the part that eats me alive, the thing that twists my guts into chewy licorice. This is how Zack stays with me, pulling me apart and eating whatever bits he likes. I’m trapped, walled off from everyone who cares for me, because I don’t understand what happened to me and why. It’s been four days since I met Zack in the stables. And every night since, I’ve dreamed about him. The dreams are hard to gauge, making it harder to understand how I should be feeling. Some nights he appears the good guy he was in the beginning: doting on me, the way a grown man in love would; and other nights, he’s only a brute on top of me, doing things to my body that I refuse to willingly allow. He leaves bruises, pains in my stomach and between my legs. In the dreams he’s rough, snatching my clothes away along with any comfort or admiration I once had for him.

  And then there’s Shannon, who has been asking every day for me to go to prom with him, causing tension between Beatrice and her shitty-ass fugazi clique to build between Bee, Rocky, and me.

  For the last three days, I haven’t been able to shake him at school. He’s all over me, and I can’t even bare standing too close to him. When he brushes up against me in the hallway on purpose, my body tenses. I almost take off running in the opposite direction.

  The flashbacks are anguish, and violate me as well, coming whenever they want. They cause my hands to tremble so much in class that I have to drop my pen or pencil on my desk until it passes. Shannon’s noticed me dropping stuff in class too many times for it to be an accident. When he asks about it, I tell him I’m stressed about finals and graduating.

  “Oh, okay,” he says.

  I look at him. I fidget too much, stammering my answers and cringing because he tries to look into my eyes. I’m absolutely unable to allow him to see me, so I look down at his shoes and notice how long his feet look in comparison to mine. He touches me for the first time in weeks, since the night of his final playoff game when we kissed for the first time.

  “So you decided yet?” He reaches down and grabs my forearm. I stop myself from snatching away. I breathe deeply, our skin-to-skin contact forces a well of unwanted sentiment, and my arms are shaking. I can hardly speak; I know he’s talking about prom. I hadn’t given him an answer for the entire week. When I told Blanca at her locker last week that I wasn’t going, she flipped out. I don’t want to say no to Shannon and have her flip on me again. I usually ignore her, talk my shit, and do what I want to do regardless of what anyone says. Now I fold like a note. I don’t want to fight anyone. He took my fight away.

  “Yeah.” I force a smile. “We can go.” I’m scared as shit to go anywhere with Shannon. Fear was never something I’d felt around him. I shake my head, frowning. I almost cry in front of him. Without a doubt, I’m not well.

  I never thought I’d see the day when the hustling dope would make me feel better or my bloodlust for Corey and Bryan’s murder would fall dead like the two of them did. Straight up, I still hate Mr. Mercedes with venomous passion, but Corey and Bryan don’t have to navigate this shit world anymore. They’re not suffering, and my little brothers are healing. Yeah, it’s taking a while, but from time to time I see them laughing and hanging out with other kids in our neighborhood, so I’ve stopped begging Tony to kill the murdering motherfucker. I won’t tell him about Zack. I’m tired of being a special case. I want to live, so I’m willing to take whatever comes along with that. Even my rape.

  For days I’ve avoided everyone after school. I run straight to my car and drive around Houston, hitting as many licks as I can until the sun starts to dip. Under the most embarrassing scrutiny of Antonio de la Vega, I’ve promised that after I sell the drugs I have left, I’ll hang up my D-girl status. So far, with my licks alone, Blanca and I have accumulated about $1900 in the last four days. It scares me that we’re making so much money. Uncle Tony’s concern and protection is a must.

  Hustling, not letting my PTSD win, and getting through prom and graduation without more of me dying inside have all been hard as fuck. And Zack makes it hard to get through anything. He continues to call and text me. His messages are so sweet, so teary, that it pisses me the fuck off, and I want to scream and cry.

  His first text: It wasn’t just sex. I want to be with you.

  His second: Don’t shut down on me.

  His third: What we did wasn’t bad. It can’t be rape if you love the person.

  I feel my bloodlust returning every time I read his dribble. Eventually, I get so fucked-up angry, I heave my phone into my bedroom mirror, smashing them both. Fuck that date-raping piece of shit!

  The plans are set. We have three weeks to go, including finals week. The entire student body of Albert Chesney High School performs locker cleanout, digging through a nine-month mound of textbooks and tossing notebooks, trash, and lost sweaters from this past winter. On top of that, seniors like me scramble to pay off dues.

  We book hotel rooms and car rentals and dig deep within ourselves to pass every final and turn in every textbook, while blabbering about a prom experience we’ll never forget.

  After the prom, it’s a party at Hotel ZaZa, courtesy of the sneaky Blanca de la Vega.

  “I know you won’t want to stay at prom too long, so we can just have a little party of our own.”

  I look up from the manicurist. “What party? Who’s gonna be there?”

  “Just our friends. No one else. We’ll leave around ten or ten thirty, ten forty-five—something like that. I booked a suite for us.”

  I can’t tell Blanca I don’t want to go, but I’m panicking. “Thanks, friend.” I smile; she beams.

  “Well, I know you don’t really want to go, so I won’t make you stay all night,” she says, waving her hand through the air as if she’s doing me favor. “You sure you don’t want to stay, though?”

  The manicurist instructs me to dip my fingers into a small bowl. “I don’t mind it, now that I’m in already.” I shift my weight in the vibrating massage chair, moving closer to my manicurist’s tray of sterilized tools. I promptly do as she instructs.

  Zina, it’s Tony. I’m just calling to check on you, see where you are. I’m assuming you’re at home getting ready for this party tonight, which is good. Call me back and let me know you’re at home and not in the streets.

  I don’t call him back. I get dressed for my prom with my mom’s help. Alex and Andrew hover
over us, making the most inane and annoying comments and asking too many questions.

  “Why’d you pick that dress?” Andrew asks.

  “What’s that in your hair?” Alex asks.

  “Who paid for your dress?” It’s Alex again, who I could’ve kicked in the shin for shedding unwanted light on the subject of my felonious dealings.

  The design of my dress was artistry, the print reminding me of an abstract finger painting, blending jaded images of forest leaves and a unique garden of muted lavenders, mauves, and pinks against a creamy backdrop. I spent a good two days carrying the fabric swatches around in my planner until I decided which of the three I’d wear.

  The cool, but heavy, printed silk charmeuse cost $130 per yard, plus $416 for dressmaking fees. To afford it, my hustle became fierce. I sold top-shit marijuana to the pothead dope fiends and bootlegs to the old and rusty crowd—those too settled down to party, with teenaged kids of their own.

  My mama doesn’t say much while she helps get me dressed, but I catch her reflection in the mirror as she casts a suspicious eye my way. She runs her hands up and down the skirt of my dress, admiring its beauty, frowning.

  “Did Antonio help you pay for your dress?” Her look tells me my answer better be yes. My face flushes as I nod.

  “Yeah,” I say quickly, nervous as fuck, realizing she still puts fear in my heart.

  “Hold it in,” she says, and I hold my breath while she zips. “Aww, this is what your wedding day will be like.” She grins.

  Please.

  “Ma, calm down. I’m seventeen. And this is just me going to prom.”

  I run my hand along my stomach and waist; the angles of my dress shape them gloriously. A weak smile pulls at my lips before sadness grabs hold of me, strangling any pride I might have left.

  “Seventeen only for a couple more hours,” she says quietly. “My only girl, my first child, I can’t believe how fast you have grown up.” She shakes her head, her wistful gaze moving from my reflection to the twins. “I don’t know where I was when this happened.”

  For real, Shannon is every teenage girl’s wet dream. He looks remarkable in a tux, so gorgeous I have to shake my head and hide my blush as he walks into my house.

  I still don’t want to go…

  When my mama opens the door, she’s happier to see him than I am. She does the overextended welcoming bit—inviting him in, offering him a drink, grinning the whole time, and eyeing me as if I have brought home a pro athlete. She and Phillip sit him down and talk to him about school and college plans, where he lives, and what we’ll be doing after the prom. At one point, Shannon grabs my hand. It seems like an absentminded gesture, which surprises me. It occurs to me that it’s second nature to him. And he doesn’t realize we’re holding hands until I twist my hand out of his. He looks at me, and I clear my throat. My mama is watching. She never misses a thing. I’m sure she notices how I avoid looking at Shannon and how quickly I remove my hand from his. She cuts her eyes at him, her misplaced suspicion casting a shadow. I take control of the situation, quickly turning to Shannon and threading my arm through his. I scoot closer to him so he can feel me next to him. Being pressed so close casts a bit of anxiety that I hide with a smile.

  “We can go now,” I say, tugging at his arm. My mama gets to her feet as I do.

  “Zina.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Watch yourself,” she says and turns to Shannon. “You too.”

  The Florentine Gardens ballroom, the venue for Chesney’s Senior Prom, looks like a glossy ad from Debutante’s Debut magazine. What the décor lacks in subtlety it more than makes up for in sophisticated extravagance. The tables are covered with white silk tablecloths and set with the most expensive-looking dinnerware I’ve ever seen. Opulent chandeliers glow over our heads, and candles have been lit in every corner of the room. I don’t feel like myself as Shannon holds my hand and pulls me along behind him as we enter the ballroom.

  Rocky and Bee and their dates wait for us in front of the entrance. The two of them grin and coo—Rocky more than Bee—when they notice how Shannon squeezes my hand. I smile, stepping around Shannon to Blanca and Rachel. They gush about how cute Shannon and I are together and how I’m lucky to be with him tonight, because Rocky knows of at least seven different girls who had asked him to go.

  “He turned all of them down,” Rocky whispers into my ear, smiling at me. “It’s happening. You and the green-eyed monster.” She giggles and takes my arm, pulling me to our table for six as Bee trails behind us. I turn to look at her, wondering why she’s hanging back.

  She’s eyeing me. I hadn’t realized until then that she notices the difference in me, that I’ve changed. She looks bothered. As if something is burning the lining of her stomach.

  Bee and I sit alone at our table, as Rocky and her date, Bradley, remain on the dance floor most of the evening, and Shannon and Blanca’s date make a “quick” drink run. It’ll be at least twenty minutes before we see either of them again, so she takes the opportunity to dig her acrylics into my wounds.

  “So what’s up with you? You’ve been MIA for days.” She sips her drink.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “So you’re cool? Because you haven’t been calling me. I haven’t talked to you in a week.”

  “I’ve been texting you.”

  She frowns. “Fuck texting. You’ve been texting me about the licks and the money and that’s it.”

  I shrug. “What else is there?”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Blow me off.” Her eyes water, the emotion in her voice bangs against the fragility of my heart. “It’s me. Fuck Rocky. Fuck Shannon. Forget everybody else.” Her lip quivers. “You can’t keep secrets from me.”

  “I’m not keeping secrets. Don’t be mad.” I look at her. She sits back in her chair and crosses her bare arms over her cleavage. Her dress plunges in the front like mine never could.

  “But you are keeping secrets.” She stares at me. “After all this. Why would you keep anything from me?”

  I assure Blanca that Mr. Mercedes has nothing to do with my anything and that Alex and Andrew are dealing well with Bryan and Corey’s murder. She buys this but questions me about everything that could be possibly wrong.

  “How’s your mom? She okay? You’re giving her the money? Does she know how you got it?”

  “Yeah, I give her a whole paycheck’s worth. She doesn’t know how I get it. She thinks I work at Subway.”

  “Is it Beatrice? Her fugazi-ass clique? Tell me if it is. I know her head exploded all over the third floor when she found out you and Shannon were together.”

  I shake my head. “Shannon and I are not together. I’m alone.”

  “No, you’re not. Stop that.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve never been alone, Zina. You’ve always had me, and Uncle Tony, and your family and mine. Is that what’s the matter? You think you’re alone?”

  “No.”

  “Then what, Zina?”

  Her persistence nearly breaks me. “Please, Bee, just leave it alone.” I take a breath. “I can’t talk about it. I don’t want to talk.”

  Blanca’s so mad she could spit. Her cheeks flush as her breasts rise slowly. She says nothing, though. She swallows it and leaves it alone.

  To my absolute dismay, the hotel party turns out to be a birthday celebration for me. Teal and yellow balloons, cupcakes, streamers, glitter, and confetti bedazzle our after-prom suite. It is a small group—the six of us, like Blanca had promised, along with a few jocks, mostly basketball and baseball players the boys had invited. As Shannon unlocks the door with his room key and pulls me along, he stops, shutting the door behind him. I creep as everyone jumps out yelling, “Happy birthday!” I’m horrified as I glance around the room, looking for som
ething familiar. Shannon pushes me from the foyer toward the crowd in front of us, but I twist away from him and dart toward the door.

  “Wait. Don’t run. This is for you,” he says. He comes after me, catching me as I pull on the door latch. He laughs at the panic in my face, my hands trembling, and my heart pounding.

  “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run,” I stammer. “I don’t know why I ran.” I run my hands along the skirt of my dress. He takes my hand from the latch, squeezes it, and shuts the door.

  “All this makes me nervous. I can’t take it.”

  “What makes you nervous?”

  “The noise,” I say. I can’t stop fidgeting. “I don’t want to stay, Shannon. I want to go.” I resist as he tries to lead me into the room with everyone else. He looks at me, his smile subdued.

  “Zina, this party is for you. Blanca and Rachel put a lot of effort into all this. You can’t leave. C’mon.”

  I peek around him into the living area. “Don’t care. I wanna leave.” His face drops, so I feel the need to explain. “I know they did a lot…b…but, I…I…”

  “You what? What’s wrong with you? Why are you so nervous?”

  A confession sits on the tip of my tongue. My throat dry, I wonder if I can talk to him, leave the burden somewhere else so it wouldn’t be so heavy. I consider making something up, telling him I don’t feel well, that I’m nauseous. I’d ask him to tell everyone we need to leave so I can lie down. He puts his hand on my stomach and pushes me into a corner, out of everyone’s view.

  “No.” I hold my hands out, shoving him away. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  He stands over me; his face cold, solemn like I’ve never seen in him. “What is up with you?” he whispers.

  My assault is like a snake bite, poisonous, slowing killing my cells, stealing my life. It’ll be this way until the poison is miraculously syphoned from my body. And so I begin.

  “Umm…w…well, there was this thing that h…happened about, maybe, a week ago.” I tug at my dress as if I can’t stand to wear it anymore. I can’t read the intensity behind Shannon’s radiant eyes. This scares me too.