Page 19

Trigger warning: This episode contains deeply emotional content.

My day with Bayleigh had me walking around like I owned the fucking town. That girl was mad dope. I found that I could literally talk to her about anything, and she wasn’t on no judgmental shit. She was genuinely interested in getting to know me and cared about my thoughts and feelings.

I didn’t tell her about the dope game because I wasn’t trying to run her away like that. Not before I got the chance to know her. Somehow, I didn’t think she’d diss me even if I did tell her, but I just wasn’t ready.

I didn’t plan on doing this for life anyway. I had to figure out how to keep shit rolling when I left for college because I was going to college. I wasn’t an A and B student like Bayleigh, but I had decent grades. She had all As and one B, and I had Bs, one C, and one A.

I needed to pay my way, but my mama still needed my help financially too. So, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t just walk away from the game like that.

Cheyenne runs into my room while I’m deep in a conversation with Bayleigh and shouts. “The twins are fighting again!”

I can hear their little asses going at it up front just before something crashes to the floor. I hear a screech from Savannah and then more tussling.

I roll my eyes. “Bayleigh, let me holler at you later. My brothers are on some stupid shit. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, make sure you do,” she replies with her fine ass.

When I head into the living room, I see the twins fighting, and Savannah is trying to break them up by herself. Where the fuck is Mama, I wonder.

Savannah is pulling at Denver, but that strong li’l nigga ain’t letting Aspen go. He has li’l dude in a headlock and is punching him in the ribs with his free hand. Aspen is trying to kick his twin in his babymakers, but he isn’t having any success.

“Help me!” Savannah shouts, pressing her lips together again as she struggles to pull Denver off Aspen with no success.

“Hey!” I shout.

When that doesn’t help, I walk to them and grab them by their shoulders, since they’re not wearing shirts, and jerk them apart.

“Ow,” Denver cries out, rubbing his shoulder.

Aspen has a similar reaction but without words.

“The hell is wrong with y’all? Look at you. You don’ broke Mama’s favorite picture frame.” I point my hand at the broken frame that is now shattered over a picture of our grandmother lying on the floor.

They both start shouting something at the same time, but I can’t understand them.

“Shut up!” I bark.

They do as I say. My twin brothers have always listened to me, but since our dad has been locked up, they do so even more now. I’ve become the father figure to all my siblings. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but something that became necessary.

They found themselves naturally avoiding Mama and coming to me with all their troubles because she either spaced out a lot or started crying.

When our dad first got locked up, they went to Mama with every little thing, and eventually, she became overwhelmed and couldn’t handle all the troubles coming our way.

She would hide in her room for hours at a time, forgetting to cook, not being bothered with homework, and trivial issues like missing socks or wrinkled clothes that needed an iron.

Those things became Savannah’s and my responsibilities after about four months. She instantly became a little mama at eight, helping me with the laundry and cooking. She soon started doing laundry on her own and ironing. We now take turns cooking.

I was in the streets, hustling to help pay bills. Mama would come in from work, tired after working a twelve-hour shift, and fall asleep. We wouldn’t see her again until she left the next morning, and we never had a chance to spend time with her until the weekends.

“What happened?” I ask my brothers. “You first, Aspen.”

“Why does he get to go first?” Denver pouts.

“Because I’m the oldest, big head.”

“That’s not fair,” Denver pouts.

“That’s not why. Aspen goes first because you went first last time, Denver.”

He sighs and folds his arms over his puny little chest.

“I was winning the game, and Denver got mad and snatched the controller from my hand.”

“Did not!” Denver shouts.

“Did too!” Aspen shouts back.

Denver is known to be a sore loser, so I’m inclined to believe Aspen.

“That happened,” Cheyenne agrees, bobbing her head as she looks up from where she’s now coloring in a coloring book on the floor.

“Shut up,” Denver tells her.

“Aye, man. Chill. That’s your little sister. You don’t talk to her like that. Remember what I taught you. We protect the ladies,” I tell him.

Denver nods and apologizes. “Sorry, Shy.”

“It’s okay,” she replies happily, returning her focus to coloring.

“A’ight. Time out for the game anyway. Aspen, take your bath. Denver, get on your homework. And then the reverse. Savvy, you good with dinner?” I ask Savannah.

“Yeah. We’re having Hamburger Helper cheeseburger macaroni tonight. I’m almost finished,” she explains.

“Cool,” I state.

I’d offered to make dinner tonight, but she has a growing love of cooking and wanted to do it on her own.

I’m sure that it won’t taste like a normal Hamburger Helper.

She’s quickly becoming a beast in the kitchen with those seasonings and using vegetables like peppers, onions, zucchini, and tomatoes in her daily cooking.

“I’m gonna check on Mama,” I tell her.

“Okay.” She turns and heads back to the kitchen.

Satisfied that everyone has something productive to do, I walk to my mom’s room. I hate to disturb her if she’s sleeping, but I need to check on her. She didn’t eat dinner last night, and I know that she didn’t eat anything at work because she never does.

I knock on her door and get no response. I knock again and wait for a minute or two before I knock a little harder.

“Mama,” I call out, knocking harder this time.

She’s a light sleeper, so it surprises me that she’s not answering.

I turn the doorknob slowly and say, “Mama,” without looking inside. I don’t want to catch her undressed or anything, but when I still get no answer, I stick my head inside.

She’s not in bed.

I head to her bathroom door and spot a sliver of light coming from underneath. I knock on the bathroom door, and I hear a faint mumbling. It sounds like she’s talking to someone, but her phone is still on the nightstand.

Frowning, I knock harder. “Mama, you okay?”

“Isaiah?” she calls back.

Frowning, I push the door open and ask, “Are you dressed?”

“Yeah. I’m dressed. Ready for you.”

I look inside and see my mama sitting at her little vanity counter, which my daddy bought her two years ago. She turns to me and asks, “Do I look pretty?”

She has a sad smile on her face, and her red lipstick is colored outside of the lines of her lips. She holds an eyeliner in her hand, and I can tell that she tried to apply it, but the lines don’t stop along her eyes; she’s traced the line down to the top of her cheeks.

My mother, who is an expert at applying makeup, looks like a sad clown. She looks as if she gave four-year-old Cheyenne her makeup and told her to apply it.

“Mama,” I say, walking toward her.

“You ready for our date, Isaiah? I’ve been waiting all week for this. Jessi even let me borrow her purple dress. How do I look?” she asks, standing and spinning around in her purple bathrobe.

It baffles me that she thinks I’m my daddy.

“Jessi?”

“Yeah, you know my sister Jessica.”

Aunt Jessi was killed in a drive-by shooting in New York six years ago. Fear begins to claw at my insides as I wonder what the hell is going on with my mama.

“Mama, it’s me, Zaire. Daddy is locked up, and Aunt Jessi…” I pause, not sure how to say the words, but I finally do. “She’s dead, Mama. She’s been gone for six years now.”

Mama laughs and waves her hand at me. “Boy, stop. You play too much. Are you still taking me to the Golden Palace or not?” she demands.

“Mama, they closed that restaurant over ten years ago. Come on. I think you’ve been working too hard and just need a little rest,” I say, reaching for her hand.

My mama swats at me. “Isaiah, get off me. What’s wrong with you?”

“Mama, it’s okay, it’s just me, Zaire.”

Frowning, she shrieks, “I don’t know no Zaire!”

My heart slams against my chest as fear and pain rival within me for the top position in my chest.

“I’m your son, Mama,” I explain, but I can’t hide the hurt in my voice.

She starts screaming. “Don’t hurt me. Please take my purse. You can have everything. Just leave!”

Her screams bring my siblings running, including Aspen, who’s wrapped in a bath towel. She starts screaming at them, asking who they are, causing Damascus to cry. Savannah picks him up, and I take him from her.

“Savvy, y’all go back to the living room.”

“What’s wrong with her?” she asks me with those wide, big, brown, teary eyes.

“Mama’s just not feeling well. You, Shy, and the boys go on,” I instruct, unsure how to handle this latest crisis we’re dealing with.

But Mama takes it out of my hands.

“Hello, operator? Some man just broke into my house, and he won’t leave. He’s got some other folks with him. Help me!” she screams.