They danced around the topic for an eternity before Owl finally came out with it. “What made you go for a nigga like that?”

At first, Patience pretended that she hadn’t heard him. It wasn’t any of his business. 

She let the silence stretch out between them, turning her face away from him as she unwillingly grappled for the answer anyway.

He’d approached her their freshman year for a date. She had heard of him, but he had fallen well off of her radar in the stretch of hormonal growth that occurred after the fifth grade. His chubbiness had subsided, giving way to rapidly developing muscle and a natural, athletic grace that allowed him easy entry to the school’s football team. From what she’d heard he was quite good, but coupled with the fact that she had no interest in sports and that he seemed too steeped in what Asia referred to as the assimilation, she had no reason to speak to him. That day, he’d been wearing a pastel blue button up, khaki shorts, and sperrys; Patience had almost snorted in his face. She remembered thinking all that he needed was a blond wig and then he could have a serious chance at being the black Ken doll. 

“Patience, right?” He’d asked pleasantly, smiling.

She was unimpressed. They’d had at least one class together since the fifth grade; he ought to have known her name. Still she nodded and offered up her own, albeit less sincere.

“Yeah. And you’re Darius.”

His smile widened. “That’s me. What do you have there?”

She subconsciously tucked the books under her further under to obscure the titles. The last time she’d been caught with a poetry book, Qway had snatched it from her and made a full circuit around the Cafeteria with the book held high above his head as she grabbed at him.

“Just some books for an essay.”

“What’s it about? Maybe we have something similar – Mr. Liu just assigned us another one.”

Patience stared at him. They had already lingered by the library checkout long enough for the student assistant to move away from the desk. He was wasting time. When she didn’t answer, he again smiled. Patience recalled a conversation she’d had with LaToya earlier that year. They’d sat at one of the round tables during lunch and discussed which boys had developed a sense of style and which ones were finally filling out into the word ‘handsome’. 

He had been near the top of her list. He just got a sexy ass smile. Them lips? Girl. Imagine what they can do. Patience’s eyes lowered to his mouth. Rosewood pink lips framed a gap toothed grin, one that she found no more attractive than the next. If anything, she disliked it. It was almost too perfect, and she imagined that it wouldn’t have been entirely out of place for him to be one of those babies that just popped out of the womb smiling, dimples and all. 

“Well, anyway. Homecoming is in a few weeks. You goin’?”

Patience cursed and made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat at the memory, batting it away. Owl gave her a sideways look.

“I don’t know,” She blurted, exasperated. “I really don’t know. It was just what everybody expected. He was cute, funny – I guess. His pants didn’t sag. He didn’t cuss that much. He seemed like he wasn’t tryna be a rapper or a drug dealer for the rest of his life. We was both tryna go places. My mama always told me to date somebody nice, and he was. At first, at least.” Her voice softened. Shanice had only ever given Patience one piece of advice when it came to dating, offhandedly after a particularly brutish fight with her father that had shaken the foundation of the house.

“If you do one thing for me Patience, make sure you date somebody nice,” Shanice had spoken through a lungful of nicotine, the picture of a wronged woman. Over the years, Patience lost count of how many times she’d heard that statement. Regardless of the time that passed, it never made any more sense to her than the first instant in which she’d heard it; this about the man who spent his Saturday mornings tearing apart pieces of stale white bread for his daughter to toss to the birds. That was before a second child stole his only day off and he was began to work seven days out of the week to support them. Nice clearly hadn’t done anything for either of them; their marriage remained as gaudy and breakable as pure gold.

Owl leaned back so that his back rested on the lip of each stair. “So he wasn’t me?” His hat, a brand new green snapback with a purple bill, tipped off of his head. 

“It ain’t that simple. I mean, kind of. Owl, my mama hated you and she ain’t never even meet you. Imagine if I ever brought you home.”

Chagrin bit into her. Oblivious, he seemed to melt into the steps, his eyes shutting as he soaked in the sunlight. The day was perfect, as they always were – not too hot, not too cold, not too windy, but with the occasional breeze that wickered away any possibility of sweat. Her teeth sank into the gummy part of her cheek. If she’d been alive, she was sure that she would’ve tasted blood.

“I was nice to you.” Was all that he said.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Patience felt her face contort, turning it away from him and towards the window as she slammed the car door shut. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me. Drive the goddamn car.” 

He took the key out of the ignition. All she could hear was her pulse, rising steadily in her ears as they sat in the now quiet car. Her teeth descended onto her lip, pulling at chips of dead skin. 

“Not until you tell me why the fuck you look like that. I ain’t gotta do a damn thing.”

“Goddamn, why we gotta do this every time? Why you can’t just leave me the fuck alone?” 

“The fuck you mean? You got in my car.”

Angry tears pressed at the back of her eyes. She needed to get as far away from her house as possible, and calling Owl had been the only way to do so; even as she settled into the front seat, her cheek still stung from her mother’s palm. She was mad enough that she was beginning to lose bits and pieces from the fight that she’d had with her mother, not yet mad enough that her own emotions could choke her into submission to answer her boyfriend’s questions before she blocked it out completely. 

“Patience. I asked you a question.”

“You ain’t my daddy,” She snapped. “I ain’t got to answer you.” Had her father been home to act as a buffer between her and her mother, she might have not even had the inclination to call Owl. 

“Patience.” His hand landed on her thigh, squeezing firmly. When she pushed it away, he pounded the flat of his hand onto the center council. “Either we gon’ talk about it or you can go back inside because you ain’t ‘bout to roll up in my house with that stank ass attitude.”

She exploded. “She called me a ho’, aight? That’s it. We fought and that’s it. I just can’t be in her house right now.” 

She’d crossed a line. Now her mother had confirmation of what she was all along. That she did have a man that she ran to, that the marks on her neck weren’t just from curling irons or sleeping on it wrong. Patience imagined her watching through the front window. 

Yo’ daddy don’t know that you a damn ho’ but I do. You think I don’t hear when you come up in my house at the crack of dawn little girl? You must think you real slick. What would yo’ granny think? You act like we ain’t never take you to church. 

She didn’t need to hear from her mother what she’d been calling herself for years, what she’d heard from That Bum too many times over. Shanice had known before she’d even become fully aware of Owl; her mother had sensed it, had smelled the filthy rot on her daughter. Her fingers clenched around the edges of her seat, digging into the spongy material. Owl said nothing. After a while, he shook his head, jamming the key into the ignition. She sank back into the seat, pressing her face against the hot metal of the seat belt tongue. It burned, grounding in her body. She remained that way even when the car pulled into a gas station, comatose with open eyes. 

Owl returned a short while later with two bags of hot cheetos and a snickers ice cream bar. He offered the latter to her. When she didn’t take it, didn’t move, he exhaled loudly and placed it into her lap.

“Look, yo’ mama don’t know what she talkin’ about.”

She shook her head. She didn’t have enough in her to act like his attempt at consolation was enough. But he’d already helped her, hadn’t he?

Life, he’d explained, didn’t need to be fair. Complaining wouldn’t do nothing for nobody, because who would listen? You just had to do something about it. Patience had understood with a calcified clarity. Everyday, she hacked away at an endless block of schooling so that one day she could have the opportunity to do something she loved. She couldn’t be a statistic – one of those girls who’d gotten pregnant young and dropped out. Someone too weak to handle how cruel the world could be, who applied the term victim like a slippery, numbing salve to any and all wounds that was forgiving enough that it allowed for any and all responsibility to fall away. The possible denomination was enough to pry her eyelids open most mornings even when she was sure that curling into a ball and shriveling away would have been the much easier alternative.

So what if she’d been fucked – she carefully skirted around the r word – when she was younger. So what if she needed to work to eat, whereas her classmates didn’t even have to work to get their first car. So what if her mother believed she was going to hell. So what?

She didn’t move.

He grunted. “Fine, shit. Stay mad. You lucky I love yo’ stupid ass or I would take you right back home with all this bullshit. Damn.” He started the car. 

She believed him. Home meant more arguing. Home meant pretending to be okay. Now that he knew the issue, Owl would force her to do neither of those things. For that, she was sure that she loved him, even if only for that.

When she returned, Shanice was waiting for her.  There were no apologies, and Patience knew better than to expect one. 

Patience sat quietly at the kitchen table, shifting the weight of it by leaning from side to side so that the uneven legs tapped the floor. Outside, flickering street lamps illuminated the sidewalk, the stars obscured by a blanket of grey clouds that even the moon could not penetrate. It had been windy, and the remaining sweat on her skin from sex had dried into her pores, sinking deep into her bones.

She’d heard Whitney Houston before she’d even set a foot through the front door. Sitting right next to the portable radio that she’d gotten for her mother last Mother’s Day, Patience tried to let the grit of their earlier words roll off of her, humming along to Where Do Broken Hearts Go. She was too tired to fight. 

Across from her, her mother tore into a package of thawed chicken wings and dumped them into a mixing bowl. Seasoning salt, garlic and onion powder followed closely behind, then liquid smoke, thyme, and a little bit of honey. She pushed the bowl across the table to Patience, who instinctively added a bit of black pepper before reaching in to massage the rubbery meat. Her mother already had another bowl filled with sweet potatoes set aside. She opened several lids; cinnamon, all spice, brown sugar, butter, and because her mother must have been feeling particularly generous, maple syrup. All tipped into the bowl, giving off a sugary aroma that left Patience’s mouth salivating. She didn’t like it too sweet. The freshly cut lemon wept as she squeezed it into the bowl.

Her mother began to prepare the smoked pork cut neckbones and string beans as Patience set the wings aside on a tin foil tray. Over and over the oven door squeaked open, the pots on top of the stove boiling over more than once as they became preoccupied with working around each other rather than together. They made corn bread, baked macaroni and cheese, and slightly burnt fried catfish before they were done that evening.

Her throat tight, she pushed her food around her plate as she listened to her mother speak about nothing in particular. There was no acknowledgement of their earlier conversation. Patience swallowed her hurt, forcing herself to be content with the fact that her mother was sitting there, talking to her at all.

Next Chapter: 17