beat passed before Seneca said, “I’m planning to take a leave from classes.”
“Don’t you mean drop out?” Dahlia countered.
She counted slowly to three. “Yes, Mom, I’m going to drop out.”
“But…but what about your degree?” the older woman stammered.
“I’ll get my degree, because I promised Grandma I would.”
“It shouldn’t be about what your grandmother wanted but what you want, Seneca.”
She didn’t want to get into it with her mother, especially with an audience of onlookers. “I want a degree and I will get my degree—just not at this time. I’ve given modeling full-time a lot of thought, and if I don’t do it now then it’ll never happen.”
Dahlia shook her head. “But—”
“You let her model, and when I asked you if I could you put me down,” Robyn interrupted angrily.
Dahlia shook her finger at her younger daughter. “You’re not going to drop out of school so you can shake your half-naked ass in front of a bunch of freaks.”
“Amen to that,” Jerome mumbled, still smarting because he felt Seneca saw him as a charity case.
Oscar narrowed his gaze at the same time he reached over to cover Dahlia’s fisted hand. “Robyn, please, let’s not talk about this now.”
A rush of color suffused the teenager’s face with her rising temper. “But—I want to talk about it now!”
“Enough, Robyn,” Oscar cautioned softly. “Seneca is a grown woman who can make her own decisions. You forget that your mother and I are responsible for you, not the other way around. And I would like you to watch your tone, young lady.”
Oscar Houston rarely got involved in the verbal altercations between his wife and their children, but lately he’d noticed Robyn behaving oddly; she’d begun exhibiting signs of being extremely short-tempered. A single word would set her off, and Robyn seemed bent on seeing how far she could go before Dahlia lost her temper.
“Daddy, the turkey is delicious.” Seneca had to say something—anything—to lighten the mood. What she wanted to do was kick Robyn under the table.
Oscar winked at her. “Thank you.”
Jerome extended his plate. “I’ll have another helping of turkey and dressing. And don’t forget to ladle on the gravy. I’m eating for Seneca,” he joked. “Ya’ll know models are notorious for not eating.”
“Since when did you become a stand-up comedian?” Seneca drawled. Her voice was filled with sarcasm. “For your information, I do eat.”
Jerome opened his mouth to come back at Seneca, but a warning look from his father quickly ended the interchange. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, apologizing. “I have to admit that you’re the only model I’ve ever seen who doesn’t look anorexic in person.”
She smiled. “I’m probably that rare person who doesn’t photograph heavier.”
Maya touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “Are most photos touched up or airbrushed?”
“I suppose the ones for the glossy magazines do get Photoshopped.”
Seneca spent the rest of dinner fielding questions about modeling. She was offered a reprieve when the sound of the baby’s cries came through the baby monitor. James Scott was awake.
Seneca maneuvered up the empty space in front of her building, shifting into Park. She’d driven from the restaurant in northern Virginia to New York City, stopping once to refuel outside of Philadelphia. She shook her father gently, rousing him from sleep. Oscar, along with the other occupants of the Toyota Sequoia had fallen asleep before they’d left the Capitol District. The sound of snoring was drowned out by the music flowing from the many speakers in the large sport utility vehicle.
“I’m home, Daddy.”
Oscar’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to focus his gaze on the lighted dashboard. “What were you doing? Speeding?” It’d had taken Seneca only a little more than three hours to make the two-hundred-mile drive between New York City and Washington,
“Don’t you mean drop out?” Dahlia countered.
She counted slowly to three. “Yes, Mom, I’m going to drop out.”
“But…but what about your degree?” the older woman stammered.
“I’ll get my degree, because I promised Grandma I would.”
“It shouldn’t be about what your grandmother wanted but what you want, Seneca.”
She didn’t want to get into it with her mother, especially with an audience of onlookers. “I want a degree and I will get my degree—just not at this time. I’ve given modeling full-time a lot of thought, and if I don’t do it now then it’ll never happen.”
Dahlia shook her head. “But—”
“You let her model, and when I asked you if I could you put me down,” Robyn interrupted angrily.
Dahlia shook her finger at her younger daughter. “You’re not going to drop out of school so you can shake your half-naked ass in front of a bunch of freaks.”
“Amen to that,” Jerome mumbled, still smarting because he felt Seneca saw him as a charity case.
Oscar narrowed his gaze at the same time he reached over to cover Dahlia’s fisted hand. “Robyn, please, let’s not talk about this now.”
A rush of color suffused the teenager’s face with her rising temper. “But—I want to talk about it now!”
“Enough, Robyn,” Oscar cautioned softly. “Seneca is a grown woman who can make her own decisions. You forget that your mother and I are responsible for you, not the other way around. And I would like you to watch your tone, young lady.”
Oscar Houston rarely got involved in the verbal altercations between his wife and their children, but lately he’d noticed Robyn behaving oddly; she’d begun exhibiting signs of being extremely short-tempered. A single word would set her off, and Robyn seemed bent on seeing how far she could go before Dahlia lost her temper.
“Daddy, the turkey is delicious.” Seneca had to say something—anything—to lighten the mood. What she wanted to do was kick Robyn under the table.
Oscar winked at her. “Thank you.”
Jerome extended his plate. “I’ll have another helping of turkey and dressing. And don’t forget to ladle on the gravy. I’m eating for Seneca,” he joked. “Ya’ll know models are notorious for not eating.”
“Since when did you become a stand-up comedian?” Seneca drawled. Her voice was filled with sarcasm. “For your information, I do eat.”
Jerome opened his mouth to come back at Seneca, but a warning look from his father quickly ended the interchange. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, apologizing. “I have to admit that you’re the only model I’ve ever seen who doesn’t look anorexic in person.”
She smiled. “I’m probably that rare person who doesn’t photograph heavier.”
Maya touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “Are most photos touched up or airbrushed?”
“I suppose the ones for the glossy magazines do get Photoshopped.”
Seneca spent the rest of dinner fielding questions about modeling. She was offered a reprieve when the sound of the baby’s cries came through the baby monitor. James Scott was awake.
Seneca maneuvered up the empty space in front of her building, shifting into Park. She’d driven from the restaurant in northern Virginia to New York City, stopping once to refuel outside of Philadelphia. She shook her father gently, rousing him from sleep. Oscar, along with the other occupants of the Toyota Sequoia had fallen asleep before they’d left the Capitol District. The sound of snoring was drowned out by the music flowing from the many speakers in the large sport utility vehicle.
“I’m home, Daddy.”
Oscar’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to focus his gaze on the lighted dashboard. “What were you doing? Speeding?” It’d had taken Seneca only a little more than three hours to make the two-hundred-mile drive between New York City and Washington,
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