quickly?
“What happened?” I ask, reaching up to touch his dilapidated braids. “It looks like a woodpecker invaded your hair.”
“I know. It’s a long story,” he says, leading me into the garage-turned-studio where he and Nigel spend most of their free time. The crew used to assemble here on the regular before he let his crazy baby mama move in. Now that Sandy’s gone, maybe we can get back to kickin’ it here. I miss being a witness to the musical genius of Rah and Nigel.
“I don’t need the details,” I say, opening the bag of supplies Rah placed on his desk and retrieving my personal line of hair-care products. “Let’s begin with the basics. In the bathroom and on your knees,” I say, pointing toward the open door on the far side of the spacious room. It’s hard to believe Rah and Nigel did all of this by themselves, with a little help from some of their homeboys. If the music thing doesn’t work out, they can always go into construction.
“Yes, Miss Jackson,” he says, smiling.
His well-defined cheekbones are set deep into his ebony skin, revealing his perfectly straight teeth. I thought Rah would always have braces he wore them for so many years. They were well worth the wait.
I hope our friends have a good reason for keeping us waiting.At least I have my work to keep me busy. That way when they finally do arrive, we can be freed up to chill.
In the hour that I’ve been here, I’ve washed, conditioned, blow-dried, and braided half of Rah’s thick hair—a true testament of my professionalism. And Rah has been completely compliant under my command, as usual. The stress I felt in his body when I first started has all but disappeared.
The doorbell rings, and I’m glad Nigel and Mickey have finally showed up. Now we can get this party started right. They called a little while ago and said they were bringing dinner once Mickey’s mom was home from work to watch Nickey. The reality of having a baby has set in for Mickey, and Nigel’s there with her all the way, like a good man should be. Rah and I both rise from our comfortable positions to help our friends with the food.
“Happy birthday, punk,” Sandy says, surprising us both. What the hell is she doing here? “I should’ve known,” Sandy says, glaring at me. I would return the evil greeting, but Rah jumps in before I have the chance.
“Sandy, I thought we had an agreement that you would stay with your grandparents and I wouldn’t have to see you on my front porch anymore,” Rah says angrily.
“Fool, that was then. This is now,” Sandy says, barely able to stand up straight. Something’s not right with this broad—more than the usual.
“You’ve got that Sybil syndrome going on, huh, Sandy?” Rah asks.
“Whatever, nigga,” Sandy says, pushing her way through the front door. “Where’s my daughter? I want to see her.”
I step out of the way into the living room, knowing where this is headed.
“She’s not here, Sandy. Does your parole officer know you left Pomona?”
“No, because I never went. And don’t tell him you saw me, either. You got that, Jayd? I was never here.” Sandy looks around the house, stumbling like a drunk.
“Sandy, how did you get here?” Rah asks, closing the door and following her into the kitchen.
I’m glad Rahima’s at Rah’s grandparents’ house with his younger brother, Kamal. They can shelter her from seeing her mother completely lose it.
“The bus, fool. You know that big-ass thing on wheels that rolls up and down the street, stopping every five minutes to let some punk out at the corner? I had to get a bus pass since somebody won’t let me drive their car anymore.”
“Sandy, have you been smoking crack?”
Usually Rah would be joking about anyone we know smoking crack, but this broad is definitely high on something and it ain’t life. This chick’s having a rough day, and she’s got the look to prove it.
“Didn’t you hear? Crack is whack,” Sandy says in her
“What happened?” I ask, reaching up to touch his dilapidated braids. “It looks like a woodpecker invaded your hair.”
“I know. It’s a long story,” he says, leading me into the garage-turned-studio where he and Nigel spend most of their free time. The crew used to assemble here on the regular before he let his crazy baby mama move in. Now that Sandy’s gone, maybe we can get back to kickin’ it here. I miss being a witness to the musical genius of Rah and Nigel.
“I don’t need the details,” I say, opening the bag of supplies Rah placed on his desk and retrieving my personal line of hair-care products. “Let’s begin with the basics. In the bathroom and on your knees,” I say, pointing toward the open door on the far side of the spacious room. It’s hard to believe Rah and Nigel did all of this by themselves, with a little help from some of their homeboys. If the music thing doesn’t work out, they can always go into construction.
“Yes, Miss Jackson,” he says, smiling.
His well-defined cheekbones are set deep into his ebony skin, revealing his perfectly straight teeth. I thought Rah would always have braces he wore them for so many years. They were well worth the wait.
I hope our friends have a good reason for keeping us waiting.At least I have my work to keep me busy. That way when they finally do arrive, we can be freed up to chill.
In the hour that I’ve been here, I’ve washed, conditioned, blow-dried, and braided half of Rah’s thick hair—a true testament of my professionalism. And Rah has been completely compliant under my command, as usual. The stress I felt in his body when I first started has all but disappeared.
The doorbell rings, and I’m glad Nigel and Mickey have finally showed up. Now we can get this party started right. They called a little while ago and said they were bringing dinner once Mickey’s mom was home from work to watch Nickey. The reality of having a baby has set in for Mickey, and Nigel’s there with her all the way, like a good man should be. Rah and I both rise from our comfortable positions to help our friends with the food.
“Happy birthday, punk,” Sandy says, surprising us both. What the hell is she doing here? “I should’ve known,” Sandy says, glaring at me. I would return the evil greeting, but Rah jumps in before I have the chance.
“Sandy, I thought we had an agreement that you would stay with your grandparents and I wouldn’t have to see you on my front porch anymore,” Rah says angrily.
“Fool, that was then. This is now,” Sandy says, barely able to stand up straight. Something’s not right with this broad—more than the usual.
“You’ve got that Sybil syndrome going on, huh, Sandy?” Rah asks.
“Whatever, nigga,” Sandy says, pushing her way through the front door. “Where’s my daughter? I want to see her.”
I step out of the way into the living room, knowing where this is headed.
“She’s not here, Sandy. Does your parole officer know you left Pomona?”
“No, because I never went. And don’t tell him you saw me, either. You got that, Jayd? I was never here.” Sandy looks around the house, stumbling like a drunk.
“Sandy, how did you get here?” Rah asks, closing the door and following her into the kitchen.
I’m glad Rahima’s at Rah’s grandparents’ house with his younger brother, Kamal. They can shelter her from seeing her mother completely lose it.
“The bus, fool. You know that big-ass thing on wheels that rolls up and down the street, stopping every five minutes to let some punk out at the corner? I had to get a bus pass since somebody won’t let me drive their car anymore.”
“Sandy, have you been smoking crack?”
Usually Rah would be joking about anyone we know smoking crack, but this broad is definitely high on something and it ain’t life. This chick’s having a rough day, and she’s got the look to prove it.
“Didn’t you hear? Crack is whack,” Sandy says in her
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