I’m stunned to see Carlene gloved up with a mop in her hand. It’s such a rare sight, I wonder if I’m dreaming.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Social Services – they’re here in two hours.”
“Oh shit!” I dump my school bag and start furiously cleaning the kitchen. I throw out trash, wash dishes, vacuum floors and carpets and clear out all the alcohol from the fridge. After hiding the alcohol in among the unwashed laundry, I get Angel dressed and plonk her at the dining table with her school books. “Look busy with homework,” I instruct.
“You’ve got to get him out of here, Carlene,” I say and point to Bobby who’s sitting in the lounge, shirtless, watching TV with a beer in his hand.
“Bobby!” Carlene yells. “Get out of here now!”
“Why?” he yells back.
’Cause I’m gonna lose two grand a month, and you’re not that good in the sack and that’s why you idiot! “Just do it, Bobby.”
“Okay, okay,” he mutters and disappears.
“Carlene, look like you’re busy cooking,” I say. I look in the fridge but I can find nothing to pretend to cook or to chop.
I dive into the cupboards and fish out some noodles. “Boil these,” I say.
“Why?”
“The house will smell of food.”
“Okay,” she says and turns to look at the stove. “How the hell do you turn …?”
“Here!” I turn up the stove for her.
By the time Social Services arrive, I’m dressed in simple jeans and Tee and am also sitting with Angel at the dining table doing my homework.
As for Carlene, she’s at the stove stirring the noodles that have been cooking for at least an hour and now resemble porridge.
Ms Glenda Washington is a pleasant African American lady in her thirties. She chats individually to Angel, me and Carlene. After that, she looks around and pokes her head into different rooms and even into cupboards.
Seems okay. The outside of the house needs tidying up though. Insufficient food in the refrigerator.
“We have to go shopping,” I say.
She looks at me.
“For groceries. Our fridge – somebody unplugged it and all the food spoiled.” I chuckle. “We had to throw out everything.”
“Ahhh. Is that what it is?”
After an hour she seems happy and leaves. But she does mention that Social Services may perform an impromptu visit at any time.
“Sure,” Carlene says. “Anytime.” Oh for fuck’s sake, why?
“Sure,” I say and give a casual shrug.
The moment she drives off, we all breathe a sigh of relief. I turn off the noodles, while Carlene brings out the beer. “Bobby, you can come out from under the bed!”
“Why?”
“'Cause the black bitch is gone!” she says.
“Oh, okay then.”
He crawls out, beer bottle in each hand. “I didn’t spill a drop,” he says. “Can you believe it? I crawled under the bed, and out of it again, and not a drop spilled.”
Carlene eyes widen. “Not a drop? Wow!”
Another day in a place I call home.
****
Trojan takes me to a swanky restaurant for our second date which brings back fresh memories of my date with Brody.
We sit across from each other and I take in his black leather jacket, his crisp white shirt, and think how cool he looks.
Pretty.
I glance behind me before I own the compliment. I’m wearing Sultana’s short denim, zip-front dress. It looks good and I wish it was mine.
“So tell me ’bout Trojan,” I say. “What makes you?” He’s a bit of a closed book so I gotta “pull teeth.”
“Why you cagey?”
“Cagey”? He jerks back. “I’m not cagey. How am I cagey?”
“You won’t tell me much, so I will have to assume.” I smile. “You don’t want me to do that.”
He sits forwards and looks me in the eye. “Assume out loud.”
I sigh. “You asked for it.” “You’re single ’cause you wasted your last girlfriend when you found out that she couldn’t rap.”
“What?”
“You sell drugs to teenagers, teachers, Whitney Houston and Courtney Love.”
“What?!”
“You said that already. You’re driving a stolen veh…i…cle and you’re planning to steal one for me. A pretty pink, soft top with a kick-ass sound system.”
He laughs out loud. “You’re crazy.”
“I warned you.”
He shakes his head from side-to-side.
“I have a question.”
He opens out his palms. “Go for it.”
“You’re single. How come?”
“I’m fussy, I guess.”
“Not that fussy, if you’re with me.”
“True.”
“Whaaaat? I’m gutted. Really I am.”
“Why did you break up with white boy?”
I look away. Then look at him and shrug. “I wasn’t white enough for his family.”
“Really? You? That’s too bad, man.”
I nod. “My turn – why me? You came to see me before I came to see you?”
He appears to think about it.
“And don’t tell me it’s because of my striking good looks, my magnetic personality and my ability to solve math problems.”
He smiles, then shrugs.
“Why me?” I persist.
“I dunno. I asked myself that same question over and over again, but…”
I allow myself a small internal smirk. Okay, a big internal smirk.
“So, you guys got stiffed with the fake ID things?”
“Yeah, Luther is a sonovabitch! But hey, we got into Danes, thanks to you.”
He gives a slight bow.
“So how old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“That’s like ancient.”
He smiles. “Not that ancient.”
Our food arrives and I tuck into it. To ensure I fit into Sultana’s denim dress, I didn’t eat all day. Now I’m ravenous, so I eat up.
“So, what do you plan to be when you grow up?” I ask.
“Big.”
“Oh, okay. Anything else?”
“I wanna be a famous music producer. One of the best in the field. I wanna win awards – album of the year which I produced. I wanna mix current music and …” His eyes shine and his face lights up when he talks about music. Never seen him so animated before.
“Do you sing?”
“Yeah, but not in public.”
“Can you sing for me?”
He shakes his head. “Not a chance.”
“Not even if I give you my half of my pepper sauce?”
He chuckles and shakes his head.
“What about if …?”
“Can you sing?” he asks.
I think about his question. “Can I sing …? Well, let’s put it this way: when I have my headphones on and I’m belting out a song I’m listening to, I think to myself – what a great voice you have Burn, and I wonder why I don’t have a recording contract. Then I take off my headphones, and I know why.”
He laughs. “What do you wanna do when you finish school?”
“Become a FBI profiler, like my mom was.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I like a chick with ambition.”
“Me too. Well, not chicks. I mean, like, I don’t like girls … I like guys …I mean… ah, forget it!”
He laughs.
“So what was it like living on the street?”
His eyes become as large as the onion rings on my plate. “Who told you that?”
“I had you checked out.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right.”
“Tell me.”
“Tough. I wouldn’t want any kid to experience that. That’s why I want to adopt kids one day, give them shit I never had.”
“That’s good. I would like to do that too. How long did you live on the street?”
“Five till fourteen.”
“What about your mom?”
“Heroin overdose when I was two. Lived with my grandma till she died when I was five. Then it was just Grover and me and we took to the street for …” He waves dismissively. “I won’t go into reasons.”
I stare at him, feeling sympathy for him. How many times have I thought about hitting the street?
“Now you gonna look at me like that all night? With pity?”
Our eyes lock. “We have a lot in common, Trojan,” I say in a quiet voice.
“We do, Burn.”
Right then and there, I feel a connection to Trojan. A deep one. I can’t explain it, but I feel close to him. Really close.
When we leave the restaurant, he takes my hand in his and I seriously don’t mind. He holds it tight and clasps his fingers tightly to mine. As I said, I seriously don’t mind. Not one bit.
The night flies and it’s soon time to say goodbye. Again, he grabs my face with both hands and just takes his kiss. Firm but determined.
No tongue. Why? Haven’t the faintest.
Before he leaves, his hands drop to my waist. He squeezes me hard before he leaves.
Long after he’s gone, I feel the imprint of his hands on my waist. I think that was the plan.
That night, I find myself thinking of him as I lie in bed. I smile when I think about our conversation and all the laughs we had. It’s easy chatting to him.
Wonder where he’s taking me the next time?