Of Hustle and Heart (23 page)

The next morning when Tony takes me to school, I beg him to let me out—against his wishes—at the beignet shop across the street.

“You hungry? I would’ve made you something to eat,” he says as if he’d forgotten something.

“Nah. Well, maybe. I don’t know,” I say. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t want Blanca to see, to know.”

“I don’t want you to hide,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Zina, you can make your own decisions. You don’t need approval—not mine, not Blanca’s, not your mother’s.”

“You have to know, though, that it’s gonna be weird.”

Tony pulls into the parking lot of City Streets Beignets and backs into a parking spot close to the street.

“No.” He puts the car in park. “I don’t know that.”

“Bee’s my best friend. I can’t—”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t do this stuff if…if she—”

“If she what, Zina?”

“She
has
to approve.”

He stares out his window and then looks at me.

“She won’t.”

I’m not pretending to know what my relationship is with Tony. Oddly enough, I’m not confused by us either. I know he cares about me. I know I’m safe with him. I know I’m eighteen, and in three weeks, Blanca, Rachel, Shannon, and I will graduate from Albert Chesney High School together. Our finals start next week. So instead of spending time wondering about what my life will be like after graduation, I’m studying and selling the rest of my crop.

In class, all I can do is stare at Shannon until he passes me the first letter of the day. Our letters are longer than ever—six or seven pages front and back, folded over a dozen times and stuffed into each other’s locker, binder, or notebook.

The first one comes the Monday after prom. It falls out when I open my locker, and bounces off my foot before hitting the floor. My name is scratched across the top page in blue ink.

It is an apology, one that makes me sad for all the stupid stuff we’ve put each other through. In the letter he has spent a lot of pages talking about Beatrice and apologizing for his failure to control her.

It’s my fault. I shoulda told her to stop it…shoulda made her back off. It went on too long. I didn’t understand what I felt about you. I love Blanca for getting in my shit the way she did.
I hope y’all stay friends forever. She’s good for you and me.

But the letter doesn’t mention Beatrice’s prom meltdown. I wish it did. I want to talk about it. I am worried for us, mostly me. His letter talks in embarrassing description about the first time we kissed. He writes that it was the best kiss he’s ever had, and he doesn’t ever want to kiss anyone else.
That’s what it’s supposed to be like. You’re supposed to never want to stop…and I didn’t,
the letter said.
I couldn’t believe it, could you?

He’s kept his promise not to tell my secret. And I go by my locker after every class to check for his notes. When we’re not at school, he calls, texts, and tags me constantly across our social media accounts. He’s available to me whenever I need to cry or talk. His affection and respect is amazing. I grow stronger every day because of him. Essentially sticking to me like glue, he finds me at school no matter where I am. I don’t ask him how he finds me or who tells him where I am. I accept that this is what he does. He watches.

Two weeks after prom, on a Wednesday morning, Shannon is waiting for me in the hall when I get to first period.

“Let’s walk together,” he says. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah. C’mon.”

He reaches for my hand but hesitates and pulls it back. I look at him.

“It’s cool,” I say. “I’m not gonna freak.”

The fugazis have avoided me for the most part. And I haven’t seen Beatrice around. No one’s talking about her, me, or Shannon anymore. So the week closes out with no movement from Beatrice or her clique.

So I ain’t saying I’m avoiding Tony; I’d say I’m giving him his space. He hasn’t tried to call me, text me, or none of that. And that’s okay.

I spend my time hustling the weed I have left. I’ve picked up some word-of-mouth customers in the neighborhood along the way and score another half a pound from some dude who lives two streets over from us. His weed is shitty—real low-grade stuff—but I sell it just the same, with a discounted price. I don’t make as much as I do with Tony’s stuff, and it pisses me all the way off. I work way too hard to be fooling around with this crap weed and crap prices. Still, it puts a little more money in my pocket and gives me something to do when I’m not studying for finals. Plus, I need to make back the money I spent on prom. For that I’ll have to go into my good drugs; with the crap weed, I come up short every time.

Sunday afternoon, Shannon pops up at my house without calling. Andrew answers the door but leaves him standing on the front porch. He knocks on my bedroom door.

“It’s a nigga at the door for you,” he says. I get up, annoyed and thinking one of the weed heads has come to my house without hitting my burner phone. They know the rules. Don’t ever, ever, ever knock on my door. Goddamn dope fiends.

I get to the door and am relieved to see Shannon leaning against the porch wall.

“What’s up?” I smile.

He looks at me sideways and then looks at the ground. “Tris’s been calling me.” I step outside with him and shut the front door.

“So?” We stare at each other.

“She’s fucked up about us,” he says.

“Shannon, I don’t care.”

“I told her that we weren’t together. She ain’t believing me, though.”

I don’t know why he came all the way to my house to talk to me about his ex. I don’t feel guilty or bad for not caring about what Beatrice is feeling. I have my own twisted emotions to contend with. He knows this, beyond anyone else.

“Why are you doing this? What are you saying?”

I want to tell him to leave, but I have faith in Shannon. Somewhere in his confused, pious, teenage foolishness, he really does want me to be okay. And he really does want
me
. I still like him. More now than ever. I hold my tongue and hear him out.

“I just told her that we aren’t dating or anything like that so she would feel better.”

I shrug. “Who cares about how she feels? What about me? Did you stop caring about how I feel?”

“No,” he says, his voice urgent. He steps forward, pressing me to believe him. “C’mon, Zee, you know I care.” He frowns as his words fade into the air around us. “That’s why I’m telling you, so if you hear stuff about me and Beatrice at school, you’ll know the truth.”

“What am I going to hear?”

“That we’re back together,” he says. “But it’s not true, Zina. It’s not real. She’s sick.”

“She’s not sick. She’s spoiled.” I shake my head. “I’m too busy to argue and too tired to care.”

“Zina—”

“Shannon! You care more about your ex. That’s fine. Just keep her away from me, and you stay away too, okay?”

“I’m not going to stay away,” he says, pressing me, as I turn to go inside.

“We’re not together,” I mutter, walking inside the house. “You’re free or whatever.”

“I’m not staying away,” he whispers.

“Get off my goddamn porch!”

I slam the door behind me.

CHAPTER 40

ZACARIAS

B
eing back at work feels necessary but painful all the same. Whitney has been late every day since my return. Not ten minutes late, or twenty, not even a line-crossing thirty, but an hour to two hours late. She’s fallen into a pattern where she doesn’t answer my calls, doesn’t respond to my texts. When I do see her at work, she’s reckless with her behavior and interactions with the customers. She’s made two waitresses and a hostess in training cry this week and has taken it upon herself to schedule her next two doctor’s appointments without my knowledge. Out of spite, she hinted at the idea of me not accompanying her to any more appointments. She’s playing cards that aren’t hers to play, under the impression that I am unaware of her prior cheating.

What John said makes sense. It explains why Bruno knew she was pregnant before I did and why they had such a heated exchange. Suspecting Whitney of cheating on me does nothing to lighten the burden of craving Zina, missing her the way I do. It hurts worse having to forget her and being responsible for her absence in my world. Neither she nor her friends come to the restaurant to eat anymore. There’s no trace of her at all. To my surprise, I find I can live without her, though I can’t stop thinking about her.

This Monday afternoon the restaurant is slow. I hear through the gossip around Rico’s that Whitney won’t be coming into work until after her three-month checkup—something she hasn’t cleared with me as her boss or her child’s father. I leave word with everyone—the kitchen staff, the waiters, and hostesses—to tell Whitney I need to see her in the back office when she shows up. Immediately.

About an hour and forty-five minutes later, she comes in and finds me stewing at my desk. Business has been down since the high-school crowd has dried up.

“What, Zack?” she says as she perches in front of my desk.

“Why didn’t you call me about the doctor’s appointment? Is this what it’s going to be like when the baby comes? You leaving me out of things?”

“I don’t need you to go to the doctor’s appointments with me,” she says, pursing her lips.

“That’s not what you said before. You made me come. Said I should be there and that’s what good dad’s do. Remember that?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you there.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Is it because I’m not the father?”

She looks at me and laughs. “Really? You’re saying the baby’s not yours? God. What did I do to you?”

“It’s just a question.”

“It’s an accusation.”

“Whitney, I don’t want to lie to each other. I don’t want to play games,” I say. “You’ve been pretty shitty lately, even for you.” She stares at me. “It feels like you’re trying to cut me out. I wanna know why.”

“I’m mad at you, you asshole! You cheated on me.”

“Did you cheat on me?” I blurt it out. It hurts to think of her sleeping around on me while I was bending over in every direction for her. I know how she feels now. Touché.

A knock at the door draws my attention. “What is it?” I call out.

“One of the vendors is at the back door. He needs to be checked in,” Spencer says.

“Can you get it, Spence?”

“No, sir, I’m the only cook right now.”

I get up from my desk and tell Whitney to sit down. She throws herself into the office chair and folds her arms.

“Don’t move. I’ll be back.” She mutters at me defiantly. “Whitney, do not leave this room.”

She ignores me as I leave.

It takes me about twenty minutes to check in our liquor guy, and then I head back through the kitchen to the office. As I push open the double doors, I see the green-eyed boy sitting alone at one of the tables in the dining room. He’s the closest I’ve been to Zina in two weeks. Like the fool that I am, I walk over to him and ask him why he’s here alone. He leans back in his chair and looks up at me. His six-four frame takes up quite a bit of room at his table for two.

“No reason,” he says. “Why?”

“You’re usually here with a group. Are they meeting you? Do you need a bigger table?” I twist one hand through the other, waiting for his response. I stand over him eagerly, wanting to know where Zina is. Has he seen her? Does she still like him the way she always had? I’d forgotten all about this boy until today. I never once regarded him as a threat.

“Nah, I’m chilling by myself.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I already ordered,” he says. He pulls his phone from his pocket and pushes a pair of black ear buds into his ears.

“Of course,” I mumble. As I leave his side, I catch his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Earbuds still in place, he’s watching me. He sits up straight in his chair, draping one arm over the back of it, his green eyes glowing with suspicion. What could he possibly suspect? He’s never seen me with Zina. Then I remember
—
on the bench outside of Rico’s. He’s seen us together. I walk over to the bar and ask Noah the bartender what the kid ordered.

“Chicken nachos and iced tea to go,” he says. When I turn around, the green-eyed boy is still staring at me. He gets up from his table and walks over to the bar and stands next to me.

“How much longer on the food?” he asks.

“Chicken nachos, right?”

“Yeah with extra sour cream and iced tea with lemon.”

“You picking up for someone?”

His head spins toward me. “How’s that your business, man?” He leans on the bar, which puts him a few inches closer to my actual height.

“I’m just asking a question, son. Relax.”

He looks at me and lets out a deep breath. “I think you know my friend. I’ve seen you talking to her before,” he says.

“A lot of high-school kids come in here. What school do you go to?”

“We go to Chesney, ’round the corner. This place catered our senior picnic.”

“Right. I remember. Yeah,” I mumble around the knot in my throat.

“You were talking to her then too,” he says as the realization sets in. “At the picnic.”

It’d be foolish to deny ever knowing Zina. This boy recognizes me. A guilty person would deny. A guilty person would be nervous, wondering if Zina had told someone about us. A guilty person would fear she had. Still, this boy has come around too late. It’s been two weeks. No way there could be any evidence of anything at this point. He knows, but it’s too late. I hate the irony of it.

“Which friend are you talking about?”

He takes the earbuds from his ears and drapes them across his shoulders. “A pretty black girl, kinda a loner. You sat with her at the picnic.” He narrows his eyes as if to get a better look at me. “Yeah, man. It was you.”

“What was me?” I say, knowing he can’t prove anything. I’m almost cocky.

“Did you rape my friend?” He seems to choke on the words as his hands knot into large fists and his pale complexion flushes red.

“Never. She wanted to be with me. I still want to be with her.”

He picks up a stray glass and smashes it into the side of my head. I push him hard enough that he falls into a row of barstools. His agility and youth pay off. He catches himself easily before he hits the floor. He regains his balance, plants his feet, and swings at me; the right hook is followed by a combination. The kid has hands and comes at me relentlessly, overcome with emotion. As he swings, he catches me twice—once dead center in my nose, the next an uppercut to my chin. After that, he’s unable to land anymore punches. I block his fist and grab him, subduing him with a bear hug as Noah and Spence come running from their posts. The green-eyed boy is strong and volatile. He shakes me off before Spence and Noah can help restrain him. The boy grabs a barstool and swings it at me. I duck as Noah catches it in midair and snatches the bar furniture from him. The boy stumbles back a few feet, and Spence and Noah make their move.

“What the hell is this?” Noah says. “Who is this kid?”

The boy struggles with Noah and Spence as they hold him back.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Noah says to him.

“Zack, you want us to call the cops?” Spence asks.

“No, let him go. He’s just jealous of a grown man,” I say, fixing myself.

When they turn the boy loose, he jerks away and pushes Spence, the bigger of the two off.

“Don’t
ever
touch her!” he spits at me. “Don’t even
look
at her again. Piece of shit!”

Noah pushes him through the dining room toward the front door. He stumbles down the aisle, dropping his phone. Spence picks it up and tosses it to him as the alert sounds. He reads it muttering under his breath.

“Tris is looking for Zee. You better find her.” he shoves the phone in his pocket. “Fuck!”

Zee?

I watch through the window as he sprints to his truck and then peels out of the parking lot.

Is he going after Zina? Is that what he calls her?

I stop myself from following him.