Page 27 of Heavy Is The Crown

“Maintenance work. A friend of mine put me on to it. You need to go in Wednesday morning, before ten, and ask for a dude named Chris. No later than ten, Yatta. Don’t fuck this up.”

Kenyatta hated how Bruce said that last part like he expected him to.

Maintenance work.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t money falling out the sky, but it was something. At this point something was better than nothing.

Kenyatta let out a slow breath. “…Alright.”

Bruce let out a breath like he’d been holding it. “Good. Go handle that.”

Kenyatta ended the call and stood there for a minute. His mind was everywhere.

Jay-1. The streets. Nub’s warning. The job. His mama, who barely looked at him the same anymore. Brooke, who stayed talking down on him.

And then there was Krys, his fake-ass gas station girlfriend. He wasn’t going to lie; that shit still had him tripping.

The way she went along with his bullshit so smooth, like she did that type of thing every day. The way she stood her ground in Tez’s house like she belonged there. The way she looked at him; not like Yatta. Not like a legend from the streets.

Just…like a man.

**********

The scent of frying bacon, buttery grits, and scrambled eggs clashed with the faint bite of pine-sol and stale cigarette smoke filled the apartment now. A familiar, frustrating mix: the smell of home when home ain’t yours no more.

Kenyatta sat hunched over on the sinking couch, elbows on his knees, staring at a burnt-out spot on the carpet that had been there since before he got locked up. He was trying to shake off the weight of last night, but it clung to him, heavy, like a bad dream that felt too damn real.

His body was tired, but his mind was worse. Jay-1’s bullshit. Not seeing Kaliyah. The maintenance job Bruce threw at him. The growing pressure to prove to himself, to everybody that he wasn’t a lost cause. But all that had to wait.

First, he had to survive this kitchen conversation with his mama.

Traci moved around the stove with precision, her silk bonnet tilted slightly to the side, and her robe tied so tight it might’ve been a bulletproof vest.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first, which was already a bad sign. That was Traci’s signature move; the silent treatment wasn’t silence at all; it was a warning.

She wanted him to pull it out of her, to ask, to invite the storm himself. Kenyatta wasn’t stupid.

He sighed, pushing up from the couch and stretching, letting his joints pop before he made his way to the kitchen. “Smells good.”

“Mmm.” Short response.

Strike one.

He pulled out a chair, rubbing his face with both hands. “You cook all this for me or just you?”

Traci finally turned, arched a sharp eyebrow, but didn’t stop stirring the pot of grits. “I cook for who’s contributing to the bills.”

Kenyatta exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

That was all it took.

Traci turned, hands on her hips, looking him up and down like she was about to tear into him.

“Here we go. Nah, boy, you tell me, where exactly arewegoing? ‘Cause right now, you inmyhouse, eatingmyfood, sleeping onmycouch, and last time I checked, that ain’t part of the ‘I’m a grown-ass man’ package.”

Strike two.

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. “I ain’t been home that long.”

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