Page 8 of Body Language
“Don’t act brand new now!” Old Man Roosevelt hollered from his plastic lawn chair. He’d been sitting there since I was thirteen. Swore he once dated Aretha Franklin.
“New? Baby, I’m luxury with a hood refund policy. Don’t play with me,” I called over my shoulder.
The whole sidewalk laughed.
“Luxury with a refund policy” was gonna have them talking for weeks.
I made my way toward the back stairwell. The building looked the same. Paint chipped, doors off hinges, some little kid’s bike abandoned by the dumpster. The ghosts of who I used to be hung in the air like summer sweat.
A group of girls stood near the second railing, all crop tops, lashes, and rolled eyes. I spotted Zejah. Fourteen. Smart mouth. Too grown for her own good.
I walked over and tapped her shoulder. “Lemme holla at you.”
Her friends melted away like they knew the drill.
Zejah folded her arms. “She in there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How’s she been?”
She shrugged, eyes dropping to the ground. “Not too good. Some dude came by last night. Tall, tattoos, talkin’ real low. He was in there a while. She came out after he left and just… sat on the porch. Got high. Fell asleep. I went in around midnight. She was still out there.”
“And this morning?”
“She was gone. So I guess she made it inside.”
I exhaled through my nose. Same cycle. Same slide.
“Thanks, baby,” I said, slipping her a folded fifty.
She took it without a word, tucking it quick like we were passing contraband.
“You call me if something looks weird or off, you hear me?”
Zejah nodded. “I already know.”
That’s why I trusted her. Not with everything. But with enough.
She wasn’t just nosy. She was watchful like I used to be.
I gave her one last look and turned toward the stairs—the same ones I used to run up two at a time with a toddler on my hip and groceries balanced on one arm.
The spare key was still hidden under the busted flowerpot by the door. Same fake-ass ceramic rose glued to the top, chipped and leaning like it had been through one too many storms. Everybody in the hood knew that was the hiding spot.
The door creaked open and the minute I stepped in, it hit me.
It smelled like somebody lit a blunt, busted a nut, and never opened a window. It smelled like a can ofBounce That Asswas left in the microwave on high.
“Jesus,” I coughed, waving my hand in front of my face. “I know crack smells like regret, but this is just disrespectful.”
The living room looked like chaos had signed a lease. Blankets thrown everywhere. Ashes on the table. Takeout containers. The kind of mess that made your skin crawl.
Growing up, I used to clean the place religiously just to feel like I had some control. Since I left with Hux and Heidi, the house had clearly given up. And so had she.
I walked down the hall and knocked once on the bedroom door before pushing it open.
“Mama.”
She was sprawled on the bed, mouth half open, wig on sideways. The cheap fan in the corner was rattling like it had asthma. A bottle of brown liquor sat on the nightstand, sweating in the heat just like she was.
