Page 169 of Invisible Bars
“And you’re doing damn good at it.”
We leaned into each other, forehead to forehead, with the smell of lemon butter and saltwater drifting between us.
Imanio retook his seat.
“You good now?” he asked.
I nodded slowly, then turned my gaze back to the ocean.
Imanio tilted his head. “You’re not, but I ain’t gonna press… not yet.”
We fell into a silence only broken by my curiosity.
“So tell me about your l-life before you became ‘Imanio Kors, The Billionaire’. How did he come about?” I kidded.
Imanio’s facial expression changed not in laughter, but almost sadness. He leaned his elbows on the table.
“You ever wonder what people would be like if money never touched them?”
I frowned, a little thrown. “Sometimes. Why?”
He sighed and glanced out at the water.
“I used to live in the hood. Like,reallylive there—before the suits, yachts and getting called ‘sir’ everywhere I go. Corner-store dinners, the sound of gunshots doubling as lullabies, sirens singing backup, and roaches playing tag in the kitchen… thatwas my normal. And my mama? Nothing like the woman she is today. She used to be caring and funny. She used to hug me and Dess, cook us breakfast in a robe with one slipper on and rollers in her hair. Our favorite was pancakes—burnt edges and all. She used to hum old Anita Baker songs and call us her ‘babies’ even when we got tall.”
He popped a shrimp into his mouth, chewed, then continued.
“But we didn’t move outta that environment until I turned thirteen. That’s when everything changed. It’s like the moment my Pop’s bank account got too many commas, she stopped being our mama and started being someone else's idea of power. Money?” He scoffed, voice low but laced with frustration. “That shit ain’t just paper; it’s a damn potion. It doesn’t just change a person’s pockets; it changes their posture, their voice, their whole identity. It turns warm hands cold, love into performance, and family into business associates. In so many words, it shifts anunhumbleperson’s whole spirit.”
I could hear the ache underneath his words.
I stayed quiet, letting him have the floor.
“Giselle traded softness for social clubs and laughter for legacy. We used to be poor but happy. And now?” He lifted his eyes to me again. “We’re rich… but hollow, well, she is.”
Imanio looked down at his plate like the memory lived there.
“Why do you call her Giselle instead of mama or mom?”
“Momis earned. She cashed that title in when she traded hugs for handbags and family for facades. So now she’s just Giselle.”
“Do… do you ever miss who she was?” I asked softly.
“I used to. Now I think that’s who she’s going to be. Unless life humbles her… I don’t see her changing anytime soon.”
“So how was school for you when y’all moved?”
“Of course, she threw us into some pretentious-ass prep school. I could count the number of Black students on two hands—and that’s being generous. The rest were white, or mixed like me and Dess.”
He paused, eyes flickering toward the water.
“People used to call me ‘Pretty Boy’,” he continued with a bitter laugh. “I hated that shit… still do. People assumed I had it easy ’cause my pops was white… and had a lil’ money at the time. Teachers let me slide on certain assignments, the girls liked me before I even spoke, and dudes hated me just for walking in the room. I think all that had to mainly do with my looks, though,” he boasted.
A small, knowing smile cracked through for a second—but just as quickly, it vanished. It was like he didn’t trust it to stay… like the memory didn’t deserve joy.
Imanio leaned back, fingers drumming the edge of his glass.
“But even being mixed didn’t feel like a pass,” he continued. “I was too light for the Black kids to trust me, and too ‘hood’ for the uppity white ones to understand me. I didn’t fit nowhere… not really. I spent most of that first year figuring out which version of me made people the most comfortable. And eventually... I just stopped trying.”
