Page 294 of Invisible Bars
The table shook from laughter, one woman fanning herself with a napkin.
“And while she’s sitting there pretending to always catch the Holy Ghost,” another lady chimed in, “her grandkids be running up and down the pews like it’s Chuck E. Cheese on half-off night!”
“One of them little gremlins stole my peppermint, unwrapped it, and put it back in my purse,” Mama Rose said. “I swear, I’ma put a mousetrap in there one Sunday. They go digging in my purse, they gon’ catch the spiritandarthritis.”
The whole table collapsed into cackles, wiping their eyes, their laughter booming louder than the DJ’s music.
I let out a soft laugh and stepped closer. “H-Hey, Mama Rose.”
She turned, grinned widely.
“Naji! Hey, baby!”
She was surrounded by a group of ladies, all leaning in with paper fans, cold drinks, and enough opinions to power a city.
“Ladies, this here’s my sweet baby Naji. Now listen, she got Tourette’s—so if something fly out her mouth, don’t take it personal. Matter of fact, if youdolaugh, she’ll probably beat you to it. Ain’t that right, sugar?”
Right on cue, a tic slipped out—my head tilted slightly, and I muttered, “Whose feet is in the potato salad?!”
One of the ladies froze mid-sip. “Well… now I’m suspicious.”
The table erupted with laughter.
Mama Rose cackled, slapping her thigh. “Lord have mercy, she done ruined lunch for everybody!”
But there wasn’t an ounce of discomfort in their faces—just joy, acceptance, and a little side-eye toward the potato salad bowl.
I smiled, comforted by the fact that my tics weren’t the elephant in the room; just part of the rhythm.
Mama Rose laughed like she was proud.
“See what I mean? Baby got spice.” Then she patted the seat beside her. “Come here, you look like a melted crayon.”
“Ifeellike one,” I muttered, flopping down with a dramatic sigh. “There’s no reason it should be this h-hot.”
Mama Rose sipped her drink and pointed her elbow across the yard.
“It’s that fool over there—Bobby. He brought them heavy meats. Got the grill weighing down the whole atmosphere with smoke and heat. It’s practically a sauna out here!”
I followed her gaze and spotted the familiar figure of an uncle-shaped man, confidently strutting around with a towel draped around his neck and an air of unwarranted bravado in his flip-flops.
“But why is he grilling in jeans, though?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief at his questionable fashion choice.
Mama Rose rolled her eyes dramatically, her annoyance clearly visible.
“He claims he’s ‘preserving leg moisture.’”
I doubled over in laughter, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably until another tic hit me mid-chuckle.
“Nose said nope! Somebody's aura got mildew!” I blurted, my voice loud enough to draw attention.
One of the ladies, an older woman with a vibrant head wrap, nearly toppled out of her folding chair.
“Not theaura! Lord Jesus!” she hollered, her hands flying up to her face as she began fanning herself as if she were under a heat lamp.
“Who out here giving off moldy energy?!” another one wheezed, struggling to catch her breath between fits of laughter.
Mama Rose brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle.
