Page 7 of Invisible Bars
“I saidone, not one and a suggestion. Take it or leave it,” I stated firmly.
The photographer raised the camera quick and snapped one.
Click.
Then, slid a second on in like I wouldn’t notice.
Click.
I stared straight into the lens on the second one and said, “That’s it.”
He lowered the camera like it got heavy all of a sudden.
“Y-Yeah! Got what I need! A-All good!”
“Good! I’ve done my part. Y’all wanted the face? You got it. Everything else is above my tax bracket and below my level of interest.”
Behind me, I heard Giselle gasp. “Imanio Zaire Kors, if you walk off this set?—”
“Then I’ll finally be free,” I cut in.
I took off the tie, ripped open the top buttons of the shirt, and walked away from the camera setup.
I heard one of the assistants whisper, “Did he really just leave?”
Giselle trailed behind me as I headed to my whip, stilettos clicking against the marble sidewalk like an angry metronome.
“Imanio, how dare you embarrass me?—”
“I told you not to schedule this,” I interrupted coolly, not even breaking stride.
“Every time it's time to represent this brand, you get difficult! Do you even realize how important these shoots are?! I think you tend to forget that you’re the face of Kors Luxe Development—not some street-level hoodlum running around like image doesn’t matter!” she fussed, the word tasting foreign in her mouth like it wasn’t exactly where she came from.
I smirked and came to a full stop, making her nearly bump into me. Then I turned slightly, just enough to sting her pride.
Giselle had a bad habit of rewriting history—turning struggles into fairy tales and skipping over the parts where it got ugly. Me? I stayed ten toes down and never forgot where I came from. Yeah, my father put me on to the business, but he didn’t hand merespect;I had to grind for that. I had to work twice as hard to get people to take me seriously—to believe in me the way they trusted him. And even with the money and the name, I never looked down on people with less, especially not otherBlackfolks… most importantly, not family.
That was Mama’s specialty, not mine.
Giselle was one of those Black women who acted like she came with a ‘seasonal pass to whiteness’. And since my father was white, she took it as confirmation that her internal application had been approved. But I made it my business to always remind her that she couldn’t outrun her roots in red bottoms.
“You forget where you came from again?” I asked.
Taken aback, she lifted her brows and crossed her arms.
“Excuse me?”
“Giselle, you weren’t born in a penthouse, which means you wasn’t always Saint Laurent, private jets, and boardroom brunches. Before Pop’s business took off, you were Gigi from the Gardens—fighting folks in Dollar Tree slides, rocking them knockoff Baby Phat coats in the middle of July, and braiding hair on the porch just to scrape up gas money. Don’t act brand new.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
“Oh, and what about when you threw a shoe at the repo man ‘cause he tried to tow the Cutlass while your laundry was still in the trunk? Or how you used to walk to work at night in them Payless shoes, while carrying pepper spray in one hand and a razor in the other. And… how you used to steal pink rollers and Blue Magic from the beauty supply store, then pull up to church on Sunday like you didn’t just commit petty theft.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, Grandma and Auntie Renee told meeverything.”
Her nostrils flared—just barely, but I caught it. I was almost certain her eyes rolled internally at the mention of my aunt, the one she barely tolerated on a good day.
“Hmph! I’m sure they did!” She paused like the words tasted sour. “Especially that…ghettoass sister of mine.”
