Page 29 of Hellcat Barbies: Imani
“No. I’m talking pancakes, bacon, eggs, and sausage.”
“I know a joint but it’s bout an hour from here.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“You really want this breakfast,” he comments.
“I do,” I admit then smile. “My brother would always take me to breakfast after a night race,” I reveal.
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. My twin brother.”
“I thought you were an only child like me.”
“I am now,” I utter. It still hurts every time I admit that out loud. I miss Imari every day.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Somebody killed him last year. That’s the real reason I moved here. The hospital was the second reason. I needed to get away from the place that took him from me.”
His right hand abandons my steering wheel and lands on the back of my neck. He lightly caresses it. The small gesture has a huge ass effect on me and I break. Tears start to fall and I let them. So many days and nights, I’ve fought them but notnow. With him, in this moment, with him driving my baby, I feel comfortable and safe enough to have the release that I’ve needed.
As my tears fall, he continues to caress my neck and drive. He doesn’t interrupt with words. He does and gives me exactly what I need-silent comfort. I have so many great memories of Imari and many of them have been centered by our mutual love of cars. Although we were only sixteen minutes apart, he was my older brother. He taught me how to drive, automatic and stick shift. Thanks to him, I can change my own tires, do a full oil change, and even change spark plugs.
He taught me how to fight too. The racing scene can get crazy, obviously, so, he wanted to make sure I could handle myself. So, he would take me to the gym and he and I would box. When I fight, I don’t pull hair and scratch, I box and land hits thanks to Imari.
My first races were against him too and once I beat him a few times, we joined races together. That’s how I met Breezy and became a Hellcat Barbie. I hadn’t raced since he’d been gone. I missed it and didn’t know how much until we pulled up on the race. Being there and actually racing brought back many of the good memories so my tears are a cocktail of happy thoughts and sadness from missing him and them.
“Imari got me into racing. NASCAR races were his shit and I fell in love with it too. When the first Black woman, Tia Norfleet,got licensed by NASCAR and ARCA, I knew I wanted to race. He taught me and after each win, he and I would go get breakfast. It was our thing. I hadn’t raced since he’s been gone.”
“Shit, now I feel-” he begins but I stop him.
“No, you shouldn’t feel anything but good. I truly needed that race,” I admit then grin, thinking about my brother. “Hewould be mad at me for not racing. I can hear him cursing me out because I waited this long. So, in honor of him, we’re going to celebrate and eat breakfast. This place better be good.”
“It is. Trust me.”
“I do,” I admit and I mean that in every possible way. He’s the first person in Crescent Falls that I’ve talked to about Imari. I hadn’t even shared that with anyone in the hospital.
About thirty minutes later, we are existing the highway, entering Diamond Falls. He drives through the city and we end up at a cute little diner called The Pancake House. The small parking lot is filled with cars and there’s a nice crowd inside. We end up waiting about ten minutes before being seated in a small round booth. Since I eat with my eyes, I peeped out each plate we pass on the way to the booth and the pancakes look perfect, thick, fluffy, and crispy on the edges like I like. Imari would hate them though; he liked paper thin pancakes.
“What are you going to get?” I ask him as we look over the limited two-page menu.
“The victory meal, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage,” he says and I simper.
This man is everything.
When our server comes to the table, we order the pancake meals and add a side of sausage to each. He orders the three-pancake meal and I get the two. We both order cokes to drink. While our food is being prepared, he sits and attentively listens as I talk about my brother. I’m talking his ear off but he doesn’t mind at all. Our food comes out about twenty minutes later and my perfect night only gets better.
“Both of these niggas are going to be talking mad shit, especially Dodge,” Daymir says as we pull up to the nice home at the end of the street.
The driveway is filled with cars and one of them catches my eye, a matte red Corvette Coupe, sitting on Hoosier racing tires not normal seasonal tires. Most people don’t ride on racing tires.
“It’s going to be fine. I’m a big girl; I can handle shit-talking men,” I assure him, again. “But who’s Corvette is that?”
“Hazel, Brick’s girl.”
“She races?”
