Page 4 of The Prodigy 2: Rise of a Queen

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Malika

IhatethesefuckingWindermeres.

Okay, not all of them. Just my husband. And his trifling-ass mammy.

Okay, I didn’tactuallyhate Jakari. I was just really pissed off. This negro made me spend what was supposed to be our first night together in our new placeby myself. And worse than that, he didn’t even call to talk about it. Just sent a dry ass text about seeing me tomorrow. What kinda bullshit is that? Then he turned his phone off, which of course made me think he was off somewhere doing something shady. So I pulled up to his mama’s house this morning, and the bitch wouldn’t let me in the door.

I knew he was there, because his car was there, but she lied and said he wasn’t. The part that pissed me off most was that it was abadlie, and way too obvious for a world class liar and manipulator. I really think she did that on purpose to make me worry, and unfortunately, it worked.

Now, though?

I was just mad. And confused.

Maybe I’d been fooling myself thinking this was ever gonna work out. I mean, we were getting along just fine, and the sex was amazing, but we weren’t in love. We cared for each other, and liked each other, but that’s as far as it went.

Which is probably why he left me here alone. He didn’t care.

Well, whatever. I loved our new place.Mynew place. I woke up in a king-sized bed on Egyptian cotton sheets—a far cry from the threadbare, pee-stained twin me and Dionne had to share growing up—and set my feet on a floor covered in brand new Berber carpet. The apartment manager made a big deal about that, so apparently it was quality.

Then I took a steaming hot shower in my giant master bathroom, the one with heated floors, thank you very much, before making my way into the kitchen and cooking myself some scrambled eggs on the stainless steel gas range.

I knew people lived like this, but I never thought I’d be one of them.

I sat at the breakfast nook and ate, my mind drifting back to all the times my little stomach would rumble and growl at school. I remembered all those mornings when me and Dionne shared a single pop tart because it was too far away from grocery day to be finishing off a box.

My mother…I loved her so much, but sometimes she was irresponsible. Sometimes there were no groceries because she sold them off for cash. My father eventually took to hiding the EBT card from her and stashing dry food in our closet so she wouldn’t take it, but that only worked until she figured out where everything was. He’d have to find a new place, and eventually, he ran out of places in our tiny apartment.

It was a painful time. I don’t even like thinking about it. But something about being in this big, beautiful new place was triggering those memories. I was grateful to be here, but also…kinda angry. Because what kind of mother lets her kids live like that? What kind of mother puts her own happiness—herhigh—before feeding her damn kids?

I loved her so much. I missed her so much. But the more I thought about her, and my life before she left, the more I felt like I was romanticizing her.

No parent is perfect. I know that. I just wish I had better memories.

After breakfast, I washed my dishes and set them in the rack to dry. I made my way to the living room and sat on my new couch, checking my phone every few minutes like a damn loser. Still nothing from my husband.

I put on some pajama bottoms and let Nugget out of his crate. He was the most perfect tan Labradoodle, and he was a gift from Jakari. It had only been a few weeks, but I loved him already.

We walked around the large complex twice before he finally pooped. As I was scooping it, I felt even worse. Like, my dog was just a dog, but I already felt motherly toward him. Protective and nurturing. I would get naked and slide down a pole before I let him go hungry.

Adog.

Yet my sister and I hadn’t inspired that kind of love in our mother. It hurt to think about.

My daddy would always say it was the drugs that made her the way she was. He said drugs make people do bad things and lose their minds. It’s one reason alcohol has always been the strongest substance I’d partake in. I was terrified of ending up like her.

And what my father said made sense, especially because she was a different person when she was clean. She was happy, so we were happy. It felt peaceful. Safe. Like the world was right side up.

But every single time, without fail, she’d start spending less and less time at home. She’d stop going to work, and then eventually get fired. Her and daddy would start arguing more. And then she’d disappear for days at a time.

After a while, you get numb to it. I guess that’s a coping mechanism, I don’t know. But it still hurt, and I still held out hope that she would change.

As far back as I can remember, every one of my birthday wishes was about her. If I wasn’t wishing for her to get clean, I was wishing for her tostayclean. Well, one year I wished for us to win the lottery, but just like all my other wishes, that didn’t come true.

Nugget and I returned home after our walk, and the little guy went straight to his bed for a nap. I tried to do the same, but I couldn’t sleep. Because somewhere out there, my husband was doing something else instead of being here with me.

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