Читать книгу Drama High: Cold As Ice - L. Divine - Страница 11

“It’s a cool world, and I’m destined for greatness.”

—MIKE JONES, FEATURING NICOLE WRAY

The room is dark except for a flicker of light coming from a lit candle sitting nearby on an antique writing desk. There’s also a feather pen and ink chamber on the desk and a blank writing pad. I walk toward the desk, curious about the ancient writing tools, but I hesitate before I claim them with my hand. I can feel Mama’s presence behind me, gently pushing me forward.

“Go ahead, dear. Write it down. It’s your story to tell,” Mama says to me, guiding me to sit in the leather chair behind the desk. But how can I write in the dark?

“Mama, I can barely see. Can I get some light in here?” I look around the dark room for a window, lamp, something that will give me a little more brightness, but no such luck. The candle is the only assistance I have, and it’s not very bright.

“You have all the light you need, chile. Now go on and get busy. We don’t have all night.”

I take my seat at the desk and begin writing as much as I can, but I can barely see the words forming on the white page in front of me. I dip the pen into the black liquid and pray that what I’m writing is legible. I know what I want to say, which is half the battle. But whoever reads it may not get the full meaning of my words if they can’t make out my handwriting. I was never good at penmanship.

“Why am I writing this down when no one’s going to be able to make it out? Isn’t that the point of keeping up with our history?” I ask Mama, who has since disappeared from the room. I take a deep breath and continue my scribing, more anxious to get on with this assignment so that I can leave this dark space. It’s giving me the creeps.

Finished with my story for the moment, I rise from the weathered seat and walk toward the only opening in the dark space. As I reach for the barely visible brass knob and open the door, I feel a cold breeze enter the room, giving me the chills. I take a step outside, momentarily blinded by the bright light coming in from every direction, and immediately fall flat on my ass, hitting my head on the cold, hard ground.

“Damnit! What the hell was that?” I ask aloud, holding the back of my head where the pain throbs. I’m not sure who’s listening, but I can feel someone’s presence around me.

“Watch your language, young lady, even when your head hurts,” Mama says, gently scolding me, but I know she can feel me. That shit hurt. “And that was black ice, Jayd. It’s the most dangerous kind because you can’t see it until it’s too late. Always watch your step, even in the light,” Mama says, but I can’t see her. All I see are the stars in my head, like in a cartoon.

“Ouch,” I say, slapping the alarm clock and rubbing the back of my head where the impact from the fall in my dream has left a knot in reality. Why can’t I dream like a normal person?

“Because you’re not normal, Jayd,” Mama mumbles from her side of the room. “Now go on and get up before you’re late. And put some ice on your head. It’ll help the swelling go down,” she says, turning back over to return to her slumber. Isn’t it ironic that the same thing that hurt me is the same thing that’ll help me heal? I wish I could stay under the warm covers, but I have to get up and start my day—weird dream, knotted head, and all.

It’s a beautiful spring morning, not that we in California know much about the seasons changing at all. But I can feel the sun’s warmth breaking through the foggy ocean chill on my skin, and I welcome the constantly hot days that are ahead. Let’s just hope that nothing at school will ruin my mood. So far, so good. It’s already lunchtime, and no one’s pissed me off as of yet. But it’s still early in the day, and I have an African Student Union meeting plus two more classes to get through before I can officially declare this day drama free. But Nellie and Mickey are getting me closer to pissed with this constant baby-shower planning, especially since Mickey has yet to officially apologize for her rude behavior. I could give a damn about what she’s going through, being on academic probation, pregnant, or whatever. Mickey accusing me of betraying her ass was cold-blooded and can’t be easily forgotten or forgiven.

“Okay, it looks like the shower will have to be the weekend of the twentieth because the following weekend is Easter and we all need to be in church that Sunday and shopping for our outfits the day before.” Nellie and her parents go to church only on the major holidays, paying their tithes and sporting their designer fashions for all to envy. Isn’t that breaking one of the Ten Commandments—thou shalt not make people covet your shit?

So far we are the only ones present for the ASU lunch meeting, which is why Nellie’s taking over as the official shower dictator. I thought we were planning this together, but I guess I thought wrong.

“Um, but that’s when I want to celebrate my birthday,” I say. I would add that I don’t celebrate Easter, but that’s irrelevant right now. It’s a shame that I have to remind these heffas of my birthday when they expect everyone to stop traffic for their special days. Maybe if I had a little more bitch in me like my girls, they’d remember.

“Oh, Jayd, now, that’s just selfish,” Mickey says. “The baby precedes everything else.” I know this heffa’s not talking about me being selfish. Didn’t we all just duck and dive bullet shots because of her necessity to cheat on her boyfriend, a notorious gangster?

“Excuse me for not wanting to talk about someone else’s party on my birthday weekend,” I say, looking around Mr. Adewale’s classroom as students file in for the lunch meeting; I am tired of my self-centered friends. “I don’t mean to be a diva, but damn. When is it ever about me in this crew?”

“Yeah, Jayd. This is so unlike you,” Nellie says. I know she’s not serious. “We have to make sure the baby gets everything she needs.” She flips through the catalogs on her desk like she’s getting paid to do this party.

“Yes, when she gets here. We still have a couple months before that happens. My birthday is one day, this day, and I want to celebrate it. I turn seventeen only once,” I say, snacking on the last of my pretzels before moving on to my cranberry juice. They were all out of my favorites at the lunch counter today, so I had to switch it up.

“Oh, speaking of birthdays, can you come with me tomorrow evening to Chance’s house? His mother’s having a little dinner celebration for his father’s birthday, and I need backup. It’s my first time meeting his parents, and I want to make a good impression.” Did Nellie hear a word I just said? Speaking of selfish. If there were a crown for the most selfish broad alive, Nellie would have that title, and Mickey would be first runner-up.

“Nellie, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot of studying to do,” I say, officially pissed. “On top of my regular schoolwork, I have the AP exams coming up soon, and I really need to be on top of my game.” I’ve been so distracted with all my friends’ and family’s bull that I’ve been neglecting my own responsibilities, and that’s not a good thing, because I clearly see that my friends don’t have a sistah’s back like I always have theirs.

“Okay, everyone, how are we doing this afternoon?” Mr. A asks, entering the classroom with a large manila envelope and a smile. He makes my day. “Ready to nominate a treasurer to hold the African Student Union’s precious money?”

“Hey, Mr. Adewale,” Misty says, strolling into the lunch meeting like she’s not late. Mr. A announced at the last meeting that people who are late will not be allowed to vote on the day’s issues, and if they continue to be late, they’ll be eliminated from votes and field trips for the entire semester. He doesn’t play with time, and time is money, so I completely understand.

“Miss Caldwell, you are five minutes late, which means you forfeit today’s votes,” Mr. A says, tossing the envelope on his desk and taking a seat in the chair behind it. Misty sits down in her seat next to KJ, for whom she had brought lunch. That’s probably why she’s late. When will she learn that dudes never respect doormats?

“Oh, come on, Mr. Adewale. I didn’t know the lunch line was going to be so long. The cafeteria helpers really need to speed things up. It’s not my fault they were slow today,” Misty says, taking one of KJ’s fries off his tray, not realizing how serious Mr. A is about his shit.

“A lack of planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on mine,” Mr. A says to a salty Misty. That’s one of his favorite sayings, and he uses it daily, much to many students’ disliking. “Now, we have several officer positions that need to be filled before we can move on as a group. Secretary, president, vice president, and treasurer are all up for grabs. We should start with the money because we have an envelope full that needs to be taken care of as soon as possible,” he says, gesturing to the envelope on the top of his stack of papers. And I thought I had a lot of work to do. “Any nominations for treasurer?”

“I think it should be me. I love holding paper,” KJ says, his crew dutifully laughing. He can barely keep up with his own wallet, let alone the African Student Union’s bank account.

“Yes, baby, and you’re good at it, too,” Misty says, forever his cheerleader. My ex–best friend and ex-boyfriend make the perfect stupid couple, and because of that, they are the last two people in this club who should be taken seriously.

“Oh no. We need someone responsible, and we all know that ain’t you,” I say, causing others in the room to snicker through bites of their lunch.

“What are you talking about? I’m very responsible,” KJ says, pleading his case. “Have you seen me take the ball up the court? You can always trust me to do my job.” He seems sincere, but even he can’t be that clueless. Nothing about KJ screams treasurer.

“Does Trecee ring a bell?” I ask. KJ had unprotected sex with her, and she was nothing close to clean. If that’s not being irresponsible, I don’t know what is. I hope Misty’s being smarter about using protection than he’s known to be. “If we can’t trust you with your own body, we sure as hell can’t trust you with our money.”

“That was cold, Jayd,” Del says, shaking his head at my low blow. Before KJ can respond with his visibly steaming head, Misty interjects, defending her man.

“Oh, this coming from you, Miss ‘I’ll babysit from downstairs while the baby is upstairs.’ Real responsible, Jayd.” What did this heffa just say to me? And how did she know about my sleepwalking incident when I left Rah’s daughter, Rahima, upstairs late at night while I walked downstairs, unaware that I was dreaming at the time? If my mom’s neighbor Shawntrese hadn’t woken me up, I don’t know what would have happened to Rahima or to me. Luckily, Rah doesn’t know about that, and Shawntrese doesn’t remember because with my mom’s and Mama’s help, I erased all of Misty’s evildoings from when she and Esmeralda decided to hijack my dreams during the holidays. But I guess Misty still remembers every damn thing. We’ll have to work on that before Misty does unnecessary damage with her loose lips and hips working overtime these days.

“Misty, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s all I can say without further incriminating myself. Nellie and Mickey look from me to her, wondering what they missed.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Mr. A says, rising from his seat and standing at the whiteboard behind him. “We’ll have an actual runoff for all the officers next month. That’ll give everyone plenty of time to think carefully about who should be in which position. So let’s shoot for at least two nominees for each office.”

“That’s a great idea, Mr. Adewale,” Emilio says, the best teacher’s pet ever. “We should also consider a logo for our club. I’ve taken the liberty of sketching down a few ideas.” He stands up behind his desk next to the teacher’s and passes the sketch pad to a visibly impressed Mr. A, who looks over the drawings carefully before commenting.

“Very talented, Emilio. And I like your initiative.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Emilio was gunning for president, when just a couple of weeks ago he was rooting for me to claim the throne. I guess he’s not completely over the rejection I served him for kissing me without my permission. It’s not my fault he came on too strong and self-righteous for me. And I see I was on point about his ego after all.

“Thank you, Mr. Adewale.” Mr. A passes around the sketch pad of ideas about how we should represent ourselves. When the pictures finally make it to me, I look at them carefully, noticing that Emilio conveniently left out my deity, Oshune. From what I can see, most of the images are of the main orishas, with an outline of the African continent in the background, but the rest of the club members don’t know, nor could they care less. To them, they’re black superheroes, and, so far from their reactions, they like what they see.

“Ah, man, these are tight,” KJ says, passing the pad around to the rest of his crew. “The black man and woman together—man, that’s where it’s at,” he says, looking dead at me. If staying so-called “true to my race” means I have to date these idiots, I guess I am the sellout everyone’s calling me. That’s why Emilio left out Oshune—because he knows she’s the only female orisha who knows no boundaries and is as powerful as any of the male orishas alone or all together.

“Okay, there’s the bell for fifth period. We’ll continue this discussion next week, and be ready with your nominations.” Ready’s right. I’ll be damned if Emilio and KJ take over this club when it was my idea, sneaky bastards. I know Emilio’s new to the game, but he’s acting like an old player. We each gather our lunch trash and other belongings, ready to get the last two classes of the day over with.

“I like your drawings, Emilio. Have you been sketching the orisha very long?” I ask, easing into my threat. He needs to know I’m not afraid to go up against him or anyone else who tries to keep me from my spot. I didn’t really want to be president, but now that it’s officially up for grabs, I want it bad. Misty’s conniving ass can wait until I get home. I’ll give her a piece of my mind in private.

“As long as I can remember,” he says, grabbing his backpack and sketch pad before leading the way out of the classroom. I have only four minutes and counting to make it down the hill to the drama room, so I’d better make this quick. We both wave good-bye to Mr. A, who is caught up in conversation with Misty about her tardiness. I’m glad someone else is tired of her trifling ways.

“I noticed you didn’t include Oshune in the pictures. Any particular reason why, when you and I both know that without her there is no life at all?” Emilio stops in his tracks and looks down at me, thinking carefully before responding. I guess he’s trying to find the right words because English isn’t his first language.

“You know, Oshune is sweet, but she’s also very promiscuous,” Emilio says, the words rolling from his tongue like the gospel truth it isn’t. “I think we should choose a more dignified female deity like Yemoja or Oya to honor, along with the male orishas, to balance it all out.” He obviously didn’t take enough time to choose his words, because he just ignited a fire in me I didn’t know existed.

“What did you just say about my mama?” I don’t care what Emilio’s first language is—he knows those are fighting words. If it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s when someone talks about my mothers, both spiritual and physical.

“Jayd, I did not mean to offend you. I know how sensitive Oshune’s daughters are, which is another reason I think we should choose someone else.” Emilio’s thick Spanish accent has completely lost its charm. I wish he would shut up, but he’s on a roll this afternoon. “We are trying to set a certain standard with the African Student Union that I don’t think you understand quite yet. We can discuss this more later,” he says, leaving me shell-shocked as he walks toward his class. What kind of standard does he think we’re trying to set, and why wouldn’t I understand it, being that it was my idea in the first damn place? I’m so pissed that if I still had Maman’s—my great-grandmother’s—powers like I did when Reid came at me with his arrogant bull about the formation of the club a few weeks ago, Emilio would be squirming on the ground by now like the snake he is. Mama took my powers from me, saying that I wasn’t ready to keep them, even though they were left behind from one of my dreams. But wait until I tell Mama about Misty’s apparent memories of stealing my powers, coupled with Emilio’s disrespect of our lineage. I know she’s going to feel my fire and hopefully help me chill out before it gets out of control.

When I make it to the beauty shop after school, Mama and Netta are in their own world, which is the usual when it’s just the two of them. Mama and Netta are like twins separated at birth; both are powerful women in their own right, but together they are unstoppable, and they know it. Mama and Netta stop their chatting to greet me and get right back to their exciting conversation about this past weekend’s ceremony for Netta’s son, Jeremiah. I can’t help but be calm when I’m in their collective aura.

The homemade vanilla-and-almond-scented candles burning throughout the quaint yet open space soothe my frayed nerves and welcome me to the communion that is Netta’s Never Nappy Beauty Shop. Emilio’s pompous ass really works me up. I don’t even remember what happened in my drama or my weight-lifting classes. All I could think about was my pounding headache from my dream last night, which was made even more apparent by the cold blow Emilio served up about our mother, Oshune, after the ASU meeting. I didn’t even get to ask him if he’s thinking about running for club president, and I hope the answer’s no. That position is rightfully mine, and no matter what my haters may think of me, everyone knows I’m the best woman for the job, and I’m willing to fight for it if I have to.

“How’s Jeremiah doing, Ms. Netta?” I ask while placing my work apron over my head, ready to get busy. Netta’s the one in the client’s chair for a change but is still in control of the conversation. She usually does her own hair like we all do, but today is a special treat for her. Mama’s returning the weekly treat of having her hooked up by a talented stylist, like a real friend should—although I’m sure there’s more to it than that. Usually, if Mama has to do Netta’s hair, it’s because of a spiritual cleansing needed for either Netta or herself.

“Girl, he’s fine, except for the fact that he’s always asking me for money, like I’m the Bank of Compton,” Netta says, making Mama laugh more out of empathy than because it’s funny. Mama has the same issue with her children. “That boy tens-and-twenties me to death. But, hopefully, now that he has Baba Shango in his corner, he will keep up with his own money and give me back some of mine, too.”

“I know that’s right,” Mama says, taking the two hot curlers and single flatiron out of the miniature oven sitting at the station next to Netta’s work space. It’s rare for Mama to work with hair tools anymore, unless she’s cleaning them. I need to take notes, but my memory will have to do the trick. “How was your day, baby?” Mama asks, redirecting the conversation my way, and I’m grateful. I need to get today out of my head—literally. The knot from my fantasy fall is still throbbing, reminding me of today’s lingering drama.

“It was okay except that I had to defend Oshune against Emilio’s simplification of her as solely a sex goddess,” I say, collecting all the dirty towels near the sinks to wash. On Mama’s Tuesdays—when she’s the only client allowed in the shop—we’re able to get the majority of our housekeeping chores done for the week, laundry included.

“Who is Emilio again?” Netta asks as Mama parts Netta’s hair, ready to flatiron and curl it. Netta’s got the thickest naturally auburn hair I’ve ever seen. She likes to keep it short, but it’s still very full and looks gorgeous when it’s loosely curled all over her head, like Mama’s probably planning on doing now.

“Emilio is the new exchange student from Venezuela who’s also a child of Orunmilla, remember?” I say, reminding her of how that arrogant boy came into my life. I have enough problems without the added pleasure of dealing with a stranger’s issues.

“Oh, the little boy who had a crush on you,” Mama says, recalling our brief conversation about Emilio before I found out that he was a grandmama’s boy. If his abuelita said the sky was orange, he’d never question it as the gospel truth.

“Well, doesn’t he know that Orunmilla was one of Oshune’s husbands? If she was good enough for his daddy, I know she’s good enough for that little fool, talking bad about our mama like that,” Netta says, moving her head to the right so Mama can get to the hair in the back of her head. “He should be ashamed of himself.”

“Everyone always talks about Oshune being sexual and all that,” Mama says, now guiding the flatiron expertly through Netta’s short tresses. It looks so relaxing to sit in Mama’s chair. The last time Mama did my hair, I couldn’t even speak. “That’s a watered-down version of our mother, to say the least. She is pure love and joy, all the good things in life. And that, my dear, is what it’s all about.”

“Not this madness that y’all young fools deal with these days,” Netta says, supporting Mama like the true homegirl she is. I wish I had one tight friend like Mama does in Netta. Where are my homies, for real?

“I’m not part of that, ‘y’all,’” I say, defending myself against the ignorance of some of the people in my generation. I call them fools, too, even if, technically, they are my peers.

“I know that, little Jayd,” Netta says, waving her hand at my necessity to speak up. “It’s your little friends I’m talking about, like Mickey and Nigel, not to mention Misty and that little pretty boy she’s messing with.” As a hairdresser, Netta knows about everyone’s business even if most of it is secondhand information. Misty’s mom’s best friend still gets her hair done by Netta, although I’ve never run into her here, and I hope that never happens. “Boys don’t know how to court girls, and girls don’t know how to make boys work for it anymore. You better not turn into one of these fast-ass little girls who live with men before they get married, like—” Netta stops short of saying my mother, because she knows my mom could be listening, via my thoughts, and doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, especially since she’s turned her life around since she was my age.

“It doesn’t always work out bad,” I say, ready to defend my mom. She always seems to be the example of what not to do, but if you ask me, my mom’s done pretty well for herself, considering she’s a divorced, single mother living in the hood, and she should be applauded for that. “My mom and Karl practically live together, and they’re engaged.” Mama looks at me as if to say “please” but softens her stance about her eldest child’s decisions in life and love, mostly because we all have a good feeling about Karl.

“There are exceptions to every story, but don’t believe the hype, Jayd,” Mama says, pointing the small curlers at me, directing me to gather the towels at her station to add to the already full load in the basket I’m carrying. “Don’t get caught up in other people’s versions of what love is or what’s right or wrong in life. You have to figure out those things on your own.”

“I know you’re right,” I say, finally letting Mama win because she always does. I take the laundry to the wash area and load the linens into the machine. Thank goodness Netta’s husband is a contractor. Netta has made this shop her home away from home, with a small service porch off the wash area along with a bathroom and kitchenette, too. The back of the shop is where a private bathroom and the office/shrine room are located, which is where Mama spends most of her time while customers are here. Mama doesn’t like to deal with gossiping clients, especially because a lot of the talk is about her. “That’s why I’m not rushing into anything serious,” I say as the memory of Jeremy and me making out comes to the front of my mind. I hope Mama didn’t catch that one.

“Not yet. But when you meet the right one and it’s the right time, mark my words, all bets will be off,” Netta says, eyeing her hair in the mirror before Mama puts the final touches on her style. Netta looks good and refreshed. I take the bucket of clips out of one of the cabinets at Netta’s station and begin collecting the silver clips to wash. There’s always something to do around here. It’s a wonder they didn’t hire me to help sooner.

“I hear you, Ms. Netta.” I haven’t told either one of them that I’m dating Jeremy exclusively now, but I have a feeling Mama already knows, and I don’t want to hear it. She’s never been a fan of me dating Jeremy, for all the obvious reasons—because she has a soft spot for Rah.

“Careful with these boys, Jayd,” Mama says. “We’ve already seen Rah’s temper, and you know where Jeremy comes from with his racist daddy and all,” she adds, reminding me that Jeremy and his brothers can date girls from different races, as long as they don’t bring home any mixed babies, which is why Jeremy gave up knowing his own child by his ex-girlfriend Tania, who should be delivering their baby very soon. Unlike what Mama and Netta are saying, Tania’s wealthy family made sure she was married off and living in New York. Mickey’s shooting for a similar happy ending, no matter how delusional it may be. Hell would freeze over before Mrs. Esop would let that happen.

“Get to know their families better to get a more complete picture of the person you’re befriending,” Mama says. I don’t know how fair it is to judge a dude by his family. I know she’s not talking about Rah, because Mama knows his father’s parents very well, and they outweigh his mom, who’s a stripper, and his father, who’s a good guy but got caught up and is now serving life in prison.

“I wonder what would be said about me if more people got to know my family?” I think aloud, seriously pondering that notion. With the rare occasion that Rah and Jeremy have come over, no one really chills at Mama’s house. It’s never been allowed with any of her children or with me and Jay. It’s not really a spoken rule as much as it’s just understood that we don’t bring people home unless it’s a special occasion. That fact alone says a lot about what others must think of the James household. That’s why Rah and I have been friends for so long, even when he acts like a complete jackass. He understands how we roll around here and never judges me.

“Who cares what your little so-called friends think. With friends like yours, you don’t need any enemies,” Mama says, combing Netta’s hair. I know Netta knows how blessed she is to have Mama in her head. Mama doesn’t do anyone’s hair anymore, not even mine, but Mama follows divinations to the letter, and if doing Netta’s hair is what the orisha told her to do, it’s as good as done.

“Too bad she’s got those, too.” Netta’s got that right. And the fact that my friends and my enemies alike are working my nerves has got me all twisted up.

“Yeah, I do. And now they all seem to be ganging up on me for one thing or another. And my friends don’t even remember my birthday or care about the sacrifices I’ve made for them.” Mickey’s really outdone herself this time.

“Girls can lust, too, Jayd. It’s not just boys who want everything you’re willing to give them. Lust takes and love gives. Haven’t I told you that a million times?” I know Mama’s right about that. Sometimes girls are worse than the boys. “And with these little frenemies you’re running around with, like Misty and Mickey, it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed.”

“Mama, it’s not that serious,” I say, running hot, soapy water in one of the three washbowls to soak the hundreds of clips I’ve collected. With any luck I’ll get off early tonight and get some studying done. Tomorrow is our first practice exam for the English AP in second period, and I want to do well.

“Oh, but it is, sweetie,” Mama says as Netta takes the hot curlers out of the miniature oven and places them on the white towel to cool. She can’t help doing her job, even when she’s not technically the one working. “Emilio got close to you under the guise of friendship, and now he’s turned on you, just like the other frenemies in your life.”

“So how do I protect myself when anyone could be a potential enemy?” This is too much to deal with tonight. “Why can’t a friend just be a friend?”

“Jayd, that’s like asking why do people die. The world’s a cold, harsh place at times, and that is why you need to always protect yourself in every way possible, even from the people who claim they love you.” Mama’s right on point with that one. I’ve been feeling down all day because two of my closest friends think I’ve betrayed them, when in actuality it’s my trust that’s been betrayed.

“You’re right, and I’m going to change this madness sooner rather than later,” I say, feeling more confident than I have all day. My headache has even lessened. Mama and Netta can make the most difficult problems seem so simple.

“If nothing else, I know you’re a fighter for justice, and assassinating our mother’s character is the same as attacking us personally. Don’t let that little fool get away with that, especially if he’s a true devotee like he claims to be. Emilio had better recognize he’s fighting a losing battle talking bad about you and your lineage,” Mama says, spraying Netta’s finished do with hair sheen. Damn, Mama’s got skills.

“That’s right, little queen,” Netta says, smacking on her Big Red gum louder than usual, she’s so excited about her fresh hair. Mama gives Netta a look in the mirror, and she slows her roll a little bit. They smile at each other, both satisfied with the reflection in the large lighted mirror at the station.

“Your visions are here to help you, even if they do hurt sometimes,” Mama says, alluding to my head injury and other battle wounds from past dreams. “You stand on the shoulders of all the women who came before you, and you have all your ancestors’ and Orisha’s love and support. Never doubt yourself or your power.”

They’re both right. There’s no way Emilio can beat me in a presidential campaign for ASU or in a character debate about Oshune. Who the hell does he think he is telling me about myself? Like Oshune, I can be as giving to my friends as a lake full of fish is to a fisherman on a spring morning and as dangerous as that same lake on an ice-cold winter’s night. Which side of my personality surfaces is contingent upon what’s necessary, and, right now, self-preservation calls for a cool head. That starts with me doing my work—absolutely no distractions allowed.