When No One Is Watching(32)
Some of the sauce from the beans dribbles out onto my fingers and I loosen my grip. “The real estate people?”
She nods. “Been coming to my door, too. Telling me all kinds of bullshit, thinking if they talk fast I’ll go along with it.” She sucks her teeth again, holding it for longer this time to show the true depth of her disdain. “My hair is gray, but my gray matter is still functional, thank you very much.”
“It’s terrible,” I say woodenly. “But they can’t get anything over on you.”
“Not today, not tomorrow, not in this lifetime, baby,” she says with a laugh. “Let me get going. I’ll see you later. Make sure you get that tour ready.”
She says it the same way she used to say, “Make sure you do your homework” when I was a kid, except when I go into the kitchen to do my work now, there won’t be a bologna sandwich and a cup of SunnyD waiting for me.
“Yes, Ms. Candace,” I reply. I linger a bit, take a deep breath, then head back into the apartment, checking every possible hiding place before grabbing a fork, pushing a stack of papers aside, and making myself eat.
Gifford Place OurHood post by Jamel Jones:
Thank you everyone who has stopped by, called, prayed, or sent a message. Ashley and I are hanging in there, but we talked to Preston on the phone and he’s not doing too great. We’re figuring out financial stuff, and we’re treading water for now, but as much as I hate this, I have to ask if anyone has worked with BVT. We have some questions. When it comes to our son, we’re willing to do anything.
Josie Ulnar: I highly recommend them.
Kim DeVries: Same. They’re extremely professional.
Jamel Jones: Thank you both. I am looking for people in the neighborhood who’ve used them to sell a property quickly or have heard from any of our neighbors who sold.
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Chapter 8
Sydney
“WHY ARE YOU DRESSED UP?” DREA ASKS, GIVING ME ELEVATOR eyes as I stand up from beside my mother’s garden plot.
I’m sweaty, my tomato vine has withered, and I’m so tired that my mind is playing tricks on me. I’m not in the mood to be judged for my damn outfit.
I point my trowel at her, and she dodges the clump of fertilizer that flies in her direction.
“I’m wearing a T-shirt from our junior year of high school, cutoff shorts, and I have horse crap under my nails from trying to save this tomato plant,” I say with an annoyed shake of my head. “I am not dressed up.”
Drea looks me up and down again. “Yes, an old T-shirt and shorts, but this T-shirt is the one that makes your titties look fantastic and those Daisy Dukes are the ones that show just the perfect sliver of ass cheek. You really think you can fool me?”
“Whatever.” I change the subject and hope she gets the point. “Did you get the VerenTech info from work bae?”
I probably don’t need it, but the way Theo had looked at me yesterday is going to my head a little. I start thinking about how I should include some of this new stuff, too, even if it isn’t history; it’s important, and now that the project has been approved, it will lead to big changes. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look.
She sucks her teeth. “Yes. I got you. I slipped the envelope under your door before I left today.”
“Thank you. I love youuu,” I croon into the trowel.
“Damn right you do.” Her eyes crease at the corners when she smiles at me, which makes me smile even more widely. “I didn’t look at the files, but he said VerenTech got some kind of special dispensation from the city. Same one BVT Realty gets and probably got it the same way—paying off these commissioners so they look the other way as they’re stamping contracts. Meanwhile I can’t even get a business loan.”
“You got rejected again?” I ask. “Maybe you can do a GoFundMe, or . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Here comes your little friend.” She squints and tilts her chin at something over my shoulder. When I turn, I see Theo approaching.
His hair is damp and messy and his stride is confident; he has a coffee cup in each hand. A camera hangs from a strap around his neck, bouncing over a black T-shirt emblazoned with three bold words in white: BLACK LIVES MATTER.
“Good morning,” he says, holding out one of the brown cardboard cups toward me.
I snatch it, then gesture at his shirt with my other hand. “Howdy Doody! Howdy Doody!”
He plucks at the shirt. “Really? This is Howdy Doody?”
Drea looks back and forth between us, hand over her chest as she laughs. “What is happening right now?”
I narrow my eyes at Theo. “Why are you wearing this?”
He blinks a few times. “I saw the posts about Preston on OurHood. I wanted to let people know that I support—”
“Can you change out of that? Please.” I run my hands over my braids, gently because my scalp is still tender. “I don’t want to be known as the woman walking around with the white dude with a BLM shirt on, okay?”
I expect him to push back, but those harsh features of his kind of droop all at once, like a dog that’s being yelled at but doesn’t know why.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” I add.