Basic Page 9

  I unlocked the back door and stepped inside, instantly grateful for the air conditioning as I eased my backpack off my shoulders.

  The sound of a cabinet closing in the kitchen made me pause.

  I frowned and called out, “Mom? You’re still here?”

  Staying home for two days in a row was not like her at all.

  “Uh, no,” an unfamiliar male voice called.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Great. She brought one of them home. And now I get to deal with some stupid rich loser who has nothing better to do than follow my mom around like a human-puppy. Fun times.

  Sighing, I made my way to the kitchen.

  I paused in stride at the sight of a handsome six foot something dark-skinned man who looked like the kind of guy you’d see on one of those firefighter calendars for charity. I mean, his biceps alone probably weighed as much as me.

  He was halfway turned to me, the refrigerator opened and a carton of eggs in his hand.

  I glanced at the counter, where chopped onions and bell pepper were sitting beside a knife on top of our cutting board.

  So, this one was handsome and he cooked? Wow. An unusual choice for my mother.

  “Hi,” I said, surprising myself by sounding shy. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hi, I’m Libby. You must be my mom’s friend.”

  “Hi, Libby,” he grinned, revealing a bright and shiny set of pearly whites that stood out in contrast to his flawless dark skin. I made myself not gasp out loud at how handsome he looked when he smiled.

  But I’m sure I stared. It simply couldn’t be helped.

  I mean, what had my mother done? Gone to a runway show to find her next target?

  Closing the refrigerator, he set the eggs down and stretched out his hand as he walked towards me, “I’m Vander. But please, call me Van. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I shook his massive hand, my cheeks and neck going hot like I’d suddenly caught a fever.

  But at least I managed to smile and nod and continue to speak, “You too. So, where’s my mom?”

  “She said she wanted breakfast for dinner and I insisted on making it,” he said with a grin. “But then we realized we didn’t have grits. And as you must know, for your mom, breakfast isn’t complete without grits.”

  I blinked back at him even as I automatically widened my grin to mirror his.

  Breakfast isn’t complete without grits? Since when does my mom even eat breakfast? All she has in the morning is coffee.

  “Right. Grits are totally my mom’s thing.”

  …or at least maybe they would be if we lived in a parallel universe where my mom wasn’t so obsessed with staying skinny that she refused to even touch a crumb of breakfast on a daily basis.

  And then I suddenly remembered that when I was a little kid, making weekend breakfast with my dad, on the rare occasion that Mom joined us, he’d make her a small bowl of grits.

  But I hadn’t seen her eat grits in years.

  Confused, I slid into one of the barstools behind the counter and watched him return to the carton of eggs he’d set beside the chopped onion and bell pepper.

  “I’m going to make an omelet. Would you like one?” Van asked.

  I paused, considering the repercussions. Mom would certainly give me a look if she came home to the sight of me noshing away on something as fatty and delicious as an omelet. But, if she was eating a full course breakfast for dinner maybe that meant she was in a good mood.

  “Yeah,” I smiled. “Why not? Thank you, Van.”

  “One Van Special, coming right up,” he replied with a devastating smile.

  I leaned against the counter as he cracked two of the eggs into our large, glass mixing bowl. “So, are you a professional Chef or something?”

  “I wish.” There was that to-die-for grin again.

  My Gwaaad, Mom had scored big time with this guy!

  He added salt, pepper, chopped onions and bell pepper to the two eggs and then began whipping them with a massive fork as he said, “The fact that you even asked makes me feel super proud of myself.” He chuckled to himself. “I’m actually an investment broker.”

  That definitely sounded like the sort of career one of mom’s targets would have.

  I nodded. “Sweet. Do you like it?”

  “It’s meh.” Van shrugged and made a face as he turned to our stove. For the first time, I noticed a skillet containing a half a stick of butter sitting on one of the eyes. He turned on the eye and the butter quickly melted. “I mean, it pays the bills and then some, but it’s not what I want to do forever.”

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  He shrugged again. “I’m not sure yet. I have a lot of interests, but nothing I’d like to make a career out of. But isn’t that part of what makes life interesting? Trying out all sorts of things, learning as much as you can, and then using what you learn to find your place?”

  I watched him, transfixed, as he poured the egg mixture into the sizzling skillet.

  Not only was it sort of hypnotizing to watch him, but his words made a lot of sense too.

  “I was just telling a friend of mine something like that the other day,” I slowly replied, thinking of my life-changing conversation with Kimberly the other night. Sighing, I watched Van gently push the cooked portions of the omelet from the edges of the skillet, towards its center, every now and then tilting the pan. “But to be honest, I think people like… well, people like us have to be the perfect balance of spontaneous and adaptable and strategic, for our own protection.”

  “What do you mean?” Van asked.

  “Like, my mom and I are all set now. But, who knows what could happen? How often do minorities make it big, and then suddenly everything gets taken away?” I gestured to our house. “Something terrible could happen and all of this could be gone. That’s happened before. It could happen again. That’s why by the time a black girl is seventeen, she’s supposed to have it together. She’s supposed to know exactly how she’s going to support herself and her family. That way, she chooses the right major and eventually, the right job and she’s able to keep her financial security, like… secure or whatever.”

  Van nodded. “That is the way we’re taught to think. But there’s something I’ve learned over the years.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, watching as he removed the fully cooked omelet from the skillet and gently set it on one of our plates.

  He slid the plate towards me and glanced around at our kitchen with a slightly puzzled expression. “Where’s the silverware?”

  I nodded to a drawer just right of our sink. “That drawer, there.”

  “Thanks,” he said opening it and quickly handing me a fork. “You might want to give it about sixty seconds to cool.”

  “Thank you, Van,” I said, my stomach growling as the delicious scent of the omelet wafted my way. I hadn’t even realized how hungry I was.

  “Sure thing,” he said with a grin. With this he grabbed two more eggs and cracked them both over the glass mixing bowl. “So, most of my wealthiest and happiest friends of any race, are the ones who switched careers several times in their lives. They didn’t stick to one thing, they went with the flow of life. It’s like they realized, money isn’t the end goal, happiness is. And I think that mindset is actually part of what kept them rich. Instead of chasing financial security, they chased fulfillment for themselves and for the people they love most.”

  I looked down at the omelet, my mouth watering. It had only been about twenty seconds, but I was very tempted to ignore Van’s advice and tuck into the delicious breakfast dish.

  “I think that advice is great for white people,” I said.

  Van laughed. “I like how honest you are. That’s a good quality.”

  He thinks I’m honest?

  Without my consent, my eyebrows went up in shock. Realizing that I needed to control the expression on my face, I bit down on my bottom lip and mumbled, “Thanks.”

  “So, why don’t
you think that advice could work for everyone?” Van asked.

  Figuring the omelet had cooled down enough, I picked up my fork and carved out a small square. “When I was little, my dad…” I paused, realizing I didn’t know which story Mom had fed Van. Did she tell him the one about her being a widow? Or had she told him she’d been left?

  “Your mom told me he passed recently,” Van nodded solemnly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Trying not to look too relieved, I cleared my throat and continued, “When I was little my dad lost his job and so we were really poor for a while.”

  I paused to take a bite of the omelet and figure out how to refine my lie of a story so it still ended truthfully enough for me to make my point.

  “That must have been rough,” Van said sympathetically.

  The egg- rich, lush, and almost cheesy in consistency -onions and bell peppers sang to my taste buds with a song so sweet, they begged for more and it took everything in my power to stop myself from shoveling another huge helping of the omelet into my mouth.

  Instead, I smiled and politely said, “By the way this omelet is perfection.”

  He grinned. “Well, thank you. I aim to please.”

  “So, back to what I was saying,” I said, shifting in my seat. “Without dad’s income, we lost everything. Our house, our car, everything. Eventually, we had to move into low income housing, which meant living in a roach-infested apartment in a neighborhood where drive by shootings were just your basic monthly occurrence. And having enough food was out of the question. We were lucky if we could afford one meal a day.”

  I looked down at my plate, recalling the one-room apartment furnished with nothing but a mattress in the corner and a folding table with two chairs in the other. It was $350 a month and it was all Mom could afford. But it was a step up from where we’d spent the month after Dad left. As luck would have it, Mom lost her high-paying job shortly before her huge fight with my dad, the one that ended with him knocking her unconscious and then full of guilty panic, leaving us.

  That first month we’d transitioned from living in our SUV, until it was taken by the bank, to living in a women’s shelter that was very similar to Angel’s Den. I remembered the place smelling like bleach, but having a severe rat problem.

  “So, my mom didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and thinking about what would fulfill her life,” I quietly said. “She did the only thing she could - she became a machine, allowing herself to focus only on survival. She sacrificed her needs to focus on making as much money as she could. And that’s what saved us.”

  I looked up to find Van watching me, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes sad.

  Uncomfortable and wondering if I’d revealed too much, I carved out another slice of the omelet and took another bite.

  “I get what you mean, Libby,” Van said, his tone thoughtful. He sighed and uncrossed his arms as he leaned against our refrigerator. “We have to play with the cards we’ve been dealt, and we don’t all have the same hand. It was … ignorant of me to suggest otherwise.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “It was just, um, I mean, I totally understand what you were saying. And like I said, I told one of my friends almost exactly the same thing the other night. But she’s white. So, even if she somehow loses her money, it’ll be easier for her to get it back. Life is just easier for them.”

  Van frowned. “That’s not necessarily true.”

  I gave him a long look. “You’re telling me that the average white person has to deal with as much racism and injustice as the average black person?”

  “That isn’t what I’m saying.” Van shook his head. “I’m saying racism isn’t the only problem on the planet. Everyone faces their own-”

  The back door opened and at the sound of it I turned to see my mother walk in with two Whole Foods bags. She looked extremely pretty in a strapless yellow and white print sundress and minimal make up.

  She grinned at me before her gaze drifted to the omelet I was eating. Her grin waning, she turned to Van, “I see you’ve fed my child. Bless you for that.”

  As much as I wanted the rest of the egg, I pushed it away and said, “I’m done.”

  Van took the two bags from Mom and planted a chaste kiss on one of her cheeks.

  She looked down at the kitchen floor, a goofy grin on her lips.

  I watched her carefully. Was she tipsy? Because that half-nerdy grin of hers only showed up when she’d been drinking.

  Mom cleared her throat and began unpacking one of the Whole Foods bags. “So, have you two been getting to know each other?”

  Van smiled and took several bags of grits out of the other grocery bag. “Yeah, Libby’s great. And I can see where she gets her intelligence from. Fifteen minutes into meeting each other and we were having an existential discussion about life.”

  Mom chuckled as she put a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator. “I’m not surprised. She’s never been a fan of small talk.”

  “It’s boring,” I said with a shrug. “Who wants to sit around talking about the weather when there’s so much more to discuss?”

  Van pointed to my half-eaten omelet. “Is it as boring as my omelet? Tell me the truth, was it terrible? It’s been a while since I’ve made those.”

  “No! It was actually super delicious. I just,” Pausing, I glanced at mom. She was still busy with something in the refrigerator, her back to both of us. I wondered if she was even listening. “Um, I was just worried about the calories.”

  Van frowned. “Oh. Seriously?”

  My face went hot. Self-conscious, I nodded.

  Van gave me a long look. “You have nothing to worry about.” He pointed to the omelet. “Please, eat.”

  I exhaled in relief and picked up my fork.

  Van smiled in approval.

  Mom finally ducked out of the refrigerator and said, “You know what? I was in such a rush I completely forgot to buy fruit. You said you wanted strawberries and peaches, didn’t you?”

  She gave Van a plaintive look and he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her into a gentle hug. He kissed the top of her head. “No worries, Angie. We can have fruit tarts some other morning.”

  “Is that really what you were going to make? Fruit tarts?” she looked up at him, her head tilted.

  “Yeah,” he grinned. “Next time, I promise.”

  She blinked back at him, saying nothing.

  I took a bite of my omelet and watched mom carefully. She was way off her game. I mean, she hadn’t even flirted once since she’d stepped into the kitchen. And what was with the way she was staring at him while he went on and on about fruit tarts or whatever?

  It was like she was actually …

  I paused mid-bite, my eyes widening as I stared at mom. Her hands folded in front of her, she stood very still, watching Van point to one of the cartons of grits and explain something, a shy and hopeful look in her eyes.

  … my mom wasn’t acting. For once, she was being the awkward and slightly shy woman that she actually was.

  My mouth fell open as I looked from Mom to Van.

  She legitimately liked this guy.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, I woke up to an empty house.

  Mom and Van had left around 8 last night, Mom whispering not to expect her back until this evening and telling me to text her as soon as I stepped foot on the school bus.

  I knew most kids my age would kill for a nice, two-story house all to themselves on a Wednesday morning. But as I grabbed my school bag and hurried down the stairs, the house felt so quiet it was ominous and I wished to God I wasn’t alone.

  I’d never told my mom, because she would kill me, but one of the things I really wanted by the time I was her age was a big family. In fact, I’d never actually shared that fun fact with anyone. I guess because I knew how dumb it sounded coming from me.

  My entire life was proof of the fact that you can’t trust anyone- especially the people who you have str
ong feelings for. They’re usually the ones who cut you the deepest. After all, look at what my mother did for a living. She made men fall in love with her, and then she stole their money. Lesson: Trust no one.

  And the examples didn’t stop there. There was also the example of what my father did to her. He’d abused her behind closed doors and then he’d up and abandoned us both- leaving us destitute. Lesson: Trust no one.

  I knew that. I knew that with every neuron in my brain. But my heart was a completely different story. Despite everything, I still dreamed of one day having a home full of kids who I’d made with some guy who I’d trust enough to be my husband. And when it came to kids, I wasn’t even sure how many I wanted… okay, yes I was. At least five. That’s right, I wanted five kids, a husband, and a freaking dog.

  My mom would have shaken her head in disappointment if she knew, but I knew that I didn’t want to live in huge lonely house by the time I was her age. What could be worse than that?

  I reached into my pocket and glanced at the time on my phone.

  6:48 am.

  I needed to be at the bus stop in exactly two minutes. And I still hadn’t eaten breakfast or packed my lunch. There was no time for either.

  Cursing under my breath, I glanced forlornly at our refrigerator and raced to the back door.

  I stepped outside, locked the door behind me and the loud sound of a car horn nearly made me jump out of my skin.

  As it sounded again, I turned around and Kimberly’s white Range Rover sad idling in front of our house. The passenger window was lowered and I saw her waving. She shouted something, but was too far away for me to hear her.

  I grinned and rolled my eyes, wondering what my crazy new friend was doing at my house at ten minutes to seven in the morning.

  Nearly skipping down the driveway towards her, I leaned against the passenger door and smiled, “What are you doing here, weirdo?”

  She flashed me a bright smile and pointed to a Starbucks cup and bag that were stashed in the cup holder. “These are for you, I’m kidnapping you this morning.”

  My grin widened. “Awesome! I love getting kidnapped!”