I smile into his chest. My ponytail poet boy. I never before thought that not caring could be a revolutionary act.
We turn off the main drag onto a more residential street. I’m still trying to see the neighborhood as Daniel does. We pass by rows of adjoined clapboard houses. They’re small and aging but colorful and well-loved. The porches seem more overpopulated with knickknacks and hanging plants than I remember.
There was a time when my mom desperately wanted one of these houses. Earlier this year, before this mess began, she even took Peter and me to an open house. It had three bedrooms and a spacious kitchen. It had a basement she thought she could sublet for extra income. Because he adores our mother and knew we could never afford it, Peter pretended not to like it. He nitpicked.
“The backyard is too small and all the plants are dead,” he’d said. He stayed close to her side, and when we left she was not any sadder than when we went in.
We walk by another block of similar houses before the neighborhood changes again and we’re surrounded by mostly brick apartment buildings. These are not condos but rentals.
I issue a warning to Daniel. “It’s a mess from all the packing.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding.
“And it’s small.” I don’t mention that there’s only one bedroom. He’ll see soon enough. Besides, it’s only my home for a few hours more.
The little girls from apartment 2C are sitting on the front steps when we arrive. Daniel’s presence makes them shy. They duck their heads and don’t chatter at me like they normally do. I stop by the row of metal mailboxes that hang on the wall. We have no mail, just a Chinese take-out menu wedged into the door. It’s from my dad’s favorite place, the same one he ordered from when he gave us the tickets for his play.
Someone’s always cooking something, and the lobby smells delicious: butter and onion and curry and other spices. My apartment’s on the third floor, so I take us to the stairs. As usual, the light for the first-and second-floor stairwell is broken. We end up walking silently in the dark until we get to the third floor.
“This is it,” I say, when we’re finally standing in front of 3A. In some ways it’s much too early to introduce Daniel to my house and family. If we had more time, then he’d already know all my little anecdotes. He’d know about the curtain in the living room that separates Peter’s “room” from mine. He’d know that my star map is my most prized possession. He’d know that if my mom offers him something to eat, he should just take it and eat the whole thing no matter how full he is.
I don’t know how to relay all that history. Instead, I tell him again: “It’s messy in there.”
It’s a weird kind of dissonance, seeing him stand here in front of my door. He fits and doesn’t fit at the same time. I’ve always known him, and we’ve only just met.
Our history is too compressed. We’re trying to fit a lifetime into a day.
“Should I take my jacket off?” he asks. “I feel like an idiot in this suit.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” I say.
“I’m going to meet your parents. Now’s as good a time to be nervous as any.” He unbuttons the jacket but doesn’t take it off.
I touch the bruise on his lip. “The good thing is, you can screw up all you want. You’ll probably never see them again.”
He gives a small, sad smile. I’m just trying to make the best of our situation, and he knows it.
I take the key from my backpack and open the door.
All the lights are on and Peter’s playing dance hall reggae much too loud. I can feel the beat in my chest. Three packed suitcases lie just inside the door. Another two lie open off to the side.
I spot my mom right away. “Turn that music off,” she says to Peter when she sees me. He does, and the sudden silence is acute.
She turns to me. “Lawd, Tasha. I been calling and calling you for—”
It takes her a second to notice Daniel. When she does, she stops talking and looks back and forth between us for a long time.
“Who this?” she asks.
NATASHA INTRODUCES me to her mom.
“He’s a friend of mine,” she says. I’m fairly certain I heard a hesitation before friend. Her mom heard it too, and now she’s studying me like I’m an alien bug.
“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mrs. Kingsley.” I hold out my hand for a shake.
She gives Natasha a look (the how could you do this to me? variety), but then wipes her palm down the side of her dress and gives me a brief shake and a briefer smile.
Natasha moves us from the little hallway where we’re clustered into the living room. At least, I think it’s a living room. A bright blue cloth is crumpled on the floor, and a length of string bisects the room. Then I notice there’s two of everything—sofa bed, chest of drawers, desk. This is their bedroom. She shares it with Peter. When Natasha said their apartment was small, I didn’t realize she meant they were poor.
There’s still so much I don’t know about her.
Her brother walks over to me, hand outstretched and smiling. He has dreadlocks and one of the friendliest faces I’ve ever seen.
“Tasha’s never brought a guy here before,” he says. His infectious smile gets even bigger.
I grin back at him and shake his hand. Both Natasha and her mom watch us openly.
“Tasha, I need to talk to you,” her mom says.
Natasha doesn’t take her eyes off Peter and me. I wonder if she’s imagining a future where we become friends. I know I am.
She turns to face her mom. “Is it about Daniel?” she asks.
Her mom’s now-pursed lips could not get any pursier (yes, pursier).
“Tasha—” Even I can hear the Mom is about to get pissed off warning in her tone, but Natasha just ignores it.
“Because if it is about Daniel, we can just do it right here. He’s my boyfriend.” She sneaks a quick questioning glance at me, and I nod.
Her dad walks through the doorway across from us at just that second.
Due to Anomaly in the Space-Time Continuum, Area Dads Have Perfect Timing All Day
“Boyfriend?” he says. “Since when you have boyfriend?”
I turn and study him. Now I’ve got the answer to my question of who Natasha looks like. She’s basically her dad, except in beautiful girl form.
And without the scowl. I’ve never seen a deeper scowl than the scowl that exists on his face right now.
His Jamaican accent is thick, and I process the words a little after he says them. “That what you been doing all day instead of helping you family pack up?” he demands, moving farther into the room.
Aside from the little Natasha has told me, I don’t really know the history of their relationship, but I can see it on her face now. Anger is there, and hurt, and disbelief. Still, the peacekeeper in me doesn’t want to see them fight. I touch my hand to the small of her back.
“I’m okay,” she says to me quietly. I can tell she’s steeling herself for something.
She squares herself to him. “No. What I was doing all day was trying to fix your mistakes. I was trying to prevent our family from being kicked out of the country.”
“It don’t look nothing like that to me,” he retorts. He turns to me, scowl deepening. “You know the situation?”
I’m too surprised that he’s talking to me to answer, so I just nod.
“Then you know that now not no time for strangers to be here,” he says.
Natasha’s spine stiffens under my hand. “He’s not a stranger,” she says. “He’s my guest.”
“And this is my house.” He straightens himself as he says it.
“Your house?” Her voice is loud and incredulous now. Whatever restraint she had before is slipping away quickly. She walks to the center of the living room, holds her arms open wide and turns a circle.
“This apartment that we’ve lived in for nine years, because you think your ship is going to come sailing in any day now, is your house?”
“Baby. Not no point in rehashing all this now,” her mom says from her place in the doorway.