21
PATIENCE
M
eka whipped what Patience assumed was a borrowed car into Trill's driveway and began to drive the long stretch to the house. Music blasted throughout the luxury ride, sounding as crisp as the songs in the studio. Patience sat in her seat fighting a surfacing smile. She'd done the impossible again. She managed to sneak out of the house, and had plenty of time to spend with Trill. Bishop had been called out on an emergency, her mother was at a weekend women's auxiliary, and her sisters Faith and Hope had no choice but to back her
Mission Impossible
act once she'd called in a favor to Meka.
“So you gonna be cool, right?” Meka asked, pressing her G-stack Louboutins on the accelerator. Meka had re-hood-named the shoes because they were priced at almost one thousand dollars after taxes. “I'm only gonna be a few minutes away, with my girl Santana, if you need me.”
Patience waved her hand. “I'm always cool with Trill. Besides, he told me to come anytime. Being his girl gives me an open-door policy.”
Meka brought the car to a stop. “Oh, I know all about open-door policies, that's why I'm asking if you're gonna be cool. I've walked in many open doors to find the wrong person sitting on the other side. He does know you're coming, right?”
Patience opened the car door and slid out.
“He better after the way he keeps calling and texting and begging. I was just over here the other day and the day after I metâ”
“Choir Boy. I know.” Meka laughed. Patience had caught Meka up on her whole life story, including Zion and the girl from the studio. “Make sure you text or call me fifteen minutes before you're ready to leave, and I'll be here. By the way, thanks for the new bag. You didn't have to give me anything to come get youâor to check Faith and Hope, with they better-than-everybody selves. And Studio Girl better watch it too!”
Patience walked up the rest of the driveway to the house. Before she could make it to the steps, Countess showed her coal-black face.
“Oh . . . I . . . Trill didn't know youâI mean didn't tell me you were coming over,” she stammered, clearly frazzled and nervous. “Come in, I'll go get Trill. He's . . . he'sâoh, never mind, just follow me to my office, please. I'll alert him that you're here.”
“Your office?” Patience didn't like the sound of Countess's voice or being treated like a business visitor. She'd been here plenty of times, and had been granted access to the house like she lived there. Now Countess was giving her the publicist demeanor? She pursed her lips and followed Countess through a door to the left of the foyer, a place Patience had overlooked the times she'd been there and had dismissed as a closet.
Papers were all over Countess's desk next to a coffee mug and computer, and a foot-high stack of files balanced on the corner it. Patience sat in the lone chair in front of the desk and wondered if she huffed and puffed could she make it fall down. A slight smile crept up on her then. The stack contained files of two kinds. Personal ones for her, Trill, T, and Teeny, which were all labeled in black capital letters, and business ones such as expenses, media, tours, and shows, which were marked in red lowercase letters. Then she noticed the one at the bottom of the pile, the one Trill must've had the most trouble with, the bright orange one,
DAMAGE CONTROL
. It was the only business file in caps.
“Oh . . . here,” Countess said, handing Patience an envelope. “Those are from Teeny. They're tickets to Trill's surprise birthday party T and Teeny are throwing him. And because of your new statusâfuture superstarâthey're all plus-ones.”
She smiled, but Patience could tell something was still wrong. Her cell phone buzzed, and Countess confirmed Patience's belief.
“One sec,” she stammered again, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
On the other side of the door, Patience could hear the low commotion of Countess's whispering orders and cursing in a hushed, angry tone. Footfalls, she assumed from Trill's flunkies and staff, sounded. All at once her stomach turned. Her gut was telling her something was very wrong. It was time she followed her instinct, she told herself, getting up from the chair and speed-walking through the door.
Amidst the rush of commotion, no one noticed her scour the house. Trill wasn't upstairs, downstairs, in the kitchen or backyard. She looked out the window at the pool house and thought she saw someone flash past at superhero speed. Patience knew that was where Trill was. No one had to verbally tell her; they were all speaking loud and clear once she bounded toward the back door.
“I asked you to wait in the office,” Countess said, appearing from somewhere.
“What's good, lil momma?” Big Dude asked, trying to block the door.
Patience sidestepped them both, and flattened the grass under her rushed, heavy footsteps. She made it to the pool house in no time, and pushed her way inside. There was a lesson on the other side of the door. She had competition. A serious opponent who was trying to invade her space had fled but left reminders of herself behind. Sweet perfume still filled the air, a tube of very pale, almost white, glittery silver lip gloss was on the table, and a pair of shoes were under it. Without having to guess, Patience knew who her runaway barefoot contender was. The girl at the studio.
“Hey, lil momma! Come give me some love,” Trill said, leaning against the wall in a pair of boxers, a wifebeater T-shirt, and house shoes.
Patience looked at him and only saw a red flash of pain. Countess ran into the room, then casually tried to slow her pace as if she hadn't just been hightailing it. Patience wished she could cut her in two with her eyes.
“Oh, I've been looking all over for my lip gloss.... I must've forgot it in here when I was taking a meeting,” she lied, nervously retrieving the makeup from the table.
“When did you start wearing makeup?” Patience asked to rattle Countess and let her know that she knew she was lying. “Let me see you put it on. It looks like your color.”
Countess looked at Trill, and he nodded. Reluctantly, she opened the cap and applied it. Against her coal-black skin, the almost-white silver gloss glittered on her lips looking like shimmering whiteout on black construction paper. Patience held up her cell phone and took a surprise picture of Countess.
“Beautiful,” Patience lied. “Don't forget your shoes.”
Countess's eyes stretched wider than Patience had ever seen. “Shoes? Oh. Oh. I must've forgot them too.”
“You have to put them on for me. Have to!” Patience looked at the shoes under the table, clearly toddler small compared to Countess's super-sized feet.
“Ohhh,” Countess gasped, following Patience's eyes to the ultra-high loud-pink heels. “I don't think I can wear those.... I mean, my feet are swollen. I don't think I can possibly get in those
now
.”
Patience looked down at Countess's feet. She was already wearing high heels, and her feet were as slender as ever.
“You know what . . .” Patience looked at Trill, then at Countess. “You can't wear those because they aren't yours!”
She went to the table, snatched the shoes from under it, looked inside the shoe, and held them out to Countess. “You can't and never will be able to wear a six! You have to be an eleven at least.”
She turned to Trill, and started walking toward him. Inches away from him, she ran her face alongside his and sniffed.
“Maybe they're yours?”
“Come on, lil momma . . .”
“You still smell like her.” Patience threw the shoes at him and bounded out of the pool house. She ran the entire length of the driveway, calling Zion as she did.
“Patience. I was just thinking about you,” he answered, happy to hear from her.
“Zion, can you pick me up . . . or have me picked up from Trill's? I really, really need a friend right now.”
22
SANTANA
S
antana rifled through her closet, under her bed, and everywhere else she could think of. The more she searched, the angrier she became. For the life of her, she couldn't find one of her boosting bags, and she badly needed to. She was officially done with Pharaoh, and was sure that everyone knew it by now, so she had a point to make. She needed to be the flyest girl in the party, and she couldn't wear anything she'd been seen in before. Her life had changed for the better, and she wanted to look like it.
Now . . .
She put her hands on her hips.
Where are my bags?
She had shopping to doâthings she needed to “pick up.” She knew it was risky after Meka had gotten caught, but what else could she do? She screamed at the top of her lungs, stomped her feet, and gave in to her hissy fit.
“What is it?” Craig bounded through her door. “Everything all right?”
Santana looked at him with spoiled-girl tears in her eyes. “My purses are gone! My Louis, Gucci, Chanel, Prada . . . gone. What am I going to . . .”
“I threw them away.”
“. . . do now? I have a party to go to.” She hadn't heard Craig because she was too busy complaining.
He put his hands in his pocket, then raised his eyebrows. He exhaled. “I know you're not going to like this, but I threw them in the trash.”
Now she jumped up and down because she didn't know what else to do.
“Why?”
Craig smiled. “Because you're my daughter nowâstepdaughterâand I don't want you walking around here with fake bags. You don't need a purse if you can't carry the real thing. That's ridiculous, and the girls who do it look like it too. Like no one can tell that their purses are fake.”
All she could do was stare at him. He had a point, but she didn't care. She didn't need her purses to impress anyone. She needed her bags so she could go boost her an outfit. And she needed one five minutes ago. Meka was due to pick her up any second.
“If you go look in the trunk of my car, you'll find new pursesâreal designer ones with certificates that you can register.”
Now she was torn. Craig had just ruined her “shopping” plans, but had upgraded her bag collection. She couldn't be mad at him for wanting the best for her.
“So what am I going to do about shopping?”
He crinkled his brows. “What does shopping have to do with purses . . . ?” He held up his hand, then shook his head. “Don't tell me. . . . never mind. I don't even want to believe that you were out doing the same thing as your friend Meka.” He pulled his billfold out of his wallet, and handed her a credit card.
“Look,” he said, pointing in her face. “You better not tell your mom that I'm giving you thisâshe'd kill me.” He bent forward and whispered in her ear, then stood up like he hadn't said anything. “Don't go a penny over, either. Not one cent.”
Santana smiled. With the credit line he'd just given her, she could buy a fantastic outfit with designer shoes to match. She only hoped one of the bags he had in his trunk would match.
Meka had her game face on when she whipped the car into traffic. Santana could tell by her expression that she was in true booster's mode; she was a tad bit excited, a dash of nervous, and definitely a little scared of the possibility of being caught.
“Did you put your bag in the trunk? I didn't see you put it in the backseat.”
Santana shook her head. “Craig threw them away because they were fake.”
“What?” Meka almost crashed, then caught control of the car. “He did what?”
Santana reached into her pocket and pulled out the credit card. “But he gave me this to buy my outfit!”
Relief washed over Meka's face. “Girl, good. 'Cause I didn't feel like stealing anyway. After I got caught, I swore I was out of the game. And I would've been too, if I didn't think you needed me to help you get ready for this party. Plus, City's helping me out. I'm going to help him with putting some of his designs together. Me, him, and his fam Dynasty that he introduced us to, we're getting ready to do big things!”
Santana was happy for Meka. She'd finally met someone who really cared about her, had decided to stop boosting. There was only one thing left.
“So maybe you'll go back to school too?”
Meka looked at her like she was crazy. “Don't insult me like that. You know I'm a professional dropout. So where you want to head to first?”
“Phipps, but can you take me by Gulliver's first. There's something there I need to get.”
Â
She was nervous when she walked up on his porch and rang the bell. The unusually quiet street gave her too much time to wrestle with her thoughts, and she swore she could hear her heart beating.
“Santana! I didn't know you were coming by. What's up?” Gulliver asked, walking out on the porch wearing his usual college-boy gear.
“I'm going shopping. . . .”
He nodded. “Okay. What's new?”
“I'm going to pay for my things, not boost them,” she remarked proudly.
A goofy smile lit up Gulliver's eyes. “Good for you. I'm proud of you. You're growing up.”
She wilted her head and looked at her feet.
“So . . .” Gulliver asked. “You seem nervous.”
Santana regained her fire. “Look Gulliver. I came over here to get something, and I'm not leaving without it.”
His eyes bulged. “Okay. Tell me what it is, and I'm sure you can have it.”
“A date. I want you to be my date for the party.”