Page 30 of Score
The food kitchen my mother started. So many things at Hope Christian Center exist because of Mama’s creativity and her compassion. God knows that choir would be nothing without all the hard work she put in over the years. I don’t comment because I don’t want to argue on Thanksgiving. Every conversation we have about all my mother left behind and my father got to keep turns into an argument. She doesn’t exactly defend him, but she won’t drag him, which is exactly what I want to do. She has more reason to be angry and resentful than anyone in the scandalous shit show my father’s infidelity caused, yet she has been the most gracious.
The living room door of Mama’s small apartment flies open, and my brother and sister burst through, looking harried and almost like twins, though Charlie is older than I am and Shrieva is younger. They take after my mother, and I, unfortunately, bear a striking resemblance to my father. Every morning the mirror reminds me of the man I can’t forgive for destroying our lives.
“Sorry we’re late,” Shrieva says, plopping down into one of the two empty seats at the table. “Kitchen ran over.”
“Oh,” Mama says, her smile tight. “Good turnout this year?”
“More than we’ve ever had,” Charlie says, reaching for the corn bread before his butt even hits the seat. “Felicia’s really built that program up.”
Mama’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth at the mention of my father’s new girlfriend, maybe soon-to-be wife.
“Shoot,” Charlie says, his eyes concerned at our mother’s reaction. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to—”
“Baby, it’s fine.” Mama reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “It’s good the program is growing. Means more folks are getting fed. That’s what’s important.”
I glare at my brother as soon as Mama lowers her head and resumes eating.
Sorry, he mouths silently, shrugging.
Shrieva rolls her eyes and shoves a forkful of collard greens into her mouth. We fall into a strained silence, only broken by the scrape and drag of silverware across plates and the occasional slurp of sweet tea.
“So tell us about this new girl you got, Monk,” Mama says, that stiff smile I hate firmly fixed in place.
“What girl?” Shrieva asks, her head swinging around to study me more closely. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”
“Guess it didn’t come up in our weekly phone calls,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. “When was the last time we talked?”
“Is it my fault you stopped calling?” she fires back. “Stopped answering your phone?”
“If your whole life didn’t revolve around that church,” I say, “maybe we’d have more to talk about.”
“Maybe if you talked about something other than music and school,” Charlie interjects.
“I’m a college student,” I say dryly. “I talk about college shit.”
“Monk,” Mama chides. “Don’t cuss at my table.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, but lift a brow at my brother. “It’s not too late for you to go to college.”
“I’m happy at Hope,” Charlie says flatly. “If you came visit sometimes, you’d see what good work we’re doing.”
I snort my skepticism, but out of respect for Mama, drop the subject.
“So,” Shrieva tries again. “This new girl. What’s her name?”
I drag my fork through the mac and cheese, an involuntary smile working its way onto my face at the thought of her. “Verity.”
“Tell us about her, son,” Mama says, sitting back in her chair and giving me her full attention.
I shrug. “She’s a junior. Film major. Terrific writer.”
“You got a picture?” Shrieva asks around a mouthful of food.
“Yeah.” I retrieve my phone and scroll through my photos to find one of us together. “Here.”
It’s a selfie I took recently, a few days before Thanksgiving break. It wasn’t too cool outside and we had spread a quilt on the grass in the arboretum. Verity is sitting between my knees, leaned back on my chest, a copy ofThe Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanniopen on her stomach. Her full lips are curved into the sweetest smile, but the secret mischief I love dances in her eyes. A bouquet of curls is gathered on her head and spills over her brows, a few tendrils escaping around her ears. She looks soft and freshly kissed. I look… wow. Besotted.
The picture doesn’t lie.
