Page 11 of Juliet's Echo

Baby girl had just crossed a line.

And we all knew it.

Juliet Simone Everette was seconds away from making history—about to be the first little Black girl to get her ass whooped before the first day of kindergarten.

Before my mother could snatch her little ass up, my father’s and Zion’s court instincts kicked in. Zion hit my mother with a Jason Williams–type elbow pass, using his elbow to redirect Juliet backward right into my father’s arms.

Juliet’s face had terror written all over it.

She knew she fucked up.

“Aye, Muffin,” my father called out to my mother, catching Juliet smoothly like it was part of the play. “Let’s all calm down and remember the game plan.”

“Go away, Mommy,” Juliet signed, shrinking slightly into my father’s chest, her hands moving slower now, cautious.

“Aye, damnit—now if you don’t stop, imma let her whoop your little ass,” my father said to Ju-Ju, laughing, trying to lighten it before it went too far.

“You better do something with her,” my mother snapped, pointing her index finger directly at Juliet, her patience hanging on by a thread.

“I want to come along Ma, the meeting is set for early this afternoon.” “Besides, first days at kindergarten only happen once,” I said as I signed and winked at Juliet. When both of my girls let out a smile that seemed to allow the warm rays of the sun into the room, I knew all was well.

“Well, fine—everyone sit down and eat,” my mother instructed.

The breakfast spread stationed across from the dining table looked more like a themed catered event than a regular morningstart. Grits, steak, eggs, French toast, and plump fruits all rested in expensive serving bowls and plates. Exotic flowers and smoke from dry ice adorned every open space, leaving not an inch of the setup uncovered.

Our family’s personal chef did this type of luxury dining for us twice daily. Whatever you ate in between was your business, but Olivia Everette made sure her family had a proper breakfast and dinner every single day.

“Mylo, say grace,” she instructed.

We all bowed our heads—but in true Everette fashion, nobody closed their eyes. That was a rookie mistake. Someone was always plotting. You might open your eyes and your plate would be gone, your juice halfway finished, or worse. One time, Thing One and Thing Two managed to put a dead squirrel on the table.

Nobody was safe that day.

My mother whooped everybody’s ass.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” Mylo started.

“Thank you for allowing us to wake up this morning and sit amongst each other with this delicious food on our table, we ask—”

“And thank you, Father God,” Zion cut in smoothly, not even trying to whisper, “for not letting Mommy lump Juliet’s ass up like Tommy ‘The Hitman’ Hearns did Martin on that episode. Because, respectfully, we all saw how that was about to go down.”

The table shook with suppressed laughter.

“Aye, little nigga, watch your damn mouth when talking to the Lord. Where the fuck you get your behavior from?” my father snapped, tossing a cloth napkin at Zion.

Zion caught it midair as if he expected it.

I glanced over at Juliet.

Her small hands moved slowly this time, careful, sincere.

“Sorry, Mommy,” she signed.

My mother looked at her, and her whole energy softened. She winked, placing her hand gently over Juliet’s smaller ones before signing back,

“I forgive you, baby girl.”

Then she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead.