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.
Natasha opens her mouth to say something but closes it again. I can see her deflate. “Okay, Mom,” she says, letting go of whatever she was going to say. I wonder how many times she’s done that for her mother.
I think that’s going to be the end of it, but I’m wrong.
“No, man,” her dad says. “No, man. Me want hear what she have to say to me.” He widens his stance and folds his arms across his chest.
Natasha does the same thing and they square off, mirror images of each other.
I WOULD’VE LET IT GO for my mom. I always do. Just last night she said that the four of us had to be a united front.
“It going be hard at first,” she’d said. We are going to have to live with her mother until we have enough money to rent our own place. “I never think me life would come to this,” she said before she went to bed.
I would’ve let it go if I hadn’t met Daniel. If he hadn’t increased by a very significant one the number of things I’d be losing today. I would’ve let it go if my father weren’t using his thick and forced Jamaican accent again. It’s just another act. To hear him you would think he’d never left Jamaica, that the past nine years never happened. He really does think our lives are make-believe. I’m sick of him pretending.