If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (8 page)

I grimace, remembering the gory details of it, before knocking on Pops’ solid oak office door.

“Come in, son.”

And as soon as I enter and see the look in my father’s eyes, I know, all the way to the marrow of my bones that I’m not gonna like the shit he’s about to say. “Hey, what’s up? Dreads said you needed to see me.”

Without breaking eye contact, or even changing the expression of slight boredom that marred his face, he spoke in his usual, no-nonsense tone. “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this shit, Jacques.”

Shit. Exactly.

I make myself comfortable after sitting in the seat across from him behind his desk. After resting my left ankle on my right knee, I run my hands down the front of my worn out jeans and then single my attention on my father. “Alright, I’m sitting. Now cut to the chase. What’s going on, Pops?”

And when he finally answers, it also answers another nagging question I’ve been subconsciously asking myself about the impending tragedy or the fate full of doom for the club I’ve been sensing ahead. “It seems your cousin has decided to swing by on his impromptu ride along the east coast with some brothers from a few of the chapters supporting your unc. And their ETA is tomorrow night.”

Like I said,
shit. Exactly.

It didn’t take long for life with Grammy to get started, and it took even less time for it to feel familiar. It’s funny how some things like that in life just work out, isn’t it? I wasn’t as far behind in my schooling as I would’ve been either, had I not filled my long days and even longer nights studying while I was in juvy.
Constantly.

What? It’s not like I’m going to work out or try to get buff. Juvy freaking sucks, and if you’re in it for the something really big, like, I dunno, stealing two grand? It sucks for what feels like
forever!

After I tie my Chucks, I grab my bag and sunglasses before heading out my bedroom door. And before I can even get fully into the living room, which is the room between the rest of the house and the kitchen, I smell coffee and bacon. A smile slips on my face just before turning the corner and walking into the kitchen to find Grammy mid-flip with her pancake.

“Mornin’, Grams. Whatcha cookin’?” I ask between pecking her on the cheek and swiping a piece of bacon.

Her response is to swat me on the behind with the dish towel she had draped over her left shoulder. “Pancakes, and there’s some orange juice in the fridge, sweetie.” Grammy doesn’t like me drinking coffee.

She actually doesn’t like me doing anything
adult-like;
and any
adult-like
behaviors I have are ones I picked up in juvy. It’s funny when everything is stripped away how important the basics become. Basics like coffee, a good cigarette, or a good muttered profanity
here and there. And it’s odd, because now thinking back on it, I don’t know exactly when these new habits of mine initially developed, only that it happened when I was under the good care of the State of New York.

“Just some coffee, Grammy. Thanks though.” After pouring straight black coffee up to the rim of my coffee thermos, I screw on the lid, swipe a pancake and wink at her. “Lauryn’ll be here in a minute. I’m running late.” I grab my school bag and toss it over the same shoulder holding my other bag, and wave over my shoulder at her. “Love you, Grammy! See you after work tonight.” Then head on out the front door.

I hold off on lighting my cigarette until I’m around the corner, and once the thick smoke fills my lungs, my nerves ease and I glance back over my shoulder towards the house. I don’t keep it from Grams that I still smoke, but I don’t like doing it in her presence, either.  Grammy’s new house isn’t
much, by any means. But when she sold hers in Miami, she did so as quickly as she could as soon as she found out where I was. And unfortunately when someone sells a house in that much of a hurry, nine times out of ten, it works out in the buyer’s favor—not the seller’s. So she didn’t get near what she should have for her little bungalow on the beach. And that put us with very little to put down on a house when we started looking.

My poor grammy went from a three bedroom, two bath loft bungalow directly on the beach in a little town outside Miami, to a two bedroom, one bath house in Jamaica, New York.

That’s a lot to give up for a kid like me. A lot. A lot more than anyone else has ever given up.

When I reach the end of Ty’s driveway, I shove my right hand in my pocket and grasp my flip phone before pulling it out. After struggling through the keys and texting ‘I’m here’ I flip it closed and shove it back into my pocket before glancing up and down the street, looking for Lauryn and her black little Volkswagen Bug. When I don’t see any sign of her, I step forward off the sidewalk and closer to Ty’s house, and continue puffing on my smoke between sips of black coffee, waiting on my friends to show up.

From what I could gather about my mom from Grammy, which wasn’t much, Mom’s been struggling much more than she ever let on any time we spoke before all this happened. And all that time I’d spent waiting. Waiting on her, on her life, on her job that always seemed just on the damn horizon. All that bullshit was just glitter and rainbow dust she was blowing up my ass. Right along with the tooth fairy, and fucking Santa Claus. And that
bitch-ass
egg laying bunny.

Everything she’d told me was a lie. She was nowhere closer to getting her shit together enough for the State of New York to grant her joint—
JOINT
—custody over Eden, much less getting full custody of me back from the State of Chicago.
Where she left me.

It’s funny how that fact never even dawned on me at nine, ten, or hell—fourteen. We were staying in Chicago when all this happened. Briefly, yes. And the original plan, I remember,
was
that we were still in the process of moving. I just didn’t know where to, really. ‘Cause I didn’t live there yet. But the bottom line is, Mom still moved. She still left. Even though she
knew
I would be stuck there. Without her.

It’s funny that at nine, it never entered my mind how shitty that was.

I knew, or I had resolved in my interim of time during my stint on the
ugly
side of New York’s Child Protection Services, that my entire life had been one big fat lie. I’d resolved it, dealt with it, and tucked it away. And while that seemed, at the time, the right thing to do, I’m worried now that things are seemingly beginning to feel normal, that I didn’t spend enough time on those feelings and emotions before tucking them away. And now? Well, now...I’m too happy to fuck with it.

When Ty steps off his front stoop, dressed to the nines as always, he cups his hand around his mouth before hollering, “Holla! Bae, say it. Say I look fine!” He beams before turning to showcase his latest design.

“Bae, of course you look fine. You’re Ty! Ty always looks FLY!” I laugh around blowing out the last drag of my cigarette and flick it in some bushes just as Lauryn’s little black Bug slides up along the curb next to Ty’s driveway.

Once I’ve called shotgun and Ty and I are piled into the car, we crank up the music and ride, making our way to school.

I met Lauryn and Ty on my first day at Robert H. Goddard High after me and Grams got settled into our place on Rau Street. They were both in my first hour class and we all get out early for the same DECA program, that allows us to work half days instead of staying in school and completing our electives. Which really helps out, especially with the bills and stuff, like—girly stuff—that Grams doesn’t think of as a necessity anymore. Make-up. Tampons. Razors. Have you ever lived with an older person? What—do they just stop growing hair? Everywhere? Or is it just my grammy?

I guess that’s one good thing about getting old.

“So…” When Lauryn looks over her shoulder at me from the driver’s side of the car, I furrow my brows and single my attention on her. My eyes narrow to points by the time she pulls into a parking spot at school, and when she turns around with that same mischievous grin on her face, I call her out.

“So…what? What’s that tone and look for, sister? I didn’t do anything.” After my bags are shouldered, I hook my arm around Ty’s and let him lead the way to class while I keep my attention on my devious friend. “Spit it out!” I yell when she just smirks instead of speaking.

“No, it’s not anything you did. It’s what you’re going to do. There’s a party this weekend.” When I see her begin to skip between her steps, I stop walking all together, and holding Ty with me, I plant my feet. And thankfully it doesn’t take him long to notice we’ve stopped. “L.” That’s what I call Lauryn by the way. That’s my nickname for her. “It’s gonna have to be some covert shit if you’re wanting me to attend a party. Grams won’t let me out of the house after the stunt we pulled the last time I spent the night with you. No. Way. In. Hell. And you threw me under the bus!” I remind her. And she did. I’ve never seen someone sing like a canary so damn fast. She didn’t even
try
to think of a story. Nope, she just blurted out our entire plan, while Ty and I just stood there with our mouths hanging wide open.

Was it my idea to sneak out and go to a club using some fake IDs, Joey, a kid in my AP Chemistry class made for us if I went out with him on a few dates? Yes. It was. As was it my idea for all of us to say we were staying at Lauryn’s, when in reality we were sneaking out and staying in a motel in Brooklyn with some other friends? Umm...yeah. But her parents didn’t need to know that! None of our parents did!

“Oh my God, you hold onto
everything
! Sheesh! Learn to let shit go! Okay, fine—don’t go,” she says as she now blatantly skips to her desk when we enter English, our first hour class. She finishes as she sits in the desk behind Ty’s and next to mine. “But when Brad asks who he’s supposed to dance with, because you’re not there, don’t be mad when I step in. Can’t hate a girl for trying…” Her words are left trailing off and I growl under my breath at her as I slide into my desk.

I couldn’t go even if I wanted to. I know what party she’s talking about; it’s the same party everyone’s been talking about. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not going. And who gives a crap about Brad? Brad can go blow a horse for all I care. Or Lauryn. L knows I’m not interested. No matter how interested he makes it known he is about me.

“I can’t anyway, L. I’ve got that thing this weekend with my mom. In Jersey, remember?” I whisper as the teacher begins speaking to the class.

When she remembers me telling her about the stupid shit Grammy and the State of New York are making me do next weekend, empathy crosses her face and her mouth makes an ‘O’. “Sorry, babe. I forgot. That’s this weekend?” she whines and I sadly smile before nodding.

I don’t talk about my mother or my sister much. Actually, I’m pretty sure Ty and Lauryn thought the only family I had was Grams until just a few weeks ago. I was pissed as hell when I found the letter on the kitchen table that night.

My eyes stung from the tears so bad, I couldn’t tell if it was the pain from them, or the pain in my heart when Grams walked in and found me crying around trying to finish reading the letter.

“She doesn’t even want me. She’s never wanted me, Grams. Why is she doing this now? I’m sixteen and a half. Can’t she just wait another eighteen months? She’s waited this long!” Okay—it was probably the pain. The pain and the hurt that accompanies being a daughter to someone who doesn’t want them. Hurts like something pretty fucking wicked, I can tell you that. And I can also tell you that I can’t fucking wait be eighteen. I can’t wait to be old enough in the eyes of society to not give a shit if I’m alone. Being an adult is awesome!