Sweet 16 to Life (10 page)

T
he smell of smoke is still in the house, but not as heavy as I had expected. I'm dying to see what the kitchen looks like, whether I was right about how far the fire had spread and how close the damage got to the basement door. Mostly I just want to check out the downstairs because I'm certain whatever confession MJ is about to make has something to do with her recent obsession with said basement. But MJ doesn't invite me to the kitchen when she goes for something to drink, so I wait in the living room.

“What I'm about to tell you can't get back to your mother,” MJ says when she returns, handing me a glass of something purple. I take a sip—grape Kool-Aid. I guess Eddie was right.

“But what if she can help?”

“Promise me, Chanti.”

I do, at least that's what I tell her, but some promises have to be broken and I know this will probably be one of them.

“You were right about our gang tats and me knowing Lux when I was still in California. He's my old gang brother; he and my ex are real brothers.”

“That's violating your probation,” I say.

“You think I don't know that? Believe me, when Lux showed up here a couple of weeks ago, I told him to get the hell off my porch, that he was looking for trouble if he was looking for me.”

Before a few minutes ago, I would have believed all this tough talk from MJ—the girl is seriously badass. But after seeing her looking so afraid of Lux just now, somehow I don't imagine that's how their initial conversation really went down, but I don't interrupt.

“Then he tells me unless I want to make my recent birthday my last, I'd better shut up and listen to what he had to say.”

“He threatened to kill you?”

“In so many words. He already blames me for his brother having to serve twelve years for armed robbery, like that was my fault. Now Lux is saying I'm the reason our old gang leader got his third strike and a life sentence, and if I don't do exactly what he tells me, he'll tell Tragic everything.”

“Tragic? That's the gang leader's name?”

“Yeah, and if he finds out I'm the snitch who put him in jail, Lux is right. I'll be dead before the week is out.”

I'm shocked. MJ once came close to letting me get killed to avoid being a snitch, but at the last minute, saved me.

“MJ, I can't imagine you narcing on a guy you know would kill you if he found out. I'm guessing if dude's earned a name like Tragic, he's not one to mess with.”

“You ain't never lied. But it must have happened. I ain't even sure when I did it or what I said or who I said it to, but Lux claims he has proof.”

“Let's come back to that in a minute. So what's he making you do in return for your silence?”

“He brought a box over and told me to store it here—”

“In the basement?”

“Right. That's why I was stressing about the basement when the fire started.”

Like she's stressing right this minute, pacing across the living room floor ever since she came back with the Kool-Aid.

“What's in the box?”

“He didn't tell me and I didn't ask. Must be something he don't want anyone to know about, including me.”

“You didn't open it to find out?”

“Hell no,” MJ says, giving me a threatening look. “And you won't be opening it, either.”

“How's Lux gonna know we opened it?”

“He has the box sealed up in a way that he'll know. He says if I open it, I won't have to wait on retaliation from Tragic to see my last day on earth.”

MJ looks tired after telling me all of this, and drains her glass, probably as an excuse to go get a refill so she can try to shake off the confession. This is some serious ish and I'm pretty sure I'll be talking to Lana about it eventually, but not before I get as much information as I can. By the time MJ returns, I've come up with a few questions.

“So the day of the fire, why was he looking so happy that his loot was about to go up in flames?”

“I was surprised as hell when you told me that—didn't make no sense. I really thought I started the fire when I put those embers out there.”

“The fire
was
caused by the embers—I read the fire report,” I say, before realizing I was outing myself that I'd been snooping around. “I was convinced he was an arsonist so I had Lana pull the report, but she doesn't know anything about Lux. She believed the story I gave her and then I promised to stop playing detective so believe me, I didn't tell her anything about my suspicions.”

“That's good, except now I'm really messed up. I was beginning to think you were right about Lux starting it.”

“Why?”

“Back in the day, Tragic had an insurance scam going. Yeah, that's right—the Down Homes weren't just about drug-dealing and drive-bys,” MJ says, apparently reading the surprise on my face. “On the real, we didn't even do much of that stuff. Tragic was more into white-collar crimes, like insurance scams. Lux was his firestarter.”

“You mean—”

“You got it right. Lux really is an arsonist, which is why I began to think you might also be right about him starting the fire. But now you're telling me it was the embers, even though I'm pretty sure they were cold. Lux even asked me if they were cold yet.”

“Wait—he was here when you put them on the porch?”

“Yeah. He came by early to check on the box and I was in the middle of cleaning out the fireplace.”

“Kinda early in the morning for that.”

“Before I had to leave for work at the bodega, I was trying to get through the list of chores Big Mama gave me to do before she got back to town.”

“Lux saw you put the embers out there, which means he knew how to make it look like you started the fire accidentally. You didn't leave Lux here in the house when you left for the bodega, did you?”

“I ain't crazy. I wouldn't trust that snake in my grandmama's house. He left when I did.”

“So he came back, started the fire and I caught him in the act. Well, a few minutes after the act.”

“But the fire report said—”

“Yeah, and it also said the embers ignited a flammable substance. You didn't have bacon for breakfast this morning, did you?”

When I walked into the house, I smelled smoke but no bacon, even though the scent was strong this morning when I was out on the back porch snooping around.

“No, we haven't used the kitchen since the fire. Been eating out. Why does that even matter?”

I head for the kitchen, where I take a quick look around. Every grandmother I know has a grease can; they view pan drippings as liquid gold when it comes to cooking. Even can't-cook Lana has one, a gift from my own grandma.

“Where's Big Mama's grease can?”

“I know you ain't about to cook when I need help figuring out this Lux situation.”

“No, I'm just trying to confirm something. Go with me for a minute.”

“All right. It's usually on that counter right there.”

“You mean the empty counter?”

MJ goes to the fridge and starts looking through all the shelves. “Sometimes she keeps it in here, but I don't see it.”

“Because Lux took it that morning. That's the flammable substance the fire report is talking about. Your back porch smells like bacon grease even though y'all haven't cooked since Sunday.”

“Why grease? Wouldn't he just use gasoline like every other firestarter?”

“Ever seen a grease fire? Lux is good. He set fire to the kitchen wall, same wall that has the gas oven on it and the counter where the bacon grease sits. Firemen would notice the smell of gasoline, but the smell of bacon makes sense. If they even noticed it.”

“But how we know for sure it was Lux?”

“He didn't realize it was me, or I don't think he did, but he sat next to me in the bus shelter a couple of days ago and he must not have washed his hoodie because it reeked of smoke and bacon. At the time, I thought the scent was coming from Treets. But now I know better.”

MJ still looks a little skeptical.

“Then there's the lighter. You and Lux are the only Down Home gang members on this street as far as I know.”

“Excuse you.
Former
members.”

“Anyway, I found the lighter in Ada Crawford's yard right where he was standing that morning, jiggling his hands in his pocket like he was nervous or cold. The lighter probably fell out then.”

“Before he left a few minutes ago, Lux did ask if I'd found anything in the house or around the yard that didn't belong, but he wouldn't say what it was,” MJ says, looking at me and nodding.

“Our first instincts were right. The embers were probably cold when you put them out, but he added some fresh wood chips to the ash can, put down the bacon fat, and lit a fire. He was an arsonist for an insurance scammer. He knows how to make a fire report look the way he wants it to look. The question now is why.”

“That's what I don't get. He comes over here every other day to check on the box to make sure I haven't opened it, and whatever is in there must be something big if he brought it all the way here from California to hide.”

“It's got to be some kind of evidence,” I say, “something that will incriminate him either to the cops or to the Down Homes. That's probably why he's back in Denver—had to get out of L.A. and didn't feel safe leaving the box there.”

“So why not get rid of whatever it is in the first place? Why bring it to me to hide?”

“It must have some kind of value for him, enough to make him risk holding on to it. But now something's changed for him, making it more dangerous for him to hold on to whatever it is.”

“And he has to burn down Big Mama's house just to get rid of it? Why not just take the box and throw it in Cherry Creek reservoir or burn it out in a field somewhere?”

“Good question. Maybe someone's watching him. He knows it and he can't risk being seen taking the box out of the house.”

“Damn, Chanti—if you right, I'm in hella trouble. That means Tragic already got eyes on me.”

F
or hours, MJ and I brainstormed how to free her from this situation, but we came up empty. At least that's what I told MJ. I have a few ideas brewing, but I won't know which way to go without getting a look at what's inside that box. Until I manage that, all I can do is leave MJ with the promise that I'll think of something. She also made me swear I wouldn't tell Lana—and I don't plan to, at least not yet. I need some hard facts and a few solid theories before I talk to Lana. Right now I need to focus on the talk she promised we'd have at dinner tonight.

I don't want to give Lana any excuse to blow me off, so I make sure dinner is ready to go when she gets home. There's a rotisserie chicken from Safeway keeping warm in the oven, a bagged salad kit in the fridge, and some potatoes cleaned and ready to pop in the microwave. I even made cupcakes from a box mix. That's my version of a gourmet meal, and it's still tastier than just about anything Lana cooks. I also spent a couple of hours cleaning the house top to bottom, grateful for the time to burn off my MJ worry because I don't want Lana suspecting anything about anything or else I'll never hear the truth about my SD. Okay,
my father.
I guess if I'm about to finally learn the real story, warts and all, I'd better get used to saying that. I can't very well call him Sperm Donor when Lana finally answers one of his phone calls.

While I wait for Lana to get home, I want to read the fire report in full just in case I missed any other clues, but it isn't where I left it yesterday. I brave Lana's disaster area of an office and look for the manila folder that had the fire report, but there are about fifty folders all over her desk, the floor, pretty much any flat surface. I don't want to be all in her business, but I really want to read that report, so I look through a few folders figuring the fire report is probably on top of one of the piles. I've flipped through a few boring case folders when I land on one with my name on the papers inside.

It's the kind of stuff parents keep but you completely forget about, like my little handprints pressed onto construction paper in purple paint, and a blue ribbon from my third-grade science fair. Then I find my birth certificate, which I don't remember ever seeing. I read through the boxes on the form and learn I was born late at night. But it's the father's name box that makes me stop.
Unknown.

Unknown? How is that possible? I mean, clearly my mother was no prude when she was my age, but how can she not know who my father is?

Just then I hear her keys in the front door. I put the birth certificate into the folder, take it into the kitchen, and stick it between two cookbooks.

“Wow, Chanti, the place looks great and . . . what smells so good? I was planning to cook for you.”

“There's a chicken in the oven and I just put some potatoes in the mic,” I say, trying my best to sound like I'm not about to snap. “So we can get right to eating, starting with the salad.”

“Can I get out of my street clothes first?” Lana asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. I would have said,
N
o
, let's talk now
.

As she walks down the hall to her room, she asks me to open the bottle of wine she keeps in the fridge. This is going to be serious. Lana isn't much of a drinker, but she keeps a just-in-case bottle of white wine cold for when there's something to celebrate, she's having a really bad day, or a friend is coming over for dinner. Considering this bottle has been in the fridge a few months, and in that time we've been through some serious stuff, this conversation is going to be rough.

“So . . . maybe we should talk before dinner,” Lana says when she gets back to the kitchen. She drains the wineglass before we even sit at the table. “Okay, here it is. The reason I never mention your father, didn't want us to have anything to do with him, is because the last time I saw him, he was being arrested.”

It takes a second for it to sink in that the only thing that kept me from having a father all this time was an arrest record.

“That's it—he was arrested?
I've
been arrested. I mean, unless the charge was murder or something terrible.”

“It was for B and E.”

“
I
was arrested for breaking and entering. That's nothing—not enough to keep me away from him.”

“There was more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he was guilty and you weren't.”

“You don't know that for sure. He could have been set up just like I was.”

“He wasn't. Like I said—the last time I saw him he was being arrested.”

“Wait a minute—you were there?”

“I was ... after the fact.”

“So you didn't actually see him do it, whatever
it
is.”

“Chanti, he did it.”

“So what if he was guilty? Y'all were just kids. B and E for a minor is like, what—a year sentence, tops? I wouldn't even have been walking by the time he got out of jail. Look at MJ. Serving time doesn't mean you're bad forever. He could have gotten himself straight and . . .”

It occurs to me that even if he did go to jail, he's been out a long time and hasn't looked me up or anything. But since Lana's the one who's here, she gets my anger.

Lana gets up to refill her wineglass, then rejoins me at the table. So there's more.

“Why didn't he ever try to see me?”

“That's the part I've been afraid to tell you, Chanti. His going to jail became the least of it over time, and I just missed the right time to tell you and then I couldn't figure out how to make it right—”

“You're rambling, Mom. Just tell me.”

“He . . . your father doesn't know about you.”

“Doesn't know
what
about me.”

“Anything. I never told him I was pregnant.”

What? Is she kidding me?

“But you said you told him and he didn't want any part of having a baby. You said it worked out for the best that he ditched us.”

“I know. It wasn't just the B and E or the jail time. He really
was
bad news. I never lied about that. It was just best we didn't—”

“Stop. Just stop. Let me think for a minute.”

I get up from the table and start pacing around the kitchen, trying to make sense of her words. Lana just watches me, waiting. She isn't telling me something. There's more to it than a B and E. There has to be.

“What aren't you telling me? What does ‘bad news' mean, anyway? You're always saying that, but it tells me nothing. And would you even tell me the truth, anyway?” I say, pulling the folder from between the cookbooks and placing the birth certificate on the table in front of her. “It says my father is unknown. Is that true, or is everything you've told me so far a lie?”

“Of course I know who your father is. That . . . it was just easier to do it this way.”

“I wasn't even born yet when you decided I didn't need to know my father. I was just a plus sign on a pregnancy test stick. How do you get to decide that?”

“Chanti—”

“You know what? Forget it. You're just going to tell me more lies, anyway. I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

I leave her at the table, grab my bag and coat, and ignore her when she asks where I'm going as I slam the front door behind me. She's super cop. She'll figure it out.

I couldn't have told her where I was going anyway, because I have no idea. I only know I can't be within talking—or screaming—distance of my mother right now. I start by going across the street to Tasha's, only to have her dad tell me she's working at the movie theater tonight. I even go two doors down to Michelle's place, but her mom tells me she's on a date. Of course she is—it's Saturday night. Michelle would never be home, dateless, on a Saturday night. There's MJ, but she's got her own problems to deal with, so I just sit in Lana's car, parked in front of the house.

I know Lana watched me the whole time I was walking up and down Aurora Ave looking for someone to talk to, and that she's watching me now. The blinds on the front window close shut and a second later she steps onto the porch. I swear to God if she comes out here I'm running down to Center Street to catch the first bus that shows up. She must know I'm thinking something along those lines because she only gets as far as the top step before she turns and goes back into the house. I guess she'd rather me freeze in the car where she can see me than be somewhere else.

I surprise myself when I grab my phone from my bag.

“Hello?”

When I hear Marco's voice, I feel better before he even says another word.

“Do you have a second?”

“Yeah, what's going on? You sound—”

“It's my mom. She's making me crazy right now.”

“Tell me.”

And I do. I tell him about the conversation with my mom and the phone calls from my father who never knew I existed and everything that is making my life suck right now. The minute I finish, I wish I can take it all back. He already thinks I'm a drama queen; this will just confirm it.

“Better?” he asks. That's a good sign. He's still there—didn't hang up on the crazy girl.

“Yeah, better.”

“Where are you?”

“In front of my house, sitting in my mom's car. I can't go back in there yet.”

“Isn't it cold in the car?”

“No. Lana has all her surveil—I mean, she has a bunch of blankets and stuff in here. You know, winter driving preparedness and all that. I'm okay. Can we just talk for a few minutes?”

“We can talk for as long as you need. I can come there if you want.”

“That's okay. Just talking to you is enough.”

And it is—for nearly an hour, until his call waiting beeps.

“Damn,” Marco says. “I forgot about her.”

“Who? Oh no, did I keep you from something?”

“It's just um . . . well, I was going to see a movie with, um . . . Angelique and I was supposed to pick her up twenty minutes ago. Let me just tell her I can't make it.”

“No, you should go. I'm fine now, really. You'd better go or you'll miss her call.”

“That's okay. I'll call her right back.”

Angelique interrupts one more time with the last call-waiting beep, and we're both quiet for a second. I almost wish he'd clicked over. How do you gracefully end a call that started with you ranting about your mother?

“You sure I won't be reading about you and your mom in the news tomorrow?” Of course Marco knows what to say, and even manages to make me laugh.

“I'm not as mad at her as I was an hour ago, thanks to you. I'll be all right.”

“Okay, but call me if you need to. I'll keep my phone on vibrate at the movie.”

After we hang up, I sit in Lana's car a few more minutes, soaking in the crazy that is my life. First, I need to help out a friend who is being extorted and threatened by some seriously dangerous people. Next, the one person on the planet I thought I could trust with anything just told me she's been hiding the biggest lie I can think of—
for sixteen years.
Then I have the sweetest, most perfect conversation with Marco that, for at least an hour, convinced me I can deal with the big fat lie that made me hate Lana for the first time ever. And just as I thought it really will get better, I'm reminded that Marco is not mine to make it all better. I seriously hate call waiting.