from my eyes with the side of his hand. Then he came into focus, as did the petrified look of regret on his dark brown face. He asked me a few questions and took my hand. While escorting me to the door, he stopped to look up at a painting of quintessential black love—my parents—looming on the high ceiling.
Outside, the police officer offered for me to play with the gadgets in his police cruiser. His voice struggled to seem excited as my eyes swept over a coroner’s van near the tile water fountain. Important people in uniforms surrounded the place. While I sat in the driver’s seat of the car, the officer kneeled in the doorway. The speaker of his walkie-talkie blurted. Someone ordered him to call “Child Protective Services” as he explained the various buttons to me with a warm smile. A second after I pressed the siren, Momma’s best friend arrived.
The bitch was supposed to be my second-chance family. She insisted I call her “New Mom,” and so I did.
For the next few years, we bounced around, lived nicely even. I’ll give her that. I hadn’t traded down the lifestyle afforded to me by my once hardworking father. Later, I’d learn how we were blowing my trust fund. But that’s greedy people for you. The bigger they smile in your face, the harder you fall.
Once broke, she looked at twelve-year-old me in resignation and said she’d do me the favor not granted to herself and my mother. She dropped me off in public school in Long Beach, instead of foster care, where she met my mom. When the proverbial slumber party ended, I threatened to speak with the attorney who held my trust. It was a slap in the face to know the guy had been banging New Mom, and doctored the family will, hence my dilemma. I threatened to call 911. New Mom mentioned the tragedy surrounding my wealthy, powerful father. I wasn’t much for dwelling on a past—there were thoughts I already needed out of my head. Checkmate.
A new relationship was forged. A marriage of sorts, where we’d skipped over the “for better” and careened straight to the “for worse” part. Thus, I callously revoked New Mom’s suggested title, referring to the bitch as Lady.
“She’s not your Mam?” Leith mumbled, “I just guessed . . .”
The edge of my mouth tipped a little. Like hell was I gonna relive the look of pity the cop gave me. I hadn’t seen it since. “You know Linny at school?”
“Yep.” He nodded.
Linny was biracial. On outings with her mother, people assumed their relationship was of a nanny/child capacity. I made a similar insinuation, though Lady was lighter, she was black like my parents.
I feigned annoyance. “Today, she’s my nanny.”
“Och, I get it.” Leith laughed.
He didn’t get it. He had a mom who loved him, and he probably wouldn’t trade her in no matter what shady shit his parents were up to. His family was loyal. They’d die for each other. Some kids at school whispered that they’d kill for each other too. But at that moment, the mystery behind Leith’s vibrant blue eyes sent another sigh breezing through my lungs.
“Yeah, I love her, my . . . mom.” I cleared my throat, thanking my lucky stars that, in the next room, Lady was no longer getting her brains screwed loose.
A few minutes later, Leith had the controller, sitting back, his legs spread wide. His concentration granted me the reprieve of smiling and staring. The door burst open. I cringed at the sight of the john leaning against the doorframe.
Eyes dead on his, I growled, “Not today, John. You see my company.”
The john removed the cowboy hat from his head—a non-necessity in Southern California. Although, I had hoped he’d cover up john number two, nestled against his pale thigh. “All I see is a little boy.”
Leith was up in seconds. “Get those eyes checked. I’m nae wee boy!”
“You a leprechaun?” The john chuckled, and I presumed he was making fun of Leith’s accent since Leith was a cool 5’7 to his own 5’8 or ’9, and still growing.
“I’m nae fecking Irish paddy. We Mackenzies have more respect for our women!”
“Mackenzie?” The john’s eyes requested verbal confirmation from me. When I offered a smug glower, he stuttered, “You’re not . . .”
“Aye! Next time, I’ll cut that wee tongue out yer mouth, ye clatty bastard.” Leith’s accent grew so thick. The rest of his statement was undecipherable. His tan skin tinged