I just confessed to not knowing the name of the first black president. “I know it’s a little old-school, but…you really don’t know Project Pat?”
Still staring. I blink.
“Three-Six-Mafia?”
“Oh, them.” I look out my window as he finally backs out of the space. “Weren’t they like devil worshippers or something?”
“Devil worshippers?”
“Yeah,” I say. “ ‘Triple-Six’ Mafia, as in 666, the number of Satan?”
“I dunno about all that, IQ—”
BAWK, BAWK! Chicken head…
“What is this guy talking about?” I say.
“Father in heaven, what am I going to do with you, Danger?” Zan shakes his head. “The song is called ‘Chicken Head,’ which was a derisive term for girl who—” He stops and presses his lips together. “Mmmm…Well, we’ll just say she’s a rap groupie. I think the modern-day equivalent is THOT.”
“How do you even understand what they’re saying?”
He looks at me with his caterpillar brows drawn together (note to self: when I work up the courage, I must ask if he gets them threaded), then back at the road. “Okay, I’ve avoided asking you this because Ness told me it might be offensive—something about a microaggression. But your downright baffling response to this formerly very popular rap song has me really wondering.” We stop at a light, and he looks at me. “What are you, Danger?”
A) Takes me a second to figure out he’s talking about Finesse. B) I have no idea what to do with that question. “Huh?”
“Like ethnically. I’ve been struggling to figure it out.”
Offensive indeed. But of course he asked anyway. “Does it matter?”
“Well, no…” He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “Pure curiosity. Humor me?”
I sigh. This is a sore spot for me because honestly…I don’t actually know all the pieces. I’m black by societal standards—something Mama’s been drilling into me since I made the mistake of requesting a blond/blue-eyed American Girl doll for my sixth birthday (that’s not to mention the fact that we couldn’t afford a one-hundred-dollar doll). But I’d be lying if I said Zan’s the first person to ever ask me the question. Apparently naturally curly hair and *high cheekbones* suggest other elements in my heritage?
Which is stupid and kinda confusing. And another thing that makes me feel out of place—not being entirely sure of where/what I come from.
Too many missing pieces.
Like a dad.
He’s still waiting for a response.
And I can’t seem to resist giving him one. “I’m…a mutt,” I say, and I totally regret it the moment it’s out of my mouth.
“Well, that’s self-deprecating.”
I shrug. “It’s true. My mom’s dad was a white guy. According to the story he told me, he had a one-night stand with an…escort he’s pretty sure was black, then ten months later, my mom was left on his doorstep.”
“Whoa.”
“Uh-huh. Then the first semester of my Mama’s junior year of college, she spent a month in Spain and came back pregnant with me. The Afro-Spanish guy she’d fallen in love with was named Rico.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah…but she didn’t know about his wife and kids until after she’d named me.” And now she refuses to talk about him. Ever. Which is a point of contention between us.
He’s silent.
“She never finished undergrad even though my granddad offered to take care of me so she could. Gramps died when I was six.”
No clue why I’m telling him all this, but I can’t seem to stop now. “When I was eight, she started dating this…white guy. Corporate lawyer named Tristan McIntyre. He let me call him Dad for a while, but when she told him she was pregnant with Jax, he broke up with her,” I say. I don’t say that good ol’ Tris kicked us out of his penthouse and took out a restraining order on pregnant Mama to keep us from coming back. That for four months we lived out of the fifteen-passenger van my grandfather left to Mama in his will, and that a very compassionate black cop discovered us one night in a Walmart parking lot and threatened to call DFACS if Mama didn’t move us into a shelter immediately.
That’s where we were living when Jax was born. “Neither Jax nor I have ever even seen our dads. It’s kind of shitty.”
When Zander still doesn’t respond, I quickly swipe at my damp eyes. “Really didn’t mean to unload like that. I’m sorry.” And humiliated. Despite the fact that I didn’t tell the really ugly parts.
He looks over at me. “I’m sorry you and Jax have never known your dads, Rico.”
Okay, walls back up now!
“So how