Always Wrong - Xyla Turner Page 0,61

in between the other meats in the freezer. “Steer clear, sweetie.”

“Mama, I don’t think I have the job. He clearly didn’t like me, and he did not seem like the type of man that would allow her to rule or make a decision like that. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, sweetie. I know those men well.” She shook her head, and I wasn’t sure if she was speaking about clients or my absent father. Mama didn’t mention the man even when we were children. She just said that he was alive and in Trinidad. Cordelia and I never asked about him, but there were times when I was curious—not enough to pursue the matter but had some thoughts about him. I wondered what he was like. She had pictures of him, but that was about it. “What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a curator, which is why he travels all the time,” I told her. “Well, I’ll go back tomorrow and speak to Mrs. Edness,” I shared as I put away the last can of red beans. “She had a list of things, so we’ll move forward from there.”

“Okay, sweetie.” Mom nodded as she closed the freezer door. “You’re smart. You’ll get something.”

I left the house and wandered to my make-shift studio and looked at all my paintings while thinking of the words Mr. Vega said. He called my art a failure, but when I perused what I had created, which were the thirty canvases were on stands throughout the small space; I did not see failure. I saw potential, but that small voice on the inside kept saying never. I had tried to shut it up in the beginning, but it was a lot louder now.

When that usually happened, I would begin to paint my way out of a depression. It didn’t make sense to stay here, so I sat down and began to paint my NEVER.

I wrote the word in the middle of the white canvas and began to make things bloom from the dark letters, using it almost as a flowerpot. I wanted to turn those Nevers into possibilities, and with each seed, it produced something amazing.

Two hours later, I had finished and managed to get paint everywhere. It was intense, but I felt ten times better, as if a weight was lifted off my shoulders.

On my walk home, since the studio was around the corner, my phone began to light up with messages, voicemails, and texts. Since it was underground, I did not have cell phone reception. Mama knew where I was, so it wasn’t her calling me like that, so I took out the phone to see it was Mrs. Edness from the agency.

“Call me when you get this, no matter the time,” she rushed out in the voicemail.

There were three more calls like that, but it seemed urgent, so I called her back immediately.

“Mrs. Edness, is everything all right?” I asked with no greeting.

“Darling, where ya been?” she exclaimed. “Your mama said you were in the studio, and she wasn’t bothering ya, but I had news for you,” the woman rushed out. “Where are ya now?”

“I’m on my way home.” I was confused. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, well, except Mrs. Vega calling me every thirty minutes to see if I got ahold of you yet. She desperately wants you to start working for her as of tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I looked at my watch. “That’s not the impression I got from her husband.”

“Yeah, well.” She huffed and sucked her teeth in a slow beat, and I could only imagine her head turning to look at the phone with her famous side-eye. “Guess, she got her way. Can you do it?”

There was no immediate answer to give her as I thought of things I had to do. Well, for one, I had not much to do because, bingo, I didn’t have a gotdamn job.

“Yeah, Mrs. Edness,” I replied. “I can start tomorrow.”

“Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “I’ll text you her number now. She wants to talk to you directly. She’s an anxious woman but a good employer. Okay. Good luck.”

“Thanks!” I answered.

I walked the ten minutes left before I hit my place and plopped on the couch. Mama had already retired to bed but left the television on for me to watch absently when I came in. This was her ritual.

As I put the volume on mute, I called Mrs. Vega, and the phone rang exactly once when she answered.

“Faith?”

“Yes, Mrs. Vega, this is she,” I replied, “Good evening.”

“Yes,