Seduced by Moonlight - kenya wright

Chapter 1

Imani

“This year’s presidential election has sparked mayhem across the country.”

I stared at the diner’s television, watching this week’s latest police brutality protests.

“Thousands march the streets over the police brutality and the current shooting of unarmed citizen Kia Knight. The homeless teenager had fallen asleep in her car that was parked at the gas station—”

I shut off the television, unable to look at another image of a person being shot in front of my eyes.

I need to get out of here.

Unease prickled my skin.

I placed the remote at the counter and checked for the next customers sitting in my section.

Get back to work, Imani. Don’t think about Kia Knight or any of the others.

There was no love in this country for black women. No escape. No hope. No good news. I made a promise with myself to work for as long as I could and escape. In ten or so years I would retire, get a passport, and explore the world. I fattened my bank account, motivated by dreams of foreign lands and distant adventures.

One day. Until then, work, work, work.

It had been a typical Friday in Mama Jo’s Grits & Grub.

The lunch crowd rushed in—hunters wearing dusty boots, tired resort managers talking into their cellphones, and bored shop owners flipping through magazines. Chatter filled the place. Dishes clinked, and silverware clattered. Every now and then, a smash came from the new waitress, Cammy. Savory aromas mingled with the sweet scents of freshly baked cakes.

Mama Jo’s décor boasted a classic diner theme. Checkerboard vinyl tiles covered the floor. Aqua blue coated the walls. Framed pictures hung and displayed ponytailed blondes in poodle skirts, muscled guys sitting in classic cars with fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. Every table held a chrome-trim. Booths lined the walls. A jukebox stood in the back. There was even a chrome-trimmed soda-fountain bar.

While I didn’t own the place, the diner ran in my family as much as Mama Jo’s. Her grandfather opened it in 1950. Then, it was called Sam’s Crispy Cakes. My grandmother worked for him as a cook. She made the best apple cake in the state of Washington. Unfortunately, she died with her secret recipe.

Sam was the only white man grandma trusted. That said, a lot since Crystal Lake’s small population of 1,500 was mostly white. In the 1960s, he opened up his diner to blacks well before segregation forced other restaurants to do the same. That made him good people to her.

After grandmother died, Mom took over as the diner’s cook. Then, Sam passed. His daughter Nancy became the boss and changed the name of the diner to Nancy’s Place. Both single mothers and mourning their parents, mom and Nancy, became the best of friends. They spent so much time with each other that many thought the women were lesbians. Neither cared nor paid attention to the gossip.

Meanwhile, the diner became my second home. As a toddler, I took my first steps there. Every day after school, my sister and I did our homework and sipped on thick strawberry milkshakes. In my teens, summers involved busing for the diner—lots of picking up dirty dishes, sweeping, and cleaning up the bathrooms. Pay equated to small dollars and all the diner food I could eat. That didn’t help my weight at all. In this shitty town, the kids always picked on my chubby frame and my dark brown skin. It made me hate Crystal Lake and most of the people in it. By my senior year, I swore I would move out of town after graduation. Then the week of graduation, my mother passed away. She never told anyone she had cancer. Nancy couldn’t even step into the diner anymore. It reminded her too much of Mom. Nancy spent the rest of her life sitting in her house and working on her garden. Nancy’s sister Joanne was forced to take control and named the place Mama Jo’s Grits and Grub.

As the oldest, I had to stay in Crystal Lake and take care of my sister, Harper. She was a junior in high school when Mom died. I worked at the diner and helped pay for Harper’s college once she graduated. I was now the proud sister of a psychologist. When Harper returned home this year to work as a counselor at the local clinic, I knew my time would soon be done in Crystal Lake.

In ten years, I’ll have a good chunk of money. Just think about that as you finish these last