Roux E-Book

Tamika Christy

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Roux is a novel that brims with family, secrets, and love.
Award-winning author Tamika Christy writes about the devastation of loss, the difficulty of relationships, and the family ties that bond.
Written in the vein of Steel Magnolias, the story takes us into the lives of African American families with their unique hardships, triumphs in relationships, culture, and values. It is relatable, comforting, and challenging.

Leseprobe

Roux

© 2024 Tamika Christy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing (Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company) www.bqbpublishing.com

ISBN 979-8-88633-019-9 (p)

ISBN 979-8-88633-020-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023949152

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

Editor: Allison Itterly

To My Daughters

Alegra, you taught me a depth of love that surpasses all boundaries. You will forever be in my heart.

Kamryn, your unconditional love and gentle soul taught me the beauty of compassion.. Your love fills my heart and inspires me to be better.

Contents

Chapter 1: Manon 2019

Chapter 2: Odester 1967

Chapter 3: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 4: Manon 2019

Chapter 5: Odester 1967

Chapter 6: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 7: Manon 2019

Chapter 8: Odester 1970

Chapter 9: Odester 1970

Chapter 10: Manon 2000

Chapter 11: Odester 1972

Chapter 12: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 13: Manon 2019

Chapter 14: Odester 1982

Chapter 15: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 16: Manon 2009

Chapter 17: Odester 1993

Chapter 18: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 19: Manon 2019

Chapter 20: Odester 1993

Chapter 21: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 22: Manon 1993

Chapter 23: Odester 1993

Chapter 24: Manon 1993

Chapter 25: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 26: Manon 2019

Chapter 27: Odester 1993

Chapter 28: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 29: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 30: Manon 1994

Chapter 31: Odester 1998

Chapter 32: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 33: Manon 2019

Chapter 34: Odester 1998

Chapter 35: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 36: Manon 2019

Chapter 37: Odester 2019

Chapter 38: Emersyn 2019

Chapter 39: Manon 2019

Chapter 40: Odester 2019

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

Manon 2019

Manon rolled over and raked her fingers through her ginger-tinted waves. At forty-six years old, she was still childless and soon to be husband-less. She blinked against the bright Opelousas sunlight that filtered through her new plantation shutters. She was exhausted from a restless night of sleep, even more so lately because she still wasn’t accustomed to sleeping in the house alone. She stretched her arms above her head and twisted her body from side to side. The first few minutes of the day were a bitter blend of brooding over her failing marriage and the dwindling hope that she’d ever be able to walk without pain again.

Last night, she’d dreamt of Leonard Dupree. Twenty years ago, little Leonard was just a week shy of his second birthday when he’d disappeared from his front porch on Bordelais Drive. Bordelais Drive was tucked away in the monied Clos Du Bois subdivision, close to I-10 and twenty minutes from the outlets. The families in Clos Du Bois were either old money or new money, but nothing in between. The police had arrived five minutes after Lulu Dupree reported her son was missing. No one knew Lulu was passed out drunk when her son toddled out the front door and across the street to the Lafleur house. Shortly after local authorities organized a search, Leonard showed up in Manon Lafleur’s arms, giddy and clutching a chunk of pecan candy.

Leonard hadn’t been missing long enough for the police to arrest Manon, but certainly long enough that Lulu never looked Manon in the eyes again. Back then, folks rebuffed Lulu’s claim that Manon had tried to steal her child, and twenty years later, mixed opinions still lingered about whether Manon tried to take little Leonard. A few folks from the neighborhood carried on the folktale that Manon kidnapped the curly-haired boy because she couldn’t have children of her own. Others said Leonard’s brief disappearance was a misunderstanding. After all, why would a light-skinned woman of Manon’s prominence want a dark-skinned boy whose mama ran numbers at the juke joint? Leonard was in his mid-twenties by now, and he and his family had left Clos Du Bois long ago.

Some days, Manon would stay in bed for as long as she could hold her pee, like yesterday when she only got up because her personal assistant Celeste had forgotten her keys. Dr. Task called Manon’s agonizing mornings “early morning paralysis,” the period between latency and living where the unfulfilled psyche gets trapped. Whatever that meant. It was hard to keep up with all the diagnoses, afflictions, and medications her doctors hurled around these days. Manon missed pain-free Pilates and morning walks. She felt like a science experiment and didn’t acquiesce to Dr. Task’s depression diagnosis, and she outright rejected Dr. Boligard’s prognosis that she’d never walk again. “This level of nerve damage is irreversible,” Dr. Boligard had said after Manon’s last surgery. “At best, you will use a walker for the rest of your life.”

She sat at the edge of her bed and wiggled her toes. Her last pedicure was eight weeks ago, and her feet looked dreadful. Before the car accident, Manon never missed a routine maintenance appointment: biweekly mani-pedis, Brazilian wax every six weeks, Botox every three months, monthly facials, and annual teeth whitening. She stretched her neck and saw the photo of her father on her nightstand. Manon missed Marcel: her best friend, greatest supporter, fellow documentary lover, and birthday twin. She shared his wide smile and warm undertones. Her father was the only person who understood her. She wasn’t social like her peers, and she preferred books to people as a child. Marcel never berated Manon, and he enjoyed spending time with her. As a young girl, Manon would dash into her parents’ bedroom in the morning and hop onto the bed. Marcel would sit up, open one eye, and say, “Now, here’s the real sunshine.”

She smothered a yawn and twisted the wedding ring on her finger. She and Tate were supposed to be together forever. Supposed to grow old and chill in the rockers on the porch. Now, they were strangers. The stench of crawfish cast veiled memories of last night’s Netflix and Bordeaux binge. Whoever said one person couldn’t finish a bottle of wine alone had lied or hadn’t truly lived. Laissez les bon temps rouler, let the good times roll.

The phone rang, piercing Manon’s ears. It would take too long to get out of bed to answer it. She had no doubt it was Serenity Village calling again. It was the third time this week the long-term care facility had reached out. Her mother, Addie, was probably requesting more thread count sheets or had another tantrum about the limited meal options. God bless the nurses who worked at the facility. Manon was never close to her mother, and their relationship further severed after Marcel died a year ago. Prior to the stroke, Addie was the epitome of a healthy geriatric: daily yoga, plant-based meals, and immense water consumption.

She made a mental note to call Serenity Village later in the day and half-listened to a news segment about the upcoming Assembly race. The current assemblyman had reached his term limit, and political aspirants were clamoring for his seat. The next year would be a revel of prideful, power-hungry locals touting their resumes and soliciting contributions. Oh joy.

Manon wrapped a kimono around her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone standing in her bedroom doorway.

“Tate! How did you get in here?” she gasped, surprising herself at how quickly she sprang off the bed.

“You’re walking.” It was Tate’s turn to gasp. His lean girth filled the doorway, and morning sun rays danced off his silver beard. His dark-framed eyeglasses and square chin reminded Manon of morning coffee chats and tiny kisses. How dare he come to her house unannounced looking fine as hell?

Manon frowned. “How did you get in here?”

“We designed this house together, remember?” He looked around the once familiar home. New floors. Modern window dressings. Knick-knacks that meant nothing to him. “Although it doesn’t look like the house we designed. I can get in here with my eyes closed.” Tate shoved his hands into his pockets.

Manon recalled the power of pause and deep breaths she’d learned in their many couple therapy sessions. One. Two. Three.

“Just because you can get in here”—she took another deep breath—“doesn’t mean you can come in unannounced.” She balled the edges of her kimono and stared at her estranged husband. The way his shoulders reared back was unfamiliar to her. He exuded more confidence, perhaps even a hint of pride. “And yes, I’m walking,” she added.

“That’s great.” Tate’s eyes passed from Manon to the gold-framed floor mirror and woven rattan chair. A canopy and ecru faux fur rug blended out the monotone of the remodeled bedroom they once shared. It was beautiful, resort-like.

“It looks good in here,” Tate admitted. “Different, but good. You still have the best decorating taste of anyone I know.”

Manon didn’t share her redecorating plans with Tate, but that was par for the recent year. She also didn’t share her recurrent nightmares about Leonard or that she was walking again. She didn’t share much with Tate anymore, except to forward his mail and the recent exchange of financial information for tax-filing purposes. It was easier to pretend as if the last few decades never existed. Manon and Tate’s mutual disillusion and matrimonial complacency led them to this place where even typical encounters like this were awkward.

“You can’t just come here unannounced,” Manon repeated.

“You’re right, but you haven’t returned my calls. I didn’t know what was going on. Whether Betty was still coming to take care of you, or how you were getting along. I’ve been worried. I just wanted an update.”

Manon’s eyes traced Tate’s bare ring finger.

“We’re separated,” she reminded him. “I didn’t realize I needed to keep you apprised of my daily activities.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it,” Tate said. “I still care about you. You can at least return my calls. We don’t have to be enemies.”

“Oh no?” Manon folded her arms. “So, do you propose we be best friends after your betrayal? That makes a lot of sense,” she spat.

“Why are you so angry?”

That was the question of the year. In therapy, Manon had uncovered so many childhood traumas, she didn’t know where to begin. She was angry for reasons that had little to do with Tate, yet he took the brunt of her fury. Manon liked to pretend she was unbothered by her father’s death, her mother’s indifference, and a secret that threatened her sanity. The accident was the rancid icing on a spoiled cake.

“I’m not.” She pressed her palm to her forehead. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Well, among other things, Serenity Village called me.”

“Why did they call you?” She looked into his brown eyes and remembered romantic walks on Jetty Beach for her fortieth birthday, and their tenth anniversary in Cannes. Their plan was happily ever after in a life with love, security, minimal family contact, and plenty of travel.

“I don’t know. Maybe Addie added me to the emergency contact list.” He shrugged.

“I’ll check in with them,” she said.

“The nurse said she tried calling you a few times. Something about Addie’s progress.”

“I’ll call them,” Manon said tightly.

“I understand.” Tate’s cologne folded the room like a warm blanket. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I’m still here for you, you know.”

“Thank you, Tate.” Manon ran her fingers through her waves. “I have to get ready for an appointment soon, so . . .” Her sentence trailed off to nothing, much like their communication over the years.

Tate focused on the music box on her nightstand, one of the few things he recognized. “I know you have a lot going on and we’ve had our issues, but you’ve never been cruel.”

“So, I’m being cruel now? Manon rested her hands on her hips. “Because I’m setting boundaries?”

Tate sighed. “This is not about boundaries. It’s about not returning my calls and treating me like a stranger. That’s not us. It’s never been us. But since the accident, we’ve—”

“I understand, Tate,” Manon interrupted. She still wasn’t ready to discuss the night of the accident. It was too much to digest.

“We need to talk,” Tate matched her tone. “Even if we don’t talk about the accident, we can’t continue like this.”

“Yes, of course.” Manon walked toward the foyer. “Call Celeste and schedule a time this week. I simply can’t today.”

Tate followed Manon through the newly decorated home to the front door. They planned to retire, raise kids, and spoil grandchildren in this house. When Tate first found the house, Manon wasn’t interested in a home that needed work. She didn’t care about the “character” the real estate agent had gushed about. The double roof octagon gazebo was atrocious, and the window grilles were dated. Manon wanted to move into a new home with shiny, new appliances, where all she had to do was paint and decorate. But Tate wasn’t having it. He insisted on purchasing a home together—one they could both afford, rather than relying on Manon’s trust fund. And, to Manon’s chagrin, the Bordelais house was in Tate’s budget, so she reluctantly agreed. In the first few months, Manon sulked and complained about ripping out carpet and busting down walls. But the fixer-upper eventually became their dream home after a lot of work, time, and love. Now their dream home was Manon’s personal utopia. Since Tate moved out, she had decorated the home yet again. Minimalism described Manon’s updated décor. She replaced ornate accents, Marge Carson chairs, and heavy, luxurious fabrics with austere colors and laconism. Six months of selecting fabric, new paint, and sourcing unique pieces, Manon had transformed their former dream house with the decorative sorcery of a professional designer.

“Okay.” Tate surveyed her legs again. “I’ll call Celeste to schedule a time.”

“Perfect,” Manon softened her tone. “I have so many things going on and don’t want to double-book.” She opened the front door, and the warm morning greeted her.

“I understand,” Tate said. “It’s good to see you walking.”

“Thanks.” She ushered him out of the door. “We’ll talk later this week.”

She closed the door, relishing his dwindling scent. She missed him more than she cared to admit. His laugh, the way he tilted his head to the side when he was confused. He wasn’t perfect, but he was her husband, and life was different without him around.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her cell. Manon hobbled to retrieve the call. The pain wasn’t as excruciating but still very apparent. In the accident, her leg had been pinned between the door and her driver’s seat, so even in moments of pain, she knew what the alternatives could have been. She was sad about her injuries and often frustrated, but she always tried to keep gratitude first.

“Morning, boo,” Gwen said.

“Morning, boo,” Manon said as she settled back onto her bed. She leaned back against her pillows. “Are you in town?”

“I am for now.” Gwen sighed. “Trying to decide if I want to go to the Boule’s Community Service Gala.”

Gwendolyn Artiest was Manon’s legacy friend. Their moms were best friends in high school and raised the girls together. Gwen and Manon were similarly close growing up. After high school, Gwen headed to the East Coast to pursue a career in design, and Manon stayed in Louisiana and married Tate. Gwen and her now ex-husband moved to Opelousas to care for Gwen’s ailing mother and to be closer to his family.

“And why wouldn’t you go?” Manon bit into a hangnail and tried to ignore the scent of Tate’s cologne that lingered. “That event has been a staple on your calendar for years.”

“You know why,” Gwen said. “Tom will be there with that girl. It’s traumatizing.”

“That ‘girl’ is his wife,” Manon reminded her friend.

“I know, Manon,” Gwen seethed. “But why did he marry someone so much younger? It’s degrading.”

“Why is it degrading?”

“Uh, because I’m not a thirty-year-old woman, Manon.”

“First of all, he’s your ex,” Manon said. “Second, who in their right mind would want to be thirty again? All of the insecurity and mediocre credit scores. Not me. Listen, G, if you spend your life comparing yourself to other people—especially a thirty-year-old—you will come up short every single time. You are a well-preserved forty-eight-year-old woman, and that’s good enough. Besides, you didn’t like Tom when he was your husband. You called him petty and controlling. You said his own kids didn’t like to be around him.”

“That’s true,” Gwen said. “He had to make them come visit.”

“Well, there you have it. When your kids don’t want to spend time with you, there’s a problem far greater than you. You know this stuff, G. We’ve talked about it so many times. It’s time to open yourself up to meet someone.”

“I have someone.” Gwen sucked her teeth. “Jason completes me.”

“Jason? You need someone who knows what a sommelier is.”

“He misheard the guy,” Gwen defended. “I told you that. He knows what a sommelier is!”

“He knows now,” Manon muttered and pulled the duvet over her feet. “My point is, don’t settle out of desperation. You won’t pine after Tom if you date men who are up to your standards.”

“I don’t have time to pine after Tom. Taking care of Ma takes up all of my time.”

“And how’s Miss Holly doing? I miss her.”

“Good, I suppose,” Gwen said. “She can’t remember most of her problems these days. Namely me. The other day, our neighbor caught her walking down the street with the house phone and a butcher knife in her bag. Said she was going to see my grandmother. My grandmother has been dead for over thirty years.”

“Oh, G. I’m so sorry. I know that’s gotta be tough. Miss Holly was so feisty and strong. I remember how she and Addie wreaked havoc on our teenage lives.” Manon let out a small laugh.

“I think it was the other way around,” Gwen corrected. “Anyway. I can’t leave her alone anymore because she’s in the wandering stage. A nurse comes during the day, but I’m thinking about hiring someone full-time.” Gwen sighed, then said, “But enough about my crazy life. How are you? Have you been able to get out of the house?”

“There have been opportunities, yes,” Manon muttered. “Have I taken advantage of all of them? Not as much as I could, but I’m a work in progress. One day at a time. One step at a time.”

“Therapy much?” Gwen said. “What time is Celeste coming? Maybe she can ride with you to run errands instead of doing them for you. You’re cleared to drive, so get out of the house.”

“Celeste will be here this afternoon, and driving is overrated. I hated driving before the accident. That hasn’t changed.”

“Fine. Just think about it,” Gwen said. “I don’t like you isolating like this. I’m surprised that head doctor of yours hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Speaking of my head doctor, I have an appointment in a few. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love you, bye,” Gwen said.

Manon hung up and lit a Newport. She tossed the lighter aside in mannered protest of her recurring habit. She turned on some jazz music and picked up the framed photo on her nightstand. Eight-year-old Manon, with a big, goofy smile, sat proudly on her daddy’s lap. “Here’s the real sunshine,” she said to the photo. Soon, irritability was replaced with Monk’s laconic improvisations. Manon recalled her father and her pépère’s frequent disagreements about Thelonious Monk.

She smiled at the memory and made a quick call.

“Hi,” she said into the phone. This is Manon Lafleur returning your call. I know my mom, Addie, is probably asking for new sheets, and I will get them there as soon as possible.” Manon paused and listened as the nurse explained that Addie didn’t need new sheets because she had progressed quicker than expected and would be ready for release soon. Manon hung up the phone dazed and scuttled to her laptop.

Two years ago, no one could have convinced her that she’d be doing online therapy with an Iranian woman from New York, but every Tuesday at noon, Manon logged in and let Dr. Task guide her through life issues.

“My apologies for being late,” Manon turned on her laptop camera.

Dr. Task was the fourth therapist she interviewed. Initially, Manon was uncertain about doing therapy online, but Dr. Task made it worth it. Each week, she met with Manon from her home office. They started off talking about simple things—creating boundaries, getting organized, things that weren’t too serious. It wasn’t until recently that Manon decided she needed to take her life back and stop pretending that her life was perfect.

“No worries.” Dr. Task’s eyes were probing. “Is everything okay?” Dr. Task’s small head briefly disappeared from her virtual background. The Zoom beauty filter softened her pasty skin, and she blinked a lot when she talked.

“I’m okay.” Manon had stopped lying to Dr. Task months ago, but she revisited her old ways today. She didn’t want to talk about Tate’s visit or the call from Serenity Village. The last thing she wanted to hear was how she needed to care for her mother.

“This is a big week for you.” Dr. Task sounded like a kindergarten teacher rewarding her student for reciting the alphabet.

Manon took a deep breath. In order to move forward, she needed to heal from the past. She hated thinking about what happened to her as a child, but she knew she had to address it to save herself and salvage what she could of her remaining relationships. It was the hardest thing she’d ever have to do, but she had no choice. Recuperating from the car accident isolated her in ways she’d never experienced, and she was forced to deal with her issues. She was angry at her mother, Addie, for not protecting her as a child, and angry at Tate for betraying their marriage.

“Beginning this week, the plan is for you to face yourself and deal with your pain. This is huge for you.”

After the accident, Manon’s resentment toward family and friends festered, and she cut most people out of her life. But working with Dr. Task allowed her to realize that her resentment was misplaced. She didn’t like the isolation but didn’t know how to reconnect.

“Okay.” Manon rubbed her eyes. “Where do we start?”

CHAPTER 2

Odester 1967

Odester picked at her nail polish. Her older sister, Addie, was having another breakdown. I can’t do this. I can’t do that. I’m tired. It’s too much. Odester tilted her neck as far as it would go and overexaggerated a sigh. She never understood how people with the greatest blessings yielded the most complaints. Odester could only wish for a percentage of Addie’s beauty and smarts, yet there Addie was, slumped in the front seat, looking as beautiful as anyone could. Moulin Academy had plenty of rules, and one was that the drop-off lane was for dropping off students, not for coddling a spoiled high school senior who couldn’t get over herself. Addie was holding up the line, making them the Negro family who couldn’t follow the rules.

“Mama, we should go.” Odester looked behind her. A few cars squeezed their way around Earline’s yellow Chevrolet, but the others were too close and couldn’t veer around.

“Hold on, Dette,” Earline snapped, then turned to her oldest daughter. “Now, Addie, what’s wrong?”

Odester scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. Addie was used to getting her way and being the best at everything. Now that she had competition at this all-white school, she finally felt intimidated and couldn’t deal with it.

“I don’t feel like it today,” Addie whined. Her crimson waves cascaded over her shoulders, and her huge brown eyes were sad. “I’m tired of people treating me like the representative for the entire Negro race!”

“You can do it,” Clotee assured Addie. “You fixin’ to be done soon. Don’t give up now.”

Clotee was the middle sister and shared Addie’s incredible beauty and high academic accolades, but no matter how accomplished Clotee was, Addie always emerged ahead.

Odester looked at the cars waiting in line again. They needed to move before those white folks got antsy. “Every darn day we gotta go through this. Shoot!” she groaned.

“Dette, hush up!” Earline hissed.

Earline Metoyer Chavis was a bible-thumping Creole from Natchitoches, Louisiana. Originally, the term Creole meant a person was indigenous to Louisiana, indicating a Creole was nothing more than a geographical label. Over time, the term became racialized, wrongly implying that Creoles were exclusively white people. By the time Earline was born, the word changed to include mixed race or free race of people. Earline was often mistaken for white, with her straight hair and delicate features, but she never tried to pass for white, and she’d warned Addie and Clotee to never try either. “That there is dangerous,” she would say. “You was born Black and gone die Black. I don’ care how light you is.”

Addie let her thin body go limp in the seat. “I can’t go to school today.”

Odester sucked her teeth. The morning pep talks were a weekly ritual: Addie protesting her attendance at the prestigious high school for the academically gifted, and Mama and Clotee talking her off the ledge. It was getting old. Odester didn’t sympathize with her sister. Who could feel sorry for the prettiest and smartest girl in the Brickyard? The only Black girl in their town who was smart enough to attend a fancy white school for smart white people. Addie was annoying.

“Yes, you can, Addie.” Clotee reached over the seat and held her sister’s hand.

“It’s too much pressure,” Addie groaned.

Addie was almost eighteen, Clotee had just turned seventeen, and Odester was fourteen. Addie and Clotee were academically exceptional, but Addie outshined everyone, damaging grading curves and receiving top honors in all her classes, which was how she got the scholarship to Moulin.

Odester wasn’t as academically gifted or as pretty as her sisters. She hated school and her mocha skin, plump lips, and wide-set eyes. She wanted to be light skinned, with wavy hair like her sisters and mama. She cursed her grandmother for passing down those nappy-headed genes. Her mediocre grades and minimal effort at school put her on her mother’s radar. Odester couldn’t catch a break. Sure, she was standing next to the fire alarm at school last week when it went off, but she wasn’t the one who’d pulled it. And she’d skipped classes the week before because she was bored and hadn’t finished her homework. The Chavis sisters woke up at the crack of dawn every weekday to take Addie to a school across town, only to listen to her complain.

“Then transfer to Beau Chêne.” Odester rolled her eyes.

“That’s not an option,” Earline snapped.

“Of course, Beau Chêne is not an option,” Odester said under her breath.

Earline whirled around and glared at Odester. “Dette, you watch your mouth and hush up. I hear you.” Her mother’s milky skin didn’t reveal anything about her age, and her silky hair was pulled into a bun. “You think it’s easy for Addie being the only one of us in this here school? Show some compassion, chile.”

Earline shifted in her seat to face Addie again. “Now, Adeline, this your calling. I know it’s rough, and we all tore up with how folks treat Dr. King, but you the top student at one of the best schools in the state of Louisiana. They chose you, baby. We are all rooting for ya. Our people rooting for ya. All this stuff happening around us, especially now. We gone need smart Black lawyers.”

Odester kicked the back of the seat.

Addie turned around and shouted, “Stop it, Dette!”

“Then get out of the car,” Odester said. “Me and Tee have school too. You ain’t the only one. And Mama gotta get back to get Nadesna from Ms. Joubert.” Odester had several bones to pick with Mama. Not only did she let Addie get away with whatever she wanted, but Mama gave birth to Nadesna last year and had even less time for Odester.

“It’s not easy,” Addie said. “You don’t understand what it’s like here. Y’all see how they treat Dr. King. I don’t want that pressure.”

“Dr. King is a legend, a civil rights activist who’s changing the world. You a light-skinned girl from Opelousas. Ain’t nobody gone do you nothing, Addie. And you sound just like them white folks. Go on and go to school so we won’t be late again,” Odester said. “I’m already in trouble for being late.”

“No, Odester,” Earline corrected. “You in trouble for skipping class. Remember?”

Odester slumped down in her seat. Nobody had asked why she wasn’t in class. But even if they did, they wouldn’t believe her. Odester’s dishonesty preceded her, and her sanctimonious family never let her forget it. She wanted to do well in school, but she couldn’t focus on the lessons no matter what she tried. She’d focus as hard as she could, but then she would get lost in thought or notice someone behind her sneezing. She just couldn’t remain present. But her mama didn’t want to hear it. “You can pay attention to them TV shows,” Earline would argue when Odester talked about her attention issues.

“You gone be fine,” Earline told Addie. “Dr. King leads the movement so y’all can have opportunities like this. To make something outcha yourselves. Not to be cleaning houses or scrubbing no floors. You destined for greatness, Adeline. The first lawyer in the family . . . but not the last.”

“She been going to this school for four years now,” Odester said. “I don’t understand why we still gotta go through this here. She gone graduate in a few months, dang.”

“Shut up, Odester,” Addie snapped.

“You shut up. You think you can do what you want ’cause you Mama’s favorite?”

“Like you ain’t Daddy’s favorite!” Addie said.

“Both of you stop it now!” Earline reprimanded. “Yo daddy and me ain’t got favorites. We love all of you in different ways but no more than the other. Y’all got that?”

“Yes ma’am,” the girls said in unison.

Addie continued to complain. “I wish Miss Thomas never recommended me for a scholarship here.”

“Dontchu say that,” Earline said. “That scholarship got you here tuition-free. Lord know me and your daddy would never have the money to send you to this fine school.”

Odester sighed again. She didn’t feel sorry for pretty, smart Addie, with her demure smile, long lashes, and hair she could untangle with her fingers. Odester never got attention from her mama the way Addie and Clotee did. Even when she was a kid, Odester was the odd one. When Earline read to the girls years ago, Addie and Clotee would laugh when appropriate, covering their mouths simultaneously, and nod in agreement. Odester could pay attention long enough to follow the stories, but as soon as Earline started reading, Odester’s mind would wander to something else—a spider web in the corner, or the smell of dinner cooking. Her lack of focus extended to the classroom, where teachers labeled Odester as troublesome and attention-seeking. Odester wanted to learn; she just couldn’t sit still. It wasn’t her fault. Her father, Rutherford, wasn’t like Earline; he always told Odester to keep doing her best.

“All right now, Addie,” Earline said. “I gotta get these girls cross town to school. You have a good day, and say a prayer before you get to class. The good Lord got your back, chile.”

Addie flung one leg out of the car. She blew Clotee a kiss and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder.

“Remember the goal,” Clotee said. “You gone be the best lawyer in Louisiana, big sis. Look at Thurgood Marshall. You next, boo. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Addie waved, finally walking onto campus.

Earline veered onto the highway back across town. She dropped Clotee off at Beau Chêne High, and five minutes later, she pulled in front of Booker T. Washington Junior High School.

“Now, Dette, you have a good day.” Earline squinted her eyes. “Don’t cut class, and you pay attention, hear? I don’t want no phone calls, and I don’t want you coming home talking ’bout how you don’t have homework. Your teacher said you always have homework.” Earline pointed a finger at Odester.

“Yes, Mama.” Odester looked down. She wanted her mom to understand that she wanted to get scholarships like Addie and win debate contests like Clotee, but Odester’s brain didn’t work that way. She hated school and dreamed of being a dancer. Dancers didn’t have to do algebra. She straightened the collar on the new dress Mama had made for her.

Odester swallowed her disappointment and hopped out of the car. Why were her parents so hung up on education and “making something out of life”? Odester didn’t care about homework or college or using proper English.

“I love you, Odester. And I need you to take school seriously. This the only chance we got. Life only gets harder as you get older. Take advantage of your opportunities now.”

Booker T. Washington Junior High School was a single-story building with peeling beige paint and white around the windows. The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, and the lockers were rusted and too damaged to repair. The basketball hoop was falling down, and there was no playground or recreation area. Most students walked miles to school. Odester was one of the few lucky ones who not only got a ride to school, but whose family had a car.

“Hey, baby,” Regene said as she approached Odester at her locker. Regene was a mousy girl with bulging eyes and patchy skin. “My mama’s working today. We can watch TV after second period. By then, nosey Mrs. Johnson will take them blue pills and be asleep,” she snorted.

“I’m gone stay at school today.” Odester pulled a book from her locker and sighed.

“Since when you wanna stay at school? Is you sick or something?” Regene put her hand to Odester’s forehead.

“No.” Odester swatted Regene’s hand away. “I don’t feel like cutting today, that’s all. I’ll be in ninth grade next year, and I need to focus on my schoolwork.”

“Girl, please. Tim and Roderic coming. That’s gone be fun, and you know Roderick like you.” Regene flicked one of Odette’s fluffy French braids.

“Stop saying that. Roderick don’t like me,” Odester said.

“He like you, yeah,” Regene cooed over Odester’s shoulder. “He told Tasha Stevens you look like Eartha Kitt.”

“Don’t lie,” Odester challenged with squinted eyes.

“I’m not.” Regene pushed her glasses up on her nose. “You do look like Eartha Kitt. Everybody say so. Just ’cause you ain’t light-skinned like yo sisters don’t mean you ain’t beautiful, boo. I be telling you that all the time.”

“I’m not talkin’ ’bout how I look. Don’t lie about Roderick liking me.” Odester looked around sheepishly.

Regene’s loud voice was drowned out by the roar of passing trains on the tracks adjacent to the school. The last thing Odester needed were more rumors swirling about her promiscuity. Roderick was captain of the football team, and all the girls in school liked him. There was no way he was interested in Odester, who barely went to class and didn’t even make the cheerleading squad.

“You know nobody likes me since all that stuff with Bo-Peep,” Odester said.

“To hell with Bo-Peep.” Regene slapped her hands together. “I swear, I wish you let me tell my brothers so they can whoop Bo-Peep’s ass for how he lied. Ugly ass goon.”

“Well, that ain’t gone happen because you swore you wouldn’t mention it again,” Odester said.

“Odester Chavis, we been friends since first grade. I don’t tell yo secrets. But you should tell everybody the truth. Clear your name, girl.”

Odester slammed her locker shut. “I tried. And nobody believes me, okay? I don’t wanna talk about it no more.”

“Fine.” Regene rolled her eyes.

Odester had tried to clear her name after the incident last semester when she cut school and went for a ride with Bo-Peep. Bo-Peep was a Beau Chêne High dropout who liked to hang around campus and flirt with the junior high girls. Bo-Peep took Odester on a ride across the river after promising her dinner. They kissed in the back seat of his car, and when he tried to put his hands down her pants, Odester refused and demanded he take her back to school. Bo-Peep called her a tease and barely stopped the car for her to get out when he dropped her off. The next day, a rumor started that Odester had had sex with Bo-Peep.

“See you later.” Odester headed to class.

The classrooms were small with limited ventilation. Odester struggled to read the writing on the worn chalkboard. The letters all jumbled together, and she wondered how her classmates were able to ask questions when she could barely grasp the concepts. She wiggled in the uncomfortable chairs and prayed for the day to be over. How dare Addie complain about going to a school with decent food and air conditioning. How dare she act like she was struggling when Odester’s school barely had books. By day’s end, Odester was tired of pretending like she paid attention or learned anything.

When the last bell rang, she trudged to the front of the school feeling defeated and waited outside for Earline near the curb. A few guys headed toward the tattered football field. Earline was usually on time because she didn’t want Odester to get into anymore “devilment” after school. But so far, she hadn’t shown up.

“Look at him.” Regene pointed to a tall boy with short hair who was jogging in place.

Odester hunted through her backpack. “I forgot my English book,” she said.

“So what? You don’t read,” Regene declared. “I like that one right there who’s stretching. You see one you like?”

“I won’t be seeing nothing if I don’t get my English book. You know I’m in the doghouse with my mama. I gotta get my book so I can get my schoolwork done. You coming?”

“Nah, I’mma wait here.” Regene smeared shiny gloss on her lips.

Odester sprinted off to her locker. She was going to do all her homework tonight. She’d show her mom that she could be smart and disciplined like Addie and Clotee. All she had to do was put her mind to it. The hallway was dim and empty since most kids had a long walk home. She double-timed it to her locker so she could get outside before her mom arrived.

“Hey, slow down,” a voice said from behind.

Odester turned to see a tall, slender boy with skin that matched hers. He had short hair with a small part on the right side, and peach fuzz lined his top lip. She knew most of the kids in the school, but she’d never seen him before. She looked around the hallway, but no one else was around.

“S’cuse me?” Odester frowned.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Oh, I won’t hurt myself. I ain’t cut like that.”

She kept walking. His footsteps trailed behind her. She quickened her pace. So did he.

“Why you in such a rush, girl?”

“My name ain’t girl. Ya heard me? And I have to get back outside to catch my ride.” Odester stopped at her locker and pulled out her English book.

“Okay, if your name ain’t ‘girl,’ then what is it?”

Odester considered this strange boy who may or may not be a student here. His brown-striped shirt was half-tucked into his starched jeans.

“I don’t tell strangers my name,” Odester softened her voice.

“I’m Bumpie.” He extended his hand.

“What kind of name is that?” Odester frowned.

“That’s what my friends call me.” His smile revealed missed dental appointments and drinking too much Kool-Aid.

“Well, I don’t know ya like that,” Odester quipped. “What’s ya government name?”

“Broderick Mann.”

“Pleased to meet you, Broderick Mann. I’m Odester.” She took her time shaking his hand. “Friends call me Dette.” Her smile revealed scheduled dental appointments and very little sugar consumption. Earline was known for comparing sugar to Satan.

“Nice meeting you, Miss Odester. What grade you in?” Bumpie kept his distance, but his eyes bore into Odester’s like he was looking for a secret.

“Eighth,” she said, then quickly added, “almost ninth.”

“Well, you the prettiest eighth grader I ever seen, ya heard?”

“You don’t go to school here,” Odester said. “You too old. You must go to Beau Chêne?”

“Something like that,” Bumpie said.

Odester’s heart skipped a beat. A high school boy thought she was pretty!

She heard a honk in the distance. “I gotta go. My mama waiting for me out front.”

“Wait.” Bumpie grabbed her hand. “Can I keep in touch with you? Can I call you sometime?” His smile was wide and dingy.

“I think so.”

“Here.” Bumpie handed her a piece of paper. “Won’t you write yo number down.”

Odester hesitated, then wrote her phone number on the piece of paper.

“You shole is fine.” His eyes traced Odester’s hips, and she melted beneath his gaze.

“Thank you.” Odester blushed as she rushed down the hallway and outside. Luckily, Earline hadn’t arrived.

“Guess what?” Odester gushed as she stood next to Regene.

“What?” Regene’s eyes widened.

“I met a high school boy.”

Regene looked around. “What? Where? Ain’t no high schoolers s’posed to be on this campus.”

“He was by the lockers. Said he’s waiting for his brother or something. Anyway, he asked for my number!”

“For real?” Regina covered her mouth with her hand.

“Yeah.” Odester couldn’t stop smiling. She was still on cloud nine when Earline arrived.

“Hurry up,” Earline said. “Gotta get back to get Addie.”

Odester slid into the back seat.

“Why are you smiling so much,” Clotee asked. Her sister didn’t miss a beat. Clotee was nurturing and nosey, always asking about Odester’s whereabouts and what she did in school, as if she were Earline’s secret agent. Odester didn’t mind because Clotee wasn’t a snitch. Odester’s secrets never got out when she told Clotee. Addie was another story; she couldn’t hold water, but Clotee was loyal to the soil.

“I’m not smiling,” Odester said.

“Actually, you are,” Clotee said with a smirk.

“Well now.” Earline looked at Odester from the rearview mirror. “Looks like your day got better.”

“It sure did,” Odester beamed.

CHAPTER 3

Emersyn 2019

Emersyn pulled the scale from under her desk, slid off her loafers, and stepped onto it. She stepped off again, took off her suit jacket, and stepped back on. There was no way on God’s precious earth that she had gained three pounds in one day. She cursed the treasonous machine and recounted her calorie intake over the last twenty-four hours. Water weight, she reasoned. Her period was a week away, and she always retained water right before her cycle. Satisfied that she wasn’t on track to becoming morbidly obese, she sat down at her desk.

“Good morning, Miss Emersyn.” Sweat beads eclipsed Adam’s forehead. Adam was a decent assistant, but a series of issues recently had affected his work and threatened his job. “Sorry, I’m late,” he heaved. “I had car trouble, and you know I don’t know anything about cars.”

“Mm-hmm.” Emersyn leaned back in her ergonomic chair with measured patience. Last week, Adam was late because of a plumbing issue, and his Chihuahua had a skin rash the week before. Adam’s increasing ineptness was enough for a strongly worded email but not enough to be fired. Emersyn showed grace, as she wasn’t ready to make significant employee decisions in the wake of her recent promotion.

“Usually, Brent takes care of that stuff.” Adam fanned his face. “But he’s traveling again, so I had to figure it out myself. And you know, I am not the one to be fixing a car.”

Emersyn had a lot on her plate today: three new cases, a case management meeting, and the oncologist still hadn’t called with her mother’s test results. Emersyn had graduated at the top of her class, interned at some of the most respected PR firms in the country, and, at twenty-five, was the youngest associate at Bricks and Associates. The consummate perfectionist had a low tolerance for mindless errors. If overachieving were a person, it would resemble Emersyn Chavis, with shoulder-length coils conserved in a soft bun, five ear piercings, and donning smart workwear.

“I see,” Emersyn said, hardly listening. “But I can’t meet with you now. Our meeting was scheduled thirty-five minutes ago.” She checked her watch. “And I have to be ready for my next one in ten minutes.”

“I’m sorry.” Adam looked down at his hands. “I know I’ve been a lot to deal with lately.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry, Adam. I need you to be punctual and efficient. Is that too much to ask?”

Adam diverted his eyes. “It’s not too much to ask.”

“Good. Did you make the changes to the Hawkins PowerPoint like I asked?”

“Yep. Sent it to you this morning.”

“The one you sent me still had my comments on it.” Emersyn scrunched her nose in confusion.

“Yeah, I made the edits you asked for.”

“And left the comments in the presentation? For the client to see?”

Adam lowered his eyes. “I . . . uh, I’ll resend it.”

“If you need some time off, let me know. My caseload is increasing, as is my responsibility. I need you to be on it.” Emersyn rested her forehead in her palm. “We can’t keep making careless mistakes. If you need more time to address family issues, we can figure out a work plan, but this has to stop. Now.”

“I know.” Adam looked at the ceiling and blinked rapidly. “I have a lot going on. And you’re right, I should have just taken leave. But things are better now. I’m on it. Now.”

“I hope so.” Emersyn placed her phone face down on the desk. Before Adam arrived, she was scrolling through her cousin Devanie’s Instagram for a daily reminder of how much she wanted to meet her Opelousas family. Devanie’s social media photos boasted holiday and birthday gatherings, with relatives laughing, posing, dancing in the kitchen, and holding up plates of food. Emersyn and her mother usually traveled for the holidays: Thanksgiving in the Maldives, Christmases in Hawaii, and birthday dinners at Michael Mina. “Traveling during the holidays isn’t wrong,” Phillis would say. “It’s just different.”

Matt peeked into her office and waved.

“We’ll pick this up later, Adam,” Emersyn said. “Please remove my comments and resend the presentation to me for a final review by close of business.”

“Congratulations!” Matt sang after Adam sulked out of the office.

“Shhh, people don’t know yet,” Emersyn said.

“Paul already sent an email to the partners.” Matt’s blue eyes beamed. “Got it this morning. It’s just a matter of time before it filters to staff. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Matt. And thank you for your support.”

“Just think, you are the first Black associate at this firm.” Matt held a fist in the air.

“Matt, put that white fist down.”

“Why? You think I can’t appreciate this moment because my fist is white? I love that Paul recognizes the talent of a Black woman. A bold, collard-green-eating Black woman. You can kill a revolutionary, but you can’t kill a revolution.” Matt flung his fist up again.

“All right, Afeni Shakur,” Emersyn hissed. “I admit I was shocked when Paul called me into his office. I thought he was going to fire me after the Hamilton fiasco.”

“Forget about Hamilton. Everybody makes mistakes. Don’t talk about that right now. Let’s talk about how you’re a boss.” Matt’s eyes crinkled in the corners.

“How can I not talk about it? Did you see the press? I humiliated the firm. And you see the way Ted Hawkins looked at me in the case management meeting yesterday? Like I’m the biggest mistake this company has ever seen.”

“Ted Hawkins hates his wife and his life. He looks at everybody like that. Besides, it wasn’t your fault,” Matt assured. “And Paul didn’t think it was a big deal because he still promoted you.”

The Hamilton case was a mark on Emersyn’s perfect record. No one knew Winfred Hamilton had a boyfriend in Las Vegas that he was supporting for thirty years behind his wife’s back. When Hamilton hired Bricks and Associates to represent him in a sexual harassment claim, certain information became public knowledge. The media backlash was horrendous, and the alleged victim’s lawyer pounced on Hamilton’s character. Ultimately, the case settled for an undisclosed amount, but the damage was done. Hamilton followed Emersyn’s instructions to tone down his flashy clothes and stop spewing venom via email. He also took heed to refrain from tirades at the electric battery company he’d founded. However, he didn’t take Emersyn’s advice to disclose all pertinent information, and that single oversight cost him his reputation and what remained of his marriage. It was a lash to Emersyn’s PR campaign, but it was beyond her control. Fortunately, the media headlines focused more on the sordid affair than the PR firm that was representing Hamilton.

“You might be right. I’m still so mad,” Emersyn said.

“You are a perfectionist, Chavis. And you can’t be a perfectionist in the PR world. Too many anomalies. Even at the best PR firm in Oakland, California.”