They don't even know me. They remember me. They look at old pictures and think I'm the same person I was twenty years ago. Well, I'm not. My family don't have a single solitary clue who I am today, what I'm going through, what I'm feeling inside, and I don't think they care all that much. They don't respect me, because I ain't doing as good as they are. This s.h.i.t hurts. But they oughtta take a long hard look at their own d.a.m.n lives and stop wasting so much time trying to solve the equations of mine.

I'll be frank. Paris-even though she's the oldest and I love and respect her and everything and she's got a successful food business going and her life is on track-she sees life like it's a straight line. Ain't no room for no detours in her world. You either are or you ain't. It's hard talking to her on the phone. It's like getting a pop quiz when I call her. Plus, she don't have no patience. She don't like to listen, and she think she know everything. Yeah, she smart, she got degrees from two colleges, but she don't know everything. Just 'cause you a success don't mean you perfect. It don't make you flawless. She doing a good job with Dingus and everything, but she likes to put me down 'cause I ain't the kind of father she thinks I should be. You think I need her to remind me? She the one up there in the Bay Area in a big house with n.o.body to love. I don't have no problems finding somebody to love me. I can get just about any woman I want. Well, maybe not any, but most of 'em. It's some desperate women out here, all you gotta do is learn how to spot 'em. And, believe me, it ain't all that hard to do.

Which brings me to Janelle. She lives in a dream world. Like she on some Fantasy Island kinda trip. She simple, really, and don't understand that life is like a jigsaw puzzle. That you have to see the whole picture and then put it together piece by piece. Janelle want it all in one lump. That's why she's always trying to latch on to somebody to give it to her. Her husband that died spoiled her, gave her too much of everything. I liked him, though. I ain't so sure if this dude George is the answer.

My other sister Charlotte don't do nothing unless she positive she can get something out of it. She don't like to make no big investments, just little ones, but she want big returns. Them Laundromats is in shambles, but she too cheap to fix 'em up. I can't count how many businesses she done tried but quit because the money wasn't coming fast enough. Plus, she thinks the whole world is suppose to revolve around her. She was the same way when she was little. She missing the point like a motherf.u.c.ker.

All of 'em remind me year in and year out that if I had acted like a real man I'd probably still be married to Donnetta, probably be wearing a suit and tie (which to this day I do not own), working nine to five, pickingjamil up after school and taking him to soccer and Little League practice. But that ain't the way the s.h.i.t worked out. I'm divorced. And I'm glad. That girl had problems much deeper than mine, but my family made me feel like she was the one who got the b.o.o.by prize. Donnetta put on a nice innocent act, which was how I fell for her in the first place. There was a softness to her I hadn't seen in none of the black women I'd been out with. She pretended to have ambition just like she pretended to believe in me. But she was lazy. Didn't know what she wanted. Just what she didn't want. Our marriage ended up being a process of elimination, and then the s.h.i.t just changed up completely after she found G.o.d. She wasn't never all that crazy about s.e.x, but after she got saved, if we did it once or twice a month, that was almost too much. To this day I don't know if Donnetta ever even had an o.r.g.a.s.m or not. She claimed she did, but for some reason I just never believed her. Patience is what I mosdy got outta this marriage, 'cause I was hoping to have a few more kids, but after nine years and nothing never happened, she just said maybe she was finished, and that one was enough. I went through all them years of h.e.l.l for nothing. But, then again, it was only because I ended up loving my son more than I did her.

Jamil: I wish I was in a better position to do for him, but since I'm not-- at least for the time being-I just pretend like I don't have a kid, otherwise I'd be eaten alive inside every day, which I already am, and it's probably why I drink the way I do. If it wasn't for Donnetta, I'd be in much better shape financially. She's the reason I have to work under the table half the time, because right after we split up she insisted on taking me to court, knowing I wasn't making nothing but two dollars over minimum wage. She didn't care. She wanted that. And she^o/ it.

As a man, it makes you feel small when you know what your limitations are. When you know you ain't lived up to your potential, when you ain't sure if you ever will. It can f.u.c.k your head up big-time when you know how you wish you could be living versus how you arc. I guess the s.p.a.ce in between is a big-a.s.s blank you have to learn how to fill in.

At least I know Jamil ain't over there suffering. He ain't wanting for too much. I know he ain't deprived. Donnetta may not be the brightest person in the world, but she's a good mother. That much I give her credit for. They only forty-seven miles away from here, and I know for a fact that it won't be long before I'm able to pull up in front of the house-or maybe meet 'em at the corner 'cause 110 way am I going into that house-and take Jamil somewhere. Plus, I heard she got another man coming over there on a regular basis. He supposed to be a religious fanatic like she is. But I don't care who he is or what he is, as long as he don't abuse my son, I do not under any circ.u.mstances ever want to meet the motherf.u.c.ker. No way.

If everybody only knew. It has taken a lot of work just to get where I am. Considering. I mean, I don't hold 110 grudges. Well, maybe a few. 'Cause it's some people who've done some unspeakable, despicable s.h.i.t to me. One thing I have learned to be true is this: relatives can do more harm to you than a total f.u.c.king stranger. They got statistics to prove that most homicides happen within the family, and believe me, I can understand why. As much as I would like to, I've tried hard to forget the fact that my sixteen- and seventeen-year-old cousins-Boogar and Squirrel-pushed me inside the trap door of our fallout shelter when I was ten years old and made me suck their p.e.n.i.ses. I couldn't believe they was making me do it and I didn't understand why. We were boys. Plus, we was cousins. I ain't never felt s o h umiliated and confused in my life as I did that day. When I threw up afterwards, they just laughed and told me if I ever told anybody about this they would kill me. To this day, I ain't never told a soul.

But I ain't completely stupid. Just like I know what the gross national product is, I know that this incident has probably had some efFect on my personality and everything, but I don't think it's been the deciding factor in what kinda man I am today. h.e.l.l, when I was locked up, to maintain my sanity, all I did was read encyclopedias and that's where I started doing crossword puzzles. Plus I read all those psychology books by Freud and Jung and the rest of them motherf.u.c.kers who think they can psychoa.n.a.lyze everything and everybody. But, like they say on the street: s.h.i.t happens. And some s.h.i.t don't always fit so nice and neat into no textbook. Even if it could, so the f.u.c.k what? This is the reason why 1 never told n.o.body. People always want to a.n.a.lyze you. Figure out what slot you fit in. What if you don't fit? If something traumatic happened to you as a child, they automatically think you'll be f.u.c.ked up or affected by it the rest of your life. h.e.l.l, look at me. I'm a perfect example of somebody that turned out okay. That's why I don't buy the s.h.i.t. And I ain't in no f.u.c.king denial either. If you smart, you can teach yourself to forget anything, put it in a little compartment in your brain that you know you won't need, lock it, and throw away the key. This is particularly helpful when you're dealing with s.h.i.t that hurts. So what if it creep in every now and then? You still gotta live.

Plus. Payback is a b.i.t.c.h. I was only locked up for a hot minute. I didn't do no hard time or no bending over in the joint neither. I stuck mosdy to myself. Spent most of my time reading. Educating myself. Boogar and Squirrel was doing five to ten when I got there. Armed robbery and a.s.sault with a deadly weapon. I stole some d.a.m.n lawnmowers. Garden tools. I get out. Six years go by. They get out. I move back to California to be closer to my family, to get away from the thugs and drugs that's on every other corner on the South Side of Chicago, and to dodge all forms of criminal activity, including loose bullets. One more year goes by. It's 1981: Boogar get shot in the head on Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive for something, and almost a year to the day later Squirrel OD's on heroin. n.o.body understands why I don't go to eithe r o ne of their funerals. Especially Mama. "Your own cousins, Lewis? Y'all used to play together when you was little."

"We didn't play all that good together," was all I said.

I ain't hung up on the past. I'm trying to live in the here and now. And right now I'm all twisted up between the bottom sheet, the mattress, and this woman. A very plump woman. I need a cigarette bad but I know I ain't got none. That much I do remember. I'm almost scared to roll over and see who she is, but I blink a few times, straining to put yesterday and right now together. Luisa. That's her name. What a f.u.c.king relief. I push her to the side and roll out the bed. The telephone comes out of the cradle and crashes to the floor, but it don't matter, 'cause it don't work. s.h.i.t. My head is killing me. This tiny-a.s.s room is dark and it smells like cigarette ashes, warm beer, and stale reefa. But I'm used to it. Still, opening a window wouldn't be such a bad idea. Kids are playing outside.

Before I make it out to the bathroom, I hear a knock on the front door. Who in the h.e.l.l could that be this time of morning? I wrap a towel around me, walk over, and look through the peephole, but I don't recognize the middle-aged black dude's face. I crack the door open a litde bit.

"Yeah?"

"Are you Lewis Price?"

"Who wants to know?"

"The Clearing House Sweepstakes, sir, but if you're not Lewis Price . . ."

"Wait a minute," I say. My heart is pounding like a galloping horse, because by the time he hands me that white envelope through the crack of the door I know that, number one, there is a G.o.d; number two, one day my luck was bound to change; and, three, it do pay to gamble sometimes. I let out a long sigh after I take the envelope.

"Sir, this might be important, too," he says, handing me a piece of paper. "It was taped to the screen. Have a nice day." I close the door, wishing I had at least a half a cigarette to inhale, to help me take this all in. I don't know how much I won, but it's gotta be enough to buy that Ford pickup I been looking at. Burgundy. That's my color. Whew! I can pay all my back child support-blow Donnetta's mind once and for all. And I can maybe buil d m y own ranch house even further away from all these crazy motherf.u.c.kers out here in the High Desert. I can start my own business. More than one! Get some of my ideas patented. Take some harder cla.s.ses. "Slow the f.u.c.k down," I say out loud. I got time to figure it all out, so I take a deep breath, trying to humble myself, but my fingers are tingling from the envelope in one hand and the piece of paper in the other. I read the paper first, sorta like prolonging an o.r.g.a.s.m: "Lewis: Mania's in the hospital. Do something. Get to a phone. She's getting out of ICU today, but don't let that stop you from worrying. Janelle." This is the third time in two years Mama's been rushed to the hospital. I'm just glad that Daddy's there. But, since I'm off work, I should go spend a few days with her. Help out, 'cause Daddy's probably busy running the Shack.

I gotta get to Vegas. But no way am I riding for four hours inside a car with Janelle. No way. First of all, she can't drive. Her mind ain't on the road. She don't read signs, and she drives too d.a.m.n slow. Plus, she won't let you smoke and she likes that weird New Age music. h.e.l.l, 110. I'll take a bus. This way I can get some thinking in without no distractions.

As soon as I cash this check. No. First I need to open up a bank account. But I forgot. I don't have no driver's license. Can't even get 'em for another eight months. They suspended. Two DUIs in five months. This is exactly why no more drinking and driving for me. But maybe I can get one of them California IDs. No. I got other proof that I'm who I'm supposed to be. I got bills. Maybe I can convince the bank lady that I am who I say I am when she sees how big this check is. That I got other mail with the same name and address on it. Plus, I got some Polaroids around here somewhere.

A half-empty bottle of Schlitz is sitting on the kitchen counter and I gulp it down. Then I scrounge through an ashtray till I find a decent b.u.t.t, and light it. It's burning a hole in my throat when I feel somebody's eyes staring at me. As I turn to see if it's Luisa, my towel falls to the floor and the brown face of a five- or six-year-old Mexican kid is peering at me from the back of the couch. He looks like he don't know where he is.

"Hi," I say, dropping the hot-boxed b.u.t.t back in the ashtray, picking up the towel, and wrapping it tighter around me. I'm grinning wide, but the little boy just sits there like I'm some kind of wind-up toy, which is pretty much how I'm feeling. Those days of being ashamed to see my son on Christmas are over. Now I'll go out there sober as a preacher, with boxes and boxes of presents. And I'll drive my new truck. That 1994 F-250 with the stretch cab. And I think I'll talk to Woolery about that hardwood-floor offer, see if the white boy was really serious. If not, f.u.c.k him. I got a real partner, my homeboy Silas. Everybody call him Simple Sam, and we been talking about buying a big rig. It's mucho money to be made in trucks. And I'll give Mama and Daddy a hand, 'cause it don't take no rocket scientist to see that the last Shack ain't doing as good as it used to. People don't eat that much barbecue no more. They need to fix up that house, at least get a new roof, make a Arizona room in the back or something. They could also use a vacation. h.e.l.l, I could use one, too. But where would I go? Acapulco. Naw. Half of Mexico live right here in southern California. We'll see. And then there's my wonderful sisters. I think I'll do something nice for the three of 'em. Blow their little minds. I don't know what it'll be, but whatever it is, they'll get a charge out of it.

"I'm Lewis," I finally say to the little boy. "And I'm rich!" I decide now would be a good time to open this envelope, since I've gotten used to the idea of being loaded, but as soon as I flip it over to slide my index finger under the flap, I recognize the logo for Family Court from the County of Santa Rita. "Kiss my black a.s.s!" I say, then catch myself when I look at that little boy. "I'm sorry." We both look like we about to cry. He slides down behind the brown plaid couch so I can't see his eyes, just the crown of his head.

I don't need to finish tearing this f.u.c.king envelope open but I figure I might as well see how much I owe. It's a summons all right. To appear in court for delinquent child support. The figure is humiliating and embarra.s.sing: $3,268. Half of it's interest.

"Where's my mommy?"

What a b.i.t.c.h Donnetta is. She know 1 ain't working. She know I been living off disability, and I told her I'd send what I could when I could. The problem was, I couldn't. And I haven't. s.h.i.t, after I pay my rent and electricity, squeeze in a meal here and there, that's it. This is why I don't have no phone.

"Where's my mommy?" the kid asks again.

"I'll get her," I say, turning toward the bedroom, and then I stop dead in my tracks. "What's your name?"

"Miguel. And I'm hungry. You have Cocoa Puffs?"

"Navv, but we'll get you something in a minute."

When I walk into the bedroom, Luisa is still sleep. I want her and her soil outta here as quickly as possible, but I know I need to be nice. My car ain't running-I blew a head gasket over a month ago-and in order to go see Mania, I gotta catch a Greyhound. I know they got a 1135 to Vegas. My only glitch is I gotta borrow the money from Luisa to catch it. I bend down to kiss her on the lips, but her breath stinks so bad from last night that I let my mouth press against her cheek instead. She kinda stirs. "Wake up, baby," I say. "Your son wants you and I ain't got nothing in here for him to eat."

She struggles to sit up. Her long black hair floats over her shoulders. Her skin looks like gold. She's a pretty woman-about twenty-something-but her body looks much older than she is. She's built like a round square. I met her at a bar a few weeks ago. She asked me to dance, but I don't dance, so we had a few beers and by the fifth or sixth one she asked if she could go home with me. h.e.l.l, I was relieved. I don't like sleeping by myself if I don't have to. My mind is too active, and no matter what kind of mood I start out in, I can think or drink myself straight into being depressed. A lot of times when I'm by myself, drunk, I cry. Sometimes I cry in front of women, too. Not on purpose. All I want is a litde empathy, somebody to feel my pain, somebody to listen, to understand my disappointments, my desires-h.e.l.l, my dreams. Women love men who cry, which is why I've cried in front of a whole lotta different ones. They feel closer to you after you let 'em see you like this. But it ain't no act I'm putting on. It ain't no performance, and most of the time I don't want nothing except their undivided attention, or maybe some p.u.s.s.y to finish off the evening.

I won't lie. I miss being married. I miss being a father. I miss my son. And I wish I had more than one. I know it's been almost a year since I seen him. And I can't blame n.o.body but myself for not going out there, but I can't stand the sight of Donnetta these days. It's true I was a litde drunk the las t t ime I went out there and I did cuss her out in front of Jamil, but that's only 'cause she wouldn't let me in since I forgot to call first, and she sent Chuckaluck-her big brother who makes my six-one a.s.s look like a dwarf1-to the door and I did not feel like f.u.c.king with him. But I was still fuming, so I broke the windshield outta her car, and she went and got that restraining order and I ain't been back since.

Sometimes I hate women. Maybe "hate" is too strong a word. I resent their power. Growing up in a house full of nothing but girls helped me see just how manipulative and slick they can be. How far they're willing to go to get their way. How we fall for the okey-doke every single time. My only problem is, they're also my weakness. They're necessary for my survival, which is why I'm rarely without one. I don't care what color they are, except I ain't never slept with a white woman, but that's mosdy because Mexican and black women been keeping me pretty busy. I know how to make women surrender, can talk 'em into just about anything, because I guess I'm handsome, been told I got s.e.x appeal-whatever that s.h.i.t means-but I'm also intelligent, and on top of everything: I'm a good lay.

Little Miguel charges into the bedroom and Luisa pulls the covers up to hide her long b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Hi, sweetie," she says as he jumps on top of the bed. "We're going to get you some breakfast and then we go home, okay?"

He looks at her like he don't believe her.

"Now, go, go, go, so Mommy can get dressed. Watch cartoons for a few minutes and I'll be right out."

"He's a nice little boy," I say.

"Thanks," she says, and gets up. When I look at her in broad daylight with no clothes on, I realize that her body is jacked up. But who am I to complain? s.h.i.t, she's still nice. She ain't no crackhead (like a lot of 'em I've run into at the bar). She ain't no diehard alcoholic. And she ain't on welfare. Wait a minute. Yes she is. But she definitely ain't married, and she ain't vulgar or nasty or some ignorant high-school dropout. She takes night cla.s.ses in continuing ed, too; besides, she likes me. She kept me company last night, f.u.c.ked me good-at least I think she did-and I'll keep her around until I get bored or find somebody better, whichever happen first.

In a way, what I'm hoping to do is stumble upon a wife. I been trying to replace Donnetta for years, but it ain't easy to fall in love. It ain't something you should have to work at. I think I'm still making the transition from being married to being divorced. It's only been six years. If I tell the truth, on some days, when Donnetta might be washing clothes or drinking iced tea with her BLT or sitting in rush hour traffic, I pray that she'll come to her senses and realize she still love me as much as she love G.o.d, that she'll beg me to come home and we can be a family again. I can make myself remember how much I used to love her, when her faith was in me instead of just G.o.d, when she made me feel like a king. I'm sure I could love her again. It would be so nice to have my life back. But this is all bulls.h.i.t, and I know it.

I follow Luisa to the bathroom and close the door behind us. "I need to ask you a favor, baby."

"What's that?" she asks while turning on the shower. She's looking for the soap, but there's only three white curled-up slivers left, which she's gotta set- de for. The blue towel she's gon' have to use already been used by Melody three or four days ago. I need to go to the Laundromat, that much I do know.

"Did I tell you my mama's in the hospital?"

"No you didn't. Is she all right?"

"Well, sorta. She lives in Vegas, and I need to go see her today. She's got asthma real bad." I let out a long sigh. "Anyway, I had to pay my child support last week, and you know my car ain't running, and all I got is $4.52 to my name and I was wondering if you could lend me forty or fifty bucks so I can catch the bus up there this afternoon. I'll pay you back next week, I swear it. I got a little job loading furniture for a few weeks, so I'll have some cash."

"Don't worry, since it's for a good reason, I'll lend it to you, Lewis. But just remember, Easter's coming up, and I've got things in layaway at Kmart, and if I don't get them out by the seventh, they'll put them back. Comprende?"

"Comprende. And don't worry. I wouldn't do that to your kid."

"Kids. Did you forget about Elesia and litde Rocky?"

I had. But, h.e.l.l, most of the women I deal with got at least one, so why should I be so surprised? "Naw, I didn't forget," I say. "I just ain't met 'em yet, that's all."

"Don't worry," she says, stepping into the bathtub and pulling the shower curtain closed. "You will."

"I can't wait," I say. I leave the steamy bathroom and go sit on the edge of the bed, praying she'll be quick. My head is tight. Burning. Like I got a baseball cap on too tight. I look down at the floor and spot her black vinyl purse. I would love to go in it and get the money and walk to the corner to get her kid a box of cereal, buy a newspaper, a new crossword book to do on the bus, a pack of Kools, and just one forty-ounce to get my day started. But that wouldn't be too cool. And, besides, I ain't that desperate. So I just fold my hands. And sit here. And wait.

Chapter 4.

Track "Why're you SO quiet?" Shanice is sitting in the back seat of the Jaguar with a book up to her face, which is also pressed snugly against the window. She's already cracked and devoured at least two hundred sunflower seeds on the drive here. The bulk of the sh.e.l.ls are piled on top of the plastic bag in her lap. I keep telling her these things are full of fat and high in sodium, but she doesn't care. For somebody who runs track, she eats way too many of them. It's a nervous habit. Like a chain smoker. But I can't stop her. She sneaks and buys them. Sits up in her room and reads book after book and cracks and sucks on those nasty things until her trash can is full of crumpled-up paper towels.

She's not talking today, and when Shanice doesn't feel like talking, nothing I say or do can make her. She can be an evil litde wench, just like her Granny Vy at times. They're cut from the same cloth. Stubborn as h.e.l.l.

George, who is sitting on the pa.s.senger side, dare not say anything to her when she's like this. He knows better. She's been so short with him that I had to ask him not to question, criticize, or chastise her outside of my presence. The reasons stem from that time Shanice went and told that lie on him to Mama, and ever since then I've been watching his every move-much too close for George's comfort-which has also created a circle of constant tension in our household. He doesn't have two words to say to Mama when she calls, but this of course is because he claimed she threatened him. Knowing Mama, she probably did, but he wouldn't tell me what she said. Whatever it was, George doesn't answer the phone anymore when it rings.

"If you eat too many of those things you won't want your lunch," George is saying to Shanice.

"She's fine," I say, as we turn in to the Sizzler. We're treating Shanice to her favorite restaurant, since today and tomorrow are some sort of in- service days for teachers and she gets out at twelve-thirty.

When we get out of the car, my daughter walks up ahead. She's filling out too fast. If I'm not mistaken, the cheeks of her behind are peeking out where her jeans are slit. She's in a tight tube top, but thank G.o.d she's not filling a li-cup yet. At least I don't think she is. She could be me, twenty years ago. At thirteen, I was dangerous, and at fifteen, according to Mama, lethal. I had the body of a grown woman. At thirty-five, I don't look too shabby. A lot of people swear I'm twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

Of the three girls in my family, I'm the smallest. I should say, the most fit. I'm the only one who works out, but I got the habit being married to Jimmy. He was not only a high-school track coach but, in his day, a decath- lete. He believed in taking care of his body, and it certainly rubbed off on me. I've been trying to persuade Mama and my sisters-particularly Charlotte's big b.u.t.t-to at least try walking. But they're too lazy. Paris has been lucky. She looks good in her clothes, but I know she must be getting soft under those jeans, because she doesn't do anything with any consistency except cook. Her mind's on it but her heart isn't, otherwise she'd find time to fit it in. I don't care what's going on, I make sure I get to the gym. I'm even entertaining the thought of becoming a personal trainer, but under the circ.u.mstances, of course, I wouldn't dream of doing it right now. We'll see how things evolve over the next few weeks. Regardless, I still might take some certification cla.s.ses if this real-estate thing doesn't work out. I believe it's best to leave the door for options open.

I tend to give George-the human incinerator-the evil eye every time I see him inhale a Twinkie or watch him slurp up a bowl of Dreyer's b.u.t.ter Pecan or devour a chunk of carrot cake. This would be every night before bed. He eats teriyaki anything, and if he can't watch the b.u.t.ter drip onto his plate, it means it's not enough. He doesn't believe in exercise. Says we were given the bodies we were destined to have. I have a hard time accepting this, especially since he's got a little inner tube forming around his waist, and pectorals that sag worse than mine. I told him this is called fat. It can be burned off. A few crunches and handheld weights could help get rid of it. He thinks he looks good, which must be the reason why he always wears pajamas to bed. I can count how many times I've seen him naked. We bathe separately. I have to leave the bathroom when it's his turn. He says it's about privacy. I can respect that most of the time. When we make love-if you can call it that-he takes everything off under the covers. He's quick about his business, too, but sometimes I can beat him, depending on how tired I am. He doesn't even like to put it in very often, and when he does, it's not for very long, which is why I was so shocked when I found out yesterday that I'm seven weeks pregnant. I have not told George, because I don't know how to tell him. Or when. He's the first man I've ever met that can get off just by rubbing up against me. He says it's about friction. I just say whatever works. Other times he likes me to pretend it's an ice-cream cone or begs me to use my hands like I'm trying to start a fire by stroking up and down. It's been like this for a while, but I figure every man has pet things he likes, and these are George's. One thing he refuses to do, however, is put his mouth down there. I've pleaded with him to try, but he said he just can't do it. It's unsanitary. He can't stand the smell. But we have a ritual: I bathe every single night at nine o'clock, because I read at least an hour before I go to bed. He goes in right after me. I've tried everything, but all he'll do is use his finger, and sometimes, when we're sitting in bed watching a video-not necessarily a p.o.r.no-and both of our hands are working, I feel really stupid. Really stupid.

To be on the safe side, when Shanice came home from Mama's after the New Year, I sat her and George down in a room together so we could get all this ugly business cleared up and behind us.

"George, have you ever raised your hand to Shanice without my knowledge?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

"Please, just tell me."

"Why don't you ask her?" he said, and quite loudly.

I turned to Shanice. "Has he?"

"Not really."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"No."

"Then why'd you lie, Shanice?"

"Because Granny was looking at my hair and she kept bugging me about why and how it had come out, and when she finally asked me if George had anything to do with it, I just said yes to shut her up."

"And that's it?"

She just nodded.

"Then I think you owe George an apology."

She didn't say anything.

"Forget it," he said.

"Shanice?"

"Sorry," she said to the wall or the door, but it definitely wasn't to him. "Can I go now?"

"Go," I said. George looked like he always did: preoccupied with something else. And that was it. We've never talked about it since, and things seem as close to normal as we can get.

Now I'm watching Shanice swing those two hundred or so braids dangling over her shoulders like they're hers. I let George's niece do it a few weeks ago. You can't see the bald spots all that much, and it seems as if she's slowed down some on pulling it out. I never knew why she started doing it in the first place. The doctor said sometimes it means something traumatic has happened and this could be her reaction to it. I asked Shanice about that. She said the only thing that had terrified her was that earthquake we had back in January. But she'd been doing this long before then. Sometimes kids keep secrets, and if they don't want to tell, they won't tell. She knows I'm here for her, I've made that perfectly clear.

As much as Shanice tries to pretend as if she doesn't like George, she really does. He spoils her like she were his. Buys her just about anything she wants, and she certainly knows how to ask. He doesn't know how to say no to her, and I chide him about this all the time. For some reason, he acts like he's indebted to her for even being here. But this is his house. Technically. My name still isn't on the deed, but that's just one more thing on a long list we have yet to iron out. Luckily, we're in California, a community-property state, so I'm not all that worried about what's mine and what's his. Push comes to shove, I would not have to walk out of here with nothing.

George holds the door to the restaurant open for us. At twelve and three- quarters, as she puts it, Shanice is five six: almost as tall as me. I'm five nine. All the girls on Jimmy's side of the family are lanky with narrow hips. I'm still waiting for more of the Price blood to come to the surface. Jimmy's skin looked like red clay, but Shanice got both of our coloring and turned out deep bronze.

She walks past George clutching her book. He's only about an inch taller than her. I'm barely speaking to him today myself, as he just announced this morning that he is not paying to send her to boarding school like he promised he would. She wants to go. As a matter of fact, she's been begging to go, which I think is a litde strange, considering she's got all the comforts a girl could ask for at home. Her room is full of everything, which is probably why she rarely comes out of it.

I walk past George, and once we're inside and seated, Shanice turns her attention to the traffic outside. We bore her.

"What do you feel like having today?" he asks her.

"I'm not hungry."

"I told you those seeds would ruin your appet.i.te."

"It's not the seeds. It's you. You make me sick."

"Stop it, Shanice. Right now!" I yell, and then try lowering my voice. "Not today, please."

"Look, we can't afford to send you to boarding school, if that's what this is about."

"You can afford it. You know I want to go, that's the reason you're not doing it. Both of you just want to keep me prisoner for the next five years, that's all."

"You should watch the tone of your voice," I say. "Look. I can try asking the insurance company to reconsider releasing more of your trust, but your father's lawyer set it up so that it's paid out in specific increments until you turn eighteen."

"Private school is already costing us a small fortune," George says. "Do you have any idea how expensive boarding school is?"

"No, I don't," Shanice says.