ARCHITECTURE. IT WAS order in a world of chaos, sense in a world of madness. It relied on math and science instead of grievances and emotions, and rewarded hard work, dedication and achievement. For Deena, it was the only thing that made sense.
Some days she felt like her grandmother loved her. Those were the times when she would welcome Deena, fix her breakfast and fawn over her. They’d talk whatever projects Deena had planned and the day she would open her own firm. Her grandmother would be so proud of her, tell her how smart she was—as smart as her father.
Then there were the other days. The days when she looked at her with disgust, spitting venomous words about the similarities between Deena and her mother.
She hated those days.
Standing in her grandmother’s kitchen with the sleeves rolled up on her crisp white blouse, Deena grated cheddar for the mac and cheese. She and Lizzie were alone this Sunday, chatting as they waited for their aunts and grandmother to return from a run to the store. She was careful to keep the conversation light—no school, no family, no expectations for the future. They stuck to music and movies and things that didn’t matter. As they talked, their cousin Keisha arrived with two of her four children, and the father of the eldest, Steven “Snowman” Evans.
Deena’s back was to the entrance of the kitchen—a gaping squared-out hole in the middle of puke green walls. She didn’t see Snowman until it was too late.
“Deena, my favorite girl,” he said, his voice throaty and intimate at her back. She cringed.
Snowman was a tall and brawny creep with a pool ball head and deep toffee skin. His moustache and beard looked penciled-in, while his front teeth glittered with diamonds. Most days he wore an oversized white t-shirt with a hem near his knees and jeans he was forced to hike up. He was the sort of guy that a girl kept an eye on, unsure as to why, but certain it was needed.
“Steven,” Deena said. She could feel the eyes of Keisha on her back. Whenever Snowman was around, she clung to him like asphalt to earth.
Snowman inhaled. “Damn. You always smell so good.”
Deena swallowed. Her skin wanted to flee her body. And she could smell his breath, too, beer and tobacco early on a Sunday afternoon. Either it or he made her stomach turn.
“Please move.” She closed her eyes, desperate to control the tremble in her voice. “Please.”
These were the times when she hated herself. When her body shook and fear kept her from doing what was right. Then, more than ever, she hated herself.
“You want me to beg for it. I know you do.” He released a tremulous exhale, and God help her, he touched her—fingertips at her arm. “And you still a virgin, ain’t you? Yeah.” He trailed icy fingers along her elbow as though they were the only two in the room. “Tight like a virgin.”
There was nothing but a flimsy aluminum grater in one hand, knuckles blanched from clenching, and a nub of cheese she’d shredded to nothing.
Finally, Keisha spoke.
“Snow?”
Nothing.
“Snow!”
“What?” he barked.
Deena kept her eyes on the sink. But before Keisha could answer, they were interrupted by the clamor of Hammond women returning from the store. Deena finally turned to face them—and Snow.
It was no surprise to her that Emma, Caroline and Rhonda were met by a wholly re-imagined Snowman, who greeted them with hugs while taking their bags. He called Caroline “Mom” and Deena’s grandmother, “Grandma.” The exchange with Rhonda was stiff but civil.
“’Lizabeth, there’s a girl outside asking after you,” Grandma said, still glowing from Snowman’s affections.
Lizzie stood. “Did you catch her name?”
Emma shook her head and Lizzie dashed out.
Deena’s grandmother turned on her. “Put these here groceries away. I need to get off my feet.”
No sooner did Deena turn than did Keisha grab her wrist.
“You better learn your damned place when it comes to Snowman.”
Deena stared back at her, wide-eyed. Her grip was tight on her arm. “I don’t want him. And you shouldn’t either.”
Keisha’s gaze narrowed. “Stay away from him, Deena. Last warning.”
“I will. You don’t have to worry.”
Keisha heaved Deena’s arm aside. “Worry? You’re the only one who should be worrying. The last time a girl was here to see that slut of a sister of yours it turned out to be a fifty-year-old man.”
Deena stared, trying to blink her way to comprehension. When it came, she dashed out, after her sister.
A cherry red Escalade with custom spinning wheels, a scantily clad teen in a scoop neck tee, and, as Keisha had predicted, a paunch-bearing, middle-aged man with a receding hairline, were all before Grandma Emma’s house.
Lizzie leaned against the door of the Escalade and giggled as he ran a finger down the crease between her breasts. Deena stormed them, outrage without surprise, disgust without disbelief, fueling her every step. Down the walkway she tore, shouting her sister’s name, and when she reached them, she snatched her.
“What the hell is going on? There was a girl out here! Grandma said there was a girl—”
“This is my friend,” Lizzie said.
“Your friend?”
Deena wondered where in the hell a fifteen-year-old girl met a dark and thickset old man with fish eyes, kinky facial hair and a pop-up belly. And better yet, what would make her call him friend.
The man offered a corn yellow grin. “Baby, normally I don’t respond to shouting, but since you’re so pretty, I’ll do you a favor.” He extended a calloused hand. “The name’s Larry Wilshire.”
Deena’s gaze narrowed. “Well, are you aware that fucking a fifteen-year-old is illegal, Larry Wilshire?”
“Baby, they ain’t got a cell big enough to hold all the guys they’d round up behind your sister.”
He laughed. And when he did, Lizzie joined him.
“I—I’ll tell you what,” Deena said. “How about I have the authorities give you a call? They can start with you as far as I’m concerned.”
“Woo woo, Deena’s getting some nerves,” Lizzie grinned.
Deena rounded the fat Escalade, dug out her phone, and punched in the tag number.
Larry joined her around back. “Listen, why don’t you take that phone, punch in my number, and make plans to go out with me.”
His indifference was staggering. Unable to speak, Deena snatched her sister and dragged her indoors.
“What the hell was that, Lizzie? What is he? Forty? Fifty?”
Deena shoved Lizzie into her bedroom.
“Girl, stop trippin’. I ain’t tryin’ to marry the dude. Just having a little fun.”
The teen turned on her sister, arms folded. For the second time that day, Deena gawked at the hot pink baby tee with its spilling cleavage and the tiny shorts she’d coupled with it. Pink Converses and hoop earrings rounded out the ensemble.
“Where in the hell did you get these clothes from anyway?” Deena grabbed the girl’s arm.
“My friend bought them for me.” Lizzie snatched free of her grip.
“Your friend, huh? And what did he tell you? That he loved you? That you were the only one for him?”
Lizzie laughed. “Don’t be an idiot, Deena.”
She went over to her vanity mirror, a polished white gift from Deena, and retrieved a pack of Juicy Fruit from it. She unwrapped a piece and stuck it in her mouth, before tossing aside the packet. Lizzie plopped down on her bed.
“He told me that he’s got money. And that’s exactly what I want to hear.”
Lizzie fluffed a pink pillow and stretched out on her back. Hands folded over her abdomen, she crossed her legs and bounced a foot midair.
“Money? What do you need money for?”
Lizzie shot her a look of impatience. “Same thing you need it for. Stuff. I see you got Gucci and Prada. I’m a get mine, too.”
“These things are my reward for working hard,” Deena said. “Damned hard.”
“Well, I work hard for mine, too.” Lizzie gave a secret smile. “Damned hard.”
“And how do you do that? Cause I don’t see any job uniforms around here.”
The teen grinned. “Girl, I’m wearing it.”
Deena was nauseated. The room was suddenly too tight and bright, with all its hot pink and fuchsia, coral and salmon. How could a girl, a child with a Hello Kitty throw on her bed and a mammoth collection of teenybopper posters, talk like this?
“I can’t do this,” Deena said. “I can’t listen to this.”
Lizzie stared at her. “Look, the way I figure it, you’re gonna have sex anyway. So, you might as well get something for it.”
Deena blinked back fresh tears. “Yeah. It’s called love. And it’s supposed to be reciprocal.”
Lizzie shrugged. “Well, what you call ‘love’, I call clothes, purses and shoes. I want what I want and I do what I gotta do to get it. Deal with it.”