Street (Urban Fiction)

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

"I was just, I was just, I was just sittin' here thinkin'." I woke up to momma's voice. It filled the entire house. I wish I could say she sounded like a mocking jay, or a cardinal, but she sounded more like a parrot. I loved that parrot though.

Waking up to her singing reminded me of when she finally decided to divorce Marcus. Though it was her decision, she was still heartbroken. He was supposed to be the love of her life; the street nigga she married and changed for the better, but that shit only happened in the books. She spent that entire month listening to love and breakup songs from artists like Keyshia Cole, Ashanti, Latiff, Aaliyah, Etta James, and Lauryn Hill. I knew every word of every song by the end of that month.

I jumped out of bed and stretched my body before slipping on my house slippers. Momma hated when I didn't wear them. She swore walking around barefoot would give me unbearable menstrual cramps. I flew down the stairs two at a time, trying to catch the song before it ended.

"And baby, baby, baby I'd rather go blind yeah. Than to see you walk away, walk away from me!" I grabbed the broom from the closet and helped her finish the song, adding in the adlibs while she delivered Etta's lines with a convincing agony in her voice.

"I'm sleeping and you guys are singing about being blind? Is this what they mean when they say you can't understand girls?"

Momma and I busted out in laughter. We didn't even notice Michael standing there. His face had annoyance written all over it.

"Yeah Mike, a life lesson you should learn now. Just go with the flow and agree with everything," momma joked.

Michael cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows in confusion. "But—but I don't want to be blind. Then I can't play games. And I can't— I won't be able to be Superman."

"You can be Daredevil; he was blind," I added.

Michael just shook his head like he couldn't even begin to understand the stupidity of my comment, and walked back upstairs. "Girls," he muttered.

"Who broke your heart?" I turned back to momma who was softly singing along to the next song that started playing. It was Deborah Cox's, How Did You Get Here?

"Nobody. I'm cleaning. It's been so long since I cleaned, cleaned," she answered. 

"So you're listening to heartbreak music?" 

"Yeah. I need to feel like I just kicked out my no good boyfriend. It'll motivate me to clean and get rid of every trace of him," she answered with a serious face.

I laughed. "What the hell momma?" I looked around and noticed she was almost done, so I figured it was safe to offer some help. "You want some help?"

"I'm almost done. Go shower and I'll have breakfast ready." She turned her attention back to the floor she was mopping.

I smiled. Deep down I didn't want to help. I hated cleaning. I liked to cook. Ask me to cook anything for you and I will, but don't ask me to clean.

"Matter fact," she called as I started up the stairs, "clean the upstairs bathroom."

I could've died. I almost did. I almost missed a step and 'broke' my neck. Then I wouldn't have to clean the bathroom. I dragged my feet up the rest of the stairs and gave the bathroom door the stankest face I could before walking in and grabbing the bleach.

I jumped in the tub immediately after cleaning. I washed my hair first because I hated the feeling of hair conditioner on my body. If I wasn't dry and ashy, I didn't feel clean. I headed back downstairs when I was lotioned and dressed. The first thing I noticed was a long, black garment bag.