Cold As Ice (6 page)

“She's not that bad,” Jeremy says, looking down at me. “She and my mom go way back. I guess I just see a different side of her.” Yeah, I guess he does.

“How far back do the Wicked Witch of the West and your mom go?” Mrs. Weiner also has it out for me, and I make sure I stay out of her way.

“Elementary school. They were in Louisiana together, and you already know South Bay is their alma mater, and that's where Chance's mom enters the picture.” Witches traditionally travel in threes, but I've never met Chance's mom, so I don't want to jump to any conclusions. “I'm sorry, Jayd. I think I have something that'll make you feel better,” Jeremy says, reaching into his right sweater pocket and pulling out a small pack of cinnamon doughnuts, my favorite. I have to be careful, now that we're back together. When Jeremy and I dated earlier this school year, I put on ten pounds just from our daily off-campus lunch ventures alone. I know he likes my thickness, but a sistah's got to stay healthy and fitting into her own jeans. With one homegirl pregnant and the other one almost down to a size two, I don't have the clothing options I used to via my friends' closets. Hell, I can't even wear Mickey's shoes anymore, her feet have stretched out so much. And Nellie's got thin model feet—the exact opposite of my short, fat
Flintstones
feet, as Rah would call them.

“Oh baby, you shouldn't have,” I say, accepting the sweet treats. I open the plastic and stuff one bite-size circle into my mouth while entering the classroom. I'll try to sneak another in before Mrs. Peterson sees me. Jeremy kisses me on the nose before we take our seats. The bell rings loudly over our heads, and, finally, third period begins, and so does the rest of our day. I'm anxious to go to Chance's house this evening with Nellie for Chance's dad's birthday dinner; I also want to see what Chance's parents are like, especially because I already met them in my dream world on the day they adopted Chance—Christmas Day seventeen years ago. It's going to be a trip seeing them now.

 

As usual, there's a mad rush to get out of the gate in the parking lot after school. I should park in the lower parking lot by the drama room like Chance and Jeremy do most of the time, but I'll be damned if I have to hike up the hill leading from the theater area to my first-period class, which is near the main gate where I park. Chance already sent me a text saying he's waiting for us at his house already. I guess Nellie's rolling with Laura and the rest of the ASB crew since they have sixth period together and probably left early to go shopping or something. Chance rarely goes to his sixth-period art class, too. Am I the only one of my friends who believes in staying at school for the entire day?

Finally out of the lot and on my way to Chance's mini mansion in Palos Verdes, I catch traffic again and am forced to sit for a few moments while an accident clears on Pacific Coast Highway. My phone vibrates, and I see yet another text from Nellie. I'm giving this girl my phone bill next month because she is not in my network, and her neurosis is costing me a small fortune.

“I knew it,” I say, voicing my frustration at the message and at the fact that I'm sitting still on this bright, sunny afternoon. Nellie's running late. I glance at the clock on the dashboard and pray that Nellie won't be too much later than I am. Alia gave me the information for the AP study group. They're meeting tonight at six to go over the exams and other information, and I don't want to be late. I already called Mama and asked her if I could stay out for the study session. She wasn't happy but agreed when I pointed out that I usually don't leave the shop until after nine, which is when I plan on driving home. Nellie owes me big-time for this one.

When I finally make it to PV, it's after four. I park in the U-shaped driveway and get out, making my way up the steep steps leading to the front door. Their Zen garden offers a stunning view and soothing sounds due to the large waterfall fixture to the right of the front door. These are the types of homes I see in magazines.

“Hey, Jayd. Thanks for coming,” Chance says, letting me into his home before I can ring the doorbell. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was nervous. He gives me a hug and closes the front door before leading me inside. Last year Chance and I used to hang out here sometimes when his parents weren't home. I've missed this big-ass house. Jeremy lives around the corner, and so do a lot of the other PV kids. You know you've got hella bank when you can afford a crib around here.

“And you must be Jayd. I'm Mrs. Carmichael. It's nice to finally meet you. Have a seat,” Chance's mother says, guiding me through the foyer while giving me a tight hug. Little does she know we've already met in my dream state and I know their family secret.

“My dad's running late at work, but he'll be here as soon as he can,” Chance says.

Chance's mother walks ahead of us and into the formal dining room, heading straight for the chardonnay on the table. Chance and I sit down at the table on the same side, leaving an empty seat between us for Nellie. I see Mrs. Carmichael likes her liquor, just like Jeremy's mom. No wonder they're friends.

“Late for his own birthday dinner? I wonder who's keeping him this time,” his mom says, pouring more wine. Before we can comment on the awkward moment, Chance's dad arrives. Now all we need is Nellie, and we can get this party started. I'm going to miss the actual meal, but I can lend my girl as much support as I can before I have to roll.

“Hey, babe, son, son's friend,” Chance's father says, coming in from the kitchen and chewing on a roll. “Lindsey, what happened to the Benz this time? Do you know how much it costs to get a bumper fixed on an SL500?” He puts his briefcase on the dining room table, completely disregarding the careful placement of the napkins and china on the large marble table. This thing must weigh a ton, but I'm not a hater: the shit is flyy.

“It was a hit-and-run, David,” Mrs. Carmichael says, now on her second glass. Where did the first one go that fast?

“Look here, I'll tell you what you're going to do,” Mr. Carmichael says, sitting at one end of the table and chewing on his bread while talking at the same time. Talk about disgusting. “You kick in the door on the same side and call our insurance agency. Tell them to come tow it and give you an estimate. I'll bet they'll total it out and give you a check we can use as a down payment on another car.”

Mrs. Carmichael looks like she wants to contest, but she doesn't. I can tell who's got the power in this house. Chance once told me his mother always wanted a large family but that his father allowed her to have only one child. Allowed. I wish Daddy would try to “allow” Mama to do something. The story would end completely opposite of Chance's family tale.

“But that's fraud, David, and, like the saying goes, we reap what we sow. Karma's real,” Mrs. Carmichael says, looking sorry she ever told her husband about the fender bender. I agree with her. Playing with the universe is no joke. I wish Nellie would hurry and finish getting her hair done. This scene is making me uncomfortable, and she's the one supposed to be meeting the parents, not me.

“Karma is like voodoo,” Chance's father explains, not knowing he's talking to a priestess. But I'll go ahead and let him continue. I want to see where he's going with this. “It can hurt you only if you believe in it. Look at George Bush. He's overseen the murder of tens of thousands of people, and he's playing golf on a ranch somewhere. Karma's one of those ideas hippies planted in the minds of weak people to make them think twice about doing the shit all the rich people are doing—i.e. us, babe.” He takes a gulp of the red wine his wife just poured him, lets out a loud belch, and continues dictating. “Now go on and call the insurance agency. We'll get you a new Benz tomorrow, babe.”

“Yes, dear,” Chance's mom says, rising from the dinner table per her husband's command. She looks like a defeated puppy, retreating with her tail between her legs. What an ass her husband is.

“No sense in paying a deductible if we can total it out, right?” Mr. Carmichael looks at me for an ally. I guess he figures because I'm black I'll be down with the latest plot and scheme. Unlike him, I do believe in both voodoo and karma, and I'm not getting on the bad side of either one of them, for real.

“I'm going to call to check on Nellie. I don't know what's taking her so long,” I say, avoiding his question. I rise from my seat and follow Mrs. Carmichael into the living room. I quickly send Nellie a text, telling her to hurry her ass up and get over here. Nobody gives a damn about her hair anyway. Mrs. Carmichael retrieves a bottle of wine from the minibar and refills her bottomless glass. After meeting her husband, I can see why she drinks. No response from Nellie. What the hell is taking her so long to get here? I'm ready to bounce, and if I leave now I can make it to the meeting on time.

“I don't always do what he says, you know,” Mrs. Carmichael says, gazing out the picture window overlooking her plush green lawn. Their backyard is not as spacious as Jeremy's but is just as striking. I look around and realize she must be talking to me because we're the only two people present in the spacious room. Mrs. Carmichael turns around and looks at me, her eyes red from crying or too many sleepless nights, or maybe a combination of both.

“Sometimes I smoke outside when he's asleep,” she says, returning her gaze outside. “He told me to stop smoking cigarettes years ago, but I still sneak one in every now and then just to spite him.” Damn, that's deep. Killing herself to piss off her man. No one said love was logical.

I don't know what to say to her. I feel like I should say I'm sorry or something equivalent, but I'm equally convinced she really doesn't want a conversation. She just wants someone to listen.

“You're one of them, aren't you, Jayd?” Mrs. Carmichael asks, still focusing on the rose garden in our view. There are so many types of flowers out there she could be a florist. Her home is so peaceful except for the man she married living inside it. Her question throws me a little, but I know what she's referring to.

“One of what?” I ask, trying to throw off her scent, but she's on it like a bloodhound. These Southern folks can spot a conjure woman from a mile away.

“It depends on who you ask. Rainelle Burton calls your kind root workers; Jewell Parker Rhodes, voodoo priestesses. Tina McElroy Ansa would call you a caul child, and I, I call you a seer.” Mrs. Carmichael looks at me and smiles, waiting for my reply, but I don't have one. Ms. Toni would be impressed by her apparent knowledge of voodoo literature. It just freaks me out even more to know she's read about women like me and is already hip to the game. She probably thinks I can read her mind or some shit like that. Little does she know that's my mom's gift of sight, not mine.

“Where'd you get that idea?” I ask, taken completely off guard by her question. I feel like I've just been outed, and by a white woman, no less. See what happens when I do favors for my friends? I end up getting scolded, and this is the last thing I need right now.

“Don't be so coy, Jayd. Chance told me all about your little witch-hunt episode at school a while back. He also said you admitted to being a priestess.” Mrs. Carmichael looks into my eyes, studying my facial expressions. For a moment, I think I can hear what she's not saying, like in my dream last night where I was my mother before she lost her powers.

“He did?” I ask, surprised Chance would say anything about me to his mom, especially about Misty calling me out a few months ago, which was the first time I decided to stand up for my lineage at school. It's been more tense around campus than usual for me ever since. “What else did he tell you?”

“Well, he told me about you the first day of school last year. He was very impressed by your acting capabilities. He thought he met his leading lady in you,” she says, sipping her wine carefully so as not to spill any on her white carpet and gesturing for me to sit in one of the two oversize cream-colored chairs across from the matching couch. Damn, I thought I was almost out of here. I can hear Chance's father in the dining room still discussing with his son what he thinks his wife should do about her fender bender. I guess talking to me is better than going back in there, and I don't blame her. If Nellie doesn't arrive soon, I'm going to head out, dinner or not. I can't take too much more of Mr. Carmichael's ego; there's not enough room in this house for it and me.

“He's not the only one impressed. I've never met anyone better at improvisation,” I say, looking down at my phone and praying that it vibrates soon.

“Yes, my son is quite the spontaneous one,” she says, catching a memory as it comes. Did I just see that memory, too? I think a little bit of my dream stayed with me from last night. Mama already stripped me of using my ancestor's power once—now she'll surely want to take my mom's away from me as well. But maybe it'll go away by itself, like a residual effect more than a new development in my gift of sight. “He's been like that all his life.” The sadness in Mrs. Carmichael's eyes is evident by the softness in her look. Her tone lowers as she recalls Chance's childhood, and I share her silent memories.

“I can only imagine Chance as a child,” I say, lying aloud. I can pretty much see the picture of her son's first step forming in her head, and I also remember him as a newborn from my own visions.

“Can you? I think you can actually see him as a child,” Mrs. Carmichael says, staring hard at me, which is making me uncomfortable. “My mind feels very cool all of a sudden. I remember this feeling from the seers back home.” Having a cool head is one of the side effects of my mom's talent when she's in other people's minds. What does Mrs. Carmichael really know?

“Mrs. Carmichael, I don't know what you've heard, but it's not like that.” I look over my shoulder toward the dining room, praying Chance will rescue me soon. I don't want to be rude, and I understand his mom needs a distraction, but I don't feel like being the court jester tonight.