No Mercy (7 page)

             
“At least it’s my last year in high school. Soon, Mrs. Bennett will be a thing of the past,” I say, removing my sandals after a long day and week. I’m so glad that it’s Friday I almost want to cancel the two clients I have lined up this evening and veg out. Keenan’s going to stop by after I’m done working. I hope I can stay awake long enough to catch up with him.

             
“Girl, please,” my mom says, slitting her green eyes at me. “There will always be another Mrs. Bennett around. Life’s full of them so you might as well get used to that fact.”

             
“I guess,” I say, too tired to move.

             
“Ain’t no guessing about it, girl,” my mom says, grabbing her overnight bag and stacking it full of clean laundry from the basket on the floor. “Bitches are everywhere, and apparently they shed.” My mom kicks a ball of hair under the table and looks at me like she wants to cuss me out but holds her tongue.

             
“I know, mom. I’m on it,” I say, rising from my makeshift bed and making my way to the kitchen. I take the broom and dustpan from the pantry and get to it.

“You remind me so much of m
y favorite Aunt DeeDee, your great aunt. I loved the way she did my hair,” my mom says, running her fingers through her long, jet-black tresses. “DeeDee actually braided my hair the last night of her life. I didn’t take those braids out for eight weeks after her murder.”

“Mom, that’s a bi
t much, don’t you think?” I move to the kitchen floor. My last client shed worse than a cat on a hot day. Folks around here really need to start using my products on the regular and not just when I do their hair. It would make it easier for me the next time around but no, they’d rather get whatever products they can from the dollar store and let me deal with the aftermath.

“Not really, Jayd. Think about some of your clients who only want you touching their heads. It was like that
with DeeDee. Your braids actually remind me a lot of hers, and she used to make a mess of her kitchen, too.”

             
“Mom, what do you want me to do?” I feel bad about not keeping up my end of our agreement lately but between work, spirit duties and school a sistah is beyond exhausted. “It’s not like I can rent a space of my own. I’m only seventeen.”

             
“I’m glad you asked,” my mom says, showing me a text on her cell. “I spoke to Shakir this afternoon and he said for you to drop by when you can. He has a business proposition for you.”

             
“Mom, I can’t work at Simply Wholesome again, Netta’s shop and maintain my own hustle. I’m getting more tired just thinking about it.”

             
“I know that, Jayd but just hear the brother out,” my mom says, placing the Louis Vuitton duffle bag on her shoulder. “I can drop you off now if you like.”

             
“Wow, mom. Really?” I ask, replacing the broom and dustpan in the closet and checking the clock. I have about an hour before my first client for the evening shows up.
              “Yes Jayd,” my mom says, grabbing her purse from the coat rack. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to evict you and I don’t want to do that to my own daughter.”

             
I know she’s joking but not really. My mom can be one cold sistah when she wants to be.

             
“How am I going to get back home?” I ask, grabbing my purse, too. I dropped the car off at Netta’s shop so that here son could continue working on it. “The car won’t be ready until tomorrow afternoon.”

             
“How did you get here in the first place?”

             
“I got you, mom.” My mom’s not the person to go to for sympathy, but she does handle business like only she can—hook ups and all.

              When I finally make it to Slauson Avenue the parking lot is packed with Mercedes Benzes, Range Rovers and Jaguars, including Shakir’s black Jag parked in front of the restaurant. The long line stretches out of the front door forcing me to enter through the grocery store on the other side of the building.

             
“Jayd!” Sarah, my former coworker screams. She comes from behind the register to hug me, damn the customers.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I say, returning the love. I have missed this place, but not Marty, the bitch of a manager who’s still on the payroll I see. “Where’s Alonzo?”

“He’s holding down the juice bar, as usual.” Sarah points toward the restaurant entrance where there’s a live reggae band playing outside on the patio.

“There she is,” Shakir says, stepping into the market from the office space in the back used for storage
. “Lynn Marie said you might stop by.”

“I really didn’t have much of a choice,” I say, hugging him. “She told me you might have a business proposition for me, but I have to warn you that I’m very busy these days.”

“Aren’t you always?” Shakir says, handing Sarah a receipt book.

“Brother Mohammed, this is for you,” a young, Muslim brother says, handing Shakir a medium-sized pink box, most likely containing a bean pie.

“Thank you, my brother,” Shakir says, handing the man five dollars.

             
“Mohammed, Shahid, Shakir,” I say, following him to an empty table in the dining area. “Why so many names?”

I’ve made the mistake of calling him both Shakir and Shahid, confusing many customers and myself in the process. Rah went through a similar name change back in junior high, wanting everyone to call him Seven because he read some book about black men being God and seven was God’s number or something like that. Either way it didn’t stick. The name Rah’s different enough for most people without adding a number onto it.

              “My given name is Rodrick James Armstrong,” he says. That name doesn’t suit him at all. “My chosen name is Shahid Shakir Abdul Mohammed El.”

             
“Wow,” I say, taking a small slice of the pie he’s offered. “That’s a mouthful.”

             
Shakir laughs at my surprise. “Don’t you have more than one name, Jayd?”

             
He’s got a good point there. My spiritual name is Osunlade and my nickname is Lyttle. I guess we all need split identities if for no other reason than to identify people by how they call us.

             
“So, about that business proposal,” I say. “I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve got two clients this evening.”

“That’s precisely what I wanted to talk to you about,”
Shakir says, removing his rasta cap and revealing a head full of untamed locks. “I need my locks tightened. Also, Summer’s going back to school for business management and she needs an unofficial apprentice to help out with her natural hair business.”

“I’d love to take you on as a client but I don’t know about working here again,” I say, looking at Marty behind the counter. She better not fix her lips to say shit to me, not even hello.

“Look Jayd, Lynn Marie told me that you’re hustling hard out of her apartment and it’s getting on both your nerves.” It’s not really bothering me but I guess my mom has truly had enough if she’s telling her high school homie about it. “Wouldn’t it be better to work out of the back of Simply Wholesome?”

“Isn’t there some type of law against a minor doing hair without a license?” I ask. Netta and Mama only allow me to wash clients’ heads, never braid or even blow dry for that matter.

“Like I said, you’ll be an apprentice. I’ll even pay for your cosmetology license as long as you work here. And no, there’s no law against you doing natural hair styles, as long as there’s no chemicals or heavy heat involved,” Shakir says, passing me an envelope.

“
Jayd, take him up on his offer
,” my mom says, making her thoughts well known.

“Your
business is booming, Jayd, and it’s a really good investment from where I’m sitting. Take a look at the proposal and let me know what you think. And make it soon, please. I really need you to take care of this before it gets out of control,” Shakir says, replacing his cap and getting back to work.

I open the envelope with the contract inside and seriously consider his generous offer. My client list will improve, and it’s not so far away from Inglewood that I’d lose my current customers. Besides, it wouldn’t be so bad getting out of my mom’s
apartment, not only because of the ever-present smell of cooking hair in the space but also because the water and electric bill will be less. And I’ll be able to save up for another car hopefully sooner than later.

“
Girl, you better make it happen
,” my mom says, invading my private thought process yet again. “
I know it’s a lot to think about, but we have to work something out. Besides, you know Shakir’s a good businessman and who knows, this could be just the opportunity you need to push your own business to the next level. Like you said, this is your last year of high school. Time to think bigger, baby
.”

“
I got you, mom
.”

Even my mom knows that I’ll have to talk it over with Mama tomorrow before I make any decisions. Until then, it’s back to work for this little entrepreneur.

“You’ve got to promise me you won’t be one of his groupies, Jayd. All the young brotha needs is controversy.”

-Ms. Toni

Drama High, volume 3: Jayd’s Legacy

~5~

WITCH DOCTOR

I finally caught up with Mama who’s been working with Dr. Whitmore for the past few days. Rather than meeting Netta and Mama at the shop per our usual busy Saturday schedule, they want me to come to Dr. Whitmore’s office before we open. I’m anxious to see what Dr. Whitmore has to say about Mama’s recovery process even if I’m missing the extra two hours of sleep I could be getting instead.

“Jayd, close the door!” Netta screams, scaring the shit out of me. The sun isn’t up good yet and it’s equally dark inside the quaint shop.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. There are three figures; two standing on either side of the one in the middle, who I think is Mama.

“Your grandmother’s sleepwalking,” Dr. Whitmore says, in a low, steady voice. “And we can’t wake her.”

“Get off of my grandbaby!” Mama shouts, sweeping the broom in the air and nearly hitting her best friend.

“What happened to her?” I ask, completely shocked. I’ve never seen Mama in this state before. “Mama doesn’t sleep walk; that’s my Achilles’ heel.” I don’t do it as often as I used to when I was younger, but whenever I do sleepwalk it’s always bad news.

“Exactly,” Dr. Whitmore says. I can feel his eyes focus intently on mine without seeing them. “You’re going to have to go inside of her dream and wake her up.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Before Dr. Whitmore can answer Mama drops her broom, grabs my face and forces our foreheads together.

“Ahhhh!” I scream out in pain. The surge of our sights hits me like a tidal wave. It’s a cold, overwhelming rush, much like the brain freeze I experience when my mom’s sight takes over but magnified to the thousandth degree.

“Jayd!” Netta screams desperately. “Lynn Mae, you have to wake up!” She attempts to free me from my grandmother’s grasp but her efforts are futile. Mama’s in another realm and possesses the strength of a gladiator.

“Let her go, you spiteful wen
ch!” Mama says, circling the ring with her opponent a few steps in front of her.

“Never!” Esmeralda says, also circling the dirt sphere. “An eye
for an eye, a child for a child. Isn’t that what the good book says?”

“Depends on which
good book you read,” Mama twirls her brass sword in the air. That thing must weigh twice as much as any sword I’ve ever seen.

They both appear
to be about twenty years younger. Mama already looks young for her age, but Esmeralda’s youthful transformation is a recent manifestation. However, in this vision they both possess the physiques of female body builders.

“Jayd, you have to wake her up,” Dr. Whitmore says, adding a calm voice to the mix. “It’s imperative that you both escape the vision immediately.”

“Mama, it’s me and I’m okay,” I say, stepping into the center of the cipher. “No one has me.”

“Jayd, no!” Mama screams, pointing the sword at me. “Get ou
t of here! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“Haven’t I already told you to s
tay out of grown women’s business, little girl,” Esmeralda says, moving closer to me. “I warned you, Lynn Mae. The crown is too big for this child’s head.”

“Stay away from Jayd, Esmeralda. Come after me if you want revenge.”