Page 77 of Collateral Love
“You could’ve let him know I had a part in this,” I pushed, stubbornly. “You ain’t have to shield me.”
He chuckled once, humorless.
“You think that’s shielding?” he asked. “That’s strategy. You wanna be my equal? That comes with non-negotiables. One of ‘em is this: the world hits me first.”
After the scarewith the rival crew and our runners, Kenya was spending more time at home. She would have me over her family's house in North End during the day while her parents and her sister were at work and school.
I never trusted the quiet in that house.
It wasn’t peaceful. The place felt eerie and controlled, as if every sound had to pass inspection before it could exist. The walls were clean, the furniture expensive but untouched, and her family felt hollow.
A Nigga couldn’t judge my own mom taught me how to cook crack, but despite my family’s dysfunction, there was love there.
Lil Mama moved differently when she was here.
As if she was bracing for impact that never came all at once. One day, her mom came home while we were sitting on the couch watchingThe Wood.Her mother barely acknowledged me when she walked in. She glanced up from the kitchen counter, eyes sweeping over me the way you look at something you already decided doesn’t belong.
“Hi, Mom,” Kenya said in a pleasant voice.
“Hmmm,” was all that lady said. That was it.
No question about me.
No curiosity.
No warning.
Just dismissal.
I leaned against the doorway and watched the exchange like I was observing a language I already understood too well.
Kenya went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water. Her hands were steady, but her shoulders were tight. She didn’t look at her mother.
“Chanel’s not home yet,” her mother said suddenly.
Kenya paused. “She’s studying.”
“With who?” her mother asked.
Kenya turned. “Does it matter?”
That’s when I felt it.
The shift.
Her mother’s mouth tightened, eyes sharpening.
“It does,” she said. “Depends on who she’s with. If she’s with girls from school, that’s fine, but if she’s anything like her whore of a sister hanging out with that other King boy —”
“Xavier,” Kenya corrected calmly.
Her mother waved it off. “Whatever his name is. I told you already, I don’t want Chanel around anyone from Crestwood.”
I straightened.
Kenya didn’t raise her voice. “You don’t get to say that.”
Her mother finally looked at me then. Really looked.
