Page 74 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Everything will be ready for you in a minute, Mama,” I say. I decided to stay with my parents for a few days, considering everything that’s happened since that night at Velour. They let me sleep in today instead of requiring my attendance at church, but when they returned from worship around two p.m., I was already in the kitchen, washing dishes and scrubbing down all the surfaces.

Preparing for dinner. Sunday dinner. Sunday dinner that Storm Sandoval will attend.

There’s much to be done, but not so much that I can’t head toward the living room with Daddy. Except every time I’m around him, it’s an interrogation.

Shae, do you have a drinking problem?

Shae, you need to start going back to church regularly. Don’t you want to find a good Christian boy?

Shae, are you keeping your grades up? This feels so out of character for you.

And then there’s my favorite:

Shae, what’s going on with you and that rich boy?

So yes. I’m running away from more of my daddy’s questions—not because I fear his response to my answers, but more because I fear disappointing him.

I straighten my back and crack my neck by tilting my head from side to side before I resume chopping the white onions into a fine dice.

“Nobody wants onion nails,” I say, throwing the words over my shoulder.

She hums, and the sound shoots foreboding down my spine. “Especially if those hands might be entangled with a certain someone’s a little later.” She’sreallyenjoying this.

Mama’s planned an elaborate spread—more elaborate than usual. But that’s her ministry. She’s from New Orleans originally, and cooking for her family lights up her soul.

I shift from foot to foot, trying to alleviate the pressure on my back. I’ve prepared the mise en place—the bell peppers and celery are chopped, and I’ll place the onion in another bowl once I’m finished.

I made the two sweet potato pies Mama said were going to one of the ladies on the sick and shut-in list.

There are three hours until Storm will be here.

Mama drops butter in her Magnalite Dutch oven—a pot that’s older than I am. Moving the pat around with her wooden spoon, she tilts toward me.

“Have you heard from any of the grad schools?”

I pause with my knife flush to the cutting board.

My applications are in, but my GMAT scores are the elephant in the room.

A distant part of my brain reminds me that my scores are perfectly respectable. Average. Not actually low at all.

Twice as hard. Half as far.

I resume chopping the last of the onion. Average may be acceptable, but it’s not good enough.

Not for me.

Not for this society.

Not for Daddy.

“Everything is going great. Classes are fine. Midterms are coming up soon, but I’m not worried about them.” I turn my head to give her a small, hopefully convincing, smile.

“That’s great, baby girl. But you know I never worry about you doing well. I just worry about you overworking yourself,” she says. She pulls her spices from the cabinet, moving some canisters around until she finds the big container of Tony Chachere’s.

“Have you decided when your last day will be at mPOWER?”

Mama asks this while giving her full attention to the stove, sprinkling in fragrant dry seasonings. I’m grateful, because the distraction causes her to miss it when I jump.

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