Page 61 of Off the Charts
I hollered. “You goofy like your mama.”
“I am. I believe you though. You have those same big googly eyes Mama does when she talks about you. It’s funny.” Zy set his spoon down and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt then flexed. Nothing moved, not even the muscle, but his little boney arm was shaking from him trying to show me.
“You see that?”
I laughed loud as hell. “Yeah, I see something.”
He pointed to the muscle. “And you remember how I did that kid at school don’t you?”
I knew where this was going and still couldn’t stop laughing. “I didn’t see the fight, but I did see the aftermath, yes. Why, what’s up?”
“I like you, Mr. Vayce, but I love my mama, and I don’t mind fighting for her. I am not afraid to use these knuckles on you.”
“I definitely don’t want my ass kicked, so you can put the guns up,” I held my hands up in surrender. “I got you and always defend her like that, or any woman in your family. I don’t care how big the person is. You keep that lion's heart.”
“Yes sir, I will.” He spooned the last of his ice cream. “Can I tell you something?”
“Whatever you are comfortable with.”
“I’m excited to have you around. I know in our sessions you said that I am used to two parents. I know you can’t be my dad, but I was hoping that you can be my stepdad one day,” he laid it on me heavily. “Mom wasn’t happy when I left her, but I could tell over the phone she was slowly getting there. Now? She is really happy,” he expanded his arms. I chuckled. “She was hurt but you are helping her get better so I want to say thank you.”
I ruffled his little curls. “I’ll do anything for her, Zy.”
“Yeah. My dad told me that too then he hurt her. Can you please promise me that you will make her this happy forever?”
The tears rimming his eyelids broke my heart. I placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him my full attention. “I experienced a lot of hurt as a kid, so much that if I explained it to you, it would ruin your birthday. I promise to never inflict intentional pain on your mother as long as God blesses me with breath. Hearts are like glass. They’re fragile, breakable, and they hold a lot of things together. Before I damage hers, I’d rip mine out and give her my own even if that means I die. I will treat and love her like it’s my purpose in life. As a ten-year-old, there are a lot of things you have to be concerned about, but me mistreating your mother isn’t on that list. I promise to not mishandle her heart in this lifetime or the next. If I do, I give you permission to use those muscles on me.”
Zion laughed. “I will remember that. I will also tell you if I see the google in her eye disappear.”
What he said didn’t make sense, but I knew exactly what he meant. “You do that. As black men, we are to hold one another accountable because out there,” I pointed toward the door. “We’re a target. We’re misunderstood. They are waiting for us to fuck up. We are all we got, so if you ever see me slacking inany area of my life, my love, my actions, my profession, hold me accountable. Accountability makes you a better person. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“Accountability makes you a better person,” he mumbled, trying to memorize it. “I won’t.”
We sat and talked for another 20 minutes or so before Jersei texted saying that we could head home because the decorations were complete. Zion thought he was having something at home, but he was in for a surprise. After throwing away our trash, we headed out of Whipped.
“Thank you for my birthday gifts. I had a great time!”
“Anytime, Zion. I’m glad you did.”
“I don’t know if my mom told you, but I can keep a secret. In school, I will act like you are only my counselor, but at home we are game buddies and soon stepdad and stepson. Deal?” He extended his fist.
I chuckled and bumped his fist. It warmed my heart that he could picture the same family I did in my head. I was praying God would reveal the same vision to J as well. “I like that. We got a deal.”
“Great! I feel like we need a handshake.”
I smiled as I pushed the door open for him. “That fist bumping shit is kinda lame. Let’s work on one soon.”
“Sounds like a plan!” He made some sound and jumped off the curb.
(1 Week Later—Present)
“I get bitches, Mr. Denver. It comes easy to me,” my student stroked his face like he really had a beard.
“Language,” I typed notes in the Pea Drive.
I’d been counseling Cedric since he was in fifth grade, and personality wise, he was the same mutha’fucka that came in my office three years ago. One thing I appreciated about Ced was that he is who he is, but a lot of times it was a mask for his past trauma. He survived a car accident where his mom passed away, so we met twice a week to check on his mental.
He held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I get women. That has never been an issue for me. How many women do you have? You look like you get ‘em too. No homo.”
