Page 50 of Pride and Protest
More often than I would like.
ProTip. next time eat the oxtails.
He eyed the phone in confusion.
What oxtails?
NVM
The soft knock at the door was purely performative as his sister, Gigi, draped in pink crystals, pushed through the door.
“Come in.” He rolled his eyes at her.
“Aw, you look so handsome.” Her hands popped to her slim hips.
Dorsey tugged at his lapel. “My stylist thanks you.”
Gigi waited with her arms out like a glitter scarecrow.
Dorsey looked her up and down. She was expecting something. “That dress is very short,” he offered.
Her shoulders fell. “Mystylist points a middle finger.” Gigi flopped on the bed, her long legs cascading upward. “Would it kill you to pay your little sister a compliment?”
“I thought we were just talking about what we noticed first.” Dorsey shrugged and patted his pockets.
“You’re nervous as hell, Datu. Did a communist library explode in your room? What is all of this?”
Dorsey fidgeted with his tie, which was now skewed to the left. “I’m auditing a class at UPenn. In fact, takeEvicted.Do you have a gift box around here?”
“Why?” she asked warily. “Are you about to gift someone a book?” She flipped the book around. “Poverty and Profit in the American City? This is the least sexy gift I’ve ever seen.”
“Good thing it’s not for you. Find a box.”
“There are no boxes, Dorsey.”
“You didn’t even look! I keep a ton under my bed.”
She pulled up the dust ruffle and pulled out a few boxes. When she found one that fit the book, she scoffed. “I’m not putting this book in a dusty Tiffany box.”
“Why not? That’s perfect.”
“Dorsey.” She put her hands on her hips and looked down as if to collect herself. “You can’t give a woman a Tiffany box with a used marked-up book inside of it. She will murder you.”
“Um, maybe put a bow on it?” His hands shook and he gave up on his tie in frustration.
“Breathe, Datu. I know your meme queen will be there tonight. Do you have some lighthearted conversation ready? I can shoot you some texts.”
He did breathe. “No, thank you, Cyrano.Wedon’t need that.”
If she noticed the possessiveness in his emphasis of “we,” she didn’t say anything.
“Since when? Youalwaysbeg me to send you tidbits on your dates.” She sounded a little hurt, like Dorsey wasn’t letting her in on his little adventure with the big kids. “You’re afraid I’m too dumb.” She flipped the book again. “I can talk about eviction and—”
“No, nothing like that. We just don’t need it.” Dorsey was honest-to-God trying not to sound smug, but his sister’s eyebrows still rose, and she shimmied her shoulders. “We text like every day.” Again, it came off like a brag.
“You sound very pleased with yourself,” Gigi said.
He couldn’t help but feel a tiny flick of pride. A woman had a continual interest in him thatdidn’tstart and stop at his bank account. Liza asked him about his bent pinky, confessed that she didn’t really like mambo sauce but pretended to, and sent him articles about the eviction crisis. Whatever they were doing—these text diaries—it was the longestthinghe’d ever had. He didn’t want to do anything to upset this tender equilibrium.
