Page 13 of Tyriq & Teaira
“Cause that was a hundred years ago,” Quay says and my mom sucks her teeth. We follow my mom to the kitchen and Quay places the cake on the table. My momma walks to the sink and washes her hands. “You want some help, Momma?”
“Yes, baby. Wash your hands and get the lemonade tea and butter out of the fridge. Riq, go clean up and sit in the dining room. We’ll set it all up,” she says.
I walk off, leaving them in the kitchen, then head down the long hall to the bathroom. When my mom used to clean houses, her favorite was the Sinclairs' off Sapphire. The few times I would catch rides over there after practice, she would always walk me through the house, going on and on about the high ceilings, crown molding, marble countertops, large rooms, and jacuzzi tubs. Her favorite rooms were the kitchen and big ass dining room. I would just follow her and listen as she fantasized about having a house like theirs. I told myself every time that I would get her a dream house and I did. I did even before getting to the league. More than half of my sponsorship deals went into this four bedroom, five bath house and the furniture. She picked out every single piece. My chest fills with pride each time I walk through here.
When I make it to the dining room, our plates are on the table along with rolls, cake slices, and a pitcher of her lemonade and tea mix that I love. Quay is already sitting and chewing, probably dressing. My moms can cook but she murders dressing. I can eat a whole pan by my damn self.
“Momma gon’ kill you,” I tell her.
After swallowing, she snaps, “I’m hungry. She wouldn’t let me eat till your big head got here.” To fuck with her, I palm her puff and hold it until I sit down. “Riq! Stop. It’s air drying for tomorrow. You gon’ mess it up,” she whines.
“I’m paying to get it fixed.”
“That’s not the point,” she scoffs. “Can you get another ticket to the game?”
“For who?”
“My friend,” is all she says, no name.
“Yo’ friend who? And it bet not be no nigga either.”
“See, you already tripping. It’s a boy who is really just my friend. It ain’t even like that.”
“It must be like that. You didn’t offer his name up freely. Who is it? Do I know him?”
“It’s Tre.”
“Tre who, Quay?” I demand. I don’t play about my sister. I know niggas and I’m not about to let no nigga play with her heart.
“You know him. His brother is DP,” she says and I glare at her. “Makai. He’s a barber at Fadez.”
“I don’t know Tre,” I lie. I definitely know Tre, Makai, and their older brother, Hawk.
Hawk is on lock with three years left on his bid. Makai is a year younger than me. We actually came up in DP together, me, him, and Kove. Three wild ass niggas just trying to figure our hustles out. Me and Kove balled and he cut hair. He was hooking us up long before he got legit in the shit. Tre’s young ass tried to follow us and shit but he couldn’t hang. He got into football and he has skills.
“You do know Tre,” she says.
“Tre?” my mom says as she walks into the dining room. “I thought he was coming for dinner.”
“You let the nigga come here, Ma?” I bark.
“Yes. He’s a nice boy, nothing like you and Kove were at that age. Take the bass out your voice. That boy is fine and he likes Quay.”
“I thought you said he was just a friend,” I huff at Quay.
“He is,” she says. Then she turns to my mom with her eyes damn near popping out of her head.
“Girl, your brother ain’t crazy. And leave that girl alone. She’s been nervous to even tell you about him and now I see why.”
“I wasn’t nervous,” Quay sighs then rolls her eyes.
“Bow your heads so we can eat. Riq, bless the food,” my mom says as she lowers her head.
Quay and I bow our heads. I say a quick grace and dive in. I swear my moms can burn. I clean my plate and a second one as we talk and catch up. My moms is getting a little bored being home. She hasn’t cleaned a house in over two years, and while she will never do that shit again, she wants to do something. So, after the draft, she’s going to enroll in community college. She wants to be a substitute teacher.
“How long you gotta go to school for that?” Quay asks.
“Two years. I need at least an associate’s degree.”
