Page 25 of Church Girl
The 2015 Camry my parents bought for me to use, but did not put in my name, didn’t have all these amenities. I feel like I’m sitting in a luxury car.
I mean, it’s aight.
Shifting the car into Reverse, I carefully back out of Von’s driveway. The car has a navigation system, but for now, I’ll use the GPS on my phone to get back to Tamara’s.
Speaking of Tamara...
I pull up to the stop sign at the end of Von’s street, head to my Favorites list and tap my cousin’s name. The phone barely rings once before her voice pours through the cell’s speaker.
“Girl, you need to be glad you called me when you did. I was about to tell these people fuck that pole and come find you. Where you been, Liyah?” she demands.
Though her irritation pours out of each word, so does her concern. And it’s that last emotion that has my lips curling into a smile. Her worry is so different from my mother’s during our earlier conversation. Mom’s had been smothering, guilt-inducing and controlling. But Tamara’s is genuine and not selfish.
“I’m sorry, Tamara. I intended to call you back. I’m just leaving work now.”
“Now? It’s almost nine thirty. I don’t like you having to take a rideshare so late. Not when you’re still new here. Is this going to be a normal thing?”
I shrug and slowly roll out into the intersection. The GPS instructs me to keep straight for another quarter mile.
“I don’t think so, although he did warn me there would be a few late nights a month. It’s fine, though. The little girl is sweet.” Unlike her daddy. “And once we had dinner—”
“Aw, hell no. Please tell me you didn’t cook for that baby.” She sounds truly appalled and about six seconds away from calling CPS.
“Really, Tamara? Really?”
I huff out a breath. Tamara must’ve been Sherlock in another life because that DoorDash cover story didn’t work for long. The spirit of deduction is strong in that one.
“Listen, you can do a bomb-ass banana pudding. But I don’t know what the fuck you called yourself trying to fry the other night.”
“Chicken.” I frown. “It was chicken.”
“Mmkay. I’ma let you make it. Make that delusional shit you talking, that is. But not chicken. You can’t ever make no more of that. Had to take my damn curtains to the cleaners,” she mutters.
“It wasn’t that—” I cut my own self off from uttering that lie.
“Ma’am? It wasn’t what?” Tamara snorts. “Uh-huh. For the life of me, I don’t get it, though. I’ve had Auntie Georgia’s cooking. She can throw down in the kitchen. How that gene just skip a generation?” She chuckles. “How you Black, Southern as hell and can’t cook? That’s like breaking some law, ain’t it?”
“Don’t you need to get to work?” I grind out.
“Yeah, I do. And can do it in peace now that I know you’re good. How close are you to home? Do I need to stay on the phone until you make it there?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’m, um...” I hedge, flicking my signal light on to turn right toward the interstate exit. “I’m not in an Uber.”
Tamara’s quiet for a beat. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in that man’s car?” she hisses.
“Von isn’t giving me a ride home.”
“Yeah, I give in. I’m lost.”
“Tamara.” I slow down at another four-way stop and scan the dashboard, console and passenger seat like it’s the first time I’ve seen them. “Why this man buy me a car?”
Another beat of silence. This one so long I catch the faint sound of music and the loud chatter of women in the background.
“Say what now?” The noise in the background dulls, and I’m guessing she must’ve moved to another room. “Now, repeat that. He did what?”
“He bought me a car.” I huff out a laugh and guide my new Jeep toward the on-ramp. “I don’t care how many times I say it, I still can’t believe it. And I’m sitting in the thing!”
“Bitch! Girl, not you. Mind your business.” I’m assuming she didn’t direct that last part toward me. “Sorry ’bout that. One thing I can’t stand about working around a bunch of women is they always in your business with their petty asses,” she mutters. “But anyway... Bitch! You’re driving home in a new car? Right now?”
