Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“I know we’re still getting our plates,” Cliff says, standing at the mantle over the fireplace, “but I wanted to say a few things before we get lost in my mama’s food. Y’all thank her for a taste of the West Indies.”
All the boys whoop and holler, some pretending to bow to her.
“Awww, thank you, sweet boys,” Mama says. “But it wasn’t just me. Takira helped.”
I feel the weight of all eyes on me, and I smile stiffly, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. A few of the guys sneak glances at my bare midriff and down the length of my legs. It makes me want to cover myself, to hide myself, but I stand still despite the discomfort.
Like I said. The boyest boys.
“Yeah, thank you to my baby sister,” Cliff says, slipping a little steel into the mild words to warn them off. I’m surprised he didn’t douse me with a pesticide to keep them away.
Myron, one of Cliff’s first friends at St. Catherine’s, offers a mocking salute. “We hear you loud and clear, Cap. Hands off.”
My cheeks heat, and I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. Passing around plates, Mama pauses long enough to glare like she might take her shoe off and throw it at anybody she catches looking too hard at me.
“You got that right,” Cliff says, looking each of his teammates in the eyes. “But we’re not here to talk about how I’ll break your hand if you even think about it.”
He pauses for the nervous laughter before going on. “We’re here to celebrate the best season St. Catherine’s has ever had,” he says. “And party like that trophy is already ours.”
They whoop and high five, which to my thinking is premature since that trophy isn’t actually theirs yet. Cliff walks through life with this sense of inevitability, like his success is only a matter of time. I try to forecast everything that could go wrong, whereas Cliff seems to expect that nothing—at least for him—ever will.
When the doorbell rings, Mama, who just sat down, rises from her recliner in the corner.
“I got it, Mama,” I say, shooing her back down. She’s been on her feet all day.
“Probably Coach,” Myron says. “He’s supposed to be stopping through, even though he can’t stay.”
I walk to the foyer and pull the door open.
And the world stops.
My breath can’t quite seem to make the trip from my lungs to my mouth. My heart pounds against my rib cage like a tassa drum as I stare up and up at the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen in real life. Dark brown skin stretches over the chiseled planes of his face. I’ve never actually seen anyone with a square chin, but he has one. Everything seems to be at odds on his face. His nose is too bold. His lips too full and soft looking. His brows too heavy and severe. His eyes, warm and dark like velvet, framed by a feathering of sooty lashes. But somehow, all those disparate parts cooperate into a face so striking, my jaw falls open.
“Um…” His voice is a low, quiet rumble as he peers over my shoulder into the foyer. “Is this Cliff’s house? I took a wrong turn, but…”
Just as I’m about to shake myself out of the stupor, I stop because, all of a sudden, it feels like the same rapt way I was watching him, he’s now studying me. I go still as if with his eyes, he’s painting me, and I don’t want to distract him.
“Who’s at the door, Kira?” Mama asks from behind, drawing up beside me. “Oh, hey, Nazareth.”
Wait. Nazareth as in…Naz?
She extends her arms, and with a smile, he crosses the threshold and walks into them, bending to return her squeeze.
“Mrs. Fletcher.” He pulls back and offers her a bouquet of wildflowers I hadn’t noticed. Who cares about flowers when you’ve got this guy standing in front of you? “These are for you.”
“Hmmm. Thank you.” Mama buries her nose in the flowers and smiles up at Naz. “And how’s your mama doing? Didn’t she have surgery on her knee a while back?”
His expression clouds, and he nods. “Yes, ma’am. She just went back to work.”
“She teaches, right?” Mama asks.
“Seventh grade, yeah.” His eyes flick from Mama, settle on me briefly, and then shift back to Mama. “I guess the team’s already here? Sorry I’m late.”
“You right on time.” Mama links her arm through his and guides him toward the living room and the increasingly rowdy basketball team. “Come on. We’re about to start eating.”
I haven’t moved, my feet sealed to the floor like I’ve stepped into fast-drying cement. He glances back over his shoulder. Our eyes catch and hold, some odd understanding passing between us. Whatever that jolt was when I first saw him, I think he felt it, too. I know it, but I don’t know what to do with it. How could I when nothing like this has ever happened to me before?