Chapter Seven

It was almost seven. Talia went out with her boyfriend Marquis, or was it Naveed? I didn't know—some boy she was doing. Brayden and Courtney went to work while Amarah went to her mother's house. Trick, who worked at a tattoo shop, wouldn't get home till ten. It was an empty house, and I loved it!

I was listening to ocean sounds while studying my anatomy flashcards. The immune system's first line of defense is the skin, earwax, and then the second line of defense are the phagocytes and is also called the innate immune system because you're born with it. I liked learning about the immune system and everything that happened to it and in it. Studying? Studying, I didn't love so much. I didn't take anatomy for another year but I heard it was hard and wanted to study ahead. Nerd. No, got to be smart to be that.

Zzz zzz! On my bed, beside me, my phone vibrated. I picked it up. It was a text from my friend Jordan. Want to grab a bite at Juicy Crab? The text message read. I looked at my flashcards and then my phone.  I thought about the A or B I so badly wanted in the class. I turned my phone over, not even bothering to reply to the text message.

What initiates vasodilation? Histamine, I thought to myself. An allergic reaction? Both. I looked over the colorful cards splattered across my bed. I rolled my dark brown eyes at the mess. My orange chamomile tea is sitting beside me on my desk.

Zzz zzz! I smile, picking up my phone once more.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Thanks for the ride," I say politely to my Lyft driver. I would have taken Marta and a Lyft on the way back home to save money, but it was already dark. I rode the bus when night fell, and I was in affluent- safe neighborhoods while babysitting and even then only when the bus stop was close by. I played it safe in my area.

The Juicy Crab is packed as I walk in, but Jordan is already sitting down when I arrive. "Hey, girl!" I greeted her with a casual hug.

Jordan is dressed in blue jeans and a floral, short-sleeve shirt, and pink Ugg boots. "Took you long enough." She joked. "Did you get your lab report grade back? The one from last week?"

"Yeah," I answered. "I made a one hundred."

Jordan rolls her eyes and smacks her full lips together. "Are you kidding me? She gave me a fifty. A fifty! Can you believe that? I told you she has it out for me. She doesn't want to see a black girl pass. A black girl succeed."

I love Jordan. I do. She was funny and chill-sometimes and in most of my classes. She was also one of the few other kids at Peachtree University who attended on a scholarship and/or student loans. However, Jordan thought everyone at school who "messed" with her was out for her, whether it was our lab teacher or the lunch lady last week who sold the last chocolate cake to the Asian guy in front of Jordan.

"Then why did Ms.Berrie give me a one hundred if she's so racist?" I asked.

"Because it would be too obvious if the only two black kids in the class got fifties. She just needed one of us to get a fifty. That means next time you're the one who's going to get the bad grade." Jordan explained quite illogically.

"What can I get for you, ladies?" Our server Mike asked.

"I'll take an iced tea and the shrimp and muscle combo," I say first as Jordan looks over her menu a little longer.

"I'll get the shrimp combo and a coke," Jordan says finally. We hand our menus over and wait for the server to leave before we continue our chat. "He's gay," Jordan whispers, her eyes falling on our tall, dark-skinned server with as many tattoos as my brother.

"Is he? I didn’t get any vibes."

"Look at the way he walks. The way he talked." Jordan insists.

I look at our server again. I guess I could see it. "Yeah, maybe. Does it matter?"

"No. I'm just saying. Now back to me. . ."

Jordan continued talking as I thought if I had told her I was bi- gay, still deciding or not. I don't think I did not that it was nobody's business but my own. My siblings knew, and my parents. Alex, my only close friend, knew. To me, they were the only people that needed to know. My phone buzzed on the table, and I picked it. Send gas money. Twenty, please. It read from Talia.

That girl was always asking for money, always needing gas and food money. She barely made rent. I know I should be feeling bad. She's my sister. My blood. Family first and all that yada yada. The truth was, though, in my family, I was the constant giver, and if I didn't make my siblings give me my money back, I'd be as broke as them. If not, more.

"Here's your drinks. Your sweet tea and your coke. Your food should be out shortly. " The server said kindly before taking his leave to take another table's order.

"Who texted you?" Jordan uttered as she sipped her coke.

I drink from my glass before answering, "My sister. She just wants money."

Jordan let out a chuckle, "Your family always asking you for money."

"I know," I replied. I press the send button on PayMe. I never seem to learn.

Jordan and I discuss school a little more and our backup plans if we don't get into the nursing program at Peachtree University. A NICU nurse wasn't my first choice for what I wanted to do with my life, but it was practical. Obtainable. Dependable. My parents' word choices. If I had it my way, I'd be a journalist. I had all the skills. Sneaky, smart, resilient, and good with words. If I didn't get into the nursing program, I'd change my major to journalism. I'd also apply to the School of New York Times. They had a writing program that was offered in New York for two months. I'd learned a ton of different things and expand my contacts, not to mention it would be amazing just to go to New York.

Jordan's backup plan was to apply to another school and try to get into the nursing program there. Her goal was the try, try, try again route while I have always been the kind of try, fail, move on route kind of person. I definitely believed that a person could get better at something with practice, but I also firmly believed that everyone was gifted at something. Big or small. Play to your strengths. It's never easy to follow your passion though some people make it and others-

"Here's your plate and yours." The waiter said, laying our food on the table.

Just don't.

I opened the clear, plastic bag containing shrimp, corn, potatoes, and mussels, all covered in a garlic, butter seasoning. I take a mussel first from the bag and dip it into the melted butter I'd asked for. Mhmmm, I lick the butter that escaped from my mouth. On the other hand, Jordan is looking at a piece of shrimp from her bag with a skeptical eye.

"There's poop on this shrimp," Jordan growls, her nostrils flaring at the sides.

"Shrimp do do that," I say, stating the obvious.

"They're supposed to clean it. This is unsanitary. I could get sick from this." Jordan waved for our server to come over. She swiftly explained the situation, and the man said he would have the manager come to speak to Jordan. All while this was happening, I was happily and rapidly eating my seafood delight.

The manager was a black woman with a medium-sized build and looked to be well over twenty. She walked over with a smile on her face, "Hi, what can I do for you, ladies?"

"This shrimp has poop on it. I can get sick from this. Don't you clean your food? I'm not going to pay for this? I can't even eat the rest of this because it was all in a bag together. I'll pay for the hushpuppies I ate and my drink, but that's it." Jordan said.

"Shrimp poop. It's seafood. We don't clean each shrimp individually. We wash it all together, and sometimes we miss some." The manager replied with the smile on her face, never leaving. She walked away, leaving the conversation there.

"Can you believe that? It's seafood. There's poop. If that's the case, she wants me to eat shit. That's what she is saying. Would you eat shit?" Jordan demanded to know.

I shrugged my shoulders. I was from Rhode Island. I picked clams from the ocean out of the sand and washed them at home. It didn't exactly clean them, and I lived with no bellyache, but I couldn't tell her that and have her looking dumb.

"Just don't pay for them then. Here he comes with our receipt." I said with empathy.

Jordan looked her receipt over, "I'm only paying for the appetizer and my drink."

"I'll have to talk to my manager. Are you okay?" He said referring to me.

"Yup. I'm good," I answered, giving him my credit card. "How hard is it just to take the shrimp off? You didn't eat any of it." I said with further annoyance. I was ready to go and be done with this.

"I know because I'm not paying for it." Jordan declared.

The server came back with my card and the manager from earlier and another man. "What's the issue?" The man asked. He was black like the rest of us and the tallest of all.

"I didn’t eat my food. There was poop on a shrimp and I can get sick from this-" Jordan began before being interrupted by the man.

"Let me stop you there. You can't get sick. It's one shrimp. One shrimp. You're doing all of this for one shrimp!"

"Would you eat poop? Would you eat poop?" My friend bellowed. "I don't even care. I didn’t eat the food. I'm not paying for it."

"Well, we already called the cops." The man said, turning around to point to two cops who were waiting by the door. "You have to pay. You order it. You pay for it."

Well darn!