Carvel

I've always enjoyed vanilla soft serve ice cream. Sometimes I ask for chocolate and vanilla swirl, but vanilla soft serve is my favorite. I never liked sprinkles (I think they call them jimmies in Massachusetts) on my ice cream cones. They taste like clay to me. How I know what clay tastes like is inconsequential. I know what matches taste like, too, but I digress ;).  So sprinkles weren't my thing, but you know that chocolate crunch at the center of Carvel ice cream cakes? I LOVE the chocolate crunch.

I grew up in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn on Linden Boulevard between Nostrand and Rogers Avenues. I lived there from 1977 until I left for college in 1991, and one of my favorite things was to go to the Carvel shop on Church Avenue and get an ice cream cone.

I'd walk down the stairs from the second floor of the C building at 201 Linden Boulevard, through the courtyard (the grass wasn't fenced in when we first moved there, but things change. I'll blog about my feelings about gentrification in Brooklyn another time), down the block toward Nostrand Avenue (we lived closer to Rogers) . . .

Past the fruit market
     Past Michael's Meat Store
          Past the Shoe Repair Shop
                Past White Sheep Cleaners
                     Past the Chinese restaurant
                          Past the laundromat (not the one we went to. The other one on Martense)
                               Across Martense Street
                                     Past the check cashing place
                                          Past the fish market
                                               Past Pumpkins Bar (I think that was there, then)

And made the right turn on Church Avenue near the train station to the Carvel shop. I remember the woman who usually served me. She was short and traditionally built (all my fellow/sister No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency fans know what I mean ;), she had dirty blonde hair, a weary, somewhat sad look on her face, and she wore a black Carvel uniform shirt. I feel like her name was Pat.

There was a large light yellow container where she kept the chocolate crunch for the ice cream cakes. I don't know why she ending up telling me that I could get chocolate crunch on my cone instead of sprinkles - knowing my personality, I probably let her know how much I loved it, and something in her made her offer it to me. She didn't have to. She could have just let me choose the plain cone without offering me an alternative. She chose kindness and generosity, instead, and brought me so much delight. We need more of that in the world. 

I remember watching her roll my cone in the container to get the chocolate crunch on it, and I was always a little nervous that the ice cream would fall from the cone . . . but it never did. She was so careful with it. I would ask for chocolate crunch every time I went there, always a little afraid that she'd say that she was no longer willing/able to offer it to me as a topping. That never happened. She would always give it to me.  Even until I left for college.

Carvel isn't there any more. Now it's Carver Federal Savings Bank, and Church Avenue is now also Bob Marley Boulevard. 

As I'm thinking about ways to improve the novel, I see how important it is to explore the details of memories, both good and bad. In exploring the texture of memories - like when you caress fabric between your fingers - interesting thoughts and questions start to surface. I wonder what Pat's work hours were, how she got to work each day, and where she lived. What made her choose to work at Carvel? Was she sad and tired as the lines on her face and her posture seemed to indicate? Did she have a family? Maybe her own kids who didn't like sprinkles, either? Maybe offering me something different was her own creative outlet? An escape from the mundane? Imagining answers to questions like these will add depth to the characters I create.

Wherever you are, Pat, thank you for making the chocolate crunch available as a cone topping. It was a small kindness that added joy to the tapestry of my childhood, and I'm so grateful.

Quiddity

I learned a new word yesterday while reading chapter 1 of Life is a Verb. Quiddity. What is quiddity? I'm glad you asked :). Quiddity is the inherent nature or essence of someone or something. I like that word. It reminds me of the word serendipity. It's fun to say, and I like what it means. In the book, Patti Digh describes quiddity as the whatness of something. What is my whatness? I think. I notice. I listen. I wonder. I'm curious. I ask questions. Lots of questions. I hate secrets. I don't hide things or keep things in. I tell stories. I speak truth. I laugh hard. I'm courageous. I sing with words and sounds and harmonies. I dance. And I write. I like the whatness that came to mind when God made me :).

Two quotes that made me think yesterday:

1. "The pen is the tongue of the mind." - Miguel de Cervantes (quoted in The Writer's Little Instruction Book by Paul Raymond Martin)

Some people speak their words. I do too. But I really love writing my words, and it's important not to let anyone make me feel like something is wrong with me because they would rather have me express my thoughts and feelings the way they do. This is my way of being. Part of my quiddity. It allows me to be more thoughtful and reflective. Not impulsive. I like to ponder and make word pictures, and that's a good thing. 

2. "Writing is like breathing, it's possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what." - Julia Cameron, The Writer's Life: Insights from The Right to Write (my mom gifted this book to me in 2005 :).

This has deeper meaning to me now that I've been practicing meditation. I didn't realize how shallow my breathing was until I started focusing on my breaths - inhaling . . . holding . . . exhaling. In order to exhale for a count of eight, there has to be enough air in my lungs, so I need to breathe more deeply. It's harder to fill my lungs than I thought. I'm learning to breathe better now, and I'm writing every day. Some days I'll write a lot. Some days, not so much. The important thing is to keep writing.

Change is Good

Something surprised me last night. Part of my preparation for the writers' retreat involves daily and nightly meditation, daily blogging, and reading several books about writing and creativity (Life is a Verb is one of my new favorites - I bought it almost six years ago, and it has been collecting dust on an upstairs bookshelf). As I read these books, I began to explore the why behind some of the decisions I made about my novel.

I realized that in completing the first draft of the  novel in preparation for a first novel contest, I was more motivated by meeting a deadline than I was in letting the story unfold naturally in its own time.

Because I was trying to win a contest where the judges held a certain worldview, I limited the development of the characters and plot to try to please them. My own worldview has matured since then, and I won't make the same mistake twice. The characters deserve to live, move, breathe, fail, grow, and just be. 

There were also parts of the novel I wrote about because some memories were so delicious to write about . . . but they didn't actually advance the plot. Those parts have to go. If I want to reminisce and be nostalgic, I should write a memoir and not a novel.

There were characters I included because there were things that I wished were different. This book belongs to the characters, though, and not to me.  If I were to compare writing this book to making cookies (I make really good oatmeal raisin cookies, by the way), my life and experiences should be like nutmeg and cinnamon, and the flour, eggs and sugar should belong to the characters.

There is so much about the story that is good, and those parts will survive the upcoming pruning. It's been very helpful to start to identify the parts that need to be removed so that the other parts can have the life they deserve. 

Afrika Writes

I stopped writing. I can't even say exactly when it happened, but as I reflect on it, I see why it happened. There were a lot of reasons, really.

When I was a little kid, I loved to write.  I wrote my first poem when I was five, I started writing in a diary when I was seven, and then I started writing stories . . . lots of stories. Stories kept me company. I didn't feel as lonely with all those characters surrounding me.

I finished the first draft of a novel years ago when I was part of the Christian Writers Guild. The Christian Writers Guild doesn't exist anymore (it closed in 2014), but I am so thankful for the experience I had. It helped to develop me as a writer, and connected me with a wonderful mentor. It also gave me the motivation I needed to finish the first draft of my novel in preparation for CWG's First Novel contest.

Unfortunately, I think that's when I started to allow discouragement to set in. I really wanted to win the contest, and didn't, and then as I tried to find a Literary Agent to represent me, I wasn't able to. Some said that my story idea was good, but with the economy being as it was, they were having a hard time getting their current clients published, so they weren't taking on new writers. I wondered if they responded the same way to all queries.

I tried not to, but I saw that rejection as an indication that my story wasn't worth telling. It wasn't just that I couldn't find an agent, though. I sent my story out to people who said they were interested in reading it, and then they either did and said nothing to me about it, or didn't read it. It's hard to admit (what did Langston say about a dream deferred?), but that silence was hurtful.

I thought of self-publishing the novel, but self-publication requires funds that I don't have. And if I couldn't even get people who know me to read it for free, I wondered if it was even worth trying to publish. My desire to write decreased progressively, like a bright balloon with a small hole. 

I didn't just experience feelings of disappointment and rejection with my novel. There have been a number of occasions when I took the time to write something important . . . to attempt to connect with people through my writing, and the recipients didn't respond. It's so hard not to feel invisible when that happens, or like your thoughts and feelings don't really matter. There's that, and battling feelings of resentment toward the people for not responding, especially when you share deeply personal thoughts and feelings. Being vulnerable starts to feel like too much of a risk. 

All of these things swirled together and created a perfect storm of sadness in me, and because my writing felt like a source of pain, it became a casualty of that sadness.

Thank God for resurrection. In the book of John, in chapter 5, Jesus encounters a man who had been disabled for 38 years, and he asked him an important question. "Do you want to get well?" The man responded by talking about what kept him from entering the healing waters. He said, "I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. When I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me" (verse 7). Jesus then said to him, "Get up! Pick up your mat and walk!"And at once, the man was healed.

If Jesus were to ask me, "Afrika, do you want to write?" My response would have been similar to this man's response. "Jesus, people don't always respond when I write, or they don't respond the way I expect them to. And even if I had the money to self-publish, I don't know if anyone would even buy my book." I think Jesus would tell me, "Write! Sit down at your computer and write." 

By worrying about whether or not people will respond to my writing (the way I want them to, or at all), I lost my connection to something very special. But now I'm remembering that connection. I love stories. I love listening to stories, and I love telling stories. Listening to stories takes me into an amazing place full of wonder, curiosity, intrigue, suspense, and connection, and telling stories provides me with an opportunity to invite people to enjoy the same.

I love connecting with people, and inviting people to connect with me. Some people reciprocate. Some don't. That's okay. I still need to be who I am. And God has shown me through a new friendship with someone I feel like I've known all my life, that when someone does reciprocate, it is such a rich and wonderful experience.

So why do I write? Is it for the response, or for the experience of expressing something important in me?  It's definitely the latter. The people who are meant to respond will. Working with BetterLesson has been such an amazing experience both professionally and personally. It is so refreshing to regularly have my ideas and contributions valued. It has provided me with the desire to re-enter that creative space personally.

Winning the When Words Count retreat has given me new focus and determination. I'll be enjoying a week of writing at the When Words Count Retreat Center in Vermont at the end of February, and I'm putting a plan in motion to rediscover my love for writing and creativity. I'll be blogging about my journey here.

I almost didn't enter the contest because I wondered if I even considered myself a writer anymore.  But I am a writer, and this is just the motivation I needed to remember who I am, and what I do. Afrika writes.

TPIH: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“What are you reading now?” Song asked, as she burst into the kitchen. 

“To Kill a Mockingbird,” Subria responded, not looking up from the window seat.

“But it’s summertime, Subria.” Song said, picking up an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table, and cleaning it on her shirt.  She picked up several of the other books that were next to Subria in a tottering pile. "Before the Mayflower? I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings?"

“There is a such thing as summer reading, Song.  I would think you’d remember that, college girl.”

“Why don’t you just rent the movie?”

“Because I like reading, maybe? And I already saw Gregory Peck in the movie.”

“School doesn’t start for another two weeks, Bria,” Song said, almost whining.  “You can read later.  Come with me to the mall.  I have to pick up some stuff before I go back to school, and I can help you pick out some cute outfits for when school starts.”

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes, Song" Subria said, putting a bookmark in the page where she left off.

"True," Song agreed, "it's the colors, and the way you put things together that needs work.  And I don't think I've ever seen you accessorize a day in your life."

"You really know how to win friends, and influence people, Song," Subria said, getting up and heading toward her room. 

"Seriously, Bria," Song said, following her.  "What kind of big sister would I be if I let you go into your junior year looking like a boy?"

"I don't dress like a boy, Song!" Subria asked, pulling a pair of camouflage pants out of her closet.

"Seriously?" Song asked, grabbing the pants from her. 

"I look good in green!"  Subria took her favorite green shirt out of the closet.  "What's wrong with this shirt?"

"Subria, look at this big oil stain!  It's so tacky to go outside like this.  Let me just pick out your outfit for today, and if I do a good job, you'll let me pick out some stuff for you at the mall.  I promise I'll pick out something green for you."

"Fine," Subria said.  "The last thing I want to do is embarrass you."

"It's not like that!" Song yelled over her shoulder, as she went toward her own room.  She came back with some frilly fuchsia skirt, and a pink and white scarf.

"You must be crazy!" Subria exclaimed.  "There is no way on earth."

"Okay, I'll pick out the shirt and shoes, and you pick out the pants."

"Whatever," Subria said, waiting until Song went back into her room for more clothes before she put the scarf on, looked in the mirror and grinned. 

***

"You ready to go, Bria?" Song asked, as she grabbed the car keys and an apple off of the dining table.

"Hold on for a second," Subria said, heading over to the kitchen sink where her mom was seasoning chicken.

"Mom," Subria said, approaching her mother slowly, and rubbing her shoulders. 

"Yes?" Renee responded, narrowing her eyes.

"You know I've had my license since last summer, right?"

"Uh huh," Renee said, reaching for the cutting board.

"I wanted to go with Song to the mall, and she's never seen me drive by myself yet, so I was hoping you'd let me drive?"

"To King's Plaza?" Renee asked, turning to face Subria sharply.

"Yes," Subria said squinting.

"Girl, please.  You know you're not on our insurance!"

By Subria's count, this made the 25^th time that month that she had been reminded about her lack of inclusion on the Davis family car insurance plan.

"And besides," Renee continued, "Song . . ."

"I know," Subria finished for her mother.  "Song has a perfect driving record."

"And a perfect score on my road test," Song chuckled.  "Don't forget about that!"

"Be quiet, Song!" Subria yelled.

"Come on, Subria," Song said, grabbing the car keys off of the hook.  "We'll be back in a few hours, mom."

Subria never grew tired of taking in the streets of Brooklyn outside of Bedford-Stuyvesant.  In her neighborhood, all there was to look at were blocks and blocks of three family homes, crowded dollar stores, Chinese restaurants where the customers were separated from the restaurant owners by bullet proof plastic, and storefront churches under the elevated train tracks on Broadway.  In Bed-Stuy, the back yards were as narrow as jail cells, and there was not enough space for trees.  She tried to be grateful that she even lived in a house, because most of her friends lived in small apartments, but she secretly longed to live someplace else.  Down the long stretch of Kings Highway on the way to the mall, Subria loved looking at different types of homes.  They were still attached, but the back yards had enough space for picnic tables, swing sets, and even pools.  Most of the homes had driveways or garages, and flowers in the front yards. She couldn't help but notice that there were not as many people who looked like her family in the Farragut and Flatlands sections that they passed through.  The supermarkets were bigger, and the gas prices were cheaper.   She began to wonder why being brown-skinned seemed to equate to more of the bad, and less of the good. 

"Where do you want to go first, Bria?" Song asked, as they walked into the mall.

"Old Navy." 

Altogether, they spent about an hour between stores, circled back to Old Navy, and decided on three outfits that Subria agreed to wear during the first week of school – her favorite being a brown flowy skirt that cascaded down around her feet and almost hid her sandals, and, of course, a grass green shirt that was form fitting with billowy sleeves, but not too poofy.  When Subria went into her wallet to pay for the clothes, however, her money was gone.

***

When Subria and Song arrived back at the house, Subria looked everywhere the money could possibly be – the back of the top shelf in her closet, under the loose floor board in her crawl space, and even under the mattress – but she couldn't find it anywhere.  If it had been less money, and if it had been the only time her money had ever mysteriously disappeared, she would simply try to overlook it, but it was everything she needed to buy what she needed to return to school, including her cleats for track.  Subria had worked for the entire summer saving up for her back to school clothes. Now the money was gone . . . again.

She should've listened to Primus and put it in the bank.  He was her best friend, and his advice was always exactly right, but she didn't want to believe that anyone in her family would take money from her.  As hard as it was to admit, it had to be someone in her family.  If someone had broken in, the whole house would've been robbed.  Instead it was just her money missing. . . again, and she was finding it hard to breathe. She looked over at the picture from family reunion and sobbed, trying not to allow herself to think that he could have done this to her.

"Bria!" Nairobi called from downstairs.  But Subria couldn't answer.

"Bria, Primus is here!"

Thirty seconds later, Subria's door burst open. "Bria, didn't you hear . . . "

Subria was kneeling in front of her bed, and her chest heaved in sync with her sobs.

"Bria, what's wrong," Nairobi asked, kneeling down next to her older sister.

"It's . . . gone," Subria managed to spit out.

"What's gone?"

"My money for my school clothes," Subria said, wiping her eyes simultaneously with the backs of her hands. 

"It can't be gone, Bria.  You had more than $300!  Maybe you just – "

"It's gone, Nai."

"Who would take your money?"

"There was a maintenance guy in the house last week," Subria said, not wanting to alarm her little sister.  "Maybe he went through my things."

"You should say something to Mommy!"  Nairobi shouted.  "You want me to tell her for you?"

"No, Nai.   I'll talk to her about it later," Subria lied.  The last thing she wanted to do was get the maintenance worker in trouble, but allowing Nairobi to think that was far better than telling her who she really thought it was. 

If the shopping trip w/Song remains, there will be a transition here re: what happens next.
                                                                ***
There was nothing more magical than snow falling on New York City during the holiday season – like thousands of sparkling stars descending from the night sky making a noisy city settle into silence.  As beautiful as the snow was, however, Subria hoped that the weather wouldn't prolong her bus ride, and make her late to meet up with Ms. Robena.  It was 5:00 on a Friday, and she had just finished indoor track practice at her high school in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn.  If Subria had more time, she would have picked up a few things from the street vendors who were already selling horns, Happy New Year hats, and glasses in the shape of 1995 for the upcoming New Year's Eve celebration.  She was glad that she resisted the urge to shop, however, because the B26 was pulling up to the corner of Fulton Street and Lafayette Avenue just as she arrived at the stop.

Subria was pleased when she got on the bus and saw that the single seat next to the back door was vacant.  Up until last December, Subria hardly had to worry about who she would sit next to.  She and Primus were in eighth grade then, and they usually rode the bus together. When Primus couldn't ride with her, Subria sometimes ended up smashed against the window by a passenger whose body was much too large for the seats, or suffocating next to someone who wasn't interested in bathing regularly.  

Ms. Robena was approaching the cemetery entrance when Subria got off of the bus, and Subria breathed a sigh of relief.  She didn't want Primus' grandmother waiting outside for her in the snow.

"How are you, Ms. Robena?" Subria said as she leaned under the older woman's umbrella to kiss her on the cheek.  Ms. Robena smelled like mothballs, but Subria didn't mind.

"Fine, sweetheart," Ms. Robena responded, after returning the kiss.  "And how are you?"

"Good," Subria said, smiling. 

"You doing well in your classes?" Ms. Robena asked, extending her arm for Subria to take.

"Well, high school is way harder than junior high, and I'm having a little trouble in biology.  It's hard to meet with the tutors after school because of track practice, but I've been able to get some help on the weekends."

"That's good," Ms. Robena said.  "I'm glad to see you're not too proud to get help when you need it."

"How have you been, Ms. Robena?" Subria asked.

"I can't complain," she said, sighing.

Subria noticed the bouquet of flowers in Ms. Robena's bag, and groaned.  "I didn't bring anything to put on the grave!"

"That's okay, love," Ms. Robena said with a chuckle.  "With all this snow, I might just keep these flowers and put them on my dining table."

"Thanks," Subria said, grinning slightly.

"Have you ever been to visit a gravesite before?" Ms. Robena asked.

"No, ma'am.  This is my first time," Subria responded, following the older woman's lead down the path toward the grave.  "I haven't been here since his funeral."

"At my age, I'm here more than I'd like to be, and usually I'm alone.  I'm glad to have your company."

The umbrellas and their vast height difference made walking arm in arm a bit challenging, but it felt good for Subria to hold on to someone.  The two walked along in silence for a while, their faces hidden under the umbrellas.  Initially, Subria worried that the snowfall would make it difficult for them to find the grave, but then she realized that Ms. Robena knew the location of her grandson's final resting place like the back of her hand. 

The crunch of the snow under their feet and Ms. Robena's low humming was all that Subria could hear.  She concentrated on those sounds to try to keep the tears away, and it worked until they arrived at his grave.

Primus Clarke

Loved by all who knew him

May 5, 1981 – December 3, 1994

Ms. Robena took the flowers out of her bag, as Subria knew she would, and she placed them gently on his grave.  Primus lost his mother to cancer when he was only five-years-old, so he moved in with Ms. Robena who lived two doors down from Subria's family.  Ms. Robena had been the only mom Primus really remembered, and he had been Subria's best friend ever since they both ended up in the same kindergarten class. 

Subria walked slowly over to his tombstone, and brushed the snow away.  She wasn't sure what else to do.  She thought about kissing the tombstone, but that seemed weird.  Subria smiled to herself, because she knew that if Primus could hear her thoughts right now from wherever he was, he'd be cracking up at her.  Since no other ideas came to her, she simply whispered, "I miss you so much!" and joined Ms. Robena on the path leading out of the cemetery.

As Subria and Ms. Robena arrived at the entrance, Subria saw her father, Steven, standing in front of his car waiting for them.  His camel brown fedora covered his eyes, and his chin was hidden in the upturned collar of his coat.  The snow wasn't falling so hard anymore, but it didn't matter anyway, because Steven wasn't one for umbrellas. 

"Hey, Daddy," Subria said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Hey, Bria," Steven responded.  "And how are you Ms. Robena?"

"Better now that I'm getting out of this cold," Ms. Robena said, laughing, as she tucked herself into the back seat of the car.  "Thanks so much for the ride, Steven." 

"Ms. Robena," Subria asked, "are you sure you don't want to sit in the front?"

"Oh no, sweetheart," Ms. Robena said, yawning.  "I missed my nap today."

Steven closed Ms. Robena's door after making sure she was comfortable, and then jogged over to his side of the car.  "Am I taking you home, Ms. Robena?"

"No, I'm going to see my sister, Charlotte.  She lives over in Brighton Beach, so if you could just drop me off at the Atlantic Avenue station, I can make my way over there on the B train just fine."

"Now, Ms. Robena," Steven said, glancing back to frown at her," I'm not going to have you riding the train.  Just tell me where she lives, and I'll drop you off right at her door."

"I don't want to be any trouble, Steven," Ms. Robena responded, shaking her head.

"You're no trouble at all."

Once Ms. Robena was sure that Steven knew how to get to her sister's house, she drifted off to sleep.  Their block wasn't too far from the cemetery, so Subria was tempted to ask her father to drop her off at home, but she didn't want to pass up the chance to spend some time alone with her father. 

"How was work today, Daddy?" Subria asked. 

"Stressful," Steven responded.  Steven had been the Program Director for the Police Athletic League in their neighborhood for the past ten years.  Subria had participated in P.A.L. after school program from the time Steven started working there until she began high school several months before. 

"Why, is Kimberly acting up again?" Subria asked, smiling.

"Well, yeah, but that's nothing new.  The kids want to put on a holiday show, but the staff is arguing over whether the show should focus on Christmas or Kwanzaa."

"Why can't they just do both?" Subria asked.

"That's exactly what I asked, and they haven't been able to give me a satisfactory answer yet.  I'm tempted to just cancel the whole thing, but I know the kids don't really get to do holiday shows in school anymore.  They're so excited about it."

"You should just let the kids run the whole show, and take the staff out of it.  The older kids from the Teen Center and Youth Link can help the younger kids.  They'd do a great job."

"Sounds like you miss being there, huh?" Steven asked.

"Yeah, but it's worth it to be on the track team."

"How'd practice go today?"

"Not so good," Subria said, frowning.

"What was your best time?"

"The fastest I could run was a 12.8."

"You usually run a 12.5, right?"

"Yeah, but the coach knew that today was the anniversary of the accident, so he took it easy on me."

"How was it going to the cemetery?"

"I wasn't sure what to do while I was there," Subria said.  "Have you ever visited someone's grave before, Dad?"

"My little sister Joy's grave," Steven responded after a long pause.  "Sometimes I go there." 

"What do you do when you go?" Subria asked.

"I cry."  Subria looked at her father's face, and she saw tears welling up in his eyes.  She reached in her bag and passed him a tissue.  She didn't ask any more questions.

When they arrived at Charlotte's apartment, Subria reached back and gently awakened Ms. Robena.  She waved goodbye to her from the window, and Steven walked her upstairs.  He was back in less than five minutes carrying a plastic bag that he didn't have when he left.

"What's that, Daddy?" Subria asked.

"Ms. Charlotte gave me some fried chicken as thanks for giving her sister a ride."

Steven put the plastic bag on the floor of the back seat, and the aroma filled the car.  He headed down Brighton Beach Avenue toward Ocean Parkway, but then he turned left instead of right.

"Where are we going, Dad?" Subria asked. 

"I just have to go help a friend for a second," Steven responded.

"Where?" Subria asked.

"Coney Island," Steven said.  "We'll be there in about five minutes."

"Is it going to take long?" Subria asked?  "I'm hungry!"

"You can eat some of Ms. Charlotte's chicken, or we can go to Nathan's," Steven said.  He knew how much Subria loved Nathan's hot dogs and fries.  He looked over to see if Subria was interested.  She wasn't. 

"No thanks, Dad.  I want Mommy's food.  What's your friend's name?" Subria inquired.

"Uh, Mr. Harvey," Steven said.  "He was a friend of my father's."

Steven was right.  They drove down Ocean Parkway for about five minutes, and when they arrived in front of a set of buildings not too far from Astroland Amusement Park, he parked the car. 

"I'll just be a few minutes," Steven promised.

"Can I go up with you?" Subria asked.

"No," Steven said.  "He has dogs."

"Oh," Subria said, remembering the last time that she was around dogs, and the severity of her allergy attack. 

"Don't mention anything about Mr. Harvey to your mom.  She doesn't really like it when I come to help him."

"Mom's not like that," Subria said, looking at her dad suspiciously, but Steven wouldn't make eye contact with her.

Steven left the car running so that Subria could keep the heat on.  She thought about trying to go to sleep, but when she saw the two men leaning against the wall outside a bodega near the buildings, she reconsidered.  She noticed that they were looking in her direction, so she quickly looked around at the car doors to make sure they were all locked. 

"Excuse me," one of the men shouted.  Subria didn't make eye contact with him, hoping that he wasn't talking to her, or that he'd leave her alone if she ignored him.

"Leave her alone, Bobby," Subria heard the man's friend say.

"I'm not bothering you, am I, young lady?" Bobby asked, approaching the car.

Subria continued trying to ignore him, even though she had the impression that if she didn't respond he'd get angry. 

"How about you let us come sit in the car with you?" Bobby asked.  "It's cold out here."  He crouched down near the front passenger door and stared in at Subria, making it almost impossible to avoid him any longer.  Subria looked out at him, and he was smiling widely at her.  Several of his teeth showed significant signs of decay, and she cringed without meaning to. 

"Bobby, come on, man!" the other guy said.

"Be quiet, Al," Bobby said.  "If she wants me to stop talking to her, all she has to do is open her mouth and tell me.  Now I asked you a question," he said, directing his gaze back to Subria.  "Are you going to let us in?"

"No," Subria responded, her voice sounding stronger than she felt.  "I can't let you in, but you can ask my father when he comes back."

"Well," Bobby said, laughing menacingly, "if I had a young lady like you, I would never leave her alone in this neighborhood.  Since he's not here, maybe I'll just take you home with me."

Subria thought about the horrible stories she had heard about girls being attacked, and she determined that she wasn't going to go without a fight if it came down to it.

"Bobby, come on man," Al said again, walking away.  "5-0's coming!"

Subria looked over at the street, and she was relieved to see a police car approaching.  Al and Bobby quickly headed around the corner, and Subria exhaled.  She had never felt more scared or alone. 

When Steven finally came out of the building a few minutes later, Subria didn't mention anything to him about what happened.  Something about her father not telling her the truth about her mom's feelings about him helping Mr. Harvey diminished her trust in him.  And since he knew about her allergies, she didn't understand why he brought her with him knowing that he'd have to leave her outside at night in a shady neighborhood.  Subria wondered for a moment if Mr. Harvey was really Ms. Harvey.  She had noticed that her parents were arguing more than usual lately.

"You ready to go?" Steven asked.

"Yes," Subria said, noticing that her dad was glancing nervously across the street at the cop car.

Steven didn't have much to say when he came out of the apartment building.  He actually looked sadder than Subria had ever seen him. Maybe he was just helping a sick friend.  If he was going to see another woman, he probably wouldn't have come out of the building looking so empty, unless maybe something had gone wrong between them. Steven started the car, and they drove home in silence.

© 2010 Afrika Afeni Mills