Boyfriend Season by Kelli London Page B

family—” He nodded his head toward the other side of the car where Dynasty stood. “This here is my fam, Dynasty. I need some things for her—a lot, so look out on the price. Dynasty, this is my people, Meka.” He tilted his head, then winked at Dynasty. “Forgot to tell you, we got a barbecue to go to. There’s some people you need to meet.”
    â€œWe’ll be there, too,” Meka said. “You know Santana’s boo is throwing it.”

8
    SANTANA
    S antana’s jaw hung to the floor. She stood in her bedroom doorway, or what she’d thought was her doorway—what used to be hers—and bit her tongue. She wanted to scream, curse, or slap someone, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. Every single thing that had belonged to her was missing. Bed. Flat-screen TV. Dresser. Wardrobe large enough for two teenagers. Even the pretty, girly-pink paint that had once colored her walls—all gone. “What in the heh—”
    â€œYou betta not cuss in my house,” her mother said, walking around her into the room. She carried something large, black, and flat with a cord dangling.
    â€œMom—”
    â€œShhp.” Her mother hushed her. “What I tell you about that? We’re only fifteen years apart.” She set down the computer monitor on an oversized desk that Santana had never seen. It still had bubble wrap on it, a telltale sign of it being new and just delivered. Fixing her hair, her mother stepped in front of the mirrored closet door and admired her youthful beauty. “Please. We look like sisters, so I can’t be Mom, Momma, Mother, any M word. Do I look like one?”
    Santana shook her head more in disgust than in answer. “What happened to my stuff? Where’s my bedroom? Where am I supposed to sleep?” Her hands were on her hips and her upper lip was curled in a snarl. She knew she was being disrespectful, but her mother wanted to be treated like a sister, so Santana always did just that. She saved her respect for her grandmother.
    â€œFirst, let’s be clear.” She turned to Santana, her scowl matching that on the face of the younger version of her. “Your room, sister girl, is where I say it is. You don’t pay rent so you don’t get to choose. This here room now belongs to Craig. It’s his office—my surprise to him. You think he’ll like it?” A smile crept on her face.
    Santana couldn’t believe her mother. Here she had taken her room away, and was acting like it was no big deal. And it wasn’t. Not to her mother, anyway. She’d always chosen men over Santana. “Why does he get my room?”
    â€œCraig gets your room because he pays rent.” She busied herself, positioning the monitor, desk, and massive office chair. “Your new sleeping quarters is in the back.”
    Santana thought for a second. They had two and a half bedrooms in the apartment. The half was a tiny out-of-the-way room, only large enough for a desk or a chair and TV. It had to be the size of a large walk-in closet or oversized bathroom. “You mean the storage room?” She shook her head, walking away in disbelief. She didn’t want an answer or expect one. This must be what Gully meant by rhetorical . “Whatever,” she mumbled, grabbing her keys from the table and leaving. Her phone chirped before she made it down the apartment building steps. A text from Meka.

    YO MANS HAVIN A BBQ @ THE PARK. BE READY IN 5M!

    â€œSo your Moms just moved old boy in two weeks ago, and now he has your room?” Pharaoh asked with a chip-tooth smile. He shook his head. “I need to meet him. Sounds like we cut from the same cloth, ’cause he definitely a G.”
    Santana playfully punched his shoulder, and he leaned back against the car. She looked around at the crowd of people. It seemed like everyone had come out to the picnic, and she knew it was because of Pharaoh’s