Who Asked You? by Terry McMillan

walks over to sit down at the opposite end of the couch from Luther. “Forgive me, Nurse Kim. Luther, you know what Grandma does when she gets home from work and she’s tired and her knees and feet hurt,” she says, not like she’s waiting for him to answer, ’cause no sooner has she said “hurt” than she yanks that sad 1985 pageboy wig off and drops it on the end table. She’s got a fishnet on, and even though I only see a few gray strands around her edges, it looks like Miss Betty got a head full of hair. She needs to throw that damn wig in the trash and go to the beauty shop and let somebody bring her look up to 2001, or just buy a new wig or think about trying a weave. Old people wear weaves, too. Now that I can see her face, Miss Betty ain’t a bad-looking woman for somebody about to be a senior citizen. If she lost about twenty or thirty pounds, she could probably be attractive again. A nice foundation and the right lipstick and maybe get those bushy eyebrows waxed, and she could lose about eight or nine years right there.
    She looks over at Luther, who still sitting there looking at me. It’s a little fucking creepy.
    “Luther, why don’t you take your and Ricky’s bags and go on in the back to the kitchen and eat it before it gets cold.”
    “I ain’t hungry, Grandma.”
    Miss Betty cuts her eyes at him and I’m just watching.
    “I mean, I’m not hungry, Grandma,” he says.
    “You were starving a half hour ago.”
    “I have homework, Grandma. I can write, Nurse Kim. You wanna see?”
    “I do, but not today, sugar. Nurse Kim needs to finish talking to your grandma and try to beat that rush-hour traffic.”
    “I can write fast,” the little fucker says.
    “Luther. Say goodbye to Nurse Kim and please do what I just asked you to do.” She picks up those Mickey D bags and hands ’em to him. No drinks?
    He still act like it’s killing him to stand up.
    “I would love to see how well you can write, Luther, just not today, sweetie. Now, perhaps you should do what your grandma asked like a good little boy.”
    He finally jumps up and dashes out of the living room like I pissed him off or something. He’ll get over it. I’m glad Miss Betty told him to beat it, ’cause Lord knows I did not feel like talking to him in my elementary school teacher’s voice another second. I wish I could appreciate what children have to offer but I just don’t see it. I mean, they can be cute and adorable and all that, but some of that sweetness is just a act they put on to pimp their parents so they can get what they want. And it works. All they do is beg. For everything. All the time. They take up too much energy. Your best energy. And they ain’t stupid. They know when you worn out, but they will wake you up from your nap to ask you for a glass of fucking milk. This mess goes on for at least eighteen years. To be fair, I do know that sometimes they can make you proud, but look how long you have to wait to see if you’re going to get a return on your investment. I don’t like the odds.
    “Do you eat McDonald’s, Nurse Kim?”
    “Every now and then,” I say.
    “I have an extra Filet-O-Fish and some fries in there I am not in the mood for. You’re welcome to them, if you’re hungry.”
    “Are you sure? You might want to warm it up a little later.”
    “Have you ever reheated anything from McDonald’s, honey?”
    I shake my head no and reach for the bag and try not to act like my dream came true. “Thank you, Miss Betty.”
    She leans over to make sure the boys are doing what they supposed to be doing even though I hear video games and laughing, which mean Luther ain’t doing no homework. Miss Betty look like she got something on her mind and she about to tell me what it is.
    “Trinetta’s into some things she shouldn’t be into so I’m keeping the boys here with me until she gets back on her feet. You understand what I’m saying?”
    “I do. But if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Betty: