The leaves of the grapevine running along the garage smell sweet. Shelby has the broom under her arm, wooden handle pointing out so it appears lance-like. She crosses the street, pulse pounding in her ears. It’s a quiet neighborhood and dinnertime is finishing up in most households. Dishes are being washed and put away. Down the block, some children play in a yard and their lilting voices echo. The music’s bass line from inside the car is throbbing. It sends shivers down Shelby’s spine. Her breathing has quickened; it’s fight or flight. Because of the tinted windows she doesn’t know who she’s up against. She walks over to the car and raps on the driver’s window. Nothing. She does it again, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Her whole chest is burning.
“I want to talk to you,” she shouts to the window.
Her voice doesn’t sound the way she wants it to. It’s too soft.
Shelby expects him to buzz down the window, but instead he opens the door and gets out. Marcus is older than she expected, in his twenties, nearly Shelby’s age. His hair is closely shorn and there’s a tattoo of a crown across his throat. He’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a leather jacket and expensive jeans. But the car upholstery is torn, and smoke billows out when he opens the door. He’s been sitting there smoking weed. No way on earth he is getting anywhere near Jasmine, no matter how pissed off he looks.
“This isn’t a parking lot,” Shelby says. “I suggest you move along.”
Marcus is compact, wiry, fueled by drugs. He’s also handsome in a hard-edged way. “Yeah? I don’t see any No Parking signs.”
“People who loiter get tickets.” Good Lord, she sounds like the mean teacher in high school. No wonder he’s sneering at her.
“Be smart, lady,” he says. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Marcus turns his back on her. He gets back in the car and slams the door. Shelby can see his shadow through the black glass. What the hell does he mean by calling her lady? He’s leaning back against the headrest. But he still seems coiled, ready for what happens next if Shelby dares to annoy him. She raps on the glass again, this time with the edge of the broom. As she does, Shelby feels the burning inside her chest flame, a sign she is about to do something stupid. She keeps tapping until he finally opens the door again.
“What?” Marcus shouts.
“I don’t want you to come here anymore. If you contact her I’ll call the police.”
It dawns on Marcus Parris that Shelby is talking about Jasmine. This time he gets out of the car in a rage. Shelby takes a step back. Without thinking she holds the broom in front of her.
“You think you can tell me what to do?” her opponent says with real menace. “You can’t stop me from seeing her.” He looks Shelby up and down. The sweatshirt, the broom, the heavy black boots. “I’m a friend of the family and you’re nobody. Who are you anyway? The cleaning lady?”
“I’m the person who’ll put you in jail if you bother her again,” Shelby says. “And you are not a friend of the family. The family fucking hates you.”
Marcus smiles at her then, broadly, so that his dimples show. Shelby can see how Jasmine might have fallen for him, how he could have sweet-talked her, given her that gorgeous smile of his. She was likely head over heels before she had time to pick up on any of the warning signs, how possessive and controlling he is.
“You’re crazy,” he says to Shelby. “You’d better stay out of this.”
“She’s done with you,” Shelby tells him.
“She belongs to me.”
When Marcus turns away, Shelby hits him squarely on the back.
He spins to face her and spits out, “You are one fucking crazy bitch.”
Before Shelby can respond, he punches her. Shelby gasps, stunned as she wheels backward. At first she feels nothing but shock, then there’s the hot sting of pain as blood rushes from her nose, so much of it she can’t believe it’s coming out of her. She puts the broom between them and stabs at the air with the handle, trying to ward him off.
“You think that’s going to stop me?” Marcus Parris smirks. Shelby is nothing to him, a fly, an annoyance, no more than that.
They’re in a bubble of hatred, so it takes a while for Shelby to hear the wail of the siren. The cop car pulls up across the street and two officers are over to them so quickly it seems to Shelby that the whole world has speeded up. They grab the guy from Queens and shove him up against the car. There’s a thud when he tries to wrench away, and then Shelby sees the glitter of handcuffs. She’s dizzy and her face is throbbing. She thinks she may fall, but then someone’s arm is around her. It’s a woman. Mrs. Diaz.
“Keep your head down.” Mrs. Diaz hands Shelby a tissue so she can try to stanch the blood pouring from her nose. “Are you faint?”
Shelby nods.
One of the officers comes over. “We’re going to call an ambulance.”
“I don’t need it,” Shelby insists.
“Hi there, Mrs. Diaz,” the officer says when he recognizes Maravelle’s mother from the ER. “It’s a good thing you phoned. She should get checked out.”
As it turns out, when Mrs. Diaz pulled up from work, she saw the encounter in the street and immediately dialed 911. Then she went into the house to grab an ice pack, which she now hands to Shelby. “Hold this against your nose.”
“Is it broken?” Shelby asks. “It was my one good feature.”
The cop and Mrs. Diaz give Shelby the once-over. “Just bruised” they agree. “It was a warning punch,” the cop tells her. “You’re lucky. He had a gun in the glove compartment.”
The guy from Queens, now restrained, is being held in the back of the police car. The officer takes down Shelby’s account of what happened.
“He’s been stalking Mrs. Diaz’s granddaughter and she’s underage.”
“But you’re the one he assaulted, so I assume you want to press charges.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Diaz says. “She does.” The last thing Shelby wants to do is get more involved with the stalker, but Mrs. Diaz tells her, “If you take him to court and get the restraining order, then Jasmine doesn’t have to. Isn’t that right?” she says to the officer.
“We could do it that way,” the cop says. He’s young, about Shelby’s age.
“I want to talk to you,” she shouts to the window.
Her voice doesn’t sound the way she wants it to. It’s too soft.
Shelby expects him to buzz down the window, but instead he opens the door and gets out. Marcus is older than she expected, in his twenties, nearly Shelby’s age. His hair is closely shorn and there’s a tattoo of a crown across his throat. He’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a leather jacket and expensive jeans. But the car upholstery is torn, and smoke billows out when he opens the door. He’s been sitting there smoking weed. No way on earth he is getting anywhere near Jasmine, no matter how pissed off he looks.
“This isn’t a parking lot,” Shelby says. “I suggest you move along.”
Marcus is compact, wiry, fueled by drugs. He’s also handsome in a hard-edged way. “Yeah? I don’t see any No Parking signs.”
“People who loiter get tickets.” Good Lord, she sounds like the mean teacher in high school. No wonder he’s sneering at her.
“Be smart, lady,” he says. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Marcus turns his back on her. He gets back in the car and slams the door. Shelby can see his shadow through the black glass. What the hell does he mean by calling her lady? He’s leaning back against the headrest. But he still seems coiled, ready for what happens next if Shelby dares to annoy him. She raps on the glass again, this time with the edge of the broom. As she does, Shelby feels the burning inside her chest flame, a sign she is about to do something stupid. She keeps tapping until he finally opens the door again.
“What?” Marcus shouts.
“I don’t want you to come here anymore. If you contact her I’ll call the police.”
It dawns on Marcus Parris that Shelby is talking about Jasmine. This time he gets out of the car in a rage. Shelby takes a step back. Without thinking she holds the broom in front of her.
“You think you can tell me what to do?” her opponent says with real menace. “You can’t stop me from seeing her.” He looks Shelby up and down. The sweatshirt, the broom, the heavy black boots. “I’m a friend of the family and you’re nobody. Who are you anyway? The cleaning lady?”
“I’m the person who’ll put you in jail if you bother her again,” Shelby says. “And you are not a friend of the family. The family fucking hates you.”
Marcus smiles at her then, broadly, so that his dimples show. Shelby can see how Jasmine might have fallen for him, how he could have sweet-talked her, given her that gorgeous smile of his. She was likely head over heels before she had time to pick up on any of the warning signs, how possessive and controlling he is.
“You’re crazy,” he says to Shelby. “You’d better stay out of this.”
“She’s done with you,” Shelby tells him.
“She belongs to me.”
When Marcus turns away, Shelby hits him squarely on the back.
He spins to face her and spits out, “You are one fucking crazy bitch.”
Before Shelby can respond, he punches her. Shelby gasps, stunned as she wheels backward. At first she feels nothing but shock, then there’s the hot sting of pain as blood rushes from her nose, so much of it she can’t believe it’s coming out of her. She puts the broom between them and stabs at the air with the handle, trying to ward him off.
“You think that’s going to stop me?” Marcus Parris smirks. Shelby is nothing to him, a fly, an annoyance, no more than that.
They’re in a bubble of hatred, so it takes a while for Shelby to hear the wail of the siren. The cop car pulls up across the street and two officers are over to them so quickly it seems to Shelby that the whole world has speeded up. They grab the guy from Queens and shove him up against the car. There’s a thud when he tries to wrench away, and then Shelby sees the glitter of handcuffs. She’s dizzy and her face is throbbing. She thinks she may fall, but then someone’s arm is around her. It’s a woman. Mrs. Diaz.
“Keep your head down.” Mrs. Diaz hands Shelby a tissue so she can try to stanch the blood pouring from her nose. “Are you faint?”
Shelby nods.
One of the officers comes over. “We’re going to call an ambulance.”
“I don’t need it,” Shelby insists.
“Hi there, Mrs. Diaz,” the officer says when he recognizes Maravelle’s mother from the ER. “It’s a good thing you phoned. She should get checked out.”
As it turns out, when Mrs. Diaz pulled up from work, she saw the encounter in the street and immediately dialed 911. Then she went into the house to grab an ice pack, which she now hands to Shelby. “Hold this against your nose.”
“Is it broken?” Shelby asks. “It was my one good feature.”
The cop and Mrs. Diaz give Shelby the once-over. “Just bruised” they agree. “It was a warning punch,” the cop tells her. “You’re lucky. He had a gun in the glove compartment.”
The guy from Queens, now restrained, is being held in the back of the police car. The officer takes down Shelby’s account of what happened.
“He’s been stalking Mrs. Diaz’s granddaughter and she’s underage.”
“But you’re the one he assaulted, so I assume you want to press charges.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Diaz says. “She does.” The last thing Shelby wants to do is get more involved with the stalker, but Mrs. Diaz tells her, “If you take him to court and get the restraining order, then Jasmine doesn’t have to. Isn’t that right?” she says to the officer.
“We could do it that way,” the cop says. He’s young, about Shelby’s age.
