Page 15

She winked. “You got it, babe!”

We went our separate ways, and I walked inside the building feeling as if life was about to finally turn around for me.

I walked down the hall on the first floor to Mr. Harris’s office and knocked twice. I had a good mind to bang on his shit like he’d done mine the other morning, but decided against it. However, he was certainly going to get a piece of my mind today.

The door swung open, and he stood looking like the male version of Brorilla.

“You got my money?” were the first words out of his mouth.

I scoffed. “I do, but I need to talk to you for a minute.”

He stepped aside, and I walked inside, looking around at this plush-ass apartment. It looked like something that fell off the pages of a magazine, with hardwood floors, marble countertops, freshly painted walls, and modern decor.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” I said aloud.

“Don't come in here judging, Miss Sidora. Unlike you, I make sure I take care of home, and you should do the same.”

“Are you freaking serious? When I first moved into this place, it was decent, and I was only paying six hundred dollars for my studio. Mrs. Roberson kept this place up until unfortunate circumstances forced her to sell it to you.

“You came in here, increased the rent, and have done absolutely nothing to take care of this place! You have twenty-one units in here and charge an obscene amount of money, only for you to lower its property value so you can take our money and splurge on yourself! You're a fucking crook!” I yelled.

He walked away from me and sat at his desk in the corner.

“Listen. This shit may look cheap, but it isn't, Juliana. Do you know how much water y’all use a month? How much tax I pay twice a year? You don't. So, before you judge a book by its cover, know that even though you own something, you still have to pay the white man.”

“So, just because you pay water and property taxes, you can't take care of your property. You're literally sitting in luxury while the rest of us are sitting in shit.” I took $400 from the envelope that held his rent, then put it back inside my purse.

“I’m not going to let you do this to us anymore, Harris. Either you get some people out here to fix this dump by Monday morning, or I'm going to report your Black ass to MSHDA. There are elderly people who live in this building who might can't afford to move into another place with the cost of living being so high, and you prey on them because of it! Not anymore.

“Until I see some progress, you won't see another dime of my hard-earned money! This,” I said, holding up the $400, “is what my rent is worth, and that's all your ass will get until I see some improvement. I want all of our shit to look just as nice as yours. If not, I'm going to do exactly as I said. I'm sure you don't want that.”

I could see the guilty look on his face along with anger, but I didn't give a damn. It’d been a whole year since I’d moved into this place, and it was nice when I first got here. Then when he came along, everything went to shit, and he still charged us $900 but let the building go.

Enough was enough.

I turned and stormed out of his office. Hopefully I scared him enough to do the right thing.

After taking a much-needed bath, taking my hair down, and doing some laundry, I finally settled down with my lasagna baking in the oven. Even though the apartment I lived in wasn't the best, I made sure to make the best out of it.

There was no way after living in a clean, huge home for most of my life would I ever be able to sit in filth. So, even with the chipped paint and outdated appliances, my home stayed clean, and I'd decorated it to my liking. Just because I was down on my luck at the moment, a place where I called home would never reflect that.

Martin played at a low volume on the television as I picked up my phone and decided to call my parents. It had been a month since I’d spoken to them, and I truly did miss them.

Our last conversation didn't go well. My dad did his usual fussing at me about leaving, and I told him I didn't give a damn about him cutting me off. I was turning thirty-four in four months; he couldn't keep treating me like a child.

The phone rang four times before my mom’s deep, Southern voice came through.

“Juju. How are you, baby?”

“I’m good . . . Missing you guys a bit, so I decided to call.”

“We miss you too, baby girl. I’ve been calling you.”

“I know. I’ve just been in my feelings since the last conversation with Daddy.”

“Yeah. You know, Juliana, we love you and want the best for you. Your daddy just didn't want you to leave prematurely.”

“I get that, but I had a moment of reflection and saw myself wasting my life there, Mama. I didn't want to work at the market, get married to Mari, and be barefoot and pregnant. I wanted to explore and live my life independently. I'm not you, Mama.”