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“Isourbusiness,” she said, intervening.
“Good,” he stressed. “Actually, I think Loren Palmer would be great. Let me get me back to you tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said, amazed at the lightness and relief she felt even as her fear for the new, the unknown, the challenge butted against everything she thought she defined herself to be.
They ended their call.
She set the phone down on the table and opened the container holding her dessert. With a small gasp of surprise, she lightly touched the wings of the 3-D chocolate butterfly on top. The pastry chef had to have a steady and delicate hand to make something so fragile and decadent. “More butterflies,” she said.
With a curious look, she picked up her phone and pressed the home button. “Siri, what is the symbolism of butterflies?” she asked the virtual assistant.
“Here is what I found on the web for ‘what is the symbolism of butterflies?’ ”
Desdemona opened the website and highlighted the text before choosing the speak button, activating the text-to-speech option on her phone.
“The butterfly is primarily associated with change and transformation.”
Desdemona looked down at her bracelet, to which she had been so inexplicably drawn, and felt like she was ready for whatever was to come.
Chapter Five
Monday, August 27, 2018
My biggest regret? Dropping out of school. Thank God my streets smarts and common sense got me this far. Time to see what a bitch could do with some education . . .
“Why am I nervous?” Desdemona asked her reflection as she smoothed her hands over the black T-shirt dress she wore with fluffy fox fur slides.
A millionaire worrying about earning a GED.
“Am I crazy?” she whispered.
Knock-knock.
She looked down the length of the hall to the front door in the foyer, with a light clap of her hands as if to pump herself up. The light slapping of her slides against the wood floors echoed as she made her way to the door to open it.
“Ms. Smith? I’m Loren Palmer.”
Her eyes widened in surprise at the tall man in his mid-twenties standing before her. “You’re Loren?” she asked, pointing a newly polished nude nail at him as she looked him up and down to take in his wild mane of hair pulled up into a ponytail with his edges trimmed and his beard neat. His V-neck T-shirt was fitted on his slender frame with the basketball shorts he wore with vintage Jordans and colorful knee-high socks. His arms were covered with black-and-white tattoos and with it all his black-rimmed vintage Cazal-style glasses seemed out of place.
He nodded. “Yes,” he answered with his raspy voice, hooking his thumbs around the wide straps of the book bag he wore on his back.
“I thought you were a girl,” she said.
He shrugged, reminding her of the emoji. “It’s with an ‘o,’ not an ‘au,’” he explained.
She continued to eye him. His hair was jet black, soft and shiny, and matched his brown complexion well. Behind the glasses, his eyes were slanted and intense in a deep shade of brown.
“Listen, I was told someone wanted a tutor?” he said.
“Uhm, yeah . . . uhm, me,” she said, tapping her hand against her chest as she finally stepped up. “I want to be tutored.”
“You have to be willing to learn,” he said. “Are you?”
She nodded. “I am.”
Loren walked inside, looking around at the condominium. “Dope place,” he said, tilting his glasses down on his nose with his index finger as he looked over the rim.
That amused her, and she smiled as she closed the front door. “Are those prescription or for show?” she asked, coming over to lead him to the dining room table.
