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And for once, it wasn’t for one of the Poison boys.
“Imani,” Mom said, voice sharper, “if you can tell me which question on the exam that you got wrong this time around and give me the correct answer, I’ll let you stay the night over at her house.”
“So, that’s what this is about?” I snapped. “You won’t let me stay because I got a ninety-eight percent and not a perfect one hundred, huh?” My stomach twisted, and my throat closed up. Hot tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. “God, I can never do anything right for you, can I?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Yes, it is!” I sobbed, stepping onto the pothole-covered street. Ugly, fat tears streamed down my cheeks. “It always is. I’m never good enough for you. I try so hard, so freaking hard, Mom, and I can never please you.”
I could barely get out any comprehensible words anymore. My nose was running, my tears were racing into my mouth, and my body was heaving. I squatted down in the middle of the most fucked up road I had ever been on and hugged my knees to my chest, needing something.
“I’m not good enough.”
The words really set in.
“I will never be good enough.”
“Imani, baby, you know that—”
“No, Mom, I don’t know,” I whispered, the pain almost too much to bear. “I don’t know what you want of me anymore. I’m trying my hardest, and you still hate me for it.” I knew the words coming out of my mouth would get me my ass kicked later, but … I couldn’t stop them.
“I don’t hate you, Imani,” Mom said, voice steady. After a moment of silence, she sighed. “You can stay at Allie’s for tonight. Please, text me tomorrow before you head to the football game. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
I stayed quiet. For the second time tonight, I didn’t know what to say.
“Okay?” Mom repeated.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I didn’t even know if she could hear me, but I didn’t want her to know that I couldn’t stop crying, that the tears wouldn’t stop falling down my cheeks like a fucking river, that my chest was tight, and that my heart was telling me that she didn’t love me.
My own mother didn’t love me.
“Have fun, sweetheart.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
I felt so empty as my body heaved back and forth. Why did I feel so alone?
“Good night,” Mom said.
“Good night.”
And with that, I shut off the phone, slapped a hand over my mouth, and posted my other arm on the concrete road, fingers digging into the asphalt. Pain shot through my body. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop it.
It kept coming.
It suffocated me.
João approached me from behind, his feet padding against the road. I tensed and quickly wiped away my tears, not wanting him to see how much of a mess I was. For some godforsaken reason, he hated me and maybe even thought I was being dramatic. I wanted to be strong for him tonight.
As much as he probably wanted to see me hurt, I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. He didn’t fucking deserve it with all the shit he had put me through and all of the fucking pain I felt every day.
Yet, instead of barking at me that I had it all so I shouldn’t be a crying mess, João stopped behind me and said, “Get up, Imani.” His words were harsh, almost cutting right through the thin layer of sanity that I had left.
When I stood, I crossed my arms over my chest and turned around to glare at him, hot tears still welled up in my eyes. I didn’t know if I wanted to stay anymore or if I should leave and vow to never see João again.
He was—
“Come here,” João said quietly, as if the words were foreign on his tongue.
I stared at him for a couple moments with my eyes widening, and then … I hurried toward him and wrapped my arms around his waist, my face buried in his chest. He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.
