Street Soldiers (7 page)

Before I can replace the first dozen boxes in one of the five floor length cabinets dedicated to the clients, Mama and Netta are right behind me.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” Mama asks, taking the boxes from my hands and setting them down on the table closest to us.

“Did you look her directly in the eye?” Netta asks, feeling my forehead with the back of her hand. What the hell?

“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “It was still dark outside.”

They force me to take a seat at Netta’s station and check me out from head to toe. I doubt I’ll ever get used to this type of occasional reaction from my spiritual guardians. After several minutes of me repeating the details of the dream, Mama and Netta ease up, satisfied that I’m okay for the time being.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it yesterday. There was just so much going on and I figured since I didn’t come back blind or anything like that it was just a dream.” Usually when the dream is extremely important I get hurt in some sort of way. I’ve awakened with more bruises and cuts than I care to remember.

“The fact that she was pregnant in your dream disturbs me more than Esmeralda making her a spiritual zombie.”

There’s that word again. With Misty turning into whatever animal she’s mimicking and Emilio right there with here, I’m over Esmeralda’s growing supernatural circus.

Mama signals for me to rise from her seat and I obey, happy to get back to work.

“It was just a part of the dream,” I explain. “To me the worst part was her dark eyes and grey skin. It was freaky.” A chill comes over me at the sheer thought of the nightmare.

“Jayd, you don’t have simple dreams,” Mama says, her green eyes glowing. “You never know what they truly mean if you don’t ask and consult the spirit book. I don’t care how early or late it is, write it down in your journal immediately and do your research.”

“That’s what your journal’s there for,” Netta says, reminding me of the instructions that came with my personal spirit book when they first presented it to me. That’s why I keep it in the car—my life always has some drama popping off.

“Esmeralda’s waged war in the streets as well as in the spirit houses across Los Angeles County. I hear she’s even called in some of the Houngans and Mambos, or head priest and priestesses, in Haiti on Rousseau’s side,” Netta says, matter-of-factly.

I know Mama and Netta have hit the pavement to gather all the information they can on Hector’s botanica and spiritual family in Lynwood. His storefront happens to be down the street from my father’s house. Maybe I’ll take a trip to see him soon and do a little investigating of my own.

When Mama turned down Hector’s offer to become the head of his house after his wife fell ill, he simply went next door and Esmeralda gladly accepted. Things haven’t been the same since. Before Hector came along we had Esmeralda right where we wanted her: humbled. With this new surge of loyal followers, Esmeralda’s growing in both strength and popularity: a bad combination.

“And it’s apparent that Esmeralda’s still trying to take over your dreams, Jayd,” Mama says. “No matter what, don’t give your mind over to fear and get your sleep. You’ve got to keep your mind strong and as drama-free as possible to beat that wench at her own game.”

If it were that simple I would have eliminated Esmeralda and all other forms of drama from my life a long time ago.

“I would love to get more sleep,” I say, returning the last row of boxes to their respective shelves. I’ll get started on the laundry next. Hopefully after I finish washing I can get back to my mom’s apartment and braid at least one head. I saw a couple of styles in my magazine that I want to try on Shawntrese.

“You’ve got to find a way to get it in,” Netta says, running her fingers through Mama’s hair, pleased with her work as always. “The wrong thoughts can be toxic to your health. If you keep your dreams to yourself it’s tantamount to poisoning your mind.”

“Yeah, but my reality can also keep me from sleeping at night. Besides, there are times I’d rather not dream, if you know what I mean.”

Netta and Mama both look at me and sigh. I know my elders feel me, but they have little sympathy for my sometimes-impatient attitude toward my gift of sight.

“Jayd, don’t think of your dreams as simply visions and premonitions, which they also are, of course. They’re interactions with your subconscious mind; a type of communion with the alternate reality, if you will.”

Netta spins Mama’s chair around to face the mirror. Mama eyes her beautiful reflection. I catch her green glow in the mirror as she locks onto my eyes and communicates with me like only she can.

“Oh Jayd, there’s so much more to reality than what you see when you’re supposedly awake,” Mama says, easing the tension in my mind. “Lucky for us our ancestors are the only mastermind team we need.”

“Mastermind team?” I ask, unable to fold the towel in my hands as Mama continues her mental prodding.

Netta rolls her eye at my naïveté and continues to primp Mama’s hair.

“Yes, child. Your mastermind is a group of wise spirits whom you can call on when you need help, improvement, or just plain old support,” my grandmother says, easing her way out of my mind. “You can interact with them however you wish. They are, after all, present only in your mind and will help you in any way you ask.”

It sounds more like imaginary friends than a wise team to me, but I wouldn’t dare say that out loud.

“That Napoleon Hill was an interesting white man, yes he was,” Netta says, clamping Mama’s hair between the iron curlers before repeating the same motion, but this time curling the ends of her hair in the hot tool before moving on to the next section. “That book he wrote back in the thirties,
Think and Grow Rich
was the truth, you hear me? Girl, it was the truth!”

Mama pulls her head away from her best friend and glares at her in sheer annoyance. Mama doesn’t like it when Netta—her sole hairdresser—gets too excited while doing her hair and I don’t blame her. Even the most skilled stylist can slip up. If you ask me, Netta’s enthusiasm is one of her most endearing qualities. Her spunky attitude and love of life is what makes her so loveable.

“Netta, black people knew the power of thinking our way out of situations way before he wrote it down,” Mama says, relaxing back into her chair as Netta reclaims Mama’s soft tresses. “We’ve always called on our ancestors for help, and they’ve always answered.”

“Yes, but Lynn Mae you must admit that Hill wrote it all down in such a palatable way. Even people who aren’t looking for the information will read it in his books and get it. I love it!”

“I don’t have to admit a damned thing, Netta,” Mama says, tilting her head to the right so Netta can work on the other side.

Netta sucks her teeth at her best friend’s comment. They go back and forth like this all of the time. Their type of sisterhood is what I wish I could have with my girls, but it seems like the bond might skip my generation. My mom and her best friends—who I call my aunties—have been tight since diapers, as they like to say. I wish I had one friend I knew happily for that long.

“So you mean to tell me that if I call on Josephine Baker she’ll come to me in my dreams and chat?” I’ve always wanted to ask the infamous black performer how she danced around topless in a banana skirt for white men and women to gawk at with a smile on her face. After I learned about her in drama class last year I found a photo of her and placed it on my shrine. If there was ever an Oshune woman, she’s it.

“Yes, but even more than that,” Mama says. “You can summon her ashe and her advice.”

“Seriously,” Netta agrees. “And the person doesn’t have to be an ancestor. It can be anyone.”

Mama nods in agreement, almost as hyped about the topic as Netta is.

“The benefit of having the gift of sight like we do is that if they’re also blessed with certain talents we can borrow those talents, too,” Mama says.

If they’re right about this—and I don’t doubt that they are—I’ve been sleeping on this tool, and so have a lot of people I know. It’s one thing to have the power of sight like we Williams’ women do, but if anyone can summon a mastermind crew, why don’t they?

“Powerful. Simply magnificent,” Netta says, this time in a quiet yet equally hyped tone. “I’ve always envied Madame C.J. Walker’s ability to turn pressing hair into a million dollar business when many black people were still enslaved. That woman is on my mastermind list all day, every day.”

That explains how Netta’s Never Nappy Beauty Shop is still thriving in the middle of Compton, California where shops like CoCo’s have taken over. Netta and Mama only deal with natural products and nothing synthetic—no weaves, extensions or anything else they deem as toxic. We make all of our own products, choose our clientele carefully and rarely accept new clients. They’ve been here for over thirty years and aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“Our great, great ancestor Califia is one of my most formidable mastermind participants,” Mama says, checking Netta’s progress in the mirror. “She taught me how to see people’s thoughts like a projector image. She can mimic any action in front of her; see the next three steps ahead. I hate playing her in chess during our mental meetings. If she sees any move in your thoughts she’ll block it, throwing you completely off in the process. Her gift is one of my favorites to borrow.”

Damn, I wish I had that skill. I need to see about summoning Califia through my dreams like I do Maman’s and my mom’s powers. Lord knows I could use some help seeing my way through this mess with Jeremy as well as in beating Esmeralda at her own game. I guess I better get to work on putting together a mastermind team of my own. And, while I’m at it I need to keep better records of my dreams. It’s something about putting things down on paper that makes them seem more powerful, and I’m gong to need all the power I can get.

“Just read the damn letter, Jayd.”

-Nellie

Drama High, volume 1: The Fight

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR: PAPER

It feels nice walking up the block this time of evening. It’s mid October and the air is a bit chillier than it was last month, but I can still get away with wearing a pair of shorts and a hoody. If I were in the South Bay I’d be freezing my legs off by now. I was glad to leave Drama High behind when I left campus a few hours ago. Avoiding Jeremy all week was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I still have very real feelings for him, but we’re just not seeing eye-to-eye on his love of all things illegal. Eventually we’ll have to talk about what we want to do, but right now I can’t deal with any more heat.

After dealing with G’s arraignment on Monday and being Nellie’s chauffeur on Tuesday, I spent the rest of the week catching up on schoolwork and my clients’ heads. I’m glad Mama and Netta gave me the afternoon off to get myself situated. Besides, they’ve been at the church almost every evening to meet with other concerned members of the neighborhood. I could’ve stayed and caught up on the cleaning duties but I don’t want to be at the shop alone, especially not after my dream with Pam and her black eyes.

Mrs. Nguyen and her husband have been running The Right Stop liquor store for as long as my mom’s lived in Inglewood. It’s more than a convenience spot; it’s the neighborhood everything market. From rolling papers to milk to hair beads, Mrs. Nguyen’s got everything we could want within walking distance under one roof.

“Jayd, how are you?” Mrs. Nguyen asks from behind the bulletproof glass counter. After the last shooting I witnessed on Labor Day last year, they improved their security system, complete with a rent-a-cop outside of the front door and a pit bull on the back porch.

“I’m good. Just need some hair supplies and chips to hold me over until dinner.” There’s always a need for
Lays
in our apartment.

Shawntrese and her boyfriend have become my best clients in this area. They’ve been responsible for the majority of my referrals, too. One of which is his daughter, Chrystal, whose hair I’m braiding in twenty minutes. If her crown is anything like her daddy’s, it’ll be the last thing that I do tonight. Thankfully my Saturday schedule’s already packed insuring a nice weekend profit.

I walk through the narrow aisles to the back wall where all of the hair products are lined up. I don’t normally braid little girls’ hair and need to stock up on pretty beads and whatnot if I’m going to make this a regular part of my hustle. The door buzzer rings indicating another patron has entered the premises, and she’s a hot mess. I recognize her from around the block. I make eye contact with her and keep it moving. The last thing I need is some drama with a female in my mom’s neighborhood. It’s one thing to bother me at school, but I have too many clients around here and can’t afford for hating chicks to mess with my paper.

“Hey, ain’t you that chick who be doing hair?” she asks.

“Yeah. Jayd,” I say, picking out five large packs of multi-colored beads and a few bags of rubber bands. I hope Shawntrese knows she’s going to be helping put these things in Chrystal’s hair.

“Can you do my son’s braids?” she asks, referring to the little boy standing behind her. “He’s looking raggedy as shit and I ain’t got time to hook it up.”

She’s about to bust soon with his little brother or sister. I guess she didn’t want to be bothered with maternity clothes. Her sweats are rolled under her exposed belly and her t-shirt barely covers her large navel. Mickey wasn’t quite this cavalier when she was pregnant but close enough.

“Yeah, I can try and fit you in tomorrow afternoon.” I don’t know how but I should be able to squeeze a few braids in his head in between clients if all rolls smoothly. When one person is late my whole day is thrown off. “Here’s my number.” I take one of my business cards out and pass it to her. I need to have some more made but have to stack up my cheddar first. New clients are just the way to get that done.