CHAPTER FIVE
JACKIE
“I just don’t want them tryna slap a label on my baby.”
Jackie stood in front of her bedroom mirror, phone on speaker, slipping a gold hoop through her left ear.
She was dressed in a green, polo-collared ribbed dress.
Modest enough for a school meeting but still hugging her figure in all the right places.
Her hair was pinned back in a neat bun, her face fresh with just liner, mascara, and a matte gloss.
A spritz of Angel’s Share by Kilian Paris clung to her neck like a soft warning.
“Syxe,” she continued, frustration seeping into her voice.
“I don’t get it. Max is not violent. He not disrespectful at home. All that boy wanna do is make that slime shit and get it everywhere—and watch other kids on YouTube play with toys he already got. So him fighting and talking back at school? That’s foreign to me. He don’t do that with me.”
Syxe stayed quiet on the other end, letting her vent. “I’ve disciplined him. I ain’t one of them let-him-do-anything mothers,” Jackie said, tugging gently at the hem of her dress.
“But I’m not finna beat my baby either. I’m not raising him how my mama raised me, beating the shit outta me for being human, and having feelings.” She paused, her voice softening.
“I don’t know what these people finna say, but that Dr. Nigel motherfucker already got me in my bag.
He sent me this nice-nasty email like, ‘Please arrive promptly at 2 p.m. so we can discuss Max’s cognitive and behavioral trajectory.
’ Boy, fuck you.” Syxe laughed softly. “Jack.
First of all, this is not an intervention.
The school loves Fat Daddy. Sister Malika especially. Lowkey he, her favorite.
“If he wasn’t, he might’ve been outta there a long time ago. She’s just getting Najee involved to get to the root of what’s going on.”
“Wait, who the hell is Najee?” Jackie asked, turning to check her profile in the mirror again.
“Najee is Dr. Nigel,” Syxe said, the smirk audible in her voice.
“Same person.” Jackie blinked. “So they just out here letting the whole family work at the school, huh? The fiancée teaches, Cash coaching, now Sister Malika got her nephew playing therapist. This some rich Black nepotism bullshit.”
“Respectfully,” Syxe replied, “Nigel is brilliant. He’s been recognized in Psychiatry Today, had work published in the American Journal of Psychiatry. He founded an entire nonprofit around Black boys and ADHD misdiagnosis. He’s not even thirty-five yet.” Jackie paused, eyebrows raised.
“And” Syxe added, her voice dipping playfully, “if I wasn’t a married woman, I’d sip that tall glass of water.” Jackie rolled her eyes as she stood in the mirror and gave herself a quick once over.
“Girl, what I’m supposed to do with a thirty-three-year-old?” Jackie replied, half laughing, half serious. “The same thing you was finna do with his thirty-year-old cousin,” Syxe shot back.
Jackie rolled her eyes. “Good-bye bitch.”
Jackie sat in the car parked across the street from the school, letting the air conditioner hum while she collected herself.
Her fingers tapped against the steering wheel, tension gathering in her shoulders refusing to budge.
She hated this feeling. That tight, nervous pressure that came with walking into spaces where she didn’t belong.
Where she wasn’t the soccer mom, Or the polished PTA mama with Honest Juice boxes and gluten-free snack ideas.
She was Jackie with a GED in progress, and a past she never fully outran.
And a child they were probably already labeling “aggressive” or “at-risk” just because he didn’t sit still or quiet on command .
Please arrive promptly at 2 p.m. That line from Dr. Nigel’s email echoed in her head again.
It was formal and smug like he assumed she was gonna be late.
Jackie closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.
She could do this. It wasn’t prison or court.
It was a meeting for her child. Then her phone rang. Kormia.
Jackie sighed and hit speaker. “What.”
“Jack, what you doing?” Kormia asked, voice loud and animated.
“You wanna go to happy hour?” Jackie blinked.
“Bitch, it’s 1:30. Happy hour don’t start till six.”
“My fault, girl. I need a drink.” Jackie leaned back in her seat.
“Why? What happened now?” There was a pause.
Jackie braced herself. “Nothing really,” Kormia said too casually.
“I told you they reopened that flower shop next door to my nail bar, right?”
“Uh-huh…”
“Well, I guess the new owner having shit installed—like shelves and lighting. They be out there all day and all night, and all the construction is interrupting my business.” Jackie could already hear the mess coming. “And when I went over to talk to the new owner, he came out of a bag on me.”
“What the hell that mean?” Jackie frowned. “You got in a fight with the florist?”
“Fuck that sexy-ass dickhead,” Kormia muttered. Jackie sat up straighter.
“Wait. A man owns the flower shop?”
“Exactly, bitch! That’s what I’m saying!” Jackie blinked.
“And what? He fine and sells flowers, so now you flustered?”
“No, girl. That’s not even the kicker,” Kormia said, voice rising. “He owns my shop. And all the buildings on this block. I thought Ms. Loretta was the landlord this whole time, but nah—he the boss.” Jackie couldn’t help the small laugh. “So let me get this straight, you into it with your landlord?
“I’m not into it with nobody…”
“What did you say, Kormia?”
“Nothing really,” she mumbled.
Jackie narrowed her eyes as she pulled into the school parking lot. “Yeah. Okay.” She parked and sighed. “Listen. I suggest you apologize before he sends your ass packing with your gel polish and that busted steamer. And as for happy hour—count me out. I gotta check this thing out today.”
“Okay,” Kormia replied, unbothered. “But if he comes in my shop again with that gray sweatsuit on, I’m folding.
” Jackie hung up. She said a quiet prayer to herself, rolled her shoulders back, and opened the door.
Her heels clicked across the pavement as she walked toward the front office like she was walking into war. Because in her mind, she kind of was.