4. Pluto Monroe #2
She shrugged. “I’m just saying… that Pressure shit? The arranged marriage thing? The Diamond ad has been everywhere. They still looking for five more girls. It’s a quarter million advance, Pluto. Two hundred and fifty K. Just to be in the running.”
I rolled my eyes and turned my back to the rail. “That’s tacky as hell. I’m not about to be no contestant on somebody’s royal hood bachelor show.”
“Girl, it’s not even like that,” she laughed. “Everybody know Pressure fine as hell, and that nigga paid. Son of Kojo and Abeni? Please. That man got a jungle estate and his own weed named after him. And you know them Scorpio men… they love a Cancer woman.”
“But I’m a Virgo,” I reminded her.
“Oh yeah, that’s right— I’m the Cancer,” she said with a grin. “Point is, Pressure Mensah is all that, hunnie… and I feel like y’all would still be compatible.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?”
Kash sipped her drink, smirking. “It would impress the fuck outta me. But this ain’t even about that.
This is about you and Zurie and getting out the damn ghetto.
You could take that money and run, P…Help your sister, get your mama on her meds proper, hell—get your own place again.
Shit, maybe even you can finally get a chance to feel what some real dick feel like. ”
I knew she meant it playfully, but it still hit different.
Kash already knew I’d never slept with anybody—never even came close.
It wasn’t because I was waiting on some perfect love story, but because my life never made room for me to fall in love with a man.
I’d been in survival mode too long to be handing over something I couldn’t get back.
Whenever I did lose my virginity, it was gonna be to a man who made me want to, not just one who happened to be there.
Until then, I’d rather have stayed untouched than live with regret.
“I said no.”
“You said no, but your eyes said maybe.”
I sucked my teeth, but she wasn’t wrong. The whole thing did sound tempting.
Kashmere bumped my shoulder with hers. “Just go. At least see what it’s about. I’ll ride with you if you scared. Hell, I’ll sign up too just to sneak in and spy on the competition.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You’re annoying.”
“But I’m right.”
The night rolled on like that—jokes, drinks, and enough joy in the air to make me forget my real life for a little while.
Juelz had everybody playing card games, arguing over Uno, and singing off-key to Beyoncé until his neighbor banged on the ceiling.
It felt like one of them nights you wish you could bottle up and save for later, just to remind yourself that peace was still possible.
By the time Kashmere and I left, it was close to one in the morning. I rode in the passenger side with the window halfway down, my curls blowing in the warm breeze, and the radio turned up just loud enough to drown out our thoughts.
We sang every word to Summer Walker like we were drunk in love, even though neither one of us was really in love with anything but survival.
When we hit the corner leading toward my complex, I felt that familiar weight creep back into my chest, the one that always showed up when home stopped feeling like home.
Kash slowed the car and glanced at me. “You good?”
I nodded, but she wasn’t fooled.
“P, that man is offering two-fifty, and you got less than a week before the ad closes. That could change everything.”
I turned to her, trying to play it off with a soft smile. “I hear you.”
She pulled over in front of the apartment and reached over to squeeze my hand. “I just want better for you. For both of y’all.”
I hugged her tight, and kissed her cheek. “Love you, Kash.”
“Love you too, P.”
I stepped out the car and dragged my feet up the walkway. The porch light was off, like always. When I got inside, everything was quiet.
I tossed my keys on the table and walked straight to Zurie’s room. The second I opened the door, my heart dropped.
She was shaking.
Her tiny body was sprawled across the mattress, her eyes rolled back, her mouth frothing, and her limbs jerking uncontrollably.
“Zurie?!”
I dropped to my knees, reaching for her. “Baby, no—no, no, no, hold on—I’m right here!”
My hands were trembling as I fumbled for my phone and hit 9-1-1, shouting the address while trying to keep my sister’s head still and her airway clear.
“She’s having a seizure! She has Chiari Malformation! Please! Send someone now, please!”
I sprinted down the hallway, burst into Mama’s room, and found her knocked out cold, her mouth slightly open, and empty pill bottles on the nightstand.
“Mama!” I shook her, but she didn’t budge. She was breathing, but gone off something heavy. I cursed under my breath, fighting the rage that bubbled up inside me.
How could she not hear? How could she not wake up? How could she not be here when Zurie needed her?
But I didn’t have time to figure all of that out at the moment.
I ran back to my sister’s side, tears pouring down my face. Her body was still convulsing, and her breathing had turned shallow.
“Stay with me, Zurie,” I cried, my voice breaking. “Please, baby, please hold on.”
And I held her, begging the universe not to take the only thing I had left.
St. Mercy General Hospital
While standing outside Zurie’s room, I paced back and forth, waiting for the doctor to come back and tell me something—anything—I could hold on to.
My nerves were shot. My hands wouldn’t stay still, and the only reason I hadn’t broken down yet was because I didn’t have time to.
I couldn’t afford to fall apart, not when Zurie was behind that door, hooked up to machines and wires like she was some test subject instead of a six-year-old little girl.
They had already run a bunch of tests. An MRI to check the swelling around her brainstem, and A CT scan to see if there was any bleeding or abnormal pressure.
They’d done an EEG, sticking all these little wires to her scalp to monitor her brain activity.
They ran bloodwork, checked her oxygen, checked her heart, and now they were talking about transferring her to the neurology wing for overnight observation.
It was all happening so fast, and no matter how many doctors or nurses walked past me, I still felt like nobody was seeing me.
I was just a girl in the hallway with too many questions and not enough answers.
Finally, a woman in navy blue scrubs stepped approached me, followed by a tall man in a white coat. He had a tired face, kind eyes, and a clipboard in his hand.
“Pluto Monroe?” he asked.
I nodded and straightened up.
“I’m Dr. Harwood. I’ve been reviewing your sister’s tests and scans, and I wanted to update you on what we’re seeing.”
I followed him to a small consult room nearby. I sat down across from him, and he took a deep breath before speaking.
“Zurie has a Chiari malformation. I know you’ve probably heard that term before, but based on the new imaging, it’s clear that her condition is progressing.
The lower part of her brain, the cerebellar tonsils, are pressing further down into her spinal canal.
That pressure is causing the seizures. It’s affecting her balance, coordination, and motor control. ”
I leaned forward, gripping my hands together in my lap. “I know that already, but what does that mean for her right now?”
“It means she needs surgery. Specifically, a posterior fossa decompression. It’s a common procedure for Chiari patients, but it’s also delicate.
We remove a small portion of bone at the base of the skull to create space and relieve that pressure on the brain and spinal cord.
The goal is to reduce the symptoms and prevent permanent nerve damage.
Without it, the swelling will continue. The seizures will get worse, and eventually, she could lose the ability to walk, talk, or even breathe properly in her sleep. ”
My stomach felt like it flipped upside down. I blinked hard, trying to keep my composure.
“How soon does she need the surgery?”
“We recommend within the next four to six weeks. She’ll also need follow-up care, physical therapy, and monitoring after the operation.”
I nodded slowly, even though my mind was screaming. “Okay… so what do we do? Where do we go? How do we make it happen?”
He hesitated before answering, and that pause was worse than anything he’d said so far.
“Well… even with insurance, your out-of-pocket cost could be significant. The surgery, anesthesia, imaging, and recovery care combined can add up to around thirty-five to forty thousand. Depending on your plan, some of it may be covered, but I have to be honest—most families in your position end up needing assistance.”
I didn’t say anything.
That number just sat in the room like it was staring at me.
“Of course, we have social workers who can help look into grants or emergency funding, but that takes time. It takes a lot of paperwork, a lot of waitlists, but Zurie doesn’t have time to wait.”
I nodded, but it felt like something inside me was crumbling.
“I’ll figure something out,” I said, even though I had no clue what that could be.
He gave me a soft look and nodded. “She’s resting now. She’s stable, but she’ll need monitoring tonight, and we’ll keep a close eye on her in the neuro wing.”
I thanked him, stood up, and walked back down the hallway in a blur. The fluorescent lights above me felt too bright, the floor too shiny, and everything too loud and too quiet at the same time.
When I stepped back into Zurie’s room, the first thing I noticed was how small she looked in the hospital bed.
Her skin was pale, and her lips were dry.
Her curls were pushed back under a thin cap from the EEG, and the wires were trailed from her chest to the monitors nearby.
She wasn’t on life support, but she was still.
Her eyes were closed, and every now and then she’d twitch, just slightly, like her body hadn’t fully come back from what it went through. A nurse had tucked a stuffed animal beside her—one of those old teddy bears with one button eye—and even that looked tired.
I sat down in the chair next to her and stared at her for a long time.
This little girl, who still needed help tying her shoes, who still asked me to read her bedtime stories, who still called me “sissy” when she was scared…
this baby didn’t deserve none of this. Not the seizures, the hospital rooms or the bullshit back home.
She deserved a real childhood.
I didn’t have forty thousand dollars. I didn’t even have four hundred in my account right now. And Mama…She was probably still knocked out on that damn medication. She wasn’t the one making calls, asking questions, or pacing hospital hallways. That was me. It had always been me.
I sat with my head in my hands, trying to think of anything that could help. A loan? A fundraiser? Selling plasma? I’d have to rob a damn bank to come up with that kind of money. And then Kashmere’s voice popped in my head.
“That man is giving away two-fifty.”
Pressure… That ridiculous arranged marriage contest. The ad had been everywhere. All over Instagram, blogs, even the radio. They were still looking for a few more girls. Kashmere had already sent me the link last week, so I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts until I found it.
You need to at least look at it, P. Just look. 250K could save Zurie.
I clicked the link and it took me to a clean, flashy landing page. “Who Will Be Crowned the Next Diamond of Trill-Land?”
There was a short video of Pressure walking in slow motion, his shirt off and smoke around him like he was made of gold. It looked like a movie trailer. At the bottom, there was a big purple button that said APPLY NOW.
I looked over at Zurie again. Her chest rose and fell slowly, but barely.
I swallowed hard and tapped the button.
The form asked for everything—Full name. Age. Bio. Background. Why I should be chosen. Three to five recent photos. Socials. Contact info. Personality questions. I answered every line like my sister’s life depended on it—because it did.
I found some decent pictures in my phone, ones Kashmere had taken of me when we went out a few weeks ago and uploaded them. I kept typing, adding everything about me that I could think of.
By the time I hit submit, the sun was starting to rise. Orange light spilled through the cracks in the window blinds, and Zurie was still asleep.
I looked at her one more time, then leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.
This wasn’t about fame or about Pressure Mensah. This was about survival.
I had no clue what I was walking into, but I knew why I was doing it, and I hoped that would be enough.