Chapter 13
After the scare with the rival crew and our runners, Kenya was spending more time at home. She would have me over her family's house in North End during the day while her parents and her sister were at work and school.
I never trusted the quiet in that house.
It wasn’t peaceful. The place felt eerie and controlled, as if every sound had to pass inspection before it could exist. The walls were clean, the furniture expensive but untouched, and her family felt hollow.
A Nigga couldn’t judge my own mom taught me how to cook crack, but despite my family’s dysfunction, there was love there.
Lil Mama moved differently when she was here.
As if she was bracing for impact that never came all at once.
One day, her mom came home while we were sitting on the couch watching The Wood.
Her mother barely acknowledged me when she walked in.
She glanced up from the kitchen counter, eyes sweeping over me the way you look at something you already decided doesn’t belong.
“Hi, Mom,” Kenya said in a pleasant voice.
“Hmmm,” was all that lady said. That was it.
No question about me.
No curiosity.
No warning.
Just dismissal.
I leaned against the doorway and watched the exchange like I was observing a language I already understood too well.
Kenya went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water. Her hands were steady, but her shoulders were tight. She didn’t look at her mother.
“Chanel’s not home yet,” her mother said suddenly.
Kenya paused. “She’s studying.”
“With who?” her mother asked.
Kenya turned. “Does it matter?”
That’s when I felt it.
The shift.
Her mother’s mouth tightened, eyes sharpening.
“It does,” she said. “Depends on who she’s with. If she’s with girls from school, that’s fine, but if she’s anything like her whore of a sister hanging out with that other King boy —”
“Xavier,” Kenya corrected calmly.
Her mother waved it off. “Whatever his name is. I told you already, I don’t want Chanel around anyone from Crestwood.”
I straightened.
Kenya didn’t raise her voice. “You don’t get to say that.”
Her mother finally looked at me then. Really looked.
Cold, appraising, and dismissive.
“I get to say whatever I want in my house,” she replied. “And I don’t want my good daughter around criminals.”
The word hit the room like a slap.
Criminals.
Plural.
Kenya didn’t flinch. She just smiled, and I knew that smile. It was the one she used when she was deciding whether to burn something down or let it rot on its own.
“So I’m the bad daughter?” Kenya said.
Her mother shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”
I pushed off the wall. “You don’t know me,” I said evenly.
She didn’t even look impressed by the challenge.
“I know enough,” she replied. “And I know what kind of men ruin girls like Chanel.”
That’s when it clicked.
This wasn’t about me.
Or Kenya.
This was about control.
Kenya crossed her arms. “Chanel isn’t a child.”
“She is to me,” her mother snapped. “And she will not be dragged into whatever mess you’re building.”
Kenya laughed softly. Not amused or kind.
“I’m the reason she isn’t in a mess,” she said. “You should be thanking me.”
“I didn’t ask you to do anything,” she said. “And I don’t need your help.”
Kenya stepped closer. “You’ve been needing it for years.”
I watched the woman who gave birth to her daughter refuse to look at her as if eye contact might crack something she couldn’t afford to acknowledge.
“Just keep Chanel away from them,” her mother said finally. “From Xavier. From his brother. From all of it.”
Kenya tilted her head. “Why?”
That was the wrong question.
Her mother’s jaw clenched. “Because I said so.”
Kenya didn’t let it go. “You don’t care who I see. You don’t care who I’m around. But suddenly you’re worried about Chanel?”
Her mother snapped. “You chose your life.”
Kenya’s eyes darkened. “No. I chose to survive.”
That landed harder than anything else said in that room.
Her mother turned away, busying herself with nothing. “Just don’t let her meet Zayden’s brother.”
“So she can meet you,” Kenya said quietly. “And your friends. And your church ladies who gossip and lie. But not my people?”
Her mother’s voice dropped. “Zayden King is not your people.”
Kenya smiled again, but this time, there was grief in it.
“I see,” she said.
But I could feel her mother’s energy.
This wasn’t prejudice.
It wasn’t morality.
It was the fear of proximity.
When we left, her mother didn’t say goodbye.
Outside, Kenya exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.
“That wasn’t about you,” I said.
“I know,” she replied.
“It wasn’t about Chanel either,” I added.
She looked at me then. Really looked.
“No,” she said softly. “It’s about what she’s hiding.”
That was the first time I understood.
Kenya’s mother didn’t hate her.
She feared her.
Because Kenya didn’t just survive systems, she saw through them.
Chanel hadn’t asked any questions yet, but Kenya did every time.