Chapter 14 Zahara
ZAHARA
The sun wasn’t even up yet, but I was already on my knees in my closet, pushing aside shoes and old bags, searching for the shoebox I’d hidden in the back corner months ago.
My hands were shaking. I hated touching this box. Hated what it represented. Emergency money. Run money. The last resort for when everything went to shit and we had to disappear again.
But Yusef’s music camp deposit was due today. I’d already asked for one extension. They wouldn’t give me another.
I found the shoe box wedged behind a stack of other shoe boxes. I pulled it out, sat back on my heels, and lifted the lid.
The cash was still there. One thousand dollars in mixed bills, rubber-banded and slightly musty from being hidden for so long. And underneath it, wrapped in an old T-shirt, was the gun.
A Glock 19. Loaded. Ready.
I stared at it for a moment, my chest tight. I’d bought it off a guy in LA years ago, preparing for the day that he finally found me. Back when I was terrified every shadow was someone coming to finish what they’d started.
“Hey?”
I jumped, nearly dropping the box. Yusef was standing in my doorway, his eyes wide behind his glasses, staring at the gun in my hands.
“Yu—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Do you think they’re still looking for us?”
The question hit me like a punch to the chest. Us. I hated that he even had to live with his level of fear.
I carefully set the box down and stood up, blocking his view of the gun.
“I don’t know. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.
But don’t worry about that. Here’s the money.
Take it right to the counselor when you get to school,” I said handing over $800, nearly wiping out our emergency cash.
But I was determined to make it back this Sunday at the farmers market.
I was going to be selling my rolls, and I was going to start advertising dessert catering.
It was time to hustle. I hated living check to check.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. You earned this. You worked hard for that spot.”
He took the money carefully, like it might disappear if he held it too tight. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, baby.”
He hesitated in the doorway, looking back at the shoebox.
I sat back down on the floor, staring at the shoebox. At the gun. At the stack of cash that was supposed to save us if everything fell apart. It wasn’t much, though. Not nearly enough to create a new life if I needed.
I thought about Prime. About the way he’d held me on the side of the highway. About his hands on my face, his voice calling me Goddess. About the look in his eyes when he saw Yusef’s bruise.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him. Shouldn’t be letting him get under my skin. But I couldn’t help it. There was something about him. Something that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
Even if he was dangerous. Even if he was complicated. Even if getting close to him was the worst possible idea.
I put the cash back in the box, closed the lid, and shoved it back into the corner of my closet.
Then I got ready for work.
“Girl, people cannot stop talking about these rolls.”
Cookie was practically vibrating with excitement when I walked into Grits. She grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the kitchen before I could even clock in.
“Wait what?”
“The Zinnamon rolls! The red velvet ones you made? We sold out in two hours. Two hours, Zahara! And people keep calling, asking when we’re gonna have more.”
Pride and panic warred in my chest. Pride because my rolls were good enough that people were asking for them. Panic because this meant attention. And attention meant questions.
“That’s great,” I said carefully.
“Great? Girl, it’s more than great. We need to tell Larry. Get you a raise or something. Maybe even let you develop more flavors.”
“No.”
Cookie blinked. “No?”
“I mean… not yet.” I scrambled for an excuse. “Let’s make sure it’s not just a fluke first. Give it another week or two.”
The truth was, I wanted to keep sneaking into the kitchen after hours. Keep baking on my own terms. Keep building my business without Larry’s greasy fingers all over it.
Cookie studied my face, suspicious. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it yet.”
“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t believe me, but she let it go. “Fine. But by the end of the month, we’re telling him. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I could work with that. A month was enough time to figure out my next move. Maybe even save enough to finally rent actual commercial kitchen space.
I was tying my apron when Larry walked in.
My stomach dropped.
“Zahara!” His voice was too loud, too friendly. “Just the woman I wanted to see.”
Oh God. He knew. Someone had told him about the rolls. Or worse, he’d seen me sneaking in after hours.
“Hey, Larry. What’s up?” I kept my voice steady.
He stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—cheap and overpowering.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” His eyes traveled down my body, lingering in places that made my skin crawl. “You look real good today. That uniform fits you just right.”
Relief and revulsion hit me at the same time. He didn’t know about the baking. He was just being his usual disgusting self.
“Thanks,” I said flatly, trying to step back. But I was already against the counter.
“You know…” He leaned in, one hand bracing on the counter beside me, trapping me. “A woman like you shouldn’t be working herself so hard. You need someone to take care of you.”
“I’m good, Larry.”
“I’m serious. You and me, we could have something special.” His other hand reached up, like he was going to touch my face.
I grabbed his wrist before he could make contact. “I said I’m good.”
For a second, something ugly flashed in his eyes. But then he pulled back, laughing like it was all a joke.
“Alright, alright. Can’t blame a man for trying.” He walked away, still chuckling.
I stood there, my heart pounding, my hands shaking with anger and adrenaline.
Cookie appeared at my elbow. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “I’m fine.”
But as I got to work, taking orders and serving food and pretending everything was normal, I couldn’t stop thinking.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the gun in my closet.
About Yusef asking if they were still looking for us.
About Larry’s hand on the counter, trapping me.
About Prime’s hands on my face, gentle and sure.
About how tired I was of running. Of hiding. Of being afraid.
Something had to change. Something had to give.
And I could feel it coming. Like a storm on the horizon. Like the moment before everything breaks.
This would be over soon. One way or another.
It had to be.
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket during the lunch rush. I ignored it the first time. The second time. But when it rang for the third time, Cookie gave me a look.
“Girl, answer it. Might be important.”
I pulled it out, my stomach already twisting. Unknown number. But the area code was local.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Ali? This is Principal Henderson from Eastside Middle School. We need you to come pick up Yusef. There’s been an incident.”
My blood went cold. “What kind of incident? Is he okay?”
“He’s in the nurse’s office. He’s… he’ll be fine, but we need you to come get him right away.”
“I’m on my way.”
I didn’t even clock out. Just ripped off my apron and grabbed my keys, Cookie calling after me, saying she’d get someone to cover my tables.
The bus ride to the school took forty minutes, but felt like hours. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. My mind kept cycling through worst-case scenarios.
He’s fine. They said he’s fine. But why does he need to be picked up? What happened?
I ran inside, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest.
The nurse’s office was down the hall from the main entrance. I burst through the door, and there he was. Yusef sat on the examination table, his head down, his shoulders hunched. But when he looked up at me, I saw it.
His face.
The bruise from last week had barely faded, and now there was a fresh one blooming across his other cheek. His lip was split. His glasses were cracked. Blood had dried under his nose.
“Oh my God.” I rushed to him, my hands hovering over his face, afraid to touch him, afraid I’d hurt him more.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, but his voice was thick, like he’d been crying.
“What happened? Who did this?”
He wouldn’t look at me. Just stared at the floor.
“Yusef. Who did this to you?”
“They took the money.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“The camp money. They jumped me after second period. Took all of it.”
The world tilted. Eight hundred dollars. Gone. The money I’d scraped together from my emergency fund. The money that was supposed to secure his spot at music camp. The money that was supposed to give him something good, something safe.
“Who?” My voice came out sharp, harder than I meant it to. “Who took it?”
He shook his head.
“Yusef—”
“I’m not telling you. It’ll just make it worse.”
“Worse? Look at your face! How could it possibly get worse?”
“Because if I snitch, they’ll do worse than this!” His voice cracked, and I saw the tears he was fighting to hold back. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him I did understand, that I’d spent my whole life running from people who wanted to hurt me. But this wasn’t about me.
This was about him getting beaten and robbed at school, and nobody doing a damn thing to stop it.
“Where’s Principal Henderson?” I asked the nurse.
“In his office—”
I was already out the door, Yusef calling after me, but I didn’t stop. I marched down the hall to the administrative offices, my vision tunneling, my rage building with every step.
Principal Henderson’s door was open. He was sitting at his desk, typing something on his computer, like this was just another Tuesday.
“Ms. Ali—”
“Don’t.” I stepped into his office, my voice shaking. “Don’t you dare ‘Ms. Ali’ me. That’s the second time in two weeks my son has been jumped at this school. The second time. And what have you done about it? Nothing!”
“We’re investigating—”
“Investigating? He has a split lip and a black eye and his glasses are broken! What is there to investigate? Kids are beating him up and stealing from him, and you’re just letting it happen!”
“Ms. Ali, please lower your voice—”
“No! I will not lower my voice! You’re supposed to keep these kids safe! That’s your job! And you’re failing!”
“We have protocols—”
“Your protocols aren’t working! My son is terrified to come to school! He’s getting hurt, and you’re sitting here acting like it’s not your problem!”
“If Yusef would tell us who’s responsible, we could take action—”
“He’s twelve! He’s scared! And he shouldn’t have to be! You should have security cameras. You should have hall monitors. You should have something in place to stop this from happening!”
Principal Henderson stood, his face reddening. “I understand you’re upset, but threatening me isn’t going to—”
“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you that if my son gets hurt one more time at this school, I’m going to the district. I’m going to the news. I’m going to make sure everyone knows that Eastside Middle School doesn’t protect its students.”
I turned and walked out before he could respond, my hands shaking, my chest heaving.
Yusef was waiting in the hallway, his eyes wide. The nurse had given him an ice pack, which he held against his face.
“Let’s go,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Yusef said finally, his voice small.
“Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
“I lost the money—”
“I don’t care about the money.” I turned to look at him. “I care about you. You’re what matters. Not the camp, not the money. You.”
He nodded, but I could see the shame in his face. The embarrassment. The defeat.
We rode home in silence. When we got back to the apartment, Yusef went straight to his room and locked the door. I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of nothing. No crying. No music. Just silence.
I knocked softly. “Yu? You want something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Baby—”
“I just want to be alone. Please.”
I pressed my forehead against the door, my chest aching. “Okay. I’m here if you need me.”
No response.
I went to my room and closed the door. Sat on the edge of my bed. And finally let myself cry.
All the fear, all the frustration, all the rage I’d been holding back came pouring out. I cried for Yusef. For the life we were living. For the constant running, the constant fear, the constant feeling like we were one step away from everything falling apart.
I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw.
Then I pulled out my phone and opened my messages and texted my sister.
He got beat up again. I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t know what to do anymore.
I sat there wishing someone would tell me what to do.
Wishing I wasn’t so tired of being strong.
Wishing things could be different.
But wishing didn’t change anything.
It never did.