“Not me,” I say, raising my hand like I’m in school. Paris rolls her eyes at me.

“We’re going to the mall. Come on, Shanice.”

“I don’t wanna go,” she says, coming out of the bedroom. That girl got some long legs and she sure don’t mind showing ’em off. Janelle oughtta watch that. The wrong eyes’ll be on her.

“You’re going,” Paris says.

“You certainly are,” Janelle says from the porch.

“Why don’t you want to go to the mall, baby?” Mama asks.

“I don’t have any money. Why go to the mall if you can’t buy anything?”

Janelle holds up two twenty-dollar bills. Paris holds up two more. My mouth is watering, my palms are itching. They can just reach in their purses and get money like that. Life is good to some people.

Shanice scrunches her shoulders like she’s trying to get excited, but anybody can see she ain’t.

“Where’s Dingus?” Mama asks.

“At a car dealership,” Paris says.

“What in the world is he doing at a car dealership?”

“Looking at cars. We’ll pick him up on the way,” Paris says. “Mama, go on, I need to make a quick phone call.”

“Okay,” she says, and heads toward the front door. I sit on the couch, waiting for my orders.

“There’s going to be a delivery,” Paris says, pointing her finger down at me. “Don’t drink anything. It’s going to be furniture. Let them in and show them which room the stuff goes in.”

“I don’t know which room whatever is coming goes in.”

“I’m about to tell you. It’s a bed and dresser. It goes in Mama’s room.”

“Well, what about her old furniture?”

“Figure it out, Lewis.”

“Well, how long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“Why?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Two or three hours.”

“I was thinking about catching the bus home tonight.”

“With what?”

I feel my teeth grinding. “What do you mean, with what?”

“You don’t have any money. How are you going to catch a bus?”

Why does she have to get so technical? She don’t know how much money I got, not really. “I’ve got almost enough,” I say.

“Almost isn’t enough, Lewis.”

“I know that, Paris. I’m not stupid.”

“Tell me something. Have you already forgotten about your court date?”

“No I have not.”

“Well, if you fail to show up, my two hundred dollars is gone.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Give me some credit.”

“Anyway, Mama suggested you fly home with us in the morning.”

“I don’t like airplanes.”

“Get over it,” she says. “Besides, it’s already done.” She turns and leaves. It’s already done. Already. Done. What would make her think I want to get on an airplane and sit next to her in close quarters where I have no escape route, and be forced to listen to what I should and shouldn’t be doing? I don’t think so. As soon as these furniture people get here, I’m outta here. I can figure out a way to get back for my court appearance, but I’ve got business I need to take care of at home.