Her spirit was uneasy. Something didn’t feel right. She paused, focusing on the sound of liquids draining into her toilet bowl, thick yet smooth. Each splash hit her like a pinprick, irking her, nudging her toward the truth.

She didn’t want her grandmother to forgive her. What she wanted was for her grandmother to look away. She wanted another drink.

chapter 9

Mr. Pang’s hands left the steering wheel for the fourth time in two minutes. Apollo had never seen him this frustrated.

“I told you we should have taken MARTA, Dad,” Zed taunted.

“But the GPS said traffic was light, and why drive somewhere, park, take a train, then walk, when I can skip one step?” Mr. Pang argued.

“You’re only skipping one step, Dad, and you’re not even skipping it. You’re replacing it with rush hour traffic.”

“Well it’s still not my fault. Who schedules an orientation at 11 a.m. on a Monday?”

Apollo nodded, agreeing with them both but not intervening. He’d never seen Zed’s family speak above an excited whisper. It was refreshing to see that they too weren’t above yelling. Plus, he hated MARTA in the morning: legions of aspiring rappers, stressed young moms, condescending yuppies, shook white suburbanites, indignant homeless people, and tired working folks, all packed into blocky seats with poorly placed handrails and a color scheme straight out of an art class for preteen moms. Apollo wasn’t too good to ride MARTA, but he knew it too well to be anything other than ambivalent.

His eyes floated to a nearby car that they’d been parallel with for almost half a mile. A suited black woman sat in the driver’s seat of a Subaru Outback, her windows rolled down, an Erykah Badu song leaking out. She was sweating profusely. Traffic was exercise.

“If you think this is bad, wait until we try to look for parking,” Zed goaded.

“Zadie, why do you insist on being so pessimistic?”

“Zed, Dad. I’m not being pessimistic, I just wish you would listen to me. I drive into the city all the time. You drive around the city all the time. I know a few things.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Pang replied, polite but dismissive.

Apollo abandoned their conversation. There was too much traffic ahead for it to continue to be entertaining.

Two miles and one half hour later, they were on the outskirts of Georgia Tech, searching for Mr. Pang’s mythical parking spot. Although it took ten minutes of circling the block, the legend turned out to be true. Parking in front of the Waffle House on Fifth Street, they hopped out and hustled into the heart of Georgia Tech’s campus. Mr. Pang hated being late.

“Williams Street!” Mr. Pang exclaimed as they crossed over I-85, their pace undisturbed.

“What’s so important about Williams Street?” Apollo asked. “Thinking about opening another restaurant?”