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that apparently you like to meet and greet on the train.”
    Lyfe sniffed as his nostrils flared. “Apparently you have a li’lhabit of getting out of line”—he stared at her birthmark, and then back to her face—“so let me put you back in place. If I wanted to pick you up, I would simply tell you how beautiful I thought you were until you opened your nasty-ass mouth. Now, I don’t know what kind of morning you had, but it probably doesn’t top the shit I got goin’ on, so chill.” He paused. “And another thing, don’t let this suit and tie fool yo’ ass.”
    “Whatever,” Arri sighed dismissively, as she sat on the train, running late for work, and next to a fine-ass brother who despite his sexy-ass swagger, had just told her off and was working the hell out of her nerves. She felt guilty about knocking his coffee from his hands but that’s where it ended. She didn’t care that he was pissed because she’d messed up his morning caffeine fix, and she was doing her damndest not to care about how beautifully black and pretty he was. Fuck him. Besides, she had a million “why mes?” of her own. And she hated sappy shit, and shit that made her feel grim, and dull, and depressed, and sorry for herself. She couldn’t stand wondering when her circumstances were going to change, because the reality was, this was her life.
    Arri turned away and looked out the train’s window. The tunnel whipped by in blurry snippets as an unexpected vision of the last time she’d seen her mother danced before her eyes …
    “Run them goddamn pockets!” Darlene’s voice rattled with aggravation as she peered at twelve-year-old Arri. “And hur’ up. I’m tryna be nice ’bout this shit.” She spat as she flicked a loose string of snot that slid from her nose and over the corners of her cracked lips.
    Darlene repeated herself, “I
said
, I’m tryna be nice ’bout this shit, but you pushin’ yo’ luck, Arri.”
    Arri watched Darlene stagger closer to where she sat on a dingy white mattress in a sea of sunflower seeds and Swedish Fish, with a mouth full of Lemonheads.
    “I know you got some money,” Darlene continued, “ ’cause I saw you outside in them niggahs’ faces, so give it to me right now!”
    The Lemonheads in Arri’s mouth stuck to her teeth and bathed her tongue in yellow as she watched her mother’s mahogany face dance in the flashing streetlamp’s reflection. Arri’s eyes traced the black extension cord that snaked across the floor, running electricity from the neighbor’s apartment into theirs. She studied the withered sunshine of the wall’s dingy yellow paint, and thought about the furniture that once sat sporadically around the room—at least until James, Darlene’s boyfriend, and dope, Darlene’s best friend, moved in and slowly the furniture moved out.
    Arri’s eyes ran across her mother’s sagging jawline, protruding collarbone, frail arms, and sticks for thighs. She rolled her eyes, sized up Darlene’s small frame again, and figured that this time—on everything she loved—she was gon’ rock wit’ Darlene’s chicken-ass if she pushed her to it. As far as Arri was concerned, this time—out of all the times her mother had shaken her down—she wasn’t having it. To hell with this dumb shit. Today, if her mother’s hand called for it, it would be on and the fuck poppin’ in Brooklyn tonight.
    Darlene cleared her throat. “Arri,” her tone softened, “Mommy need you to help her.”
    Arri swallowed the Lemonheads, tasting only slightly more sour than the sounds of Darlene calling herself Mommy and letting that name fall effortlessly from her lips.
    Arri wondered, was a mother supposed to love you and care whether or not you went to school, or did a mother get mad because you wouldn’t suck dick, turn tricks, and support her habit? Did a mother actually do some shit, other than spread her pink pussy lips, push you through, and then let the streets nurse you until you were