The Orange Houses Read Online Free

managing not to sound patronizing. “Close y’all’s eyes.”
    She did, trusting him to keep her from falling from the skateboard, letting him balance her, swaying with him, squeezing his hands.
    â€œThat’s right, Mik. Now, If a train.”
    â€œIf a train.”
    â€œSee yourself standing on top of that train, girl. Let it get moving. You feel it now grooving? Clicka-clicka, wheels on tracks be soothing. Spread your wings, catch the wind of kings, lift yourself to the heart of things, swing moons and stars and galactic rings.”
    She almost saw it: Tamika Sykes standing on a train, stepping onto a cloud, reaching up . . .
    â€œOpen your eyes, kid.”
    The board stopped. They were by the highway overpass. In front of Mik and between a mound of garbage and a torched car was a stack of newspapers on an upturned milk crate. Behind the stack was a tall beautiful girl, her head wrapped in a shawl. She wore a curious smile. A scar on her cheek peeked out from the head-wrap. Her eyes were big and light brown against her dark skin. She wore a dirty hand-me-down coat too small for her, threadbare jeans and hole-shot sneakers. Despite the cold, damp day she wore no socks.
    Jimmi took the girl’s hand and brought it to Mik’s.
    The girl’s hand was rough like the sackcloth the root vegetables came in on delivery day at Joe Knows’s place. Her fingers were warm, strong.
    Confused, the women turned to Jimmi.
    Jimmi nodded. “Here’s what I see: two artists. Y’all are gonna create the most beautiful thing in the world.”
    And what’s that? Mik thought as her phone vibrated. She drew back her hand to pull the phone from her pocket. Caller ID said MOM, who always texted, never called. Mik turned away, cupped her hand to hide her voice as she said, “Yeah?”
    Mom was screaming, her words wicked static in the cheap phone. Mik crushed the receiver to her ear, still couldn’t put together what Mom was saying. Panicked, she hit speaker, yelled, “You okay? Where are you?”
    â€œRIGHT BEHIND YOU,” blasted from the phone. “ I SAID, Y’ALL GET AWAY FROM THAT CRAZY JIMMI. CRACKHEAD GONNA—”
    Mik snapped the phone, spotted Mom running along the Target sidewalk toward her.
    Jimmi made double peace signs, one for Mik, one for the paper girl, and sailed off on his board, no rush. “Don’t sweat yourself, kid. Mind y’all’s Moms.”
    The paper girl stepped back, putting the stack of news between herself and trouble. She stared at Mik.
    Mom spun Mik with a shoulder grab. “How many times I got to tell you, Mika? Y’all know how them vets are, coming back all whacked and jacked on drugs. Look at that poor boy. He got the itch all right. You don’t know what they’re liable to do, child. Just because he sick don’t mean you got to share his ills.” Mom eyed the newspaper girl. “What happened to the little old Mexican man used to work this spot?”
    The girl gulped.
    Mom spun for the O Houses, shouting something.
    Mik couldn’t make out the words in the wind playing hell with her aids. She signed, WHAT?
    Mom signed back stiffly, I SAID GET OVER HERE, NOW .
    Mik signed, YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET ALL FREAKED OUT. RELAX.
    Mom, coming back for Mik now: “I caught about half of that.”
    The paper girl tucked a note into Mik’s hand.
    Mom grabbed Mik’s arm. “Mika, come .”
    Girls on the corner laughed at Mik as Mom towed her home. Two boys eyed Mom, early thirties and eye candy, even in her Target uniform. One boy put a peace sign to his lips, his tongue between his fingers. The other hollered, “Yo baby, my boy lick y’all’s—”
    Mik clicked off her aids. The boys’ howling hushed. Mom’s anger could not reach her. The nastiness evaporated.
    Everything.
    Just.
    Faded away.
    Taking shelter in the near silence, Mik looked back at the