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  Scar

  Margo

  www.urbanbooks.net

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One - Tineya’s Story

  Chapter Two - Tineya

  Chapter Three - Aaliyah

  Chapter Four - Tineya

  Chapter Five - Aaliyah

  Chapter Six - Aaliyah

  Chapter Seven - Aaliyah

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten - Dior’s Story

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen - Mal and Dior

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen - Tineya

  Chapter Seventeen - Aaliyah

  Chapter Eighteen - Tineya

  Chapter Nineteen - Aaliyah

  Chapter Twenty - Aaliyah

  Chapter Twenty-one - Tineya

  Chapter Twenty-two - Tineya

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four - Aaliyah

  Chapter Twenty-five - Tineya

  Teaser chapter

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Scar Copyright © 2018 Margo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-9458-5549-8

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  This book is dedicated to one of the strongest women I know.

  My mother. I love you!

  Chapter One

  Tineya’s Story

  February 21, 2007

  “All right now, Tineya. G’on up there in your room. You done had your li’l birthday party. You got a few li’l nice gifts. And all your li’l friends are gone. It ain’t nothing but a bunch of grown folks down here! But before you go, come give me a kiss.”

  It was my twelfth birthday. I shouldn’t have even been surprised, because in the hood it was like an unwritten rule that the kid’s party usually turned into an adult party after a while. Although I didn’t want to go upstairs to my room, I knew better. That was an argument that would end with me on the floor. If there was one thing my mama and daddy didn’t play about, it was sitting up in grown folks’ faces. Oh, and talking back. Wait, they didn’t play about a lot of things.

  I began to look around the kitchen. My eyes landed on the dish drainer holding the Pyrex measuring cup. My mother lived and died by the Pyrex brand of measuring cups.

  “Hey, Ma, why do you like the Pyrex brand so much?”

  “Little girl, stop playing with me.”

  Okay, of course she knew I was on my usual bullshit, just trying to prolong my stay downstairs.

  “You know why I like Pyrex. It’s sturdy. It can be used for wet and dry ingredients. Or at least, I will use it for both.”

  I just sat watching my mom go on about a measuring cup. Would you believe me if I told you how Ms. Tina’s eyes would light up when she talked about anything concerning baking?

  “I remember when I was a little girl my mama threw it at my drunk-ass daddy and it didn’t break. That’s when I knew that was a real measuring cup.”

  My dad and I burst out laughing at how goofy my mom really was.

  “Man, Tina, how does your mom—may God bless her soul—and her violent past equate to the durability of a Pyrex?”

  “‘Equate? Durability?’ Nigga get a pharmaceutical degree and don’t know how to act.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m east side ’til I die.” My dad twisted up his left hand, and his fingers formed the letter E. I couldn’t stop laughing, messing with Nick and Tina. “But yo’ ass still ain’t answered my question.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Shit, I don’t know. I knew the motherfucker was sturdy.”

  “Man, Daddy, she always tell a new interesting fact about that darn Pyrex.”

  Before I knew it, I was ducking a spatula that was flying at my head. “Watch yo’ damn mouth. ‘Darn’ is too close to ‘damn,’ damn it.” Her lips were pressed in that tight, straight line all mothers typically do to show that they’re serious. “And you not slick! Take yo’ ass upstairs.”

  I could only put my head down laughing. It was true I was trying anything to prolong my stay downstairs. I really had no reason to stay downstairs though.

  I can get another piece of cake!

  I smoothly cut myself another piece of cake. I sat there taking small stabs at the fluffy, moist piece of my birthday cake. My mom made me a yellow sheet cake with whipped buttercream icing. The icing was whipped to perfection. And I wasn’t just saying that because my mom made it. She’d taught me to taste each ingredient. Even at a young age, I could pinpoint if something was off or missing.

  See, my mother was a hairstylist by profession but a baker at heart. She made birthday cakes for all of the kids around our hood and the surrounding areas. She did the kind of baking that would make you forget about any problems you had, leaving you to focus only on the baked goods Ms. Tina created. And she wasn’t out to break these families. She always showed love. Sometimes even if the parents didn’t have the money to pay her, she would label the cake a birthday present. We would always bake all kinds of goodies together, and my birthday was no exception. In fact, it put emphasis on what she baked. Shit was crazy. I thought you could taste the love she put into baking her masterpieces.

  So, I simply rolled my eyes, making my way to do just what she asked. Embarrassment wasn’t on the menu on the night of my birthday, so I decided to keep any and all comments to myself. Hell, I made sure she didn’t catch me rolling my eyes either. Respect was just a big part of my household. Even in a disagreement, my parents respected each other. That’s not to say that things never got ugly, but they made sure I barely saw the ugly part.

  “Damn, Tina. You just talk a million words a minute.” My daddy came, adding his two cents. It was true my mom could talk with best of them.

  “Shut up. The people from her birthday party just left ten minutes ago.”

  “Shit, that was ten minutes too damn long!”

  “You better leave my baby alone.”

  “Shit, I’m just keeping it real!”

  I could only smirk, because my dad always came to my rescue. When it came to me, he would always attempt to take the sting out of things unless it was serious. Nick and Tina always talked like best friends but bickered back and forth like they were brother and sister. They would flirt with each other like they just met. But when it came to holding each other down, there was no question the lengths they’d go to protect each other, like lions protecting their mate. They were both strong-willed. So it was sometimes interesting to see because nobody backed down. I didn’t know what went on the streets, but my daddy gave my mama respect and vice versa. Long story short, Mama ran our house. No debate.

  “Girl, go ahead on. My Tineya baby just had a dope-ass party! We just unburied the dead, better known as the Legacy Continues Jordan 5s.” He exaggerated by using his hand to wipe the side of right shoe. “My baby is popping!”

  I could only laugh at my parents’ lingo. It was so n
ineties. I took that opportunity to take in my dad’s attire. Mr. Nick was about six foot three in height. His weight I couldn’t tell you, but he wasn’t small by anybody’s definition, that much I knew. He was dressed in simple black slacks with creases straight down the middle, paired with the white starched shirt that looked to be straight from the cleaners. No matter how many times I told him nobody wore creases anymore, he did. On his feet were the same shoes he’d gotten me for my birthday. Well, he bought them a month prior. So technically they were brand new since it was the first time he stepped his feet into the shoes.

  My dad Nick was a sneakerhead before I even knew what it meant. Shoes were something that he took major pride in. Michael Jordans were at the top of his food chain. Sure, he wore other shoes. He was into restoring and stocking up on Michael Jordans though. His infatuation with sneakers had been pushed on both Tina and me. While I embraced and welcomed the love of sneakers, Tina did not. She would only wear certain brands. While she respected the sneakers, she was still more on the girly girl side when it came to fashion. You know, makeup, dresses, and heels made up the majority of her attire at the time.

  “What you laughing at, little girl?”

  “I’m laughing at my old parents’ lingo. Nobody says that anymore! Y’all up here talking about ‘dope’ and ‘popping.’ Y’all old.”

  “No, she didn’t! Nick, she turns twelve and think she grown! You ain’t even a teenager yet. Slow ya roll, li’l mama!” my mama retorted jokingly, looking toward my daddy.

  “See, Mama? You calling somebody ‘li’l mama.’ And, Daddy, why you got on them gym shoes with your grand-daddy pants?” We had an ongoing joke about how Nick dressed. See, Nick would sometimes wear his slacks with sneakers like it was nothing.

  He was a pharmacist with his very own pharmacy. He’d been in business for two years, so he needed to dress the part. As a family, we were all proud of him. In Detroit, he could’ve taken the easy way out. In the city, the wrong thing is the easiest thing to do. That’s not to say Nick did everything right, but he took his wrongs, making them right.

  Growing up, Nick had seen a problem. The problem haunted him in his dreams. It was a problem that no young man ever wants to see: his mother, helpless. His mother was sick, and he couldn’t help her. She was diagnosed with cancer at a young age, even before Nick was born. Although that was a huge problem, an even bigger problem was the trouble she’d have to go through each month to get her medicine.

  A lot of her medicine was a mix of uppers and downers, unfortunately. In the hood, some people used them as recreation drugs, making the medicine harder to access. Some days they would have to drive around to different pharmacies, trying to find certain medications. Then the insurance companies could see that certain medications were coming from different locations, causing a red flag. Nick had to see his mother go without her medicine for one reason or another, and he decided to do something about it. Nick decided to put in work, but not just how you probably think. He went to school.

  He became a pharmacist. His mother lived until a week after his acceptance into pharmacy school. So, that added even more fuel to the fire of anger and the nagging feeling of hopelessness that burned through his body. He fought against the desire to just continue to make fast money. Nick created a small pharmacy in the city of Detroit. Nick had seen a problem and created a solution in an effort to help a community that was long forgotten.

  “Hell nah! She got us messed up, baby.” He looked at Tina with a shocked expression. Then he looked at me with a fake hurt face. “You know I was running late at the pharmacy. You know that when I’m working all the patient needs to see is my top half. Button-up shirt, lab coat, and my slacks. They can’t see my feet. Besides, I couldn’t fully match you. So at least we match by the feet. You better get hip.” Nick paused as if something clicked in his head. “Oh shit, let me put these scripts up.”

  Nick

  The prescriptions were a hot commodity. They’re what every criminal wanted to get ahold of. With a prescription pad and a doctor’s signature, a drug dealer could flood the streets with all types of narcotics. Since Nick’s pharmacy was in the hood of Detroit’s east side, he would bring the scripts, new and old, home with him in a locked briefcase. If a break-in were to happen, the intruder wouldn’t get away with everything. It was system he used when he was still in the streets: never keep money and drugs in the same spot!

  Even though Nick’s goal was to place businesses in the areas nobody cared about, he still had to be smart. And he had an advantage. He knew the hood like the back of his hand. These were the very streets he grew up in. Same game, different players. Just because his motives were good, that wouldn’t stop the scammers, deceivers, and robbers from lurking in the shadows. He couldn’t be naïve about where he came from. Detroit was a lot of things. It was a city where some people would take from the next man instead of creating and working toward their own goals. Tupac said something about that in Poetic Justice. Basically, he said a man might downplay another man in an effort to make himself look better. You’re simply mad because someone else is trying to better his situation and you ain’t trying. As bad as it sounds, there are plenty of people with this fucked-up mindset.

  Nick ran off to the basement with his briefcase in hand. He was heading to a wall safe he had built behind the furnace in the basement. Nick discussed many things with his girls, business moves included. He didn’t want to force Tineya to become a pharmacist just because that was the path he chose, but he wanted her to know how his business was run.

  Very few people knew how he ran his business: two pharmacy technicians, Tina, Tineya, and his brother, Nathan, to a certain extent. He even tried to teach Nathan the business, but that didn’t work out. However, nobody outside his household, the people he trusted most, knew where he stored the scripts. Nick didn’t necessarily want his family at risk. On the other hand, he didn’t want to risk his family not being informed either. Ignorance was not bliss. At least, Nick didn’t think so.

  Tineya

  “Grown men dress accordingly,” Nick continued, coming up the basement steps.

  I sat there and rolled my eyes dramatically, knowing that he was about to give a speech.

  “The eighties and nineties were the best time! History is just repeating itself, baby. It’s a never-ending cycle. Come on, baby, come dance with me!” My dad grabbed my mama with one hand, holding his forty-ounce in the other, while they did their rendition of a two-step, leaving me and the few friends they still had over laughing.

  It was funny seeing my dad suited and booted with his lab coat in one hand and a forty-ounce of beer in the other hand. That was one of the many things I adored about him though, his humble spirit.

  “Aye, baby girl, turn up that radio for your old man on your way up. Happy birthday! Daddy loves your pretty self. You’re the only one your mom comes second to!”

  My mom just kept dancing with a smirk and a wink. “I’ll gladly take that position!”

  Even I couldn’t help but blush. My parents were the best to me. Maybe I was a little biased, but the love they showed me was incomparable. I grew up seeing so many mothers jealous of the father-daughter relationship. Or vice versa. Not my parents though. I was the most important person in their world collectively and separately. It was all love.

  I simply turned up the radio like my dad requested. To my dad, Tupac sat at the top of the rapping food chain. I couldn’t help but start rapping along with Tupac’s “If I Die 2Nite” as I made my way up the stairs to my room: “I’m sick of psychotic society. Somebody save me. Addicted to drama so even Mama couldn’t raise me.”

  * * *

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  “Ughhh!”

  A hard scream and something like a grunt woke me up from my sleep. I immediately recognized the voices belonging to my mother and my father. The scream shook my twelve-year-old body. I didn’t know what to do, so I lay in my bed for a couple more seconds, taking deep breaths and trying not to let
fear consume my body. The strong smell of cigarette smoke invaded my nostrils. It was so strong I got the sense that the person was a habitual smoker.

  My parents don’t even allow smoking in the house! Something is not right.

  “Fuck, man, don’t do this!”

  It was like my daddy’s voice snapped me out of a trance. His tone of voice wasn’t one I’d ever heard. I just knew I needed to help. If I didn’t know before then, at that moment, I knew for a fact something was wrong. I listened to different footsteps trample through the first level of our small house. It sounded to me like all the people were walking in the living room. So I decided to go the back way down the stairs so that it would place me in the kitchen, next to their bedroom. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I couldn’t just sit idle while my parents sounded like they were in distress.

  “Look, man, g’on and do whatever you want to me, man. Leave my woman out of it. I told you, ain’t nobody else in here.” My dad’s voice was so loud it was almost as if he was trying to tell me to stay put or hide. His voice was almost pleading, and my dad was not a pleading man. He said shit, and the shit got done. This shit right here was serious. I peeked around the door, into their room.

  “I’ll do whatever I want to do to this woman. She’s fine, too.” The intruder went to the chair Tina was bound to, and he rubbed all four tips of his fingers up against her arm. “You ain’t in charge, homeboy. This my show. Now, where the fuck is the money?”

  “I ain’t got no fucking money! I ain’t no fucking dope-boy. I don’t deal in cash. Money goes to the bank in my business.” In a matter of seconds, it was like Nick went to feeling irritated that the man would think he just kept stacks of money stored in his home.

  The intruder got closer to Nick’s face, taking the gun and smashing it into his face. My daddy sounded as if he were gargling mouthwash, but I knew better. I watched as blood began to spill from his mouth.