Hotlanta by Mitzi Miller

door.
    â€œSorry, we’re closed,” the saleswoman said, shrugging. “We’re open at ten A.M. tomorrow.”
    â€œI won’t be here tomorrow,” Lauren fumed.
    â€œWell, I’m sorry, but the register is shut down so you can’t buy them tonight, and the store’s closed,” the saleswoman said as she walked away.
    â€œDamn,” Lauren said, pouting.
    â€œUh, you gonna be all right?” Jermaine asked, only half joking.
    Lauren sucked her teeth. “I wanted those shoes. She could have just got them for me right quick.”
    â€œBut the store is closed, Lauren.”
    â€œWhatever. That’s why she sells shoes for a living, evil ass,” Lauren huffed at the woman, but not loud enough for her to hear it, of course.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” Jermaine asked, reeling back.
    Lauren, lost in the moment, didn’t catch on right away that she’d offended Jermaine; she was too busy mumbling under her breath about how she was going to find time in the next few days to get back to Lenox, seeing as she had dance-squad practice for Homecoming, a Homecoming Dance decorations committee meeting, and, of course, no dibs on her sister’s ride.
    â€œYou know my moms used to sell shoes,” Jermaine snapped.
    Now that she heard. “Damn, my bad, Jermaine, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
    â€œOf course, the shoes my moms was selling were much more practical than a pair of overpriced pink shoes that probably look a lot like all the other pink shoes you got in your closet,” Jermaine continued, still fuming.
    Hold up, Lauren thought— is he dissing me? Oh, hell to the no. “Practical? What you know about practical, with your pair of hundred-dollar tennis shoes? That look a lot like all the other tennis shoes you got in your closet?”
    â€œThere’s a big difference between my sneakers and your shoes, trust me,” Jermaine said, readjusting his tone.
    â€œHow you figure? You wear yours to get attention, and I do the same with mine,” Lauren said, still upset.
    â€œNow that’s where you wrong, shawty.” Jermainelaughed. “I wear my expensive sneakers to keep attention off of me. Ain’t no way I could hit the block with the cheap shit and not catch crap from the dough boys, you feel me? But you, you could be in a hoodie and jeans and ten-dollar shoes from Payless, and I’d still think you fly.”
    Lauren wanted to giggle, but she felt like she still needed to give him some grief for talking about her shoe game. “Boy, what you know about Payless? That’s the kinda chicks you roll with?”
    â€œNah,” Jermaine laughed nervously. “My moms shops that way—got to. ‘Cause selling shoes don’t exactly pay all the bills.”
    Lauren closed her mouth. She gave herself an imaginary kick in the ass and said a silent “damn” for good measure. Thing is, Jermaine wasn’t embarrassed about this.
    â€œI help her out a little—you know, I got this job down at the community center helping with the neighborhood kids over there. That’s until I get some bigger stuff bubblin’.”
    Just as Lauren was trying to figure out something to say to pull them out of this extremely awkward conversation, someone shouted an “oo-oooh” call as a group of teens sidled up to them. Instinctively, Jermaine looked up and threw a hand signal at them—a gesture that made Lauren just a little nervous. She’d never, after all, dated someone who threw up what might be considered gang signs.
    â€œYo, what up, gangsta,” one of the guys said to Jermaine, leaning in for a pound and round-the-way man hug.
    â€œIt’s all good, you know,” Jermaine said, massaging his chin between his forefinger and thumb. “Getting ready to go check out a flick.”
    â€œAight then,” the guy said as his friends crowded Jermaine and Lauren.