Hotlanta by Mitzi Miller Page A

One of them, a girl dressed in an ill-fitting jean jacket and stretchy jeans that looked like they’d been painted on, looked Lauren up and down like she was two seconds off of skinning her alive. “Yo, I seen your brother out on the block,” the guy continued. “Glad to see he home. Lookin’ all beefy and shit.”
    â€œYeah,” Jermaine said, wanting desperately to change the subject. He had no intention of explaining to Lauren where Rodney had just come from, at least not that night. “Listen, this is my girl, Lauren. Lauren, this is everybody.” Lauren gave a quick wave; Jermaine’s friends’ response was tepid, at best. “We gotta get going—our movie’s about to start.”
    â€œAight then, nephew, we’ll see you round the way,” Jermaine’s friend said.
    â€œI’ll get at you, man,” Jermaine said, grabbing Lauren’s hand. “Later, y’all.”
    Neither Lauren nor Jermaine said a word until they got inside the theater doors, and even then the conversation was strained at best. “Popcorn?” he asked.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œSoda?” he said, pulling what appeared to be a wad of crisp twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket.
    â€œI’ll take a bottled water—thanks,” Lauren said, trying hard not to stare at the wad, lest Jermaine catch on that she was wondering just how a guy whose family was clearly low on cash came by that big of a money nut.
    Frankly, Lauren didn’t know what to say—what to think about this boy who’d hunted her down, invited her out, and made her feel all at once fascinated by and fearful of him, who seemed to be alternately impressed with and repulsed by her. So she just kept her mouth shut—a first for her.
    â€œOh, come on, that one’s easy—Denzel!” Jermaine groaned at the movie screen, which was tossing up quizzes on movie stars. This question asked which African-American actor had won two Academy Awards.
    Lauren looked at Jermaine, then back at the screen as she popped another piece of popcorn into her mouth. He’s one of the highest-grossing actors in history, but he’s never cruised to the Oscars stage to pick up a statue. Who is he?
    â€œOh, good grief,” Lauren said, exasperated. “Tom Cruise. Who makes up these questions?”
    â€œYou’re cute when you’re agitated,” Jermaine said, shifting his body to face Lauren’s.
    â€œWho said I was agitated?” Lauren said, popping another kernel into her mouth.
    â€œWell, you didn’t look too comfortable earlier.”
    Lauren took a swig of her bottled water, unsure what to say.
    â€œLook, my bad for saying those things earlier. Can we forget all that happened and start over again?” Jermaine asked. He leaned into Lauren, turned her face toward his and planted a soft kiss on her lips. “Please?” he asked, going in for another kiss. “With sugar on top?” Another kiss.
    Lauren looked into his eyes and melted all over again. Despite that her mind was crowded with all sorts of random thoughts about who this boy might be—gang member, drug dealer, welfare statistic, general all-around thug—her heart was speaking a whole different language. And when he leaned in for another kiss, this time, Lauren leaned in, too, parting her lips slightly to take in his tongue.
    The lights dimmed, and the movie began.

11
SYDNEY
    â€œCarmen. Rhea. For the last time, I’m just fine. There’s nothing going on that I need or want to discuss,” Sydney snapped irritably as the pounding in her temples threatened to reach a crescendo of epic proportions. She gingerly lifted her head off the ruffled pillow duster to look at the iHome clock on her bed stand. “Now, let me go. It’s already seven-thirty at night, and I haven’t even started to review those trig equations, let alone prepare for the weekly committee update I owe