Who Asked You? by Terry McMillan Read Free Book Online Page A

direction. And if she lost thirty or forty pounds and stopped complaining about her knees bothering her and she got on over to the gym, wouldn’t you agree, Arlene?”
    Just to shut her up I said, “Yes, I do.” I have to be very careful what I say to Venetia and how I say it. Swearing is out. In my opinion, she prays far too much, and you’d think she’d also have some faith in self-actualization, self-determination, and common sense. She also has a big mouth, and even though gossip is supposed to be a sin because it’s usually done with a tinge of malice, Venetia likes to repeat things. But she puts her own little spiritual spin on it, to justify it, I suppose, and as a result, she can turn your original comment into something you didn’t necessarily intend. Sometimes I wonder how she managed to graduate from college, but then again, it was a state college.
    I abhor getting this kind of emotional information secondhand but Betty Jean wouldn’t dream of telling me, because she knows that unlike our baby sister whose spark plugs don’t always fire, I don’t bite my tongue, which is precisely why as soon as I get Omar up and give him his breakfast, I’m driving over there to give her a piece of my mind before she heads off to work.
    I cannot for the life of me understand why Betty Jean continues to act like she’s so surprised that Trinetta is a legitimate drug addict when the child has been high off and on for years. Mostly on. Which is precisely why I called Child Protective Services on her that time I stopped over to her tiny ghetto apartment to take those kids some toys for Christmas so Betty Jean wouldn’t have to spend all of her little paycheck on them like she is known to do, and there they were sitting on that ugly plaid sofa eating Pringles and drinking Diet Pepsi all by themselves.
    “Where’s your mama?” I asked Luther. He was five or six.
    “Her went to the store.”
    Her? I pray that one day these kids learn how to speak English. If my niece had walked through that door at that very moment I probably would’ve slapped her trifling ass down that hallway and back. Some people should not have children. Period. “Who’s watching you boys?”
    “Me. ’Cause I’m a big boy. What you got in them bags?”
    I walked over to that stingy silver Christmas tree sitting on top of a fruit crate and put some packages on the bare tile underneath it. “These are from Santa,” I said.
    “Where you see him at?” the little one, Ricky, asked.
    This is the most I think I’ve ever heard him say at one time. “I saw him today. He’s at the mall.”
    “I don’t believe you,” Luther said, matter-of-factly.
    “I wouldn’t lie to you boys. Don’t you believe in Santa Claus?” Right after I asked, I wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want them to say no. I wanted them to believe in something.
    “Yeah, but the ones at the mall is not real,” Luther said.
    That little one just shook his head in agreement. He needs to be tested. “Look, how long has your mama been at the store?”
    They both hunched their shoulders.
    Just then I heard the door open and in she walked with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Not a single bag. A thin, milky film had formed a circle around her mouth. She looked just like Betty Jean thirty years ago, except for those disgusting dreadlocks.
    “What’re you doing here?” she asked.
    I rolled my eyes at her. “I just stopped by to bring some gifts for the boys.”
    “Don’t you know how to call first?”
    “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
    “No disrespect intended. Sorry, Aunt Arlene. I just got a lot of things on my mind.”
    “Don’t we all,” I said, but I was not about to let her off the hook. “Why would you leave these kids in here for one minute by themselves, Trinetta?”
    “I just ran downstairs for a minute. Look. Thanks for the gifts and for stopping by but I need to fix them something to eat.”
    “And what might that be?”
    “That might not