Page 13 of The Need to Know

Not an enigma. “John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt? My name is your name, too?”

That got her to a smile. “Yup, they call me Kiki.”

I licked my lips, enjoying her play. “I can’t get your name?”

Visibly, she felt me, I could tell as her mouth fell open and her eyes ran over me. She wasn’t so tough.

Soon, she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “Nastasia.”

I shook her hand again, holding her gaze, feeling her just as she felt me. “Nice to meet you, Nastasia. Hope to see you this weekend.”

I let her go and didn’t follow her lead outside. I stayed where I was as Cesar came up beside me, watching her through the glass as she crossed the walkway into the parking lot.

“What was that?” he asked.

Nastasia walked with swift purpose to her vehicle, and I admired the way even if she wanted to, she didn’t look back. “An investment.”

Perhaps the stupidest thing a child could do is stomp their feet, throw a tantrum, fume at their parents, and wish to be grown up. Because to answer Paramore’s proposed question, no, it ain’t fun. There’s an endless stream of bills you’re accounted for, heartache from lovers and the world itself, obligation, and unless you become a brain surgeon or rocket scientist, the ever-present feeling of being a complete disappointment in your parents’ eyes.

Those were my grievances, and this was my life story.

When I first went to college, I wanted to be a psychiatrist, and then I discovered it wasn’t for me. So I decided I wanted to be a journalist instead, only to learn that that wasn’t for me either. So next I was curious about creative writing, and yup, you guessed it, that didn’t feel like me whatsoever. Finally, after my sophomore year, I realized maybe school wasn’t for me.

So, like Kanye, I became the College Dropout. And much like Kanye’s late-mother, my parents were greatly—and still—displeased with this decision. Words were said and we fell out. I was just now getting back cool with them, a tough feat seeing how the house I lived in I rented from them.

My parents had two houses at one point, one they owned completely, and another they were still paying on. When I’d gone to school, they let me stay in the second house while they footed all the bills so that I could focus on school. Of course, that was when things were fine between us.

They told me if I left school they would charge me rent and I’d have to pay my own utilities. There was never a pause for me. I landed on my ass out of school and had to get up and figure my shit out. At one point, I worked at a supermarket and I waitressed. I did these things with my head held high. I made sure I was never late or short on rent, and I didn’t accept any invitation over to their house for dinner. I understood, and respected, their need to show me I had to work if I wasn’t in school, but I couldn’t respect their choice of words when I’d dropped out.

I tried to be the antithesis to all that I’d known. We had a dog growing up, so I kept Scor. I watched bad movies, I listened to dirty rap, and I ate whatever I felt like whenever I felt like. And, stupidly, I dated the guy my parents wouldn’t have approved of.

Nobody said all things done in rebellion were smart.

In the aftermath of it all, I didn’t regret too much. Even in my loneliest moments I held on to my pride.

Scorsese jumped on to my bed and came and snuggled into the crook of my arm as I lay back Monday evening.

My parents and I were just becoming cordial again, but still, deep down, each time I got around them I felt the stab of failure. In their eyes, Shéc had been handed to me à la Paisley’s parents, but in reality, while the Parkers bought the storefront for us, we had to get it up and running, something not entirely easy. As I lay back in bed Monday night after closing up shop, I felt spent.

Even in all my fatigue, I felt complete. Despite their doubt, Shéc was becoming a success. Outside of being able to keep the lights on, I was mainly happy with our growing loyal customer base. I loved helping women pick out the perfect ’fit. I loved clothes.

I ran a business, yes, but I didn’t care about money, or, I wasn’t money motivated. I wanted to be comfortable while doing what I loved, not massively rich for the sake of wealth. I never got into songs where rappers—male or female—talked about money over everything, because money wasn’t everything—at least to me. There were times when Corey would cheat and whenever I got upset he would go out and buy me something. As if my feelings and forgiveness could be bought.

The happiness I got out of helping customers make themselves over, or simply find a flawless look for the day or evening, was enough for me. Running the boutique alongside my best friend was enough for me. This life I lived made me feel content.

Mostly.

I was watching The Golden Girls. From my youth, I’d always admired and wanted to be Blanche, but in reality, I was a total Rose. A little ditsy, but with a heart of gold. God bless Betty White.

It wasn’t too late in the evening, leaving me to question if I started a movie, would I fall asleep during it or see it through.

In my spare time I ran a movie blog. Nasty Noir. It wasn’t anything fancy or highbrow, just my take on movies I watched. I had a small following, some who would fill my inbox with suggestions. I tried to stay away from romance, but you couldn’t avoid it. The thing about romance when you’re single? It was torture. Unrealistic torture. So, I put off my monthly lovey-dovey movie for another day.

Instead, I gathered my remote and queued up The Devil Wears Prada, interested in the plot of a young woman trying to make her way into journalism by taking a shortcut through the fashion industry and working at a fashion magazine.

I always kept my phone close to me while I watched movies to take notes. Right away as the movie began I was typing up a frenzy and we weren’t even ten minutes into the film.

Why did the women in these types of movies have to start out so homely before they inevitably got their bad bitch makeover? Why couldn’t they start off a baddie? Let’s be honest, the only thing stylish about Anne Hathaway’s character after her makeover was her hair. The entire fashion style of the movie was so 2006, back when trucker hats were cool.