Page 7 of All the Broken Pieces: Vol. 3

Chapter 7

The next morning the sun is beaming and the birds are chirping. Fucking birds. As I limp down the walkway on my sore foot, I smile at my Uber driver. K’Teal. The guy is a trainwreck. Most of the time he has no clue. But there are random moments where he spits out a thought that’s up there with the Dalai Lama.

I duck into the car, tuck my bags at my feet—purse and Vera bag with my laptop—before pulling on my seatbelt. “Morning.”

My hair is slicked back into a ponytail. It’s too hot to do anything else. I layered a white cami with a pair of matching capris, then tugged on a pale blue button down shirt with sleeves that touch my elbow. None of the buttons are closed, so I can wear it like a blazer. Once I’m in my classroom, I’ll pull it off and put on a smock. It’s going to be so hot in that room today.

K’Teal tosses me a bag and laughs before bobbing his head. “I scored you some breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, B. And don’t say no and act like it’s poisoned and shit. That’ll just offend me.” He says it to me, but the dash camera blinks red, still recording.

Glancing down at the bag in my hands, I smirk. “Kettle corn?”

“Pumpkin spice!” He’s so excited he nearly bounces out of his seat. “Open it.”

“I thought you ate the last of your stash? And I’m a New Yorker, so of course I wonder if it’s poisoned. No taking food from strangers.”

He laughs. “How many times you been poisoned, yo? By Granny candy? Or the lunch lady?”

“Never. But people say it. We both thought the same thing.”

He glares at me. Hand to heart, he smirks, “You trust me more than the lunch lady? Or some random ancient hag?”

“Probably.” I’m trying not to laugh as I root around in the bag of popcorn. “But there was that whole witch throwing Hansel in the oven thing. Some of those old folks are spry.”

“True dat. Witches can be some scary shit. Don’t joke.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious. I kinda think he is. “So, I thought you were out of pumpkin spiced delicacies?”

A huge grin spreads across his face as he pulls away from the curb. “Me too, but I found a half-used bag in the back of the pantry.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

Tipping my chin up at his camera, I ask, “How many viewers do you have?” I toss a few pieces of popcorn in my mouth. It’s still fresh.

The subject change throws him. For a second it looks like he’s trying to determine the square root of three, but then he offers up, “I don’t know, a few dozen.”

Very little truly shocks me to the point that I can’t hide my reaction, but this…a laugh barks out along with shock. “What! Are you serious? I thought you had thousands of followers.”

His face crumples. “Don’t piss all over my art. I’m ahead of my time and I didn’t have to share that with you.” He turns a corner and looks genuinely hurt.

I back-peddle, fast. “I’m not. I didn’t mean it like that. K’Teal. Dude.” I smile, trying to sound like him. “I’m an artist. I get it.” I hold up the bag and tip the open top toward him to make a peace offering. “Want some?”

That’s enough for him. He stuffs his face full of kettle corn as I pop a few pieces in my mouth. If I end up dead in a ditch, poisoned by pumpkin spice kettle corn, one of his thirteen followers will find me, right?

My life is getting so weird. When K’Teal pulls up to the front of the school, I make arrangements for him to give me a ride home. Uber is his only job if no one is watching his live feed, which means he’s strapped because his rating is horrible. Too much talk. And he’s a pumpkin spice pusher.

Poor misunderstood bastard.

“Smell ya later, B dawg.” He goes heavy on the Long Island accent on the last word.

“Yeah, you will. It’s fucking hot and it’s not even seven o’clock.”