2022-07-18 16:25:23Devon was fifteen minutes away from being homeless, all because of a hat.
The hat was part of his Convention costume—a leather hunter’s hat with a hawk’s feather sticking out from the brim. It took him three months' worth of paychecks for that hat, custom made and fitted. It was his hat, worthy of a hunter, and along with his hunter’s vest, it was a piece of work that Devon could finally be proud of.
So, of course, his sister Neveah had to steal it.
She wasn’t even sneaky about it. Neveah didn’t have to be, since Devon’s room had no door—only a sad, thin sheet of fabric. Nothing prevented Neveah from waltzing into his room at her pleasure and snatching up his hat.
“Neveah! What the hell is wrong with you?”
From down the hall came the hoarse cry of Momma, “Devon! Don’t you talk like that to your sister!”
Devon grit his teeth, calming himself with a firm bite on his lip, and stormed out into the apartment hall, towards the kitchen at the end of the hallway. There sat Momma at a kitchen table worn brown by decades of coffee and cigarette ash pouring over a stack of bills. He arrived just in time to see Neveah plopping the hat on top of Momma’s bill-pile.
“Look what your son is doing instead of getting himself a job,” Neveah said, sneering.
Momma rubbed her eyes and took the hat in her hands, pouring over it, her lip trembling. Silent calculations went on behind her head, a skill honed by decades of what she called “poor-people accounting”.
“This… my goodness, this hat must’ve cost a fortune! Devon!” Momma threw the hat down on the table.
Devon felt his face burn. He shot a glare at Neveah. “Who told you to come in my room and snoop in my business?”
Neveah placed a hand on her chest. Devon couldn’t help but notice that Neveah had her nails done in French style—and those were not cheap.
“Well, I’m just concerned for the wellbeing of our family,” she said. “Momma is working hard to put food on the table and you’re spending good money on Halloween bullshit.”
Devon pressed his hands to his head and squeezed. Tension was already building up around the sides of his head. “First off, it’s not for Halloween. It’s for a convention, and—actually, you know what, I don’t gotta explain nothin’ to you. I paid my own money for that hat, with a job that I do have Neveah.”
“I said a real job.” Neveah inspected her fingernails.
“No, you didn’t,” said Payton. “You’re spinning my words again.”
“Well, that’s what I meant,” she said. “Your arts-and-crafts-whatever ain’t a real job. Just cause you’re too dumb to get what I mean doesn't make it my problem.”
Suddenly, the kitchen broke out into a racket of confused shouting. Accusations and insults and swears burst through the kitchen until Momma held up her hands and shouted through the mess. “Everyone cut it out!”. She rubbed at her temples. “Devon. How much money did you spend on this hat?”
“Momma—“
“Don’t you ‘Momma’ me. How much did you spend on this hat?!”
Defeated, Devon slapped his hands at his sides.“Like 300 bucks.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Devon!”
“Come on—Momma, it’s my money!” Devon’s voice cracked a little in a regrettable sound that made him sound far younger—no matter how tall he got (and he towered over both Momma and Neveah), he’d still be a kid in their eyes. He was 22 years old and damn capable of making his own decisions. If he wanted to go to a convention and buy a nice hat, was that Neveah’ s business—especially with the way she was spending Momma’s money? No. It was not.“
Besides, how much money did Neveah spend on her nails this week? “Devon said. "Has to be at least 300 bucks if not more!”
“Don’t turn this around on your sister!” Momma snapped. “It’s perfectly reasonable for Neveah to go make herself look nice. Dropping $300 on a hat is not reasonable, Devon! And speaking of which, how much did you spend on—”
Her eyes flashed. “Boy, what in the hell are you wearing?”
Momma’s eyes swept up and down Devon’s clothes. Her eyes widened. Devon felt his face grow hot as he could see his mother’s internal gears working like the world’s stingiest calculator; every square inch of fabric, every brass button, real cotton lining. The extravagance! How many car payments was Devon wearing? How many weeks of food? Sweat broke out on Devon’s back as his mother’s eyes narrowed to angry little points at what Devon’s ridiculous clothing must have cost.
“It’s my costume, Momma…“ Devon mumbled.
“Come again?”
“My convention costume,” Devon said louder, but not by much.
“I bet it is,” Momma said tersely. "How much did that getup of yours cost? Another $300?”
Devon said nothing. It was better to remain silent than reveal the truth that his costume cost more than the hat… a lot more.
It only took a few seconds of uncomfortable silence for Momma to get it. She said laid her head down in her hands as Devon tried his best to explain himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Neveah flicking a bit of dust off her immaculate fingernails, grinning. Oh, he was in trouble now!
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” Momma groaned. “One day, I’m gonna just keel over and die. What then?
“For two seconds, will you just listen to me!” shouted Devon.
Momma gripped the stack of her unpaid bills together. They formed a stack as thick as a porterhouse steak. “No, Devon, you listen to me. This costume-caping superhero nonsense has gone on long enough. I want you to go return that stupid hat—“
“—goddamnit, it’s not stupid and its my money!” Devon shouted.
“You watch your tongue in this house,” Momma’s voice was low and dangerous. “And I don’t care whose money it is. This is our house, and this is our family. Neveah’s got college bills to pay. The rent is going up. And quite frankly, there’s just no room in our budget for you to go out and play Dragons and Demons or whatever you call it.”
Momma sighed and rubbed her hands with her face, behind which lay the visage of a tired woman, exhausted and drained, barely treading against the gushing tide of poverty. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You need to return that hat and be done with this nonsense.”
“Momma!”
“Or you can find somewhere else to live! I’m tired of having this conversation! You can have the hat, or this house and this family. Which is it gonna be?”
Devon snatched the hat off the table. He was about to storm back to his room, ending a pattern he had long become accustomed to; he would do a thing, Neveah would get Momma involved, and whatever Devon wanted had to stop. Same thing happened with his after-school DJ clubs…
… and the animal shelter…
… and the basketball team…
… and now this; his very last hobby, the last refuge he could call him own, once again sacrificed on the twin altars of Momma’s cheapness and Neveah’s grooming. But it was a flash of something in Neveah’s that was the last straw; a victorious sneer more fitting of a conqueror than a sibling. Insult upon injury upon insult had become too much to bear. He balled the hat up in his fist, and grit his teeth.
“You know what, Momma? I’m picking the hat.”
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He picked the hat. It wasn’t the smartest choice Devon had ever made. It probably wasn’t even a good choice. But it was his choice, and after living a life dictated by Momma's indulgence of Neveah's every need, that he chose was reason enough. Not all of him agreed, however; there was a practical part of him screaming at the top of its voiceless lungs, What the hell are you doing? You really fixing to put yourself out on the street over a hat?! Yes. He grabbed his hat and stormed off to his room. His legs shook. He barely noticed throwing a few scraps of clothes into his gym bag—some basketball shorts, some jeans, a few shirts, socks, and underwear. Meanwhile, behind him came the voracious screaming of Momma and Neveah, though in his anger he didn’t hear what they were screaming about. “Don’t go! Don’t go!” “Get out! Get out!” Whatever they were saying disappeared into a haze of chaotic shouting. Good, he thought. It’ll be payback for all the years his own screaming went unh
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Devon sat crosslegged on the floor, squishing his hunter’s hat for comfort. He stared at a spot of carpet, trying to drown out the sounds of the frightening-looking man screaming at Ali. Devon could piece together that the goons all worked for him—some of them were half in costume, others dressed like regular folk. A few wore golden watches. Were they thugs? If so, they weren’t like any gang members that Devon had ever seen, and New Hudson was unfortunately filled with those. These men looked too clean-cut. They didn’t have the casual swagger of the gangs he knew, and other than a little bit of rough-handling on the way to the top-floor lounge, they hadn’t been beaten. Furthermore, gang attacks usually don’t take this long, and by this point they had been sitting in the lounge for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Ali had begun to shout at the man who kidnapped him. That was the strangest part of all of this--when Ali shouted, the man who kidnapped them listened. And so did his goons. At
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It began with a push. Once again, Ali was surrounded by an angry crowd, with someone screaming at him in a language that was not his mother tongue. In Al-Zhabai, nobody would dare speak to him in such a way—even the cousins who looked upon him with contempt would never stoop to such behavior. In the moment, Ali felt the most curious sensation—that his soul was leaving his body, watching it from above. Perhaps the shock of the push had killed him, he thought. Curiously, in this dissociated state, he didn’t seem to have any feelings at all, though his body was nearly convulsing in terror. Time seemed to lose its smooth passing. Suddenly everything became terribly slow, as if the convention and everything in it was moving through thick honey. Down from above his own body, Ali gazed as Tamyra, whose face had become a terrible mask of vindictive rage. She lunged at Ali— to snatch Devon’s gift, he thought. But Tamyra’s dexterity had vanished before the heat of her own anger, and whom m
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“Of course it would be you,” Tamyra snarled. “Who else would be so entitled? All I needed to finish my was going to finish my Warriors of the Endless Road collection was that Dashu. And you took it.”Tamyra’s face had flushed past crimson and was on its way to purpose. Her princess wand was quavering in her hand. At the slightest provocation, Devon feared she might actually use it. He held up his hands as though the wand were about to shoot lightning from its glittery points. “Look,” Devon began, “I’m sorry about your collection, but like—how are any of us supposed to know that? We can’t read minds or anything.”“You took it,” Tamyra intoned. Devon’s logic had no place amidst her anger. And there was much to be angry about—between the incident at the entrance, the horrible mess in the Fantasy writer’s panel, and now this. Just over the past two days, Ali and Devon had been a thorn in her slippers. and she had just about enough. “And it’s not enough that you have the nerve to troll in
