Mojo-Eating Trouble & A Second Chance

The screen door creaked open without a knock.

Boo looked up from the chipped kitchen table, where a cold cup of coffee sat beside a stack of unpaid bills. Afternoon sunlight bled through the blinds in dusty stripes, cutting across her arms and the paper like pale prison bars.

And there he was.

“You mojo-eatin’, black ball-suckin’, Vernor’s-drinkin’ piece of leftover trash from the Fourth of July picnic—after the watermelon rind broke in two and wasn’t worth a damn thing.” Her voice came out sharp but steady, the kind she’d learned to use when she wanted to hide the shake underneath. “You got a lotta nerve showin’ your big, ugly face in here today.”

Daddy leaned against the doorframe like he owned it, smirk hanging on his face like an old habit.

“Go on then,” he said. “Tell me. What you gonna say that I don’t already know?”

Boo had stood like this before, back when she was seventeen—except the kitchen had been warmer then, the table clearer, Mama still laughing about opening a pie shop someday. Back then Boo had believed in clean slates, in nursing school applications and futures that didn’t smell like sweat and stale beer.

“You’re a poor excuse for a livin’ thing,” she said now, dragging herself back to the moment. “How dare you waltz in here like nothin’ happened—after you went joyridin’ off with the wind and left us to fend for ourselves?”

“What? You don’t remember when we said ‘free and open’? I know when to come home.”

“You never once thought to pick up a phone, call, check in—do what parents are supposed to do when they got kids. You’re not stayin’ here. The little ones are doin’ fine without you, so get gone.”

She jabbed a finger toward the door. “Whoever you been livin’ with, take your mojo-eatin’ self and go back there. Livin’ with you ain’t no cakewalk.”

“You done yet?” Daddy asked, grinning. “Last I checked, the deed on this place still got my name on it, Boo.”

She almost laughed. Once, a letter from a correspondence school had arrived in the mail—a reminder that her application was still good. She’d held it like a key in her hand. That same week Daddy had come back with new promises, and she’d told herself maybe that was the fresh start. But it hadn’t been.

“Now you wanna talk about the quality of life without you?” she said. “We’re doin’ fine. Look around, dumbass.”

But the truth sat heavy in her chest. Bills were winning. The fridge was thin.

“Does that mean you came back this time? You stayin’?”

“Yeah. This time I’m stayin’. Got promoted—detective to staff sergeant. Means more pay.”

“I had to quit school to support the kids,” she told him. “Keepin’ them in their activities. I’m doin’ my schoolwork through the mail.”

“You quit school? What about friends? Dating?”

“Correspondence suits me. Missin’ my peers is nothin’.”

That night, Daddy left for work, tossing a thick wad of cash onto the table. Boo stared at it for a long moment. The neat, bank-wrapped stacks reminded her of the last time he’d handed her money. She’d known even then it wasn’t clean. She’d hidden it in her mattress, just like she’d hidden that letter—both pieces of a life she still hadn’t claimed.

The clock ticked.

Then the front door slammed so hard the glass rattled.

A man stepped in—tall, wiry, eyes darting like a ferret’s. His coat swung open, revealing the flash of a long, sharp knife.

“The money, bitch. Nobody moves till I get it.”

Her pulse hammered. If it had been just her, she might have run—but Terry was in the back room. She couldn’t leave him.

“Conrad,” she said evenly, “I’d like to help you, but I got some foreign elements I need for my chemistry assignments. Sheriff Johns is the best chemist in town. If you see him, tell him I need him right away.”

She held his gaze, gave him a deliberate wink.

“You done?” she added, voice sharp. “You jaw-breakin’ sucker—chewin’ Tootsie Rolls, drinkin’ Tahiti Treat ‘cause you’re too scared of water to shower. Your stench walks in before you do.”

“Cute,” Conrad said.

“Nope, not done. Your hair gave up on dreadlocks—it’s so filthy you look like a burnout who never finished school.”

“That phone works two ways,” he shot back. “Don’t cuss me out now. Is he back? You let him in again? Don’t call me when he leaves you broke and in debt. You just got right from the last time.”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing. He ain’t here. He knows better. I’d shoot him on sight.”

“You act like I’m sugar and you’re addicted. But I moved on.”

From outside came a voice—familiar, frayed at the edges. “How you know what I need? Let me in, Conrad. Four years together—you owe me better than this.”

Boo’s breath caught. Terry.

Conrad’s smile slipped. He turned and walked out without another word.

Terry shut the door slowly, eyes wet but his back straight.

Inside, the man with the knife released Boo so she could go to school. Terry stayed behind, a hostage—unless Conrad carried her message to the Sheriff.

#

Two days later, another stranger came for the cash. Boo told him they hadn’t seen Daddy. The little ones swore they couldn’t remember. He asked where Daddy might be staying, and she gave him the addresses of two brothels. That was all she had.

When the Sheriff finally came, Boo was still at the kitchen table. The blinds cut the morning sun into pale stripes across the bills she hadn’t touched.

She thought about that letter from the correspondence school—still tucked away, edges yellowing. Maybe that was her real second chance. Not Daddy’s promises. Not dirty money.

She ran her thumb over the corner of the stack, then let go. Outside, the little ones laughed, their voices lighter than the air in the room.

She didn’t know when, or how—but one day, she’d take that fresh start. And when she did, she’d be ready.