Boyfriend Season by Kelli London

been known to pull her out in the past, and use her too.
    â€œAfternoon, Mr. Curtis.”
    He held up his finger to quiet her, then waited for the store to clear. One lone boy got cocky, refusing to move from the potato-chip rack.
    â€œAll right, young’un, you done asked for it.” Mr. Curtis bobbled as fast as he could toward the counter, looking like he was ready to jump into double-Dutch ropes. One of his legs was significantly shorter than the other, so he rocked side to side when he walked. Reaching behind the counter, he grabbed his precious Lucy. The boy was gone before he could turn around. “These fools ’round here ain’t got the sense God gave ’em! Lawd ha-mercy.” He looked at Dynasty, and flashed her a toothless smile. “Now what’chu want, lil gal?”
    Dynasty’s stare hit the floor. She’d had to come to Mr. Curtis for help before, and it never got easier. “Is there anything I can do for you around here?”
    â€œI done told you I can’t hire you. You ain’t old enough, and you doggone sure ain’t big enough. Folks see you in here and they gone think they can get away with murder. Child, I got thoughts bigger than you; you ain’t big as a fly wing, so how you gonna stop these thieves and riffraff from loitering? Huh?” His voice was rough, but his eyes were warm.
    The bell above the door rang, signaling someone had entered the store.
    â€œCome on, child. Speak!” Mr. Curtis urged. “I ain’t gots all day.”
    Dynasty looked up into his eyes with tears in her own. “Mr. Curtis, I know you can’t hire me, but I only need to make a few dollars. Today. If I don’t make money—only ten dollars—I can’t go home.”
    Mr. Curtis exhaled. “It’s your auntie again, huh? I swear that’s the craziest loon I’ve ever seen. What she do to you this time? Beat ya?”
    â€œCan I get my lotto tickets up in here, please? I need to play my numbers! Today is the day, Curtis! I’m gonna hit big. Come on.... You can talk to that hungry-looking child later,” said some man with too-short overalls, rolled-down socks, and a cigarette butt hanging from the side of his mouth.
    â€œShut up, Red! I’m coming.” Mr. Curtis looked at Dynasty. “Wait here.” He rocked his way toward the back of the register.
    â€œI only need to make ten dollars!” yelled Dynasty. “I can sweep, break down boxes, stock shelves . . . anything.”
    â€œDoes anything include knowing your way around, miss?” a raspy voice with clipped words asked from behind in what sounded like an English accent.
    â€œOf course,” Dynasty answered before she turned and saw who the voice belonged to. As long as she was safe, she didn’t care. Ten dollars was ten dollars and a way to keep a roof over her head and Aunt Maybelline’s foot from connecting with her butt.
    â€œWord?”
    Word? What did that mean? Dynasty wondered. She had never heard that expression before, and knew that the person with the raspy voice wasn’t from her housing project. She turned around and locked eyes with the stranger. She was right. There was no way on heaven or earth that they came from the same place. He was almost as tall as Rufus, Oreo-cookie chocolate, with the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen, and a long jagged scar on the right side of his face. His features were very pronounced, and said his ethnic roots ran deep. He was stately, standing erect as if no one or nothing could sway him. He was sure. If she had to sum him up in one word, it’d be supreme. She guessed he had to be at least sixteen or seventeen.
    He pulled a thick wad of money from his pocket, and began peeling off ones from the stack. “Ten. Right, miss?”
    Suddenly Dynasty felt insecure. She looked at his fresh clothes. Jeans that looked like they cost lots of money. Shirt that said the same. Prada