Hotlanta by Mitzi Miller

willing to put out, all she had to do was reference her “boyfriend” to get them to back off.
    It was a match made in heaven.
    â€œAnyway,” Donald said, “how’d it go at the video shoot?”
    â€œNever mind the video shoot,” Lauren snapped. “Some other stuff went down and I need to figure out…”
    Just then, Tonya Giddens belted out a high note, totally interrupting Lauren’s train of thought. Lauren’s head snapped back; she scowled. So did Donald.
    â€œUgh, must she be so loud? It’s not like she needs to draw more attention to herself with that back-to-Africa afro she keeps forcing on the rest of us,” Donald said. “I thought Madame C.J. Walker created a remedy for that mess back inthe forties. Guess Tonya didn’t get the memo.” He let out a howl that made a few of the choir members, Sydney included, look in their direction. Sydney cut her eyes at Lauren from across the piano.
    â€œUh-oh. The African princess is glaring,” Donald said, jutting his chin in Sydney’s direction. “Guess she don’t like you dissing Tonya’s coif.”
    Lauren rolled her eyes, turned her back to her sister, and ran her fingers through her silky shoulder-length weave. “Seriously, I’m in no mood to get into it with her about her back-to-the-motherland stance on hair this afternoon, and particularly her decision to stalk the earth looking like her thick, curly bush of a head ain’t seen a comb, like, ever. I mean, I would straight take a razor to my wrist if Jamilah couldn’t find her way from Snellville to Buckhead every other week to fry, dye, and lay my hair to the side.”
    The two sisters locked eyes, neither willing to look away. Suddenly, Sydney walked toward her sister. Lauren braced herself for Miss Nappy Roots to start up their running argument about how she and the rest of the good light-skinned folks of their circle were backward. But Sydney just walked on by, and stalked out the door.
    â€œWhat’s up with your sister?” Donald asked, confused.
    â€œWho cares? If it’s not one thing, it’s another with her. But whatever. Check it, I got a serious problem,” Lauren said, leaning in to Donald.
    â€œWell, damn, I guess so, with you and your sister looking like you’re about to throw bows,” he said.
    â€œIt’s not about her. I got a phone call the other day from my father.”
    â€œSo, what’d he say? You better pull up your grades and panties if you want that inheritance?” Donald laughed as he grabbed Lauren by the hand and walked over to the full-length mirror to check out his robe.
    â€œNo, not Altimus, jackass—my real father, Dice Jackson.”
    â€œWhat? I thought he was locked under the jail!” Donald frowned, staring at Lauren’s reflection in the mirror.
    â€œHe was,” Lauren said, looking into Donald’s eyes. The night Donald had come clean to Lauren about his homosexuality, Lauren had given him the 411 on her father, the jailbird. He knew all the dirty details, but, friend that he was, Donald never told anyone—not even Dara knew about the Duke family history. “He’s out now.”
    â€œDamn, word? And he called you? Your moms know ’bout this?”
    â€œHell, no—if she does, she didn’t get it from me. If Keisha Duke knew Dice was back in Atlanta and trying to see us, she’d flip right back to her days in the West End, cock Altimus’s gun, and shoot him her damn self.”
    â€œIt’s like that?” Donald asked.
    â€œIt’s like that.”
    â€œSo what he want?”
    â€œHe wants to see me and Sydney. And she’s all pressuring me to do it. We got into it Friday, so I’m assuming she’s mad about it.”
    â€œBut you’re not going, right? I mean, if your moms found out—”
    â€œWho cares what my mother thinks?” Lauren shot back. “In