Wrong Chance by E. L. Myrieckes

Chance’s arms and neck.
    â€œWhat about to Africa?”
    â€œNo one knows you’re here. What’s up with the secrets and this dress and wig thing?” Then Yancee noticed something strange and leaned in closer to Chance.
    â€œWhat?” Chance said.
    â€œWhere’s…Did you cut your dreads off? Oh, you’re really tripping.”
    Chance tossed the Mickey’s bottle, then he climbed to the ground. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œCome see for yourself, shithead.”
    Yancee followed Chance to the Infiniti. Chance popped the trunk and Yancee saw a ten-gallon Igloo cooler.
    â€œOpen it,” Chance said with a grin.

FIFTEEN
    A frica Taylor felt like throwing in the parental towel and saying “fuck it.” No, she wasn’t an unfit mother; but, as far as she was concerned, she damn sure had unfit children. She wished there was a hotline where parents could report abusive children.
    She was a disheveled young mother—by force not choice. Looking good and styling the latest Gucci wasn’t for women like her anymore. Her once to-die-for hair was pulled into a mangled ponytail. Kool-Aid stains were such a norm, she sported her sons’ grape-flavored fingerprints on her clothes like they were fashion trendy.
    Her anger bypassed simmer and went straight to boil. She was so pissed she was shaking and having hot flashes like they were contractions. She’d signed up to raise loveable children, not midget devils. Her smoldering glare landed on her six-year-old son standing on top of her refrigerator. Her kitchen curtain was tied around his neck like a cape. He wore his tighty-whitey Fruit of the Looms with a pair of tube socks pulled over his hands like gloves. And what pissed Africa off even further was the silly-ass grin plastered on his face.
    She said slow and deliberately, “I’m gonna kick your motherfuckin’ ass if you don’t get down from there, Rasheed.” She’d specificallytold Yancee that the comic books were a terrible idea, because he wouldn’t be home to deal with their interpretations. “Rasheed—” She pointed to the floor. “—I said get down.”
    â€œMy name ain’t Rasheed, Mommie. I’m Superman and I’m fixin’ to kick the Hulk’s green ass.”
    Her blood pressure spiked. “Down, dammit! And watch your damn mouth. Where the hell is your brother?” She wondered how Rasheed had gotten on top of her refrigerator. Then she thought it was best she didn’t know the details.
    Rashaad, the other twin boy, rolled from under the table. His brand-new school shirt was ripped to shreds, green finger paint—she hoped—covered his face, and he had their fire extinguisher in hand. “Kryptonite, motherfucker.”
    â€œYou better not, goddammit,” Africa warned with the point of a finger as a tear leaked from her eye. “You better not spray that. You better not.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Mommie,” Superman said. “I’ll save you from that no-good green bastard.” He leaped off the refrigerator like the cape actually worked.
    Hulk fired the kryptonite, blasting Superman in midair, coating the entire kitchen with white soot. Hulk flexed his muscles and growled. The twins laughed as the dust settled.
    Africa stormed out of the kitchen without a word—livid, lump in throat, unsure if she should all-out cry or just fucking leave. She had it. Yancee was going to deal with this shit on his own as soon as he got home, because she was going to her mother’s.
    In the living room, she found Ms. Gail Taylor, her mother-in-law, whispering into the phone, mischievousness in her cataract-ridden eyes. Africa knew immediately things had taken a turn for the worst. Wiping her tears, she said, “Madear, who are you talking to?”
    Madear crinkled her face and shushed Africa. “The CIA is gonna