Free Pushin' by L. Divine

dressed up and go out after their all-day ritual honoring our ancestral mothers. It’s a beautiful ceremony and I always feel renewed after participating every year.
    I have yet to tell Mama about me becoming a debutante with Mrs. Esop’s sorority and possibly a cheerleader next year. Much like with my Advanced Placement exams, Mama won’t be happy with the time spent on my newfound extracurricular activities. I don’t know how to break the news to her, but it has to be done. I’m sure she’s going to wonder why I can’t stay for dinner today, and lying about it won’t work with Mama for long. It’s going to be a tough sell, though. She’s never gotten along well with Nigel’s mother, who thinks my grandmother is related to the Antichrist and Mama feels the same way about her. Their hating goes back to when Mrs. Esop was still in Compton, having come from Louisiana with Mama, Netta, Esmeralda and a lot of our other neighbors. I wonder if Mrs. Esop’s snooty friends feel the same way. If they say one cross word about my grandmother or my mother, I’m out—damn our verbal agreement.
    â€œJayd, hand me the shea butter, please. And could you crush some more vanilla beans for the big belly balm? We’re going to need it for that girl’s growing stomach,” Mama says, mixing the ingredients in the mortar. I’m so glad she’s making a special batch of the cream for Mickey, even though Mama made it very clear it’s for the baby and not my fast-ass friend.
    â€œWhat does vanilla do besides make it smell good?” I ask, immediately sorry that I did. I take the small, dark brown beans out of one of the dozens of glass containers lining the shelves. The look in Mama’s eyes is enough to show how much she’s disappointed in my lack of spiritual prowess. I’ve been studying my spirit lessons, but not as much as she thinks I should. I can’t tell her that I’m more interested in studying about my mom’s gift of sight than about ingredients for the various recipes Mama specializes in. After a few more minutes, Mama softens her look and answers my question.
    â€œVanilla has many benefits. For expectant mothers it is a soothing herb, especially when coupled with sandalwood and lavender,” she says, taking more of the ground ingredients from the cutting board and drizzling them into a marble bowl before beating them with the matching pestle. I love Mama’s tools. She rarely lets me use the ancient bowl and pounder because she’s afraid I’ll break them. But the various wooden combinations lining the cabinets work just as well for me.
    â€œThe balm smells so good I could spread it on a biscuit and eat it,” I say, mixing the almond oil, melted cocoa butter, and another special oil Mama didn’t give me the name of, in my smaller mortar, waiting for further instructions.
    â€œYou could, but it might not taste so good,” Mama says, smiling at me. It’s always nice being in the spirit room with Mama, especially when it’s a bright, sunny day like today. It’s over eighty degrees outside and a slight breeze is blowing through the screen door, dispersing our healing scents through the tiny house. Even Lexi—Mama’s loyal German shepherd—is enjoying the day from her usual post at the threshold. “Which reminds me, what are we having for dinner this evening? I’ve got some fresh salmon from Mr. Webb and we can make some honey butter and biscuits to go with it.” Oh, that sounds so delicious. I know they won’t have anything like that to eat at the tea this afternoon.
    â€œAbout that,” I say, easing into my admission. “I actually have a function to attend this afternoon and I don’t think I’ll make it back in time for dinner.” Mama continues her mixing, not looking up from the smooth concoction. I hope Mickey knows what she’s getting, but she