Free Eye to Eye by Grace Carol Page A

It’s a lot to think about. Honestly, I don’t believe that Doris would be the exact same if she were black. Environment and culture, etc.
    â€œSo will you take the book if I don’t make the change?”
    Arianna sighs. “I’m not trying to make this sound like an ultimatum, but there are other books that better fit what Burning Spear does.”
    Oh, well, at least I got to feel good about being a published author for about five minutes. On the other hand, the more I think about it, parts of Dottie would be the same except a different color, right?
    â€œCan I think about this for a day or two?”
    â€œOf course,” Arianna says. “Please call as soon as you decide.”
    After I hang up, I think about what an asshole ingrate I must have sounded like on the phone. Let me think about it. What a jerk. But there’s something still exciting about this and I’m amped, amped with a caveat.
    I grab my keys, ready to rush out the door to see Bita, when I hear Earl’s bike pulling up, deafening everyone in the neighborhood. It’s strange he’s home so early, but then I’m happy that he is. When I hear the key turning in the lock, I stand near the door so I can jump on him and tell him my news. When Earl comes through the door though, he doesn’t quite seem himself. He’s clearly tired and in a bad mood—which for Earl is never mean. More like distracted and worried.
    â€œHey, baby.” I hug his thick torso before peering up at him. “What’s the matter? You’re home early.”
    â€œYeah.” Earl squeezes me before he walks to the fridge to get a drink. “There’s nothing but half a can of Diet Coke in here.” He sighs.
    â€œAnd an egg,” I say, waiting for Earl to pop his head up from the fridge and grin at me. But he doesn’t.
    â€œI sure could use a beer. Something cold.” He straightens up and comes to me on the couch.
    â€œWhat kind of bartender are you, anyway?” I say, pulling him down next to me. “Living in a house with no booze, just a pitiful can of Diet Coke.” I pat his firm belly and settle in close to him. Earl only gives me a weak smile. He pulls away from me so he can take off his boots and then he sinks into the couch with a sigh.
    â€œYou sure are sighing a lot and saying a little. What’s the story?”
    â€œJust got tired out is all. Didn’t feel much like going for a ride after all.”
    â€œWhat? You’re not getting along with Jake and them anymore?”
    Jake’s a guy Earl works with from time to time. He doesn’t bartend so much because he’s just okay, not a pro like Earl. But he’s a homeboy—of sorts—because Jake’s from Illinois and claims the Midwest, like Earl does. He’s younger than Earl, a kid mostly, only twenty-one, with dreams of “making it,” and so on and so forth. Still, Earl likes him because he likes to ride, too, and isn’t prone to “get carried away with himself,” as Earl calls it.
    â€œNaw,” Earl stretches his arms behind our heads and pulls me close with one of them. The way Earl says “naw” seems to have an ellipsis at the end of it, but he doesn’t volunteer much more. He’s closing that whole strong-silent-type business, but I’m not having it.
    â€œCut the shit, Erardo Lo Vecchio. What the hell happened?”
    Earl sits up and straighter, then turns to me so we’re not side by side anymore. He’s finally grinning, he likes it when I get my version of badass on him. I do sugar and spice and everything nice as often as I can, but I can go from sweetie pie to motherfucker, like going from zero to ninety.
    â€œWellll,” Earl says, dragging his proverbial foot right away. “It ain’t nothin, not really, but at least part of this story, you ain’t going to like it.”
    What Earl is saying is code for “You’re