Just Another Secret.

Chapter 91

Kahlil

I haven't left my room in three days. I'm exhausted. I can't sleep. It hurts my back too much when I lay down.

Mom knocks on my door. I say she can come in.

"You have visitors." She tells me.

"I don't want to see anyone." I wrap my blanket around me tighter. It covers my entire upper body. Including my head.

"That's too bad." Tamera and Wayne walk in here. "Time for your makeover," she sings. She has a suitcase. A giant hardcover pink truck of a suitcase.

I frown. "Why is he here?"

"Emotional support, and so Keisha doesn't think I'm being suspicious. Now come on. Take a seat. Relax a bit." She puts my desk chair in the middle of the room.

I shake my head. "I can't."

"Come on man. You said you wanted this."

"I can't sit in that chair. It'll hurt," I keep my voice low.

Wayne walks into my bathroom and grabs my stool. "That solves it."

Slowly I get up and take a seat as Tamera sets up.

She has a giant briefcase in side the trunk too. She clears my desk and starts organizing.

I see hair pieces, makeup, tools that look almost surgical.

"I promise you. You will feel no pain. Now to start. Wayne. Tweezers." She says and now I see his role is the assistant.

Tamera slowly pulls bandages off my head.

"Your mom said you are fine with peroxide?"

I nod slowly.

She cleans my head of any residue from my medication and bandages, then pats my head dry.

"This is going to feel slightly weird." She pulls out this huge afro and moves it around on my head.

It feels scratchy, but also soothing in a tickle kind of way.

Wayne turns on my speaker.

"You listen to drill?" Tamera eyes me.

"What do you think I listen to?"

"Mister lover boy. When are you not listening to whatever crap Keisha listens to?"

"When I'm alone. Drill is probably my top genre."

"Wow you and Tamera actually have something in common?" Sarcastically Wayne gasps.

"You listen to drill?" I look at her surprised.

Tamera laughs. "Yeah. It's my top genre too, is that surprising?" She takes the piece off my head and wraps a measuring tape around my head. She then takes notes.

"Uh yeah! You seem like hip-hop, a lot of r&b, but drill? That seems a little intense for you. But I bet you listen to American drill-"

"I don't. At all. I listen to European drill."

"Oh UK drill—"

"Kahlil, I am multilingual. English drill appears the least in my playlist. French drill is number one. Followed by Italian. I probably listen to more African drill where I don't even understand what their saying more than English drill."

I'm in awe. "You have to put me on."

"I'll play my current favourites." She takes over the aux.

"Welcome to Italy." She takes a seat in my desk chair cutting the piece according to her measurements.