Charlie's Angel

23

Chris

Saturday. One of the greatest days of the week. My best friend didn't have school and we were free to play all day and eat all the junk food we could stuff into our bellies. I personally loved Saturdays because he was happiest. His shrieks of laughter echoed through the whole house and it always warmed my heart to see his cheeks stain a rosy color from laughing until he ran out of air. My pride and joy.

At five years old, Isaiah was full of life and jokes. He learned from me to have a smart-ass mouth and that got him in trouble at school when he would laugh and joke around with his classmates at inappropriate times. He wasn't a bully or nothing–I had taught him better than that–but he was a little rascal. That's for sure.

Saturdays were for me and Isaiah. No one else. Man-to-man time.

"Isaiah, what do you wanna be when you grow up?"

He climbed into the kitchen stool to wait for me to fix him a bowl of cereal. Little guy giggled with glee when I brought down the yellow box of Cap'n Crunch. His favorite cereal in the whole word. I kinda thought it was his favorite thing in the world, and I secretly took offense.

"Um, I wanna draw stuff like you," he said quietly. "You make lots of money."

I fixed myself my own bowl of cereal and sat across from him, spooning sugary junk between my cheeks. I was gonna have to work all this off and decided to go play basketball later. I had always had a slim physique but was often teased for my skinny legs. Chicken legs, as people would call them. My calves were strong and firm, but my ankles were scrawny.

But I have big feet and that's all that matters... right?

"Oh yeah?" I joked. "Who told you that?"

He grinned bashfully, dropping his eyes to his cereal like he just spilled a secret. "No one."

"Did Bash tell you that?"

He only giggled in response and I got my answer. But I couldn't help but laugh.

"I don't make that much money, man. Just enough to spoil you."

He shook his head to get his curls out of his eyes and frowned, "Nuh uh!" he protested. "I don't have all the toys. I don't have Mister Potato Head."

You got all the toys in the world and you still find one you don't have?

"You don't even play with the Lego's that Mystery got you for Christmas."

"But if I get Mister Potato Head, he can smash through my city like a monster! Please, Uncle Chris?"

I chuckled, rolled my eyes, and watched him beg. He knew I couldn't say no to him so he was already excited–even before I said the inevitable yes. "I'll make you a deal. Let me cut your hair, we'll go play basketball, and then we'll go get your toy, aight?"

He smacked his forehead to the granite counter top and groaned. "But I don't need a haircut!"

"Isaiah, I just watched you shake your head like a wet dog," I chuckled, watching him do the same thing yet again. It's not that he hates haircuts, he just hates sitting still and then gets mad at me when it takes longer. "Go wait upstairs for me while I clean up the dishes, aight?"

I hated calling my nephew nigga, but this nigga seriously just rolled his eyes at me as he got down and headed to the bathroom in my room. I wanted to pop him in the back of the head, but he was too quick so I just laughed at him.

When I rinsed out the dishes, I jogged down the stairs to see him sitting on my bed with his head down and his arms crossed. Isaiah never threw temper tantrums, so this was the closest thing to it. I was glad that he wasn't a little bratty five-year-old; he was well behaved and was much smarter than most. I was proud of him, but more so proud of myself for shaping him into the little guy he was.