by Amir Abrams
He laughs, sliding his eyes over at me. “Wow. Where have you been hiding her? She’s quite the comedian.”
She eyes me. “Yeah, Nia. Tell him. Where have you been hiding me?”
I sigh.
When Crystal has her sights on someone, it’s nonstop banter and a bunch of flirty nuances. I am relieved when the waitress comes to the table to collect our dirty dishes and to see if there’s anything else we want.
Extra Tall tells the girl to put our bill on his tab.
I thank him. But then little Miss Flirty goes waaaay overboard.
Again.
Practically throwing herself at him.
“Ohmygod,” she cries. “That’s so sweet. What a gentleman. I could almost kiss you, if I wasn’t afraid of catching the kissing disease. This is almost like our unofficial first date.”
And your last, I think as I hold my head and cover my face in my hand, shaking my head, just as the lights dim.
Our cue.
That open mic is about to begin.
“Okay, gotta go.” He winks at me. “Hope to see you up on that stage.”
I smile at him. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Nice meeting you, Crystal,” he says, grinning. “I’m sure we’ll flirt later.”
“Oh, we sure will,” she says coyly.
And then he’s gone.
“Dang,” Crystal mutters. “I didn’t get his name.”
Neither did I.
But that all changes the minute the host introduces the night’s first act. “Everyone let’s give it up for one of Long Beach’s finest. At six foot eight, put your hands together for poet Six-Eight.”
Crystal and I lean forward.
Our eyes follow his every step as he gallops up the stage and snatches the microphone from its stand. He recites a piece titled “Flirt,” about a girl who entices guys using the art of seduction. It’s sensual, as is most of his poetry. And when he finishes up his piece, Crystal hops up from her seat and whistles and claps, swearing he wrote that poem about her.
There’s no convincing her otherwise.
So I leave her to her delusions.
By the time the seventh poet hits the stage, I’m feeling inspired to take the stage. I catch the eye of the host and wave her over.
“Hello. I’m Nia Daniels. Is it too late to go up?” I ask her the minute she reaches us.
She smiles. “I know who you are, darling. You haven’t been here in a while. And, no, there’s always room for a favorite.” She tapped her tablet with a long, acrylic nail. “We’ll call you up shortly.”
Wow. I’m a favorite.
I smile back.
Touched by her kind words.
Two more poets take the stage—and end their pieces to thunderous applause—before I’m finally called up. “Okay, we’re going to call up our next poet,” she says, looking down at her electronic device. “Next up is Nia Daniels. It’s been a while since we’ve seen her. Let’s welcome her back to the stage.”
Everyone claps. Of course, Crystal can be heard the loudest whistling and catcalling like a loon. But, hey, what can I say?
That’s my bestie.
I take the microphone, and clear my throat. “This piece is called ‘Let Me.’ It goes out to anyone who has ever felt stuck, or trapped in people, places, or things.”
“A’ight,” someone says. “Go deep on ’em, li’l sis.”
I smile.
I close my eyes for a few seconds, then open them.
Let me . . .
Reach into your locks
uh
not
your
dreadlocks
no
your
dead
locks
and
unchain
your
enslaved mind
Let me . . .
unleash you
from an existence
where
mental stagnation
and
self-depreciation
keeps you
locked
in a box;
not
a
sandbox
but
a
locked box
trapped
in
fear
Let me . . .
Free your mind
Free your body
Free
you
from a
darkened
shell
No
No
A self-made
prison cell
of
flesh n bone
vacant
of
barbed wire
and
concrete walls
Let me . . .
liberate you
from
the burden
of judgment
of
stereotypes
of
contemplative silence;
Let me . . .
Release you
from the
pain
of
unspoken words
that cling
to a tongue
that fears
truth
That swallows
the rage
of a
past that
bares no semblance
to happiness
Let me . . .
reach up
into
your locks
and
free you
and
make you
breathe
again...
can
i
free your mind
can
i
free your soul
can
i
make
you
whole
yes
only
if you
let me . . .
The piece is well received by the crowd. I am smiling as I gallop down the steps and return to my seat. Crystal is still standing and clapping. “Oooh, yes! You killed it, girl.” She gives me a hug. “That was deep as heck. Loved it.”
I smile wider, hugging her back.
15
“Daddy, I’m home,” I call out, dropping my keys onto the foyer table, removing my shoes, then walking toward the spiral staircase.
“So, he’s cute right?” Crystal says as I ascend the stairs to my bedroom. We’ve been on the phone the whole ride home with me listening to her go on and on about the tall poet with all the tattoos.
What was his name again?
Six-Eight, I think.
Yeah, that’s it.
“He’s okay, I guess.”
She shrieks. “You guess?! Girl, what is wrong with your eyes? Are you blind?”
“Nope. I simply don’t see what you see.”
“Yup. Blind. Say no more. That explains a lot.”
I laugh. “What exactly does it explain? Do tell.”
“Welllllll, for starters, it proves that you will never get a boyfriend if you don’t start opening your eyes and expanding your horizons.”
“I’m not looking for a boyfriend. They’re too much of a headache.”
“And that’s what Tylenol is for. To relieve the pain.”
“No thanks. I’ll pass on the drama. I have my sights on bigger and better things, like college. There will be plenty of time for boyfriends after graduation.”
Wow. Did I just say that?
Yup, sure did.
It’s what Daddy has been saying to me since I was old enough to talk. And it’s stuck.
Whereas Crystal has had at least twelve boyfriends since fifth grade, I’ve had none.
“Borrrrring,” she says in a singsong voice. “Nia, it hurts me to say this. But you’re turning into an old maid right before my eyes.”
“Ohmygod!” I shriek. “I can’t believe you just said that. I am no
t an old maid.”
“Now, see there. I didn’t say you were. I said you were on your way to becoming one. Face it. You’ll be seventeen in what . . . ?”
“Six months,” I say. “And?”
“That’s too old not to have had at least one boyfriend.”
Well, she’s wrong there. I’ve had a boyfriend before. Lorenzo Adams. We spent practically every day together, passing cute little love notes back and forth. We were the cutest couple ever.
But then he dumped me for Chrissy Evans.
And left me devastated.
I remind her of that.
She bursts into a fit of laughter. “Lorenzo? Bwahahaha-haha. Ohmygod! Hahahahaha! Good one, Nia. But, sorry, second grade doesn’t count.”
“Whatever.” I suppress a chuckle. “Anyway, you’ve had enough boyfriends for the both of us.”
She laughs again. “That’s true. But I can’t seem to keep them for longer than a month, or two.”
True.
That’s because she keeps choosing the same type of boys—all the wrong ones.
Nice boys seem to bore her.
Crystal seems to be a magnet for boys with drama.
I never knew boys could be such drama kings.
Until Crystal started dating them.
Liars.
Cheaters.
Players.
Horndogs.
All Crystal dates are shallow boys with good looks.
“Well, that’s because they don’t know what a catch you are,” I say earnestly.
“Awww. And that’s why you’re my BFF for life.”
I smile. “So do you think I should perform at the Poet’s Corner for Black History month?”
“Oh no, oh nooo,” Crystal says dramatically. “I will not be dismissed. I am not finished talking about the boy of my dreams.”
I shake my head, plopping down on my bed. “Well, I am.”
“You’re such a joy-kill. But answer me this, then I’ll leave it alone. Did you see how he kept eyeing us? That boy is totally hot.”
“I really wasn’t paying attention to him,” I say, pulling off my socks.
I stretch open my painted toes.
She sucks in air. “I’m flat-lining as we speak. Going, going, gone! How could you not notice him? He was to die for.”
I laugh, stepping out of my jeans. “You’re already dead, remember?”
Now she’s laughing. “Oh, right. Stone-cold dead. So you really weren’t paying him any attention?”
I shake my head as if she can see me. “Nope. The only thing I was captured by was his poetry.” I pull off my shirt. “Not his looks.”
In my mind’s eye, I see her rolling her eyes. “Unh-huh. So all you heard was his poetry, but you didn’t see him?”
“Of course I saw him. But I wasn’t looking at him, not like that.”
“Nia, I love you, girl. But you are some kind of strange. You do know that, right?”
I shrug. “I don’t see the big deal. Just because I don’t fall head over heels for a boy, doesn’t make me strange.”
She sucks her teeth. “No, that doesn’t. But the fact that you can’t even see sexiness when it’s staring you right in the face does.”
“He’s no different from any other poet to me.”
“Ohmygod,” Crystal says in disbelief. “You need help. He’s more than a poet. He’s perfection. Let me dial nine-one-one. This is an emergency.
I laugh. “Oh, stop. I’d rather be fascinated by a boy’s intellect, instead by his looks.”
She grunts. “Well, you can have the intellect. Give me something good to look at. Eye candy makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Since when?” I say, glancing over at the clock. It’s almost eight p.m. I wonder why Daddy hasn’t come upstairs to check on me yet.
Mmm. That’s not like him.
He must be down in his office working.
Or maybe on a conference call.
I walk into my bathroom.
“Since seeing that chocolate Adonis,” Crystal says. “He looked like he was chiseled out of the world’s richest chocolate. He was so dreamy. So decadent. So—”
“Wait,” I say, cutting her off. “Should I just wait for the infomercial?”
I pull my hair up, then put Crystal on speakerphone while I wash my face.
“Ohmygod, Nia, why do you always do that?”
I laugh knowingly. “Do what?”
“Put me on speakerphone. You know I hate that.”
I run the water. “You’ll survive. You always do. Anyway . . .”
“Yes. Anyway. Back to Mister Sweet Chocolate. Mister Six Nine . . .”
“Six-Eight,” I correct, applying Noxzema to my face.
She laughs. “Oh, but you weren’t paying attention, huh?”
I share a laugh with her. “Well, maybe just a little.”
“Oooh, you’re such a liar.”
“I am not.” I feign hurt feelings. I splash warm water on my face, then turn off the water. “I’m not blind. I just wasn’t seeing him the way you were.”
“Unh-huh. Save it.”
I reach for a towel and pat my face dry. “Well, if you ask me, the amount of time you’ve spent pining over him is wasted energy. And time lost.”
She huffs. “Well, thanks for that news flash. I’m hanging up now so I can I watch the clock until it’s time to fall asleep so I can hurry up and dream sweet dreams of Six-Eight the Poet.”
“Ugh. Sounds like a nightmare to me.”
“Hahaha. Don’t hate.”
“Wishful thinking, silly. Good night.”
“Smooches.”
I smile, shaking my head as we disconnect.
I slip into a pair of Spelman sweats and a pink T-shirt, then hurry down the stairs to talk to Daddy.
I can’t wait to tell him all about tonight.
16
“Daddy, wait until I tell you all about my night at the Poetry Café,” I say, walking into his office.
He isn’t there.
“Daddy,” I call out again.
Still no answer.
I frown.
I head downstairs into the basement, thinking he might be down there.
“Daddy?”
I move through the finished basement, looking through the weight room, the game room, and even poking my head into the bathroom, even though the door is wide open.
That’s strange.
For the heck of it, I pull back the shower curtain and peek behind it, fully knowing I’m being ridiculous.
Still, I do it anyway.
Of course, he isn’t hiding in the shower.
I take the stairs back up to the main level of the house. Then I take the spiral staircase, two steps at a time. I knock on his bedroom door. “Daddy?” No answer.
I open the door. Look inside. Call his name. Still no Daddy.
But his car’s outside.
Maybe he went out with one of his frat brothers, I think, heading back down the stairs. Still, I look through the living room, then the dining room, before heading for the kitchen.
He probably left me a note on the fridge, I think, or on the counter.
I imagine seeing a little yellow Post-It with a happy-face on it.
But, for some reason, I call out to him anyway.
“Daddy?”
I walk over to the refrigerator.
No note.
I look over on the aisle counter.
Still, no note.
That’s not like him. He always leaves a note or calls me if he isn’t going to be home.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check for messages, even though I know there aren’t any.
I call him.
Seconds later, I hear a ringing phone.
I blink.
Wait.
That’s Daddy’s ringtone.
Here.
He must have left it by accident.
I walk toward the ringing sound.
It’s coming from the walk-
in pantry.
What in the world is his phone doing in—
I stop in my tracks.
Noooooooo!!!
My heart drops from my chest. “Ohmygod! No, no, noooo!”
It’s Daddy!
Facedown on the floor.
My phone hits the floor as I am running into the pantry.
“Daddy!” I scream out, dropping to the floor beside him. “Daddy!” I shake him. My heart is violently banging in my chest. “Wake up!” I shake him again. “Daddy! Daddy!”
I pull him, grabbing at his body.
Tears spill from my eyes.
“No, no, no, no, no, no . . . p-p-pleeeease!”
Everything I’ve learned in health class kicks in, and before I know it, I am pressing my index and middle finger to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse.
There is none.
I quickly turn him over, careful not to hurt him.
Then I’m placing my head against his chest, listening.
I can’t hear anything.
Panic-stricken, I scramble across the floor for my phone, everything inside of me shaking with anguish.
My hands shake as I dial 911.
“Nine-one-one . . . what’s your emergency?”
“I-I-I . . . it’s m-my d-daddy. I t-t-think he’s d-dead!”
I am frightened.
And crying uncontrollably.
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
“It’s Nia,” I say impatiently.
“Okay, Nia. What’s your location?”
I give her the address. “Please, you have to hurry! Daddy! Wake up!” I shake him again.
She asks me to calm down.
Calm down?
Is she serious?
How can I?
I just found Daddy facedown on the floor.
And I’m here alone.
How am I supposed to stay calm?
“Nia, help is on the way. But I need you to stay calm, okay, sweetie. Can you do that?”
Noooooo!
“Y-y-yes.”
“Okay, Nia. I need you to tell me if your father has a pulse. If he doesn’t I’ll help you start CPR until the paramedics arrive.”
I tell her I didn’t feel one when I checked his neck.
She tells me to try again.
This time I grab Daddy’s arm. Try to find his pulse. “Nooooo, nooo. I don’t feel one.” I keep searching, feeling. Still nothing.
I try his other arm.
Keep pressing into his skin, my fingertips to his wrist.
And then . . . I feel it.
A pulse.
