Something She Can Feel

by Grace Octavia

  “Oh, you mean you can run all over them because they’re big?”

  “No, what I mean is, they aren’t all worried about silly stuff that doesn’t matter—calories and impressing their damn friends with a bunch of labels,” he said. “I get enough of that from these industry broads.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “You say you like big girls, but the last time I checked the gossip columns, you were dating Madison Night—that actress from Moonlight. She’s like ninety pounds.”

  “See, that’s what they want you to think.” He smiled. “You can’t trust everything you see on television—my publicist makes most of that stuff up and leaks it to people. Really, I was trying to get at Madison’s sister. She’s like 300 pounds.” He pretended to draw the girl’s ample shape in the air, but I could tell he was joking.

  “I’m sure,” I said drily.

  “I don’t know what’s made you think you’re anything but bad as hell,” Dame said, catching my eyes again. “Half the time we were joking in the back of the classroom, we were talking about how fine you were and placing bets on who’d get with you first.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked, surprised. I always imagined I looked goofy from the back of the room. Old and tired to them.

  “Hell, no!” he said. “We were just boys then, though. We knew none of us stood a chance. But that was then ... and this is now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t tell you all my secrets now.”

  The waiter slid our plates onto the table like gifts, and Dame and I sat back in a moment of silence, inhaling the tangy scent of BBQ as our eyes began to feast on the spread.

  “I’s home now, Ms. Celie. I’s home,” Dame cried playfully.

  My father always said that good BBQ tastes like meat and great BBQ tastes like butter. I tasted nothing but butter on my plate. It was dreamlike, and I wondered how Evan and I had managed to stay away from the place for so long. I made a mental note to make him take me there the next week.

  “So,” Dame started, wiping his mouth, “what do you think of my music?”

  “Think?”

  “Yeah, that was a direct question.” He looked at me and then threw his hands up in disgust after I said nothing. “You don’t listen to it?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard some ... but ... I ... well, I’m not listening to much rap right now,” I tried.

  “Don’t give me that cop-out. That’s what lazy people say. They complain that there’s no good hip-hop, so they don’t listen to it. But really, there’s plenty of good stuff out there. You just have to look for it.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said.

  “So what made you stop listening to me?”

  I looked at him and started chewing at the inside of my lips nervously. I didn’t want to offend him.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said. “I’m an artist, not a student. You can’t hurt my feelings.”

  “It’s just that all the stuff I heard was about sex and violence and drugs. It seemed like the same old rap music. Nothing new.”

  “You’re right,” he mused. “I do write about sex ... and violence ... and drugs. And let me say this—”

  “You don’t have to. You really don’t have to explain anything to me. I was just answering your question,” I said.

  “I’m not explaining what I do. I’m good at it. I know that. And I’m paid very well for it. So there’s no need to explain,” he said between taking sips of his beer. His voice was tough. Secure. “But I will tell you what I do. Because I respect you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love sex. It’s great. It’s good. It makes you feel great and I think people should write about it. Sing about it. Rap about it. Paint about it. Take pictures. Videos. Whatever. I bring that up because it seems every other art form in the world has deconstructed, sold, defined, and redefined sex and sexuality. And I ain’t learn that in no book. I’ve been to Florence and seen Botticelli’s nude paintings for myself. Now, that was in the 1400s and he was painting naked pictures of the broad he was trying to steal from the dude who was lacing his pockets. That’s some pimp shit,” he said, laughing. “Man, artists have been doing it ever since—even before then. But as soon as a bunch of young black men talk about how much they like sex ... and get paid for it ... people have a problem. Then sex is dirty and nasty, and meanwhile, they’re willing to pay millions of dollars to buy a Botticelli. Now, Little Richard and even Ray Charles sang about sex, but ain’t nobody talk about them like they talk about us. And I’ll tell you why. It was because they were making a whole bunch of white boys rich. And now that I’m stepping up, making sure most of those bills come back to me, suddenly the most human thing a person can do is vulgar. And I’m not even talking about having sex with little girls or making people do stuff they don’t want to do. I’m talking about real stuff.”

  Dame went on, and I learned more about his music. More about him just as a person. He seemed so angry at times. So political and militant. He saw sides of the music industry that I thought were myths. Beyond the dancers, videos, and flashy cars, people were stealing money and labels were rejecting what would be considered positive songs by top artists. He said the worst thing he ever did was make a platinum record. Now everyone had platinum dreams. He had to remind himself every day of who he was and that’s what the latest album, The Same Dame, was about. Being himself and returning to his roots. So far, the fans got it and all of the people at the label who wished he’d been more raunchy, more aggressive on the release, looked silly when the entire industry agreed it was his best release.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I ain’t no flower child MC. I ain’t rapping for peace or ending homelessness.”

  “But why not? Don’t you think those kids in the school today need to hear that? To know what’s going on in the world? You have such a powerful influence on them. You could use it.”

  “This business is about money first.” He ate the last bit of a sandwich he’d made with some rib meat and bread. “You can’t forget that. It’ll use you and spit you out like you ain’t shit. If it’s not a hit, it ain’t a hit. You’re out. I’m in this to make money. That’s first. The art is second. And the fans are third. They feel me. You may not feel me. People trying to hate on me may not feel me. But the fans feel me. And that’s it.”

  Dame and I went back and forth about this for an hour before I realized I was talking to a grown man who had his mind made up about what he did and was making millions of dollars doing it. I kept telling him that the kids he was reaching and the art should come first, but he had a point about the hits the industry was expecting. If no one was making money, he wouldn’t have any fans and his art would be recorded on a cassette tape in the projects he once lived in. While that seemed like the proper place for someone trying to remain connected to his roots, it was a lot to ask of someone who already starved for most of his life.

  It was an interesting debate that was hands-down the best dinner conversation I’d had in years. It wasn’t about me or church or family; it was about art, the world, and dreams. And all of this from a former student I’d fully expected to arrive back home as a boy. Now I knew the world had made him a man.

  When I got home, Evan was still out, so I climbed into bed alone and called Billie. The news of the evening would no doubt keep us on the phone all night.

  Chapter Eleven

  “So, what was he like?” Evan asked as we sat on a bench inside the tennis courts at my parents’ estate, watching Jr and May finish their match. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was looking up at the brightening sky, praying the sun wouldn’t suddenly make its grand appearance once Evan and I got up to play.

  “What?” I asked. I’d spent most of the night on the phone going over the dinner with Billie. “Why didn’t you call me? I wanted to party like a rock star!” she’d squealed.

  “Dinner with Dame—what was he like?” Evan repeated.

  “It was fine. I mean, we just ate and ... that was it.”
<
br />   “Come on, you had dinner with a rapper. I’m sure there were some highlights. Strippers? Moët?” he joked.

  Jr was serving balls at May like the Wimbledon trophy was waiting inside on the mantel. He’d hit them hard and fast, even though he knew the woman could hardly play. And then he’d take time-out between obnoxious sighs to point that out.

  “If you’d anticipate my hit, you’d see where it was landing,” he growled, and she just wiped her brow, hustling to get to the other side of the court.

  “He was a little flashy at first,” I said to Evan, “but then he warmed up and we just talked.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t remember, Evan. Music. God. Everything. I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” This wasn’t half the retelling I’d given Billie. But I knew Evan didn’t really want to know how it felt to be sitting at a table in a restaurant with someone who drew eyes from everyone walking by. How fun it was to ride in the backseat of that Bentley. And how I’d found Dame’s smile endearing. His ideas potent. And his company just plain refreshing.

  “Good hit! Great! Good!” Jr hollered, coaching May. Looking ragged but not defeated, she swatted at each ball defiantly and I wondered if she imagined it was Jr’s big head.

  “Did he say anything about the school?” Evan asked me. “About donating more money?”

  “ No.”

  “Well, did you bring it up?”

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I said. “Maybe if you’d come, you could’ve.”

  The sun was up now. It was already warm, but by the time Evan and I were midway through our match, it would be near dreadful.

  “See, if you’d just anticipate my moves more and really run the court, you’d do better,” Jr said as he and May dropped their rackets and walked over to Evan and me. “Your turn,” he said to us.

  I looked up at the sun and thought about my hair.

  “Jr, your game was good. Maybe you should play Evan, so May can see your skills from over here ... then maybe she can anticipate your moves better,” I said, knowing just how to rub my brother’s ego to make him insist upon playing again.

  “Hmm,” he said, pretending to consider my suggestion before responding. “Maybe you’re right.” He tilted his head and paused reflectively. “Yeah. Let’s play, Evan.” He pointed to Evan as if he was enlisting him into the Army and picked his racket back up. “And May, you can watch, so you can see me move.”

  Evan popped up and gathered his racket as well. As May sat down, I rolled my eyes at Jr. If I could count on one thing from him, it was his ego leading to disaster.

  “Thanks for saving me from having to sit here arguing with him for another half hour,” May said, settling into her seat next to me. “Your brother keeps me in prayer.”

  “Oh, that was for me,” I said. “If my hair feels one more drop of sweat, this mop will be an Afro for sure.”

  We both chuckled, and when I refocused, I saw Jack Newsome stepping into the gate. He was alone and dressed in some loose-fitting shorts and a Prophet House T-shirt.

  “Pastor Newsome,” May said.

  “Hey, everyone,” he said, walking onto the court.

  May and I got up and walked over to greet him, meeting Evan and Jr halfway.

  “Your father invited me out to play this morning,” he said.

  “He did?” Jr asked, scowling as if he was ready to bounce Jack off of the court.

  “Well, welcome,” May said pleasantly. “Let’s get you a racket.”

  Jr mean-mugged Jack for as long as he could before we continued pleasantries and decided to let him play in the next match. He claimed he hadn’t played in a while and needed to loosen up. Jr, smelling weakness in his unfortunate opponent, was adamant that he help. In fact, Jr added, he was just about to show everyone his new serve.

  Evan, May, and I scrunched up on the small bench and watched the two get into position. The only thing missing was a commentators’ table and microphones. Jack had no clue, but this was sure to be the hottest action the courts had seen since the infamous Justin and Jr matches in the nineties.

  “I hope your brother doesn’t embarrass us. The man’s a guest,” May whispered, sitting on my left.

  “I think that’s part of the problem,” Evan said on my right.

  Jr hit the first ball hard, but Jack, who apparently knew how to “anticipate a play,” hit the ball right back at Jr, slamming it at his feet.

  “Nasty,” I said, watching Jr hustle to get the ball as May had. “Good and nasty.”

  The ball was up again and the pair hit it side to side, fast and forcefully. It was more like a fight than a match. We could hear them grunting with each hit. And when the ball came down on Jr’s side again, he flung his white head band to the ground and started bouncing around on his feet like a fighter.

  “They kinda look alike,” Evan said, his head moving as we watched the ball.

  I looked back and forth between my brother and Jack. Jr was lighter and a bit taller, but from where we were sitting, they did look a lot alike. The same build, way of hitting the ball. Even their profiles favored one another with the sun’s shadows.

  “Well, you know what they say about people hating each other looking like one another,” May offered.

  “I thought that was about people who were always together,” I said as the ball slammed at Jr’s feet again.

  This battle went on until my mother called us all into the house to eat. Jr lagged behind, cursing and spitting so much that my mother told him to sit outside and cool down before he came inside the house.

  Fortunately, for the sanity of my family, Jack, who was as cool as a politician after the match, had to get back to the church to excuse the children’s Bible study academy, so he had to leave. He made his apologies and promised to join us again next time. Only we knew that next time would be more like never once Jr spoke to my father. I volunteered to walk Jack to the car. He was a year older than Jr and lived just blocks away from us growing up, but I never got to know him very well outside of the church. He was an interesting man—dedicated to the church and God. Like my father, he had a strong grasp of the Bible, but he’d taught at the Johnson C. Smith Theological Seminary in North Carolina, so he tended to think of things in the Bible in less conventional ways than my father. He wanted to break things down, ask questions, and explore other texts. This came through in his smart, lecture-like sermons, which attracted a young, more educated population. Unlike other assistant pastors, when the church knew Jack was going to lead a sermon, they showed up in numbers. I thought this was why Jr was so jealous of him.

  As we walked to the car, I complimented him on his backhand and apologized for Jr’s behavior.

  “He’ll have to accept it on his own time,” Jack said openly, and I assumed he was talking about his eventual leadership of Prophet House.

  “Jr is stubborn. He gets that from our father. I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I replied.

  “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “You know, I’d like to get to know you better. We never talk that much outside of the church,” I admitted.

  Jack looked at me meaningfully.

  “I’d really like that, too, Journey,” he said.

  We shared a friendly hug and I walked back inside the house to see everyone assembled at the table.

  “So, tell us about that Dame,” my mother said as I sat down. “What was he like? And when are you going to be on BET?”

  Chapter Twelve

  As they did most Mondays, that fourth-period class put a beating on me. No one had their music sheets, every section forgot their notes, and when I tried to get them warmed up by singing “Lift Ev’ry Voice” to get ready for the opening at graduation, anyone listening would’ve thought not one person in the room had ever heard the song. I’d rolled my eyes and frowned so many times that I was sure if someone walked up behind me and hit me on the back, I’d have a cross-eyed scowl on my face for the rest of my life. I’d had good days te
aching, but this unquestionably wasn’t one of them. The students were too busy talking about Dame and BET to hear a word from me.

  As they hurried out of the room when the bell rang, I tried to remind myself that I only had three weeks to go until it was all over.

  “You busy?” Zenobia asked, slowly strolling behind the crowd.

  “Well, that depends on if you intend on having a ‘Student Death Match’ outside my classroom again,” I replied. Zenobia had just returned to school the previous week from her suspension for fighting with Patrice.

  “No, I ain’t fighting, Mrs. DeLong,” she said, amused by my comment. “I know I be acting up in your class and stuff, but I ain’t no fighter. Patrice stepped to me, so I had to do what I had to do.”

  “Fine with me. Just do what you have to do someplace else next time. Maybe by the science lab,” I said. She sat down in the chair next to my desk. “So what’s going on with you?” I pointed to her stomach.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She looked down. “My mama’s making me have an abortion. She said we can’t afford another baby.”

  “How do you feel about that? You don’t look too happy.” I was against abortion, but my personal feelings aside, I also felt Zenobia couldn’t afford to have another baby. Not only financially. Psychologically, she was already going through enough. She wasn’t even seventeen yet. And if she was going to make anything out of her life, the second baby was about to make it almost impossible.

  On the news, people always talk about how there are poor people in Africa and in other far-off places. But there was poverty in Alabama, too. Women like Zenobia had three or four kids they couldn’t afford to feed and they worked twenty-four hours a day at the minimum-wage jobs they were lucky to have.

  “I ain’t happy about it,” Zenobia said, answering my question. “I want to keep my baby.”

  “Zenobia, I’m sure your mother respects your right to choose. But she also wants what’s best for you and Mikayla.”