Crazy Love

by Amir Abrams

  “So what do you say?”

  “Huh? What do I say about what?”

  He repeats the question.

  “Oh, that. Can I think about it for a few days and get back to you? Between both of my dance classes and keeping up with my studies, my schedule is really hectic.”

  He glances at his watch. “Okay. I understand. Well, think about it.”

  “I will.” The bell for first period rings as he’s pulling out a pad and writing out a pass for me. I take the pass and tell him I’ll see him fifth period. I shoulder my bag and head for the door, deciding to cut my first period—something I’ve never done—to go to the library to charge my phone instead. I’m a senior and this is an emergency, so missing class isn’t the end of the world.

  The rest of the school day flies by. I chill with my girls in fourth period lunch—although I spend most of it texting back and forth with Sincere—and go to classes. But most of the day I keep thinking about Sincere, wondering what he’s doing and who he’s doing it with. I know he has mad chicks all up in his face over there on that campus. I just hope he’s checking them birds, letting them know what’s really good. Not being able to see what he’s doing is going to drive me crazy. I pull out my phone and send him a text. U THINKIN BOUT ME?

  Two minutes later, he texts back. LIKE CRAZY. U ALREADY KNO. CAN’T WAIT TO TTYL

  ME 2

  I slip my phone back into my bag as I approach my locker. I open it, then glance at myself in the mirror I have attached to the back of the door. I pull out my lip gloss to shine my lips. I’m meeting Ameerah and Zahara so we can watch the boys’ gymnastic team practice and pop ish, like we normally do. I pull all of my books out of my book bag and place them in my locker, almost forgetting I have a French test tomorrow. Not that I won’t ace it without my book, since I have all of my notes. Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry. I kneel down to get the book from the bottom of my locker when I hear, “Aye, yo, why you always playin’ me?”

  I look up and it’s Jarrell staring down at me with his arm propped up on the door of my locker. “Excuse you?” I say with ’tude, glancing up at him.

  “Yo, you heard me. Why you be playin’ me?”

  At six feet, he towers over me and I feel like a dwarf, looking up at him. I stand up. At least now I don’t feel so short. “Little boy, ain’t nobody playing you.”

  “Little boy?” he asks, looking around. “Where you see a little boy at?”

  I place a hand on my hip. “I’m looking at him.”

  He smirks, folding his arms. “Nah, you got the wrong one. I ain’t that dude. Ain’t nothing little about me, ma. Believe that. And if you stopped frontin’ you’d already know that.”

  “You had your chance, boo. Sophomore year, or did you forget?”

  “Yo, that didn’t count. Give me another chance. I’ve grown since then.”

  I roll my eyes, sucking my teeth. “Whatever. That’s not what I heard. So moving on.”

  He laughs. “Oh, you got jokes, right?”

  I tilt my head. “Like you did this morning?”

  “Nah, you know I was only messin’ around.”

  “Mmmph . . . too bad I’m not,” I say, slamming my locker shut.

  He looks at me all serious and whatnot. “Yo, for real though. What’s good wit’ you?”

  “Nothing. I’m chilling. Why?”

  “I’m saying . . . when we gonna kick it? You know, chill.”

  I blink. “We aren’t gonna do anything. But you can go kick rocks if you’d like.”

  “Damn, girl. Why you gotta be so hard on a brotha?”

  “Because you act real silly and immature. And if you think I’m gonna waste my time with some little boy. Not.”

  “See. There you go with that little boy talk again.”

  I laugh. “Jarrell, boo . . . close ya eyes and picture this . . .”

  “Picture what? You and me?”

  “Close your eyes and I’ll show you.”

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.”

  He eyes me doubtfully. I keep my gaze locked on his. “A’ight, yo, don’t play me, Miyah.”

  I step up into his space, lower my voice as I’m looking up at him. I bat my lashes. “I’m not playing, Jarrell. You said you want me to give you another chance, right?”

  He rubs the hairs on his chin, grinning. “No doubt.”

  “Then close your eyes.”

  “A’ight, yo.” He closes them.

  I stroke the side of his face, then run my fingertip over his soft lips. “And don’t open them until I say so.”

  He smiles. “A’ight, yo . . . what you got good for me?”

  “This,” I say, stepping off, clicking my heels and popping my hips down the hall.

  “Aye, yo,” he yells in back of me. “That’s real effed up, yo.”

  I laugh, throwing my hand up in the air at him. “Whatever!” I snap, not looking back.

  Just as I’m turning the corner to head toward the gym, I see Zahara heading my way. She stops in the middle of the hall, puts a finger up. “Pause, boo!” she yells down to me. I stop. She looks around and I do the same, then we both straighten our backs, throw one hand high up on our hips, then Naomi Campbell–it toward each other. We high-step it, and spin. Catwalk it up, then start cracking up.

  “Girl, you stoopid.”

  “Whatever,” she says, flicking her hair. “Don’t hate ’cause my runway strut was fiyah. And yours was . . . boop-boop. . . tired.”

  “Oh, puhleeeze. You saw how I was bringin’ it.” I snap my fingers and dip to the side. “Bam! You couldn’t stand the heat.”

  We laugh, locking arms and walking down the hall.

  Zahara says, “I’m surprised your mom is letting you hang out.”

  “Oh, the warden has temporarily set me free. She’s out of town for the rest of the week. So I’m free, Miss Sophie.”

  She shakes her head. “And you suuuuuure is ugly,” she says, cracking up with that line from The Color Purple.

  “Whatever,” I say, laughing with her.

  “Annnywaaaay . . . girl, where the heck you been? Ameerah sent you a text. You were supposed to meet us ten minutes ago.”

  I tell her I didn’t get it. That it must have come through while I was at my locker messing with Jarrell.

  She stops. “Jarrell? Ohmygod, what he want now?”

  We start walking again.

  “What else. He came over to my locker asking me why I keep playing him. I’m like, little boy . . . boom! Ain’t nobody playing your dusty butt.”

  She laughs. “Miyah, that boy’s big on you and he’s fine.”

  I laugh with her. “I know, right? But, oops . . . been there, done that!”

  “Next,” we both say, snapping our fingers.

  When we get to the gym, Ameerah and Brittani are already posted up on the top bleacher, scanning the boys and the bodies. “Heeeeeey,” they call out, waving as Zahara and I climb up to where they’re sitting. We sit in the bleachers in front of them.

  “Mmmph, look at all them hard-bodied boys,” Zahara says, leaning into my ear as I pull out my cell, “in them sexy little jumpers.”

  “Girl, I’m not thinking about these hounds,” I say, reading a text from Sincere. He wants to know what time I’m gonna be home. I text him back and tell him I’ll be home by eight.

  Y SO LATE?

  I HAVE DANCE

  O. I FORGOT. WAT U DOIN NOW?

  CHILLIN’ WIT’ MY GIRLS

  “Ohh, no . . . pause, boo,” Zahara starts up. “I know you not gonna sit up here with your girls, texting ya man. That is so not cute, okay?”

  “And it’s rude,” Ameerah adds, sucking her teeth.

  “Okay, okay. . . chill. Just let me text him this one last thing, then I’m done.”

  Zahara pops her lips. “Mmmhmmm. Make it quick.”

  I text Sincere and tell him that I’m going to call him on my way to the dance studio, then toss my phone back into my
bag. “Happy?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Very,” she says, rubbing my back. “You have all night to talk and text ya boo-thang. Right now, this is our time. So act like you know.”

  I give her the finger. And for the next forty minutes we start clowning so hard, until the coach yells at us and tells us we gotta bounce. I hang around the school with my girls for another thirty minutes or so, until it’s time for me to go. We all walk out together, making plans to hang out at the mall on Thursday after school.

  Ameerah and Zahara catch a ride with Brittani and her sister, Briana. I watch as they all pile up in her Volvo. They wait for me to get into my car, then drive off when I pull out of my parking space. I press the phone icon on the steering wheel to call Sincere.

  “Wassup, baby?” he says the minute he answers. His sexy voice fills the inside of my car and warms me.

  I smile. “You.”

  “Oh, word? That’s wassup. How was your day?”

  “It was good,” I say, making a right onto South Orange Avenue. “But hearing your voice has made it a whole lot better. And seeing you last night brought me good luck.”

  “Oh, word. How?”

  “I’m off punishment.”

  “It’s about time,” he says, sounding hyped. “What changed your mom’s mind?”

  I laugh. “She had to go out of town on business and she knew my dad would let me do whatever I wanted while she was gone. But, trust me. I could tell she didn’t want to take me off.”

  “Well, I’m glad she did.”

  I can tell he’s smiling. “I wanna see you tonight.”

  “I wanna see you, too. What time do you have to be in the house?”

  “Ten o’clock, ’cause it’s a school night.” I think about trying to sneak out in the middle of the night, but dismiss the idea ’cause a) it wouldn’t be cool, and b) Daddy sleeps with both eyes open, so sneaking out is definitely a no-no. “He might let me stay out a half hour later if I ask.”

  “A’ight, so how ’bout you come through on your way home from dance? My parents are out until late tonight, so I have the whole house to myself for a few hours.”

  My smile widens. “I can’t wait. I’ll see you then.”

  “I’ll be here waiting.”

  “You better be,” I say, pulling into the parking lot of the dance studio. We talk a few minutes more, then disconnect.

  12

  Dressed in white tights and a pink leotard, I slip in my Adele 19 CD, and press track twelve. I take my position. Arms extended, wrists arched over my head. Feet in fifth position, I wait. The intro to “Hometown Glory” starts playing and I begin. Dancing en pointe—on my toes—has become my life for the last four years. Something most ballerinas aspire to.

  Instinctively, I breathe in the music, going into full pointe, then battement—a fluttering movement of the foot—then half pointe. I allow myself to float along with the music. Everything in me comes alive. Plié, plié, pirouette, then into a double pirouette.

  And another double turn.

  And another.

  I am floating. Twirling and bending, fluttering like a butterfly, feeling free. In ballet, I am not Daddy’s little princess. I am not my mother’s enemy. I am grown and sexy. Graceful and sophisticated. I am a ballerina. I close my eyes, whipping into another double turn. My steps are light. Pointe, leap, balance. There’s something so beautiful in the way Adele sings this song. Piqué turns en dedans, pas de bourrée. Each leap is faster than the one before. I jump and turn, leaping into another perfect plié in arabesque—balancing on the supporting leg, extending the free leg behind. I go into full pointe, then half, stopping in a penché. My leg extended behind me. Head and neck lifted.

  The music stops.

  And then it is over.

  Miss Johvonna claps. Her smile is wide; she’s clearly pleased with my solo. She’s been my ballet master since I was twelve. Classically trained, she danced professionally overseas for ten years before returning to the States and opening her own studio, then starting her own production company. She has no children and no husband because she chose to marry ballet.

  “That was beautiful,” she says, smiling. “You are as swift as a gazelle and as graceful as a swan. But you must remember, Kamiyah. There are no small details in ballet. If you wish to be the best, you must do the best. In your steps, in each movement, you must tell a story from your heart. You must pull from your soul. Be as cunning as a kitten and as sly as a fox. Never let them see you coming. Be swift. Be sharp. Be precise. Do you understand?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Good. You rest now.”

  I curtsy, then zip past the staring eyes of the others. Jealous hoes, hating on me. Pulling a white towel out of my oversize bag, I pat my face, the back of my neck, then the center of my chest. I sit on the mat with my back against the wall, and remove my pointe shoes. I am exhausted and exhilarated. My feet ache.

  Miss Johvonna claps her hands twice. The rest of the dancers come to life. She instructs them to take their spots at the barre, in first position. And then she begins snapping out combinations. Making them all start from the top when everyone’s form isn’t to her liking. Miss Johvonna demands nothing but the best out of her students. And she demands that her students want nothing but the best from themselves. She pushes you, and expects you to push back beyond your limits.

  I pull out my cell and text Sincere, smiling. CAN U MASSAGE MY FEET 4 ME?

  It takes him ten minutes and thirty-two seconds to finally text me back. I know because I watched and waited to see how long it would take him.

  LOL, K I GUESS . . . WHEN U COMIN?

  NOW

  K

  I quickly gather my things, jump in the shower, change, then quietly slip out into the night air, with thoughts of Sincere racing through my head. As I get into my car, I wonder why it took him so long to text me back.

  Girl, you know how these boys do. Sneaky dogs!

  But Sincere’s different.

  He’s still a boy. And boys can’t always be trusted around other girls.

  My cell rings, disrupting my thoughts. It’s Erika. I answer, pressing the phone icon on the steering wheel. “Hey.”

  “Hey, you,” she says. “How’s that new car riding?”

  I smile, stopping at a light. “Like a dream come true. I love it.”

  “I heard you were on punishment for a few days. I know that must have been a bummer.”

  I sigh. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Who told you?”

  “Daddy mentioned it the other day when I was talking to him.”

  “Yeah, the Wick—” I catch myself from calling her by her nickname. “Mom really tried to do me in. But it didn’t last long. She took me off before she could really torture me.”

  She laughs. “She must be out of town.”

  “Yup.”

  “I remember those days all too well. Some things never change, I see.”

  I sigh. “Oh, trust me. It’s worse. She’s worse. I can’t wait to get away from her.”

  Erika keeps laughing. “Girl, Mom can’t be that bad.”

  “Mmmph. You’re no longer living with her. You have no idea. She nuts up over every little thing. She’s always looking for a fight about something. I can’t stand it.”

  “If I survived, so can you. And I was the child from hell.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, true. Still . . .”

  “Listen, Mom means well.”

  I huff. “Yeah, right. The only thing she means to do is ruin my life every chance she gets.”

  She’s still laughing. “Well, hey. Look on the bright side. You have one more year to go, then you’ll be off to school.”

  “Yes! Thank you, Jesus! And I can finally be away from her, even if it is only across the river.”

  “Speaking of which,” she says, “how’s school going?”

  I make a left onto South Orange Avenue. “Good. You know I’m doing well in my honor classes.”

  “That’s because I have a ve
ry smart sister.”

  “And don’t forget talented.”

  “That too.”

  “And fly,” I add.

  “And spoiled rotten.”

  I laugh with her. “Yeah, that too. How are things with you and Winston?”

  “We’re good. We’ve finally set a date, which is why I called you first.”

  “Ohmygod, for reeeal?” I say excitedly. Erika and Winston have been engaged like forever. “It’s about time. Y’all were taking mad long.”

  She laughs. “It hasn’t been that long. Only a year and some change.”

  “Well, that sounds like a long time to me.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Well, we both wanted to wait until we were almost done with law school before we actually set a date. But the plans have changed a bit.”

  “Oh, yeah? How?”

  “Well . . . and don’t you open your mouth to say anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  “No. I mean it, Kamiyah. Not a word.”

  “Okay, okay. I said I won’t say anything. I promise. Geesh. You act like I can’t keep a secret.”

  “Oh, like you used to when I used to sneak in and out of the house?”

  I laugh. “I only told on you when you stopped giving me money.”

  “It was blackmail.”

  “I was only eight,” I say, making a left onto Grove Road.

  “And you still had a big mouth,” she says, laughing with me.

  “Well, that was then. This is now. I’m older. And trust me. I know how to not say anything.”

  “I mean it, Kamiyah. Don’t even tell your little girlfriends, either.”

  “Okay, I won’t. Dang. Now will you tell me what it is, please?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  I scream. “Ohmygod! I’m gonna be an aunt. That’s great! How many months are you?”

  “I’m about six weeks,” she says.

  “Ohmygod. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So when’s the wedding?”

  “May nineteenth. And I want you to be my maid of honor.”

  “Oooh, I can’t wait! When are you gonna tell Daddy and Mom?”