Show and Tell

by Niobia Bryant

  One of my shaped brows lifts slightly. “Why?” I ask in the nicest tone and manner possible.

  “Why not?” she counters mysteriously.

  I know the luncheon of which she speaks. I even read somewhere that Star Jones, Holly Robinson Peete, Kimora Lee Simmons, and many more are supposed to attend. Do I want to have a fabulous meal and rub elbows with these celebrities? Hell yeah.

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  Carolyn laughs like I said the funniest thing in the world. “Oh dear, don’t worry about that.”

  “Can I get back to you?” I ask, pretending to sound young, dumb, and unsure. I want to go. Do not get me wrong. But I am a little tired of this woman jerking my chain and catching me off guard.

  She paused for a noticeable moment before saying, “Get back to me but remember the early bird gets the worm, Danielle. In life you never give another bitch the chance to take your spot.”

  Feeling properly reprimanded for not jumping all over her invitation, I still stick to my guns. “I had a prior engagement and I would not want to be rude and accept without making sure I can change my plans.”

  She paused again. “Well, call me as soon as you can. Here’s my cell number.”

  Even as I am writing it down I am wondering if I upset her.

  “Well, I have to go. I have a spa appointment. Danielle, make sure you make the right decision.”

  The line goes dead.

  I cannot explain what made me drive through Newark instead of hopping on the interstate to get to Mohammed’s house. Newark is called the comeback city and I cannot disagree that some areas look better. The rough and rowdy crowd is gone on blocks where they used to rule the streets. Hard-working people now live in the townhouses that replaced ten story multi-apartment dwellings that bred apathy and crime (too many people in one spot is never a good thing).

  Still, there is a lot more to be done for sure.

  I turn my car on the corner of Nineteenth Avenue and Nineteenth Street. There is nothing but the remnants of the house left after the fire but in my mind’s eye I can see it and my days in it so clearly . . .

  “Danielle! What are you doing in there?”

  I hear Mrs. Davies but I ain’t listenin’ to her. I’m too busy flippin’ through the pages of magazines and imaginin’ that their great lives, fancy cars, and pretty clothes on the pages are mine. The magazines are years old but I don’t care.

  I stay in the bedroom a lot. Most of the other foster kids are in the livin’ room watchin’ TV but I just want to be alone in here whenever I can. Sleepin’ four to a bedroom is crazy. Ain’t no space in this place that you can call your own. No secrets. No hidin’ places. Just two bunk beds squeezed in these four walls. And between the four foster kids stayin’ here there still ain’t enough stuff to fill the closet and the drawers. Closet and drawers I don’t use. Ain’t no need shoving my few pants, couple of T-shirts, and my precious magazines in no drawers.

  I been here for a year and I still ain’t tryna call this place home. I done been down the road of gettin’ comfortable and just havin’ the rug snatched from under me when they come to take me to another house and another family that ain’t my house or my family. Or another group home that don’t feel nothin’ like home.

  The bedroom door swings open and Mrs. Davies walks in lookin’ mad as always.

  She already got bad ass kids of her own. I don’t know why she asks for all these foster kids when she mad about it. Wait a minute. Yes I do. I know about the money they get for each of us. Humph.

  “Where you get them magazines from? You steal them, girl?” she says to me in the nastiest voice. Dang on shame I been livin’ here for a year and every time she see me readin’ these same old magazines she ask that same dumb question.

  I always gave her the same dumb answer.

  “No ma’am, these my same old magazines.”

  She bends down and snatches one from me, looks at the cover, sucks her teeth and drops it back down on the floor where I’m sittin’ before she turns and leaves the room. Same-o-same-o.

  I shrug and go back to readin’. I compared sequin gowns to my washed out T-shirt and high-heeled sandals to my no-name sneakers with the big Velcro straps across the top. These black stars talkin’ ’bout big mansions and lots of cars and I had my squeaky bottom bunk bed.

  I got dreams. I promised myself that I can’t do nothin’ ’bout this now but I ain’t gone be poor forever. There’s a better life out there for me and I’m gonna find it.

  It was hard growing up and knowing nobody wanted to adopt me and my foster parents mainly had me and the others there for the money. I guess I was lucky to stay in that same foster care until I turned eighteen instead of getting bounced around some more. Still, I never did let myself feel like it was my home. And I never gave up on my dreams . . . until now.

  I love Mohammed. I really do but I still feel like there are greater things out there for me to see and to have. Sometimes it feels like loving him made me forget my dreams. My ambition.

  There’s a better life out there for me and I’m gonna find it.

  Why can’t I have it all?

  I take my foot off the brake and steer my car up Nineteenth Avenue and make a left on Eastern Parkway towards the other side of town to the Weequahic section. I hardly notice the people, the lights, or even the cars I pass as I make my way to Mohammed. He has a surprise for our Valentine’s Day and I am ready to be with my man.

  Still, my mind is on that luncheon tomorrow. What would it hurt to go?

  As I sit to the light on the corner of Clinton Avenue and Eastern Parkway, I reach in my purse for my cell phone. I scroll through my address for Carolyn (yes, I programmed her number in my phone).

  It rings just once.

  “Hello, Danielle.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  She laughs lightly. “I only give my cellular number to friends and your number is the only one I don’t recognize. So . . . have you made up your mind?”

  “Yes. I would love to go.”

  “No conflicting appointments?” she asks a little mockingly.

  The light turns green and I make the left turn onto Clinton Avenue. “No.”

  “Good. Take the whole day off and get yourself all beautiful for the luncheon. In fact, I will call Saks and let them know you will be by in the morning to purchase a new outfit . . . on me, of course.”

  My mouth falls open. “Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much, Mrs. Ing—. Carolyn,” I tell her as I steer the car with one hand and hold my cell phone with the other.

  “Of course, no worries, dear. I will send my car to pick you up in the morning to run your errands and bring you to the luncheon.”

  “I do not know what to say, Carolyn,” I say as I turn my car onto the driveway behind Mohammed’s battered SUV.

  “No worries,” she says in a dismissive tone. “I have to go. Valentine’s Day and all. There’s a dick to be sucked and fucked and gifts to be plucked. I’m sure you understand.”

  I laugh. “Yes, I do.” After I climb from the car I grab the gift bag holding the silk pajamas and sex toys I brought for Mohammed and me tonight.

  “See you tomorrow, dear.”

  “Bye-bye.” I can hardly believe my luck. I just found my own fairy godmother. Just call me Cinderella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh.

  I close my phone just as I jog up the stairs and use my key to walk into the house.

  Surprise and pleasure stop me at the door. Candles and rose petals are everywhere and there by the fireplace atop a fake fur blanket is Mohammed, naked, hard, and ready with a red ribbon tied around his dick. I smile as I kick off my shoes and close the door. By the time I reach him, I have stripped off my clothes and I am laying down beside him just as naked as I please to unwrap my gift.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Moët

  It’s funny how good times are always followed by the bad times for me. My own little way of knowing that I’m not special or blessed. Classic exa
mples of the Lord giveth and He taketh away.

  My first lover is extraordinarily good in bed but he’s the sinful pastor of my family’s church.

  I am blessed with my first pregnancy but the father is that same sinful pastor who wants nothing more than for me to have an abortion.

  I fall in love with Bones, a high-profile, wealthy celebrity but he accuses me of entrapping him with my second pregnancy.

  I began to date the man of my dream. I find out he’s a virgin sworn to abstinence.

  The paternity results proved without a shadow of doubt that Bones is the father. I just got served papers that he’s suing me for full custody of our daughter.

  “I ain’t letting that . . . that . . . motherfucker take my daughter,” I say in a hard voice.

  Dom walks out of the kitchen in a wifebeater and leggings on her slender frame. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open as I look at her. I’m not saved but I have really tried hard not to curse anymore. Now here is this Negro making me lose what little religion I do have.

  “Today I had to take three kids away from their mother because she gave them liquor to make them go to sleep and he wants to take my daughter away from me like I’m unfit. There’s a mother on the news who let her toddlers smoke weed and had the nerve to videotape it and this asshole wants to take my daughter from me.”

  Dom sits the carton of ice cream she’s holding onto the table before she bends down to scoop Tiffany out of her carrier. “Kimani, go in the room and watch TV,” she says.

  “He is so busy chasing a bunch of Supahead wannabes that he hasn’t seen Tiffany since she was born. Hell, he’s denied her from the jump street.” I am shaking with anger as I stalk back and forth across the living room. I hate the tears that fill my eyes. I hate them more when they fall down my cheeks. “He’s just mad that the test proves he’s my daughter’s father.”

  Out the corner of my eyes I see Dom lay my baby in the rocking cradle by the unlit fireplace. My baby. My baby. I walk across the room and move Dom out of the way to gather her into my arms. I press my face into her neck and I can’t imagine not being able to hold her and smell her and kiss her whenever I want.

  “Heavenly Father, show me the way, Lord,” I whisper near her cheek. “Show me what to do—”

  “What you should do is call his ass and talk it out ’cause y’all really do need to get this shit together.”

  I love Dom. I do. But I wish like hell that Cristal or Alizé was here instead. I know she mean well but Dom—therapy or no therapy—is still a little rough around the edges with her advice.

  I settle down onto the couch with my daughter held close to me with my tears wetting her as I pray like I have never prayed before.

  I pray for the Lord to show me the way.

  I pray that the strength I will need to fight for my daughter comes to me.

  I pray that the anger I feel dies down so that I can think clearly.

  I pray for Him to forgive me for my sins.

  I pray that He shows Bones another way.

  I pray and I pray and I pray some more.

  “Jesus. Jesus, please don’t let him take my daughter. Please.”

  I feel a hand on my shoulder shake me gently and I look up surprised to see Taquan coming around the couch to sit beside me. He uses his thumb to wipe the tracks of my tears and I close my eyes to lean my face into his hand. When he settles back to pull me and Tiffany into his embrace I let myself lean against him.

  “How long I been praying?”

  “Dom called me and I came right over,” he whispers into my hair as he rocks us both gently.

  I forgot that we had plans for a Valentine’s dinner.

  Without me even asking, he lowers his head. “Heavenly Father, we call on You for we are in need,” he begins to pray with reverence.

  God, I am so glad that he’s here.

  Girl Talk

  Moët, Cristal, Alizé, and Dom all sat around on the large white sofa in their living room. They all were dressed casually and enjoying eating straight from various containers of ice cream. Each had things on their minds and it felt good just to be in the company of friends.

  “Winnin’ the lottery would come in handy right ’bout now,” Dom says, wearing shorts and a tank and crossing her legs Indian style. Her brows came together as she thought of her bills.

  Cristal thought of the glamorous life she craved.

  Alizé thought about paying off her school loans.

  Moët thought about being able to afford attorney fees to win custody of her child.

  “Tell me about it,” they all said in unison before digging down deep into their ice creams.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alizé

  Cameron’s eyes are on me as I give my best runway walk to his desk. I keep my eyes on him. I can hardly believe he has summoned me to his office and I’m glad that I chose the ankle-length fitted skirt and silk blouse by Claiborne. My heart is beating mad crazy as we keep looking at each other. I’m thinking he looks sexy as hell with his tailored shirt slightly open at the neck with his rust tie loosened and the sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. I wonder what’s on his mind.

  “Cameron, this is ridiculous,” I say as I smile down at him and flip my jet-black hair over my shoulder. I am in full flirt mode.

  At my informal tone he leans back in his chair and sits his square chin in his hand. “And exactly what is ridiculous?”

  “You pretending that we weren’t friends last year . . . that you never said you loved me,” I say softly as I trail my hand around the edge of his desk as I come around to stand above him. “Like I said . . . ridiculous.”

  Cameron shakes his head at me and smiles sardonically. “Now this is inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate?” I ask with a little laugh. I cock my head to the damn side and pull my skirt up around my waist to expose my matching lace thongs. Oh, I’m a bitch on a mission. Trust. Before his behind can blink I kick a leg over his lap, sit on the edge of his desk before him, and spread my knees wide.

  Cameron’s eyes dart down to my sweet business in his face before his eyes dart to his closed office door. “Monica—”

  “I locked it on my way in,” I tell him in that husky and sexy fuck me voice as I shift my hands down to pull my thong to the side to trace a finger against my throbbing clit with a purr.

  “So you don’t love me. You don’t want to date me . . . but you want to fuck me?” he asks with attitude just before I use my finger to trace my pussy juices onto his mouth.

  He starts to lick it but bites his bottom lip to keep his tongue locked in. “But I do—”

  Bzzzz.

  He rolls to the left and quickly pushes a button on the intercom system. “Yes, Delaney.”

  “Your fiancée is here to see you.”

  Cameron jumps to his feet and reaches out quickly to snap my legs shut. “I actually called you in here to tell you that my fiancée is having a little issue with your working here.”

  “And?” I ask with attitude as he places strong hands on my forearms and lifts me from the desk with way too much ease.

  “And I need you to stop throwing me those vibes before more than my fiancée picks up on it,” he says sternly, as he quickly straightens his tie and unrolls his sleeves.

  I smooth my skirt back down over my hips. I could strip naked and wait on wifey but if Cameron is angry at me for the little stunt that it defeats my purpose of winning him back before the wedding date. A date that is getting closer and closer. “So . . . you don’t love me anymore,” I say softly, trying to overcome my natural reaction to put up my guard and protect my heart.

  “And you never loved me . . . remember?”

  I turn and offer him a smile that is the opposite of my sadness.

  “I moved on, Monica, and I need for you to respect that.”

  I walk back across the room and stand before him. I look him in those eyes and take a deep breath. “I love you,” I admit to him softly.


  His eyes widen in surprise just as the doorknob rattles.

  I place my hands on his shoulders and raise up on my toes to whisper against his lips, “I can love you better than she can, Cameron.”

  His head lowers to mine and I feel excitement course over my body.

  The doorknob rattles again.

  Cameron jerks back from me and rushes over to open the door.

  I got the message. Serena comes first.

  Tears fill my eyes and I walk past them and out the door, leaving him to answer any questions she may have. I got enough problems of my own. I lost the man that I love forever and it hurt like hell.

  That night when I get home I am immediately on my guard because these days it’s a regular damn barrel of surprises with my moms. I’ll be fine, she said. Don’t worry about me, she said. That was a big old lie. My mama done straight lost her damn mind.

  At first I was happy that she started to hang out with a couple of her friends from work. Yes, Ma, get out the house. Socialize, my dumb ass told her. I didn’t know she was gonna step out the house with skin tight jeans, stilettos, and enough makeup to shut down MAC and Cover Girl. Hell, she was my mama not a damn hoochie mama.

  And then one night last week she didn’t come home at all. My mama stayed out all night and then gone come home early in the morning looking like she been in a wrestling match.

  Elaine Winters is straight trippin’ all up and through here. My daddy’s getting married and she’s going through a damn midlife crisis. Hell, I still don’t know where she stayed that night. Had the nerve to tell me to “get up outta her business.” Say what? Say fucking who?

  I’m starting to think she needs to get her ass on the couch and talk some shit over with Dr. Locke.

  I walk into the kitchen and there is nothing popping on the stove. My mama used to cook everyday. Once I pull off my coat and step out of my heels, I make me a quick ham and cheese sandwich, grab my briefcase, and head out the kitchen.

  I take a big bite out of my sandwich and stroll into the living room. “Ma . . .”