by JM Holmes
One hand rested gently on her shoulder, the other still had a fistful of her hair. She couldn’t move. She was going to throw up, then her throat and mouth filled. She felt force on her head for a long time while she labored to swallow. When his grip released, she sat up quickly to ease the pressure from the console, sniffled, and swallowed again. The taste was unexpectedly bitter, almost citrus. Her throat hurt. She pinched his side hard. He laughed again. She felt stupid, younger than she wanted to be. Her eyes still watered as he drove her home, but she kept them locked on him, staring the way her mom did when she wanted to burn a hole in her father. She looked for something new that she hadn’t seen before. She wanted to ask if he’d done that a lot. Really she wanted to know if that’s how it always was. The speed and force felt unlike him.
When she opened the door to go, the car lights came on and she searched his face. She wasn’t dumb enough to say he made her feel “special,” but she also thought she was more than a piece of ass to him. He listened when she spoke. He had things to say other than Tayla has DSL—which she’d seen written on desks after she made out with Max Gillette on a staircase in eighth grade. Max was a punk. She’d cussed him out, but that didn’t stop him and his friends from talking. Candace said that’s all boys could talk about and that the more they talked about it, the less they got.
Rolls’ eyes were low but steadied on her face like she was his sketch pad. He was searching too. He reached out and touched her shoulder. She shrugged his hand away. But he moved his hand up to her face and rubbed her lips gently with the edge of his thumb. He looked about five minutes away from sleep. She kept her face stiff and said nothing. When his car was gone, she tried to trace her own lips, prodding them to see how they really felt.
ROLLS GOT A lot of shit because Tayla was still in high school. But really he caught shade because she was thick in the way that drove men ragged, and his boys were slumping. He caught shade because she was light-skinned in the way that black actresses are always two tones lighter than the men they’re paired with. He caught shade because she had the kind of lips that could suck the brown off and his boys got fuzzy-headed when they looked at her. Slumps are a motherfucker. So when he bragged about getting dome, they told him it didn’t count if he didn’t pipe.
After that first night, she didn’t return his calls for a week, but he knew she’d enjoyed it somewhere deep down. He’d felt it with his own hand. He also knew the women at college would crucify him for thinking that way, though they’d ask for the same treatment behind closed doors. The same women he’d been in photography class with. The ones who said his photos “told stories.”
His scholarship allowed him to meet a lot of people who talked about art, some inspiring, some full of shit. The things he’d picked up working in his father’s camera shop down by the Benny’s on Central had taken him a long way. The shop sold old Nikons and Canons and developed pictures taken on similarly old machines. They had a good core of loyal customers. Most of the day, when his dad wasn’t fixing cameras or trying to make sales, he sat back in his plush leather chair in his office flipping through books of Ansel Adams and Gordon Parks. Rolls worked in the darkroom all day and left his phone behind the cash register. His dad was an older man, gnarled and wiry, who’d cycled through marriages. Rolls was from his third, the one that’d stuck long enough to make a kid, though his mom had ridden into the sunset with a pretty boy from Denver who made her feel “new.” That all happened before Rolls turned one.
He and his pops never talked much about anything except which safelights matched which types of paper and the different lenses to use based on the camera’s sensor size, but he didn’t mind. It was their shared language. He wondered if his pops had talked more before the split but never asked.
Rolls liked the 35mm lenses that made the world a little wider. He liked looking at photos with stories near the edges. He had taken a wide shot of a white woman walking down Broadway. On the left edge, a man is clapping his hands, hunched over, staring at her ass but with an insane expression. He loved that one because of the philosophy, not that ass rules the planet, but that most of the world exists outside our perception. Though on his worst days he also might’ve thought the former. He liked expansive movies too—Westerns, just like his dad. Sometimes they talked movies, but never women. His dad thought since he couldn’t hold his own relationships together, he had no place to offer wisdom. Still, Rolls was thankful for the words they did share. His boys knew a lot worse.
ON A FRIDAY in mid-July, after a week of ignored phone calls, he figured Tayla might open up. He didn’t know if he missed her. His niggas would just say that the thirst is real. That explanation seemed simpler. Back home, the thirst was understood. He understood it at school too. He just didn’t speak on it.
On his lunch break, he hit Tayla up with a text. After work, he read her reply: Pick me up after 10. Britt’s coming. Britt had a mole on her cheek the size of a Hershey’s Kiss, and a part between her front teeth. But if that’s what it took to see Tayla again, he was down.
TAYLA SAT IN the back of the car with Britt.
“I like this track,” Tayla said.
“You don’t know Barrington Levy,” he said.
“You don’t know me,” she said, and smiled.
Rolls turned up the CD and pulled out of the neighborhood. He was already scheming on how to get rid of Britt. The girls at school would call him sexist. He remembered trying to tell Rye that when he called his car a good girl, he was making a gendered statement. Rye’d looked at him like he’d just shit out his mouth and said that if Rolls was gay he could just tell him. Rolls dropped it.
As they whispered in the back, he thought about the sorority girls at Trinity on the nights they went out, tight black dresses like a second layer of skin, flooding frat house living rooms. He felt whiplash.
When he pulled up to the party, Dub was on the bottom-floor porch burning the last bit of a spliff. His neighbors bummed weed off him sometimes when they were desperate, and, in exchange, Dub had free run of their porch and caught no complaints when nights got wild.
“Ladies, it’s all upstairs,” he said. He waved with his off hand to the stairs on the side of the house.
The girls looked at Rolls.
“It’s just a party,” he said.
“We’ll be right with you,” Dub said, trying to sound smooth.
The girls went through the door and disappeared and Rolls took the roach from Dub to pull the last hit.
“Nigga, you gotta stop bringing jailbait to my house,” Dub said. “Who the fuck is Skidmark Sally?”
Rolls coughed out smoke with a laugh and then threw the roach. “She’s Tayla’s friend. It was the only way she’d come.”
“You strung out over some high school chick?” Dub said.
“Fuck outta here.” Rolls turned to head up.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Rolls stopped. “You hit yet?” Dub asked.
Rolls continued to the door.
“I worry about you sometimes,” Dub said. “Little Rakim, falling in love.” Rolls didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning back again. “I bet you taking her out for fancy dinners and writing her poems and shit too.”
Upstairs the place was packed. It was small on the top floor, slanted ceilings and people bunched in corners. The only light came from above the stove. A cooler of jungle juice sat on the half wall that separated the tiny kitchen from the dance floor, which was just an unfurnished living room. People mobbed around the cooler, making it hard to move anywhere. Dub let his inner circle into his room to smoke with a towel under the door and the window open, usually just the many women he wanted to get with and never would. Dub was the type to try and leverage situations, had been that way since middle school, and everyone made a show of dapping him up or telling him the party was live. But Dub was too busy checking up on the women who hadn’t told him off yet. Either that or he was keeping folks from fighting, which was tough because the liquor was stocked, the place wa
s hot, and too many dudes were getting no play. Rolls posted on the edge of the dance floor and talked with Rye and Gio and a few other people while he clocked Dub’s work ethic. Girls came and went trying to get at Rye, the only one who was actually wifed up. The cooler slowly emptied.
Tayla and Britt stood together just outside Rolls’ circle of friends, laughing and talking with people he knew. Men came in a steady stream at Tayla and checked her all the way down to the turquoise heels that matched her skirt, which made her skin glow. The party was so hot, people’s hair stuck to their foreheads. Tayla’s spirals began to droop in the humidity.
Someone Rolls didn’t know eventually cut between the two girls and his boys and leaned real close to whisper in Tayla’s ear. She threw her head back in easy laughter, a gesture Rolls had seen on her before when he cracked jokes. The next moment Rolls had his arms around her waist. Then Dub and Gio were next to him. Gio pulled Britt back into the mix and Dub looked the kid up and down.
“You’re my li’l bro’s friend, right?” Dub said to him.
The kid sucked his teeth. “You know me, man.”
“Yeah. That cooler’s running out quick.” Dub pointed into the kitchen.
The kid glanced at the mass of people behind him, then back at Dub. He turned to leave.
“My bro’s always inviting trouble,” Dub said.
With his arms still around Tayla’s waist, Rolls told her that he wanted to dance.
She nodded at the dance floor. “I can’t dance like that.” Someone’d brought a cheap multicolored disco light that threw spots of pink and green on the bodies as they moved in the darkness.
“Yes you can,” Rolls said.
She tried to face him, but he held his grip around her waist.
“Pretend you’re all alone at home,” he said. He kissed her on the back of her head through a mass of hair.
“I’m not going to leave Britt,” she said. She broke free and dragged her friend over.
Rolls turned to Dub. “Dance with Britt.”
“Uh, I got a bum-ass knee,” he said. Britt’s face looked pinched.
Rolls reached an arm out and pulled Dub over. They huddled. “C’mon, nigga, sacrifice makes the heart stronger,” he said, patting on his chest.
“Fuck that confused-ass Confucius shit.”
Rolls glanced back at Britt and Tayla to see if they’d heard. Britt was pretending to be busy, moving her hips and surveying the packed room, and Tayla looked impatient.
“Help me out,” Rolls said.
The music swelled and the noise shook the place like the inside of a bass speaker.
Dub grabbed Gio and forced him into the huddle. “Ask G. He’s a sensitive college boy too.”
“Ask me what?” Gio said.
“Dance with Britt?” Rolls said.
Gio glanced behind at Tayla and Britt, who was getting animated, trying to leave, probably, saying the party was wack and all the other lame-ass things people say when they’re getting no love.
“My brother.” Rolls smiled like a Bible salesman.
“Fuck,” Gio said. He turned and took Britt onto the dance floor.
Dancehall came on the speakers and everybody lost it. Tayla’s body moved stiff in Rolls’ hands. He felt from her stomach to the meat of her thighs and let his hands stay there, rubbing her down. They swayed together, gently at first. Tayla’s body eased into the rhythm, the way Rolls imagined she moved when no one was watching. He grabbed her waist and started to thrust light. Tayla tilted her head back and grinded herself into him. Then as the drums of the song picked up, she bent forward and became a new person all at once, arching her back and swinging herself into Rolls with the heart of the song. She felt him rise to attention and liked the pressure, wanted to show him that she could get down, was down. He started stroking like he was hitting it from behind, like he was trying to bruise something, and she knew she was driving him wild, his hands all over her shoulders, down to her hips and ass. When he lifted one of her legs, she lost the rhythm for a second and he realized he had broken the trance. He kept moving with the beat, but they’d lost it. He tried to push through the awkwardness. She flailed a little with her leg and he held her tight so she didn’t lose her balance. The song switched and Rolls looked around the cramped room. Gio was trying not to make eye contact with Britt, who was smiling all thirsty. Rolls wanted to dance another song but Tayla said no. The spotted lights kept blinking at shutter speed.
JUST BEFORE DAWN, only Dub, Gio, Rolls, and the two girls were left. Rye had gone home to his girl. Dub poured the rest of the juice from the cooler into cups, only about a sip for everyone.
The girls picked up dirty cups and Rolls said to put them down. “I wouldn’t fuck with those,” he said.
“Let them experiment,” Dub said. He made his way around the small apartment with a giant trash bag.
Rolls poured his drink into Gio’s. “I’m headed out. They gotta get home before the sun comes up.”
“Help me clean first,” Dub said.
“We funded this shit,” Rolls said.
“So? It’s my house.”
“Your mom’s house,” Gio said.
Dub stopped cleaning and stood up straight. Gio shot him a look to see where Dub was gonna take it. Tayla finished her drink, leaned on Rolls.
“I gotta piss,” Rolls said.
Tayla let her head lean back and her hair hung like Spanish moss. Dub looked Gio dead in the eye and handed him the bag. He followed Rolls down the small hallway. He was inside and shutting the bathroom door before Rolls had even unbuttoned his pants.
“What you want?” Rolls said.
“Those girls are ready.”
Rolls turned away from the toilet, his belt still undone, and stared at Dub with tight eyes.
“Look, either you can get pussy, or we can all get some,” Dub said.
“You bitched at me for bringing young girls and now you want in?” Rolls tried to imagine a girl from Trinity at Dub’s that night. How things would’ve gone down.
“You love her,” Dub said. “Don’t you?”
Rolls cocked his head at Dub. “Don’t talk crazy.”
Dub just waited for more explanation.
Rolls’ mind flashed through the scenes, coming slowly to resolution—the dimness of the empty living room, their five figures dark and twisting, the dawn not yet strong enough to chase them out. For all he knew, they might be down. Rolls took out his phone. It was just after four. He tried bringing up Dub’s girl. “What about Mone?”
“Don’t play that. This shit don’t count,” Dub said.
Rolls didn’t know how it would go. The whole frame was muddy. He imagined Dub on Tayla. “Nah, man,” he said.
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“Seconds, nigga?” Rolls said. “Really?”
Dub cut his eyes at him.
“You want to see my dick that bad?” Rolls unzipped his pants.
“Pause,” Dub said, and held his hand up. “Look, if that’s wifey, just say it.”
For a long while, the drip of the faucet was the only sound.
Dub smirked. “Those college bunnies got you weak in the knees.”
The white-yellow light made the shower curtain and the beige paint around the mirror look dirty even though Rolls knew Dub’s mom washed it down every Saturday.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. “I’ll piss outside,” Rolls said. As he walked out past Dub, he yelled Britt’s name. She came quick. He grabbed Tayla by the arm and she tried to jerk free on the way out.
“I worry about you sometimes,” Dub said. His voice echoed in the narrow staircase, cramped enough that you almost had to crawl out.
AFTER HE DROPPED Britt off, Rolls headed back down by the river with Tayla. He tried to get her in the backseat and when she said no, he was rougher than their first night. Again he could feel her wetness. He even stuck his thumb in her and she gasped but then pushed his hand away. She made him slow down and convinced herself that
was the real him, taking his time, being attentive with her. She couldn’t lie, she wanted it in the backseat too, but not yet, not this easy. She’d seen how the fast girls got treated—passed around. Her mom said it was a damn shame they didn’t know their own worth.
After he came, he drove her home. It was a nice neighborhood with trees and lawns and space. He pulled far enough down the street that her house wasn’t in sight and parked, left the engine running. The sky was dangerously light, penetrating the corners of the dark world. Her face was softly lit by purple sky. He wondered if she knew the things that were moving on the edge of the frame—hungry, hunting for a face like hers.
“What do your friends think of me?” she asked.
He waited too long. “Baby,” he said, trying to play it off, “they think the world of you.”
She looked ahead silent and stone-faced. He wanted to tell her they thought she was a dime, but that wouldn’t be good enough, and the truth, that they thought he should pipe and quit, definitely wouldn’t cut it. Especially since he was desperate to convince himself the same shit. He took a deep breath.
“Do you believe in good and evil?” he asked.
“What?” She slumped back in her seat. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Fuck it. Forget it.”
“No, what do you mean?”
“It’s late.”
“Stop trying to get rid of me,” she said.
The birds called an alarm into the morning. Rolls leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes. He started to talk slowly about pure reason and practical reason. He tried to break down Kant, first saying he was German and Germans are crazy and depressing so she shouldn’t feel bad if she didn’t get it. Truthfully, he’d barely understood the concept himself. He explained that the universal was already in motion every time you made a decision. “It’s not so much do unto others as you would want others to do unto you,” he said. “It’s more like do unto others as you would want everyone in the universe to do unto each other.” He started to mumble a little bit, falling asleep. He turned his head to look at her.
