Playing Hard To Get

by Grace Octavia

  “Wait,” Baba shouted, hitting the gong like it was actually the gong show. “Someone is off-key. Someone is out of tune. Someone is not connected with the universe. Who is it?” Suddenly his voice went from African cool to Detroit ghetto.

  Every head in the room turned to Tamia.

  

  After thanking Malik for inviting her to the workshop and watching Ayo steal every stare the man had in his soul, Tamia waited around to talk to Baba about what he’d whispered in her ear.

  “The sister with the broken heart,” Baba said.

  “That’s not funny, you know,” Tamia responded.

  “I didn’t laugh.” Baba looked at Tamia. “You have come to talk to me for a reason?”

  “Why did you say it? Why did you say I have a broken heart?”

  “Do you?”

  Tamia closed her eyes as she spoke this time and went along with the conversation on the faith of what she was feeling in her heart.

  “I think you know,” she said.

  “I do. And I can save you. From yourself. From your death. From what killed your mother.”

  “You can’t say that,” Tamia said, her eyes filling with tears as she looked back at Baba. She paused, feeling a need to explain her emotion. “I was born with heart irregularities. The same thing that killed my mother. It almost killed me once.” She wiped her tears. “So you can’t just say that to me. You know? Not if you don’t really know.”

  “What do you want me to know, child?” Baba asked, touching Tamia’s heart. “What do you want me to say? You’re a part of the universe. If you want to live, you have to accept that. And if you accept that, you will have to change everything about your life. That’s the only way you will get free. And that’s the only way your heart will continue to beat.” He pressed his hand against her heart one time and released. Tamia felt an energy go through her body. It was arresting and freeing, all at once.

  “What if I’m afraid,” Tamia started, “afraid of freedom?”

  “That’s not the question you should be asking. The question is if you’re more afraid of freedom than slavery,” Baba said. “If you want to find that out, then join me. Join me on your next step to freedom.”

  “I believe in the power of God,” Tamia said, “not man.”

  “I don’t have a problem with God. We all come from the Creator. We all return to the Creator. It’s what happens in the middle that matters.”

  

  “Mrs. LaRoche, I am sorry, but I simply can’t make an exception for you. You’re going to need to have someone here to pick you up after the surgery.”

  Tasha was glaring at the nurse at Dr. Miller’s midtown office. One of the top plastic surgeons in the country, Miller was every New York woman’s nip/tuck ninja. Three weeks earlier, when Tasha decided she was getting full-body liposuction after doing 250 crunches and nearly putting her back out, she felt she needed a little boost to her Queen Bee plan and called Dr. Miller’s masseuse (a contact she’d gotten from another Knicks wife) to set up an appointment. While Miller’s schedule was full for the next year, Tasha had her consultation the very next day and set up her surgery a week after that. There was no need to wait or contemplate. She knew exactly what she wanted—her old body back. And after meeting with Lynn, she felt even more sure of her decision. Lynn was right; if she was going to work with young people, she needed to understand them—to be one of them. Not this outdated and oversized bag she was becoming. Miller had the pictures and it was time for him to get to sucking and plucking until twenty-year-old Tasha emerged.

  “This is New York City, for crying out loud. I don’t need anyone to pick me up. There are fifty cabs waiting outside to take me wherever I want after my surgery,” Tasha responded, looking at the nurse as if she was grasshopper on her arm.

  “I’m fully aware of what goes on outside of the office,” the nurse said sternly. “I know what goes on inside it, as well. And one thing that is going to go on is that you are going to need someone here to take you home after your surgery or there will be no surgery.” While Nurse Hopkins had been a sweet, tight-mouthed Catholic girl from Connecticut when she’d started working at Dr. Miller’s office six years ago, she’d been dealing with demanding Gotham girls for too long now to take Tasha’s crap. This was nothing. Ivana Trump once demanded to have a Papillion in the room as she had her lip injections. That woman had a mouth on her—and she wasn’t even speaking English. “Did you read the presurgical guidelines you were provided?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…and how many people does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” Tasha asked. “It’s a man with a freaking vacuum, sucking the fat out of my gut…and my butt…and my back and legs, and wherever else he finds it.” Tasha rolled her eyes and looked down at her purse, considering whom she could call with this. While her normal cellmate,22 Troy, wasn’t too far away in Harlem, she hadn’t told her about the surgery, for fear she’d try to talk her out of it. In fact, Tasha hadn’t told anyone about the surgery—Lionel included.

  Tasha looked up and the nurse was looking back at her, clearly unamused with the exchange.

  “Do we need to reschedule your surgery?” she asked with a voice so impersonal one would think she hadn’t handled a cup of Tasha’s urine just days before.

  “No…I need this today,” Tasha said. “Damn…Look, now, what time do you get off? Maybe you could be my ride? Or you could take off and I could pay your salary for the day. I could pay you double.”

  There was no crack of concern in the nurse’s face. Susan Lucci had tried that once.

  “Do we need to reschedule your surgery, Mrs. Laroche?” the nurse repeated.

  “No need to do that, Danielle,” someone said and Tasha watched as the nurse’s stern eyes went from her to someone behind Tasha and softened quickly. “I’ll handle it. I’ll have my driver come up and take her wherever she needs to go.”

  Tasha turned and Charleston was standing there smiling.

  “Charleston,” Tasha said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tasha, you know better than to ask such a thing at a doctor’s office.” Charleston’s voice was as confident as the green and black argyle sweater he was wearing. It was past ugly, but both he and Tasha knew it was Ralph Lauren Purple, so there was an exception.

  “Well, you’re dating my girl, so I feel it’s best that I ignore being politically correct and get straight to the point.”

  “Fiesty, Tasha.” Charleston chuckled. “I love it. You should tell my girl to pick up on that. I like a fighter.”

  “No need for her to jack my style. If she needs a fighter, she has me.” Tasha’s grin was a full knockout.

  “Touché.” Charleston smiled and looked at Tasha’s thighs. He’d always loved strong women, the ones who challenged and were bent on putting him in his place. It provided ambitious arguments and amazing sex. While it was hard to come by this with the women he dated and slept with now, as most were so busy vying for his love they were too afraid to challenge him, it kept him in his car, riding down to the projects to pluck-a-cluck.23

  “So, what’s your poison?” Tasha asked again.

  Charleston looked at Tasha dimly.

  “Look, two sinners can’t meet in hell and not talk about the devil.”

  “A little Botox up top.” Charleston pointed to his forehead.

  “Botox? Your skin is perfect.”

  “Isn’t it?” Charleston grinned. “My kind of black really don’t crack…but it sweats. And a sweaty man doesn’t cut it in my field. Something about an attorney sweating all over himself that puts people off.”

  “Well, just because people know you’re lying doesn’t mean they want evidence,” Tasha said, laughing. “So, the shots stop the sweat?”

  “A little poison and I’m as dry as an unsatisfied woman,” Charleston said. “Speaking of unsatisfied women, what’s up with your girl?”

  “My girl?” Tasha looked confused but both she and Charleston knew he was talking about Tamia.
<
br />   “Tamia,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah, Tamia.” Tasha tried not to say anything to push the conversation about her friend forward. Answering any questions or telling any tales could lead to disaster. The 3Ts were good for gossip, but certainly not about one another…well, only in special cases…and only to another T.

  “She’s been a little distant lately, avoiding me and…” Charleston admitted, looking at Tasha, but she didn’t budge…until he added: “and it’s a shame, because I was about to lock it down.”

  “What?”

  “I was about to ask her to marry me.”

  “Marry you?”

  “Yes, we’re in love and that’s what two people in love do.” While almost no one who knew Charleston would guess that he was telling the truth, he actually was being honest. If Tamia was correct about one thing during her rant about Nathaniel marrying Ava, it was that men like Charleston and Nathaniel marry in packs—once one got a ring, the others followed (reluctantly or otherwise). And as Charleston pondered Nathaniel’s upcoming nuptials during a warlike game of racquetball at the gym, he decided it might be time for him to get married. With his last single friend jumping the broom, soon folks would become nosy, rumors might start, or he might accidentally get the wrong woman pregnant and have to save face by marrying her. Point: Tamia was the most decent woman standing, he loved her, she was a team player, and she didn’t ask too many questions. It was time to buy a ring.

  “Really?” Tasha asked, thinking about the new client Tamia had been all bug-eyed about. “Have you told her?”

  “Of course not. It’s a surprise. I need a ring first.”

  “A ring for Tamia? Oh, that’s easy—the Jean Schlumberger Bud Ring with the pavé setting,” Tasha blurted out as if she was recalling a grocery list. While she thought the Tiffany selection was cliché and dated, it was perfect for Tamia’s whimsical, classic taste. As the two had shopped for wedding gifts for Troy, Tamia picked out the ring and nearly cried when the jeweler insisted she give it back.

  “You remember all of that? Now that’s a real friend.”

  “It’s easy. I have a photographic memory—when it comes to shopping,” Tasha said. “So, you’re really going to ask her?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  

  For the second time in the second week in a row, Tamia had been summoned to a meeting in Mrs. Phaedra Pelst’s office. Sitting on the opposite side of the desk, listening to Phaedra as she took her second phone call, Tamia thought of how ridiculous it was that she was sitting there anyway. Phaedra wasn’t really her boss or direct supervisor. She had authority in that she’d been there longer than her and led many of the cases she’d helped with when she started, but now that Tamia was off the Lucas case, there was no reason for them to interact for the time being.

  “Thanks for being so patient with me,” Phaedra said, smiling a thin and flimsy greeting.

  “No problem,” Tamia replied, returning the smile. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

  “Just wanted some words with you about the Holder case. Richard Holder. Ring a bell?”

  That was either a stupid question or a clever way of insulting Tamia’s level of commitment to her case. Likely it was the latter.

  “I certainly am familiar. Holder and I have met several times and the case is progressing.” Tamia could play too. “We’ll be ready for his hearing.”

  “Yes,” Phaedra said. “Well, I am not wholly concerned about the case itself, but rather some things that have come up surrounding it. Some team issues…”

  “Team issues?” Tamia said. “There is no team. How could there be issues?”

  “Well, as you know, a favor was phoned in to someone upstairs on your behalf,” Phaedra said, beginning the lie she’d come up with to get information out of Tamia. There was no phone call made to anyone upstairs about the case. The favor was an exchange for sex between her and Charleston at a sex club. So far, she, Charleston, and Tamia were the only three people in the world who knew about the trade. But what Phaedra didn’t know was why Charleston was so interested in helping Tamia. At first she bought the whole “she’s a black woman” routine Charleston gave her one night when she was rushed out of his place because Tamia was on her way up in the elevator. But now things were out of hand. “A call to have Jones dropped from the case. Do you know about that?”

  Tamia didn’t shake or nod her head. She just sat there, her heartbeat quickening.

  “Do you know why it was done? Do you know anything?”

  “Pelst, what do you want?” Tamia asked. While rumors among the black people at the company had connected Tamia with Charleston a long time ago, he didn’t want everyone to know yet.

  “Well, it seems Jones found out you wanted her off,” Phaedra explained.

  “She what?”

  “And she’s pretty upset.”

  “Oh, my God. I didn’t mean for this to get back to her.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Pelst said. “She’s about to float to the top of the water anyway.”

  “For this?”

  “Among other things.”

  Tamia felt ill. Like she’d just cheated her best friend.

  Phaedra knew this would be her reaction. The sensitivity among the black women in the office was so ridiculous. She didn’t see how they didn’t know that there was no space for such alliances in power.

  “I know you don’t want her feelings to be hurt, and I’m trying to fix it.” Somehow Phaedra was able to make her eyes red, as if she was crying. “But I need to know who made the call upstairs.”

  Tamia didn’t move. She didn’t trust Phaedra. And it didn’t matter how red her eyes got.

  “Now, I heard it was Charleston,” Phaedra said, watching Tamia’s eyes as she threw in a name, her second-to-last resort before the question she was about to ask. “Is there something I should know about your relationship?”

  Tamia still hadn’t moved. She couldn’t believe another person, another black woman, was losing her job because of her. Because of some advice she’d taken about how she could further her own career. She was willing to fight to get to the top, but putting people in jail, getting people fired? That wasn’t the fight she wanted to make.

  “Is that all?” Tamia asked, standing up.

  “Is it?” Phaedra asked, the Howard Beach girl inside of her jumping out into the room. “Look, just tell me if you’re screwing him. Are you screwing Charleston?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Tamia said, Phaedra’s whole plot and purpose now coming together in her mind. Jones wasn’t likely anywhere near the guillotine. Phaedra was bluffing to get information. “I’ll show myself out.”

  

  Good Girlfriends Guide

  Men are cool. Money is okay. Wine is all right. Louis V will do…. But what’s the sense having any of these things if, as Billy Dee said in Mahogany, “you don’t have someone you love to share it with”? Well, Billy was talking about the comforts of the opposite sex, but most women know that a cool sisterfriend will also sweeten the ride. There’s no sense having it if you can’t chat about it and she’s always there to lend an ear. While the rules of engaging a good girlfriend are established on the playground, it doesn’t hurt to remember the top dos and don’ts to maintaining a strong relationship with your best gal pal.

  Dos:

  Support her goals and dreams.

  Give her advice, but know she will follow her heart.

  Know that sometimes it is all about her and play second.

  If you know what she needs, don’t ask—just do it.

  Good or bad, tell her about herself when she needs to hear it.

  Don’ts:

  Judge her or give up on her.

  Tell her secrets to others or talk about her behind her back.

  Date her ex—even if she says it’s okay.

  Support self-destructive behavior—drinking, smoking, sex, etc.

  Allow her to lie to you or herself.

   />
  “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Malik asked, walking down a street in the lovely 10013 zip code of New York City, known to the world as TriBeCa and to the 3Ts as Tasha’s new home.

  “What do you mean, am I sure?” Tamia said, walking beside him. “I wouldn’t have asked you for the number if I wasn’t sure. You came all the way down here to meet me just to ask me that?”

  That morning, after turning and tossing through the night with everything that happened with her at work and with Ava at the party and what she’d actually considered doing with Malik’s case, Tamia had finally decided she wanted to join Baba’s circle on the path to spiritual enlightenment. She’d jumped out of bed and ran to her phone to tell her client the news and ask how she could get in contact with Baba. Looking at the golden powder still sticking to the tips of her gray shoes, she thought she was ready for a change.

  “Look, I know people say this all of the time and it’s become cliché, but this is serious. You can’t go to Babatunde if you aren’t sure,” Malik said. As usual, he was wearing one of his T-shirts from the Freedom Project. This one had a picture of Malcolm X on it. It had been raining that morning, so he also had on his military jacket and for the first time since Tamia had met him, he had his hair pulled back off of his face and into a headband. She’d always thought he was a beautiful man, but now, with his entire black face and sharp eyes looking at her, she saw that maybe he was more than beautiful and there was no word for that.

  “The journey he’s going to take you on will only work if you’re open,” he went on, “if you’re completely open to changing.”

  “I’ve got this,” Tamia assured him, thinking he seemed awfully concerned about her decision to join Baba’s path. His eyes were pleasant, smiling at her in a way that made hers smile back. “I’ve got me. I can handle change.”

  “He’s going to make you cut your hair off.”