“You mean lucky young bitches. I’m just making it do what it do, boi. Did you get the digits from Miss Oreo Cookie?”
“Her name is Barrett, and why do you call her an Oreo?”
“You see how she be up in those white boy cheerleaders’ faces. What the fuck is that about? Those dudes probably more interested in fucking each other.”
“Who else is she going to talk to? It ain’t like there’s brothas or sistahs on the squad she could talk to,” I said.
“Whatever. Where is that skinny bitch with my salad plate? I’m hungry like a mofo,” Delmar said. I looked around the restaurant and saw the waitress coming with the salad plates.
After two trips to the salad bar, Delmar started back up again.
“Nigga, sumthin’ up with you and this chick. Now, don’t go get whipped and tricked before the season starts. Somebody like you might explode like a terrorist’s suitcase if you get a little taste,” Delmar joked.
“Besides, a girl like her probably got three or four dudes. She ain’t trying to holla at me.”
“Yeah, that’s what you say.”
“So, how you think we’re going to do this season?” I asked in yet another attempt to change the subject.
“If you run the rock like I know you can, ain’t no way we shouldn’t go undefeated,” Delmar said as he finished up the last of his salad.
“That would be awesome,” I said.
“Awesome? Where in the hell did that come from, son? You sound like one of them corn-fed white boys. What’s dude name the center, Gilbert Hillbilly?”
I ignored Delmar’s comment, knowing full well I should have said “crunk.” My mother didn’t really like me using slang all the time. “You know, for some strange reason, I do feel a special connection to Barrett, even though I haven’t really met her. I mean, I’ve seen hundreds of beautiful girls on campus, but none of them have got me curious like this girl,” I said.
“It wouldn’t take much for a female to open your nose, since you haven’t had any.”
“See, that’s why I can’t talk to you about nothing serious,” I said as the waitress placed two sizzling steaks on the table in front of us.
“Come on, pimpin’. I’ll quit playing, but you got to give me all the details.”
“I hear you, but right now there ain’t no details to talk about. What do you think of blue-chip Koi? You think I should be worried?”
Koi Minter, the son of an African American father and Italian mother, was a freshman running back from Oakland, California, who was the heir apparent to me. In his senior year of high school, he rushed for over 5,000 yards and broke all the prep rushing records in the state of California. A lot of schools shied away because of his grades and a few brushes with the law. Dude looked like a movie star and had an amazing body for an eighteen-year-old, but had not made a lot of friends on the team because of that. He made the equipment manager mad when he insisted on wearing his own special jock and shoes, which were Adidas while everybody else wore Nike.
“Worried about what? That Pretty Ricky motherfucker ain’t got shit on you. Nigga too busy looking at himself in the mirror to run the ball. When I see niggas like him, it makes me wish I was on the other side of the field just so I can lay a hit on his ass,” Delmar said.
“He’ll be good for the team next year,” I said.
“That’s cool, but I heard that nigga say he planned to be in the running for the Heisman during his freshman year.”
“On what team—not this one. This is my year.”
“Damn straight. He should have left that shit in Cali with Reggie Bush,” Delmar said, and laughed.
“I’m going to make sure that young dude don’t ever see the field,” I said as I wolfed down the last piece of my steak.
“Whatever. To me it sounds like the nigga is just plain simple. Have you seen that Kate Moss–looking chick with our check? I need to get out of here and get on the prowl. I also got to wire my baby’s mom some support money before she have Johnny Law on my ass,” Delmar said as he pulled out a wad of what looked like hundred-dollar bills.
“Where’d you get all that money from?” I asked.
“Mind yo business, son. I busted my ass this summer for these dollars.”
“Whatever, son,” I mumbled as I climbed out of the booth.
“Oh yeah, dude, I was down in Savannah this summer and I bumped into that little church girl you used to chop it up with and thought nobody knew,” Delmar said.
“Who?” I asked, knowing full well who Delmar was talking about.
“I don’t know the bitch’s name. She had a nice little body, but I knew if she was hanging with you she wasn’t giving out no goodies.”
“Naomi. She transferred,” I said.
“And I know why,” Delmar said.
“Why?” I asked, wondering where this was leading.
“Oh, girl got knocked up. She had a kid,” Delmar said.
“How do you know that?” I asked. I felt my eyebrows move up my forehead. An expression of deep angst covered my face, and Delmar noticed it.
“B…you look like you just saw a ghost. What’s up with that?”
“Nothing. You sure it was her and she had a baby? How old was the baby?” I asked as the memory of that night in the library returned like it was imprinted in my head.
“Saw it with my own eyes. I don’t know how old. It was a baby, but he was walking,” Delmar said.
As we walked out into the stiflingly hot night, I told myself that there was no way I was a father.
It was the start of classes and most students were still wearing shorts and T-shirts. I walked into the Walker Business School wearing white linen slacks, a short-sleeved pink linen shirt, and sandals.
I stopped by the dean’s office to see if I could add an advanced business law class before it was too late. I had actually completed my marketing degree requirements at the end of my junior year by attending classes the previous two summers. I wanted to work during the summers, but my mother told me to stay focused. She always emphasized that getting my degree was more important than playing football. This semester, I was going to finish a second degree in transportation and logistics.
As I walked through the hallway I could feel the stares on me, but it was something I had grown used to. It probably happened to all the football players, even though more students knew me now since I had been the cover boy on several preseason football magazines. When someone caught my eye, be they male or female, I would flash a smile and hope my classmates would feel as though they had made a connection with me. It was cool being one of the most popular guys on campus. I got so many e-mail messages and people asking me to sign up as one of their friends on my Facebook account that it sometimes interfered with my studies.
I thought about finding Naomi’s e-mail address or seeing if she still had an account on Facebook and making sure she was doing okay. I hadn’t decided if I was going to ask her about the baby Delmar said he saw her with. I figured if she had something to tell me she knew how to get in contact with me.
While I was waiting in line, the dean’s assistant told the student in front of me that they weren’t doing any more overrides for the b-law class. But she quickly changed her answer when I passed her my form with a smile. After processing the form, the young lady asked me if I would do her a favor.
“Sure,” I said.
“My father is a huge fan of yours. Will you sign an autograph for him?”
“Not a problem.”
“Could you take a picture with me also?”
“Yeah, but don’t make me late for class,” I teased as I folded my schedule and pushed it into my back pocket.
She quickly pulled a pad from the top of her desk and a camera from her lower desk drawer and scurried to where I was standing. She placed her arms around my waist and said, “April, will you take this picture for me?”
I stood patiently as several other workers from the dean’s office asked for the same photo opportunity. It took the dean
walking out of his office to stop the impromptu photo session.
Just as I was walking toward my class, the bell sounded and I noticed Barrett walking toward me. She was in a short jean skirt and a green sleeveless top, carrying the same designer bag my mom and Kellis had.
This was my chance to finally speak to her again. My body and hands began to perspire. I knew that I had the courage to introduce myself if only I could make my mouth work. Taking a deep breath, I smiled at her and said, “Hello, Barrett.”
She looked startled and then said, “Do I know you?”
I stuck my hand out like I was in a business meeting and said, “I’m Brady Bledsoe. I met you at the car wash a couple of days ago, and of course I’ve seen you around campus and practicing your cheerleading.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I asked a friend of mine,” I said.
“A lot of people here don’t know me,” she said. She looked like she was looking for someone, or annoyed that I was trying to invade her space.
“Hopefully, that will change,” I said.
“I have to find my class,” Barrett said as she moved a few inches from me. I needed to do something quick.
“Barrett,” I called out. She turned around but didn’t say anything.
“Is there any way I could get your number? Maybe we can go and get a cup of coffee sometime?”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“A milk shake or, you know, it’s whatever, just come chill wit me,” I pleaded.
“Why? Because you’re a big football star?”
“So you do know who I am,” I said. A smile covered my face and I could see the hint of a smile from Barrett. I told myself I didn’t have to beg, this girl wanted me. She was just playing hard to get.
“I didn’t say that,” Barrett said.
“So what do you say? Can I get your number?”
“No,” she said quickly as she started to walk away. But before my smile could turn into a frown, she walked back toward me and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She handed me the cell phone. “Put your number in here and maybe I’ll call you.”
“Maybe?” I mumbled as I pressed my cell number into her phone.
“That’s what I said, Brady Jamal Bledsoe.”
“Look at you. Who told you my name?” I asked.
Barrett gave me a cute sneaky smile and said, “A friend of mine.”
CHAPTER
11
Barrett Puts On Her Game Face
Dear Diary,
Today, I was formally introduced to Mr. Brady Jamal Bledsoe. I’ll call him in a day or two. I can’t seem too eager. Besides, he wants me. I can tell—and who wouldn’t?
At 5'6" and 112 pounds, it was me and not Beyoncé who put the licious in bootylicious. My skin is the color of cinnamon toast and I have long hair that falls like silk to my shoulders—and the hair is all mine and not some scratchy horse-tail weave. Although I’m almost thirty, I can still pass for twenty—or nineteen on a good day even sans makeup—(that’s a little French word I just learned that means without).
Anyway, when I ran into Brady I was wearing an ultra-short jean skirt that would make most mamas roll their eyes and a too-tight top, and guess what? I caught Brady staring at the twins. Unlike those phony Hollywood bitches, I admit to paying for a little enhancement. Well, I didn’t pay for them, my little upgrade was another gift from Nico. I can’t wait until Brady sees them live and in person.
Nico was a little nervous that Brady hadn’t already called me. I don’t know why, since he knows how quickly I get these young bucks under my spell. I’ve done enough of these jobs for Nico, successfully, I might add, so he should know I will deliver.
Nico’s concerned that Brady might be gay, but I know that’s not the case, not with the way Brady’s been sniffing behind my scent. The boy might be a little square, but he ain’t gay. Brady’s nose is already wide open, and gay boys don’t stare at the twins the way he did.
Nico said the sooner I finish, the sooner I can get out of this hick town and back to a real city, and that really bothered me, especially when he asked where I wanted to live. Has he forgotten that we’re supposed to get married in a few months? When I asked him what was going on with his wife, Nico said everything was under control. And then he had the nerve to hurry me off the phone.
Nico better be telling the truth, because nobody, and I mean nobody’s, gonna make a fool out of me.
It had been less than a month and Barrett was already tired of Scarlet Springs, so she called a limo company in Atlanta for a shopping spree at Phipps Plaza. She told Ms. Jean, the spirit coordinator, that she had a doctor’s appointment. Ms. Jean wasn’t happy and told Barrett if she missed another practice, or was even late, she wouldn’t cheer the first two games.
Barrett knew it wasn’t wise to cross Jean Nail. Miss Jean, as all the cheerleaders and pom girls called her, was a soft and deliciously southern woman in her mid-forties. The raven-haired beauty with a school-girl figure and sparkling eyes told Barrett she’d soon figure out how she’d gotten on the squad without a traditional tryout.
She also let Barrett know she’d be watching her and added, “This is a top program, and everyone must abide by the same rules.”
A good-looking black man named Julius, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, opened the door to the limo and pointed to a bottle of champagne and cold water for the two-hour trip to Atlanta.
“Just let me know if I can get you anything, Ms. Manning. I’m here for whatever you need,” Julius said.
“Thank you, Julius, but I think I’m going to have a little champagne and take a nap,” Barrett said.
About five hours later, Barrett took a seat at an outdoor café at Phipps Plaza. Over $10,000 worth of new Louis Vuitton luggage and about $15,000 worth of jewelry from Tiffany’s were in the car with Julius. She felt good about her purchases and couldn’t wait to taste the vodka gimlet and Maytag blue cheese chips.
Barrett smoked a cigarette lazily and was enjoying the bright blue and silver-edged skies when she noticed two women, one black and one white, at the table next to her, laughing. Barrett looked over her shoulder to see if she was missing something funny happening near her, but didn’t see anything.
She looked at the two bony-shouldered Buckhead Bettys with silicone-enhanced breasts. Each woman was beautifully dressed; one wore an apricot silk dress, while the other had on a peach-colored shell and a short white pleated skirt.
The two women looked like new money, but when they continued gazing at Barrett while whispering and laughing, their actions suddenly made her a bit paranoid.
Who did they think they were? Barrett thought. And why were they laughing at her? Barrett tried to look at them more closely to see if maybe she knew them.
Barrett became frustrated when she couldn’t make out what their syrupy southern voices were saying and she was convinced they were talking about her. With a feline quickness, she got up from her table to confront the two southern belles.
“What are you two bitches saying about me?” Barrett demanded.
“Excuse me?” the blond woman asked as the black one responded with a blank gaze.
“You heard me! What the fuck are you saying about me?” Barrett asked as she moved closer to the women.
“Looks like somebody’s having a nervous breakdown,” the African American woman said as she smiled a superior smile.
“Bitch, I will slap you back to the Section Eight housing you came from,” Barrett said.
“Do we have a problem here?” a tall white guy in a police uniform asked as he approached the table.
“You’ll have to ask this woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. We were just enjoying our lunch and some private jokes about our recent trip to the South of France,” the blond said.
“Miss, are you all right?” the officer asked as he extended his hand to Barrett.
“Don’t touch me,” Barrett screamed as she raced toward the limo an
d Julius, who was patiently waiting about a hundred yards away.
CHAPTER
12
Carmyn’s Kindness
Look at you,” I said as I patted my client Shelby’s hair one final time. I took a can of hair spray and sprayed her dark brown hair until it glistened.
“I want to see,” Shelby said anxiously.
I picked up a mirror from my station and handed it to the young lady.
“See,” I said, smiling.
“Oh, Ms. Carmyn, it’s wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever looked this good,” Shelby said as she admired her new hairstyle.
Shelby Beale was a sixteen-year-old I’d met at church when she joined the celibacy circle Saving Ourselves. I was hopeful that Shelby, in a sea of Lil’ Kim wannabes, would find a way out of her surroundings and aspire to do something big with her life. The only daughter of a single mom, I somehow connected with Shelby and had promised her free services as long as she kept at least a 3.5 average and honored her vow of celibacy. Her mother, who also had two small boys, was still trying to find her Mr. Right and didn’t pay enough attention to Shelby. Although she was only sixteen, Shelby had a body that most boys found dangerously tempting. Even Brady had once commented that Shelby wasn’t a little girl anymore. But that conversation ended when I gave him my Mama don’t wanna go there look.
Today, I’d also treated Shelby to a manicure and pedicure and had thought of surprising her with a little shopping spree at Lennox Mall before school started.
“Shelby, don’t you look cute,” I said.
“I do. I do. Wait until Torrian sees me,” Shelby said.
“How is Torrian?” I asked through a tight, fake smile. I knew Shelby was dating him, but he seemed a little older than his actual age of seventeen. He had been a part of Saving Ourselves, too, but had dropped out last summer, and I thought that was a bad sign.
“He’s doing well. You know he’s going to UGA this fall. He got a full football scholarship,” Shelby said proudly as she continued to look at herself in the mirror.
“That’s good. I guess I’ll see him when they play Brady’s team,” I said.
Just Too Good to Be True Page 6
