She knew Dee would relate to that. That was her own complaint when she was on this side of town: ain’t nothin’ to get into!
“A’ight. But you need to have taxi money. So I can put you in one when you’re ready to go.”
“I have money,” Jada said, thinking of her birthday cash, stashed in the back of her underwear drawer.
Sighing, Dee pursed her lips and then nodded as if making a decision that ran counter to her better judgment.
“Okay. Let’s get you ready then.”
~~~
Jada was almost shaking by the time she and Desiree crossed the threshold into the house, a small Spanish-style bungalow in a neighborhood she had never been to before. Outside, low-riders and souped-up cars lined the curb, some of them playing music from sound systems loud enough to compete with what was coming from inside the house.
People spilled out of the front door and into the yard, drinking and bouncing to music, yelling at each other so they could converse over the din.
She wasn’t sure why she was trembling, whether from the anticipation of seeing Prophet, or nervousness at being in a place where she was so completely out of her element. It was excitement laced with worry, that feeling you get when you’re doing something that’s thrilling but also a little dangerous, when you know the thrill is there largely because of the danger.
But maybe it was about time she did something a little dangerous. In a few short months, she wouldn’t be in high school anymore, and up to this point, she had done everything pretty much by the book. But this whole scene felt like something out of a rap video, the kind that her parents often decried as “glorifying the ghetto” before asking her to switch the channel from Yo! MTV Raps to something more “edifying.”
Jada probably wouldn’t describe the show as edifying either, but it was educational. It gave her a window into a world she had been purposely shielded from. Except, it didn’t feel like shielding sometimes, so much as lying. If you lived where she lived and went to the school she went to, you might think rap was an anomaly, a temporary blemish on the magnificent history of Black music. But just from watching just one show on MTV, she learned that rap, which she wasn’t sure she liked to be honest, wasn’t just sound, it was culture.
Yo! MTV Raps explained the guys she saw occasionally; so different from the young men at her school who wore tailored chinos and well-fitting jeans. Instead, these guys wore baggy plaid shirts, oversized white tees, and even baggier jeans, with monochromatic Nike sneakers, and fitted baseball caps that obviously had nothing to do with their love of the game. It explained why it sometimes seemed like there were at least two Black Americas. One where Black people easily and shamelessly referred to each other as “niggas” without intending or taking offense, and the other where people like her parents had begun to gratefully adopt the Reverend Jesse Jackson’s revived nomenclature by calling themselves Afro- or African Americans.
She watched Yo! MTV Raps because dumb as it sounded, she knew Prophet was from one America, while she was from the other, and the show was the only semi-authentic view of his world.
“Baby girl! Dee!”
Jada and her cousin both looked in the direction of the voice raised above the din of the music. Manny, hand high in the air, holding a forty-ounce, was trying to get Desiree’s attention. He shoved his way through the crowd until he was standing in front of them. Dipping his head, he kissed the side of Dee’s neck.
“Ai, mami chula!” he said, grinning at her, taking in her short skirt and long legs.
“Shup up, Manny!” Dee said, smacking him on the arm. “And what the hell? I ain’ know you invite the whole damn city.”
“What can I tell you? Me and my brothers are big ballers in Oaktown.” He put a hand at Desiree’s waist and pulled her against him, pressing his pelvis into her midsection.
Jada looked away, trying to work out where in the room she might go to grab a drink. Soda. Only a soda. Because she could already see from Dee and Manny’s body language that in no time at all, they would be too absorbed in each other to notice, let alone look out for her.
Just as she was making a three-sixty to orient herself in the room, Jada’s eyes landed on a familiar face. Not just familiar, but the only face she came here to see.
For a fraction of a second, her heart gave something like a hiccup, and when it restarted, was beating much faster.
Prophet.
He was holding a bottled water. Who would have thought there was even such a thing to be had at an event like this?
Wearing a plain white t-shirt and baggy khakis, he looked fresh, clean, and new. The t-shirt, which was so white as to have just come out of the pack, stretched at the sleeves to accommodate his arms. They were much beefier than Jada recalled from the last time she’d seen him; and his chest was muscular and defined beneath the cotton fabric.
He had shaved his hair almost entirely off. When they had seen each other last, he had it in cornrows. His face was clean-shaven now, too. It was a wonder Jada even recognized him.
Between them, partiers bustled by, on their way to get drinks, catch up with a friend, or head outside for fresh air. For a second, Jada stood immobile, then a smile spread across her face that she could not have repressed if her life depended on it. She wished she could play it cool, because despite the letters, the last time she’d seen him, before he got locked up, hadn’t been exactly pleasant.
Whatchu doin’? You don’t need to be comin’ ‘roun’ here.
There had been other people there, too. Witnesses to her humiliation. Two guys, and a girl who was watching them especially closely, and with open curiosity about who Jada might be.
Prophet had looked and sounded like a completely different person.
Go home, he enunciated.
Then, to make sure that was where she went, he borrowed a car and took her himself. He drove in silence, all the way across town while she sat next to him, embarrassed, and swallowing back the impending tears.
Once he got to her neighborhood, he dropped her a few doors down from her house without her asking him to do it. It would never even have occurred to her to ask such a thing.
They’d only exchanged a few words; hers were imploring, his were terse. And when she opened the door and was safely on the curb, he yanked the door shut and sped away. She didn’t even get a chance to ask him why he hadn’t pulled up to her gate but thought she might know the answer.
Despite her smile, now Prophet’s face was mostly immobile. Maybe he was thinking the same thing he had then.
You don’t need to be comin’ ‘roun’ here.
But before Jada could dwell too much on that fear, he was closing the distance between them. When they were face-to-face, he looked down at her. She had forgotten that he was so tall. Eight or nine inches taller than her, maybe more.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
Only then did he smile, and only a little. His skin, the color of burnished copper, glowed like a freshly-minted penny. He had straight teeth, except for that one little crooked one on the bottom row, that stood out like a reassurance that he was in fact real.
He looked her over, taking in her bare shoulders.
“I’ma get you a jacket,” he said. “Then let’s go get something to eat. It’s loud as hell in here, and I’m hungry.”
Jada hesitated, momentarily thrown. He spoke to her as though they had last seen each other only moments before.
Sensing her hesitation, Prophet paused and dipped his head a little so he could look her directly in the eye.
“You comfortable with that?” he asked. “With coming someplace to get something to eat with me?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
~~~
THey went to a Church’s Chicken off E. 14th where he ordered two two-piece meals to go, with two bottles of water. He led Jada back to the borrowed car and pulled out of the parking lot into the humid summer evening. They had barely spoken a dozen words since the
y left the party, but the silence was comfortable.
Jada’s mouth watered at the flavorful aroma of fried chicken filling the car’s interior. Her stomach issued a loud gurgle.
Prophet laughed. “Smells good, right?”
“Yeah. I guess I should’ve eaten before I left home.” Her voice was hoarse and didn’t sound like her own.
“Yup. ‘Cause this stuff’ll probably kill us. Tastes good, but you’d be surprised how hard it is, getting healthy stuff ‘round here. Healthy stuff that tastes good anyway.”
Jada said nothing.
She was still struggling to get her mind around everything. She had been at the party for less than ten minutes and the next thing she knew, he was making excuses to his brother, reassuring Desiree he would look after her, borrowing someone’s car keys and sweeping her away from a celebration that was supposed to be for him.
And if that wasn’t disorienting enough, it was confusing that he wanted to sweep her away at all. She’d only ever seen him on two other occasions besides the night they met.
“Where are we going?” she asked now.
“Why? You fiendin’ for that chicken, huh?” There was a hint of amusement in Prophet’s tone. “Don’t worry, it’s not far.”
He took her to another house. One on a much quieter block than the one they had left, and that seemed almost deserted. Inside the house, a soft light glowed, like a lamp had been placed on a table far from the window.
Leading her around to the back, the bag of food in one hand, the other holding hers, Prophet only released it to indicate a ladder, propped against a wall.
Jada climbed up ahead of him, wondering at how easily she trusted him, how effortlessly she had allowed him to lure her away from her cousin with no immediate or discernible way to get home, or even to call a cab if she needed one. The last time she’d been at a party with him, he had scolded her because she said she would accept a ride home from him.
The rooftop was arranged like a patio, complete with two recliners, two folding chairs and a card table.
When he climbed up behind her, Prophet looked over across the neighborhood and took a deep breath inhaling the night air. From that vantage point, they could see both the tops of the neighboring houses, and downtown Oakland miles away. The night was quiet and still.
“Hella-cool, right?”
Jada nodded.
“I missed seeing the sky,” he continued. “Seeing the stars.”
Scanning the vista from this vantage point she could see now that the rooftop patio wasn’t an original idea. Other houses with flat roofs had furniture on them as well.
“Up here, sometimes, you can even see the bridge.” He pointed out a string of lights in the distance.
Prophet was standing so close that his chest, brushed against her shoulder when he pointed. Jada fought the urge to lean back against him, to take his arm and pull it around her. Then to turn, tip her head back, and kiss him.
She focused on remaining very still, and felt him lean in a little, heard him inhale. She had washed her hair the day before, so she knew it smelled like lavender. She hoped he liked the scent.
“Whose house is this?” she asked. Her voice hitched when she spoke.
“My family’s. My father’s,” he said.
“So, the other house …”
“Also family’s. Well. A spot we sort of … rent out.”
Prophet moved away then, and went to open their food, crumpling the bags and setting out the boxes and bottles of water.
“Don’t you drink anything but water?” she teased, remembering the water bottle at the party.
He shrugged. “Nope. Not anymore. Not if I can help it.”
“Really?” Jada took one of the seats positioned adjacent the table. “Nothing?”
He shook his head. “It’s only been one day, but nah. When I was inside, I decided I’d kick all the other stuff. It’s all mostly sugar anyway.”
“Where’ll you get your calcium? Your Vitamin C?”
Prophet laughed, probably because she sounded so alarmed. “From food. Live food. Oranges. Spinach.”
“You decided all this while …”
“While I was locked up, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the shit they feed people in there. Stuff I wouldn’t give my dog.”
“Do you have a dog?”
He laughed again. “No. But if I did.”
“Oh. Right.” Jada shook her head, feeling foolish. It was just that she wanted to know everything about him there was to know.
There was a brief lull while they opened the chicken boxes and reached for their food. Jada tried to use her fork for a moment, but the plastic was cheap and too bendable to tackle crispy fried chicken.
Finally, she gave up and followed Prophet’s example, picking up the meat with her hands. She bit into the first piece and her mouth was flooded with flavor, a line of grease dribbling down her chin. The crunchy breading had a little kick to it, and the tip of her tongue tingled.
“God, we really are going to kill ourselves eating this stuff,” she said reaching for a napkin. “And it definitely isn’t going to help your healthy eating plan.”
“Sure isn’t. But I haven’t figured out how to do it yet,” Prophet said from around a mouthful. “‘Cause ‘round here, seems like if you don’t eat garbage, you don’t eat at all.”
“You’ll find places.”
“I got a book when I was, you know, in county. Kept borrowing it so I could read the whole thing. Elijah Muhammad wrote it. Called, ‘How to Eat to Live’. Dropped mad knowledge. But yeah, turns out all the garbage they feed us in the ghetto, that’s by design, not by accident. Cheap, false food. Like the cheap, fake toys in discount stores on the boulevard, masquerading to look like the real thing but with toxic paint that poisons poor kids.”
Hearing his voice in person, instead of imagining it gave Jada a chill. She had remembered its tone and cadence so well, he didn’t sound unfamiliar at all.
And maybe it was because of all the letters and what she shared, but if there had been any restraints between them, all of that had fallen away. He spoke faster, more freely than she remembered him speaking to her ever before.
Their knees were touching the little table, pressing against it and holding it in place between them. They were close enough to touch, and she wanted to, maybe to convince herself he was real, and that she really was here, alone with him. She’d pictured it many times, being alone with Prophet. The one time they had been totally alone, it was because he was driving her home, warning her never to come to his neighborhood again.
“Your letters,” he said suddenly, putting down his chicken. “Thank you. You don’t know how much … I mean, I really appreciated that.”
Jada shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Anyway, you were literally a captive audience.”
“No.” He reached out and held her wrist briefly, his forefinger stroking it. “Don’t act like it wasn’t nothin’. It was a lot. Getting a letter from you almost every week. Made the time pass faster. Made me feel like ain’ everybody forget me, y’know?”
“I would never forget you,” she said, her tone more vehement than she intended.
Prophet grinned, releasing her wrist and picking up his chicken again.
“You need to stop sayin’ shit like that.” He shook his head.
“Why?”
“I might take you serious. And then where would that leave us?”
Jada looked down at her food. “And you need to stop saying stuff like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re just playing with me. Like you don’t take me seriously.”
The smile on his face melted away and he stared at her.
“I’m not playing with you,” he said. “And believe me, this right here? It’s real serious. But I just … I don’t know.”
11
Then
“What don’t you know?” She exhaled a long breath.
“If this is right,” Ibrahim said, mot
ioning between them.
“Fine.”
She bit into her chicken, put it down again and looked off into the distance, over his shoulder and away from him. Her eyes were glistening a little.
“I mean, for you, Jada,” he said. “I don’t know if this is right for you.”
“What does that even mean?” she demanded. “I’m not a little kid. And I mean, after we ran into each other at the sideshow, I thought …”
She stopped, and looked down, reaching for her chicken leg again, but now only half-heartedly.
“Anyway.” She let the unfinished thought hang there.
Whatever she thought, Ibrahim was sure he had been thinking it, too.
It was over a year ago now, but maybe when he’d gone to the Foothill sideshow with his brother in the first place it was because part of him had known that Desiree might make an appearance. And if Dee was there, maybe she would bring along her cousin.
That day, watching Jada walking alongside Dee, in black palazzo pants and a close-fitting cropped yellow tank top, he almost allowed himself to smile. Her hair was in a single long, thick braid that rested on her shoulder. The hair caught his eye because whenever he thought of her before, he imagined her hair as being out, like it was the night they met. It made him realize that despite himself, he had been thinking of her, remembering everything about her, and the conversation they had.
The exposed area of her stomach that day at Foothill was as smooth and cool-dark as her face. He wondered what she might look like in shorts. And without shorts. Or without a top. Then he had to remind himself that he had no business messing with a girl like her, no matter how often he had been thinking about her.
The night they first met, she said she went to Crestlawn Academy, a private parochial school, one of those that they bussed smart Black kids to. Ibrahim could have been part of that program, but his father forbade it, saying it was just a way for white people to use Black kids to feel better about themselves. Rather than arrest the decay in Black communities, they would share some of their bounty, but only with a select few.
Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel Page 9
