Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel

by Nia Forrester

  She knew what Lisa and Chloe would say if they knew about him. That she was out of her league. That she had no idea how to deal with “guys like that.” And it was true, she didn’t.

  So here they were, driving back to Oakland after only two hours at the beach. It wasn’t even close to dark and he was going to drop her off. Turning a little more away from him and toward the window, Jada pretended to be looking at the scenery as they drove, squeezing back the sting behind her eyes.

  She’d put too much pressure on this afternoon. Building up in her head what a first date with him would be like until absolutely nothing could live up to the anticipation. That was all.

  She made of fool of herself falling off that stupid windsurfing contraption, and to make matters worse was acting like a baby right now. Pouting when all he’d done was notice a girl other than her.

  But how could he notice a girl other than her?

  All she ever thought about was him. She could waste an entire hour brooding about something like the way the veins in his forearms stood out, making him look so manly, when Kyle and all the other guys she knew were still so obviously just boys by comparison. Or, she’d daydream about how rough the pads of his fingers were and think about them touching her, all over her body.

  When he said he wanted to kiss her, for just a brief second the afternoon felt like it was going to be perfect after all. But then the way he looked at that girl—who he didn’t even bother introducing her to—made it clear he could probably kiss any number of girls. And probably had.

  “Hey.”

  Jada almost jumped at his voice. Blinking, to make sure her eyes didn’t look too shiny, she turned to look at him.

  Ibrahim had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between them. Jada wanted to put her hand over it. She was so freaking easy, it almost made her sick.

  He said one single word, and suddenly she was all hopeful again.

  “You want some music?” he asked. “Since you’re not talkin’ or nothin’.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” she said.

  “I dunno. Maybe why you just flipped the script on me back there. One moment we’re cool, and then …”

  “I didn’t flip the script. You ran into a friend, and then I said I was hungry and you decided that meant the day was over, so …”

  Ibrahim glanced away from the road and at her. In those three seconds, he seemed to take in everything about her, reading the tilt of her head, the expression behind her eyes, the way her hands rested demurely in her lap.

  “Xiomara isn’t really a friend,” he said. “I mean, I guess we’re cool though. We work together.”

  “Really.” Jada feigned disinterest.

  “You want to know what I do?” he asked. “For work, I mean.”

  She shrugged.

  “I clean offices. With a crew that drives down to Stanford every morning and some nights in a beat-up old Ford van.”

  Jada looked at him, surprised. Ibrahim looked back at her, and she knew the surprise was readable on her face.

  “The pay’s crappy,” Ibrahim continued, “and the work is boring, and messy and sometimes I gotta haul stuff that smells like it might be toxic. And the driving time alone is like two-and-a-half hours both ways. It’s a shitty job for real.”

  Had the moment been more lighthearted, Jada would have teased him about the cuss-word and reminded him that he was supposed to be trying to stop using them. But the moment felt anything but light. It felt like Ibrahim was telling her something much more important than that he had a “shitty job.”

  “So, why are you doing it?” she asked, the need to pout abruptly forgotten.

  Ibrahim kept his eyes on the road. He took a breath.

  “I didn’t know at first,” he said. “I mean, the guy who hooked me up with it? He’s a … he’s a hustler, basically. No way to sugarcoat it. So, if it was about money, I could … let’s just say, I could get paid if that’s what I needed was money.”

  “Then what do you need?” Jada asked.

  “I guess … purpose. Humility. Maybe … perspective.”

  He was nineteen. He was only nineteen, and yet right now he sounded like he had the wisdom of someone a million years old.

  Purpose. Humility. Perspective.

  What nineteen-year-old talked like that? And more to the point, what nineteen-year-old would talk to her—an immature eighteen-year-old—like that, confident that she would hear him, and understand?

  Her heart was beating a little faster now.

  She knew he was different. She had even come to believe he was special. But—and this part was really crazy—what if he wasn’t just special? What if he was meant to be hers?

  15

  Then

  “That’s wild. you never had authentic Mexican food before?” Ibrahim said. “How you gon’ live in the Bay Area and not have real Mexican?”

  Jada shrugged, shoving aside her now-empty plate and resisting the urge to lean back and loosen the top button of her denim shorts.

  “I don’t know. My parents are pretty conventional about food.”

  Ibrahim shook his head. “But how is that even …”

  “They’re from down South. They still think of third generation Mexicans as ‘foreigners.’ If we had Chinese food at my house, like on a weekend for a change of pace? I think hell would freeze over.”

  “Wow.”

  “Don’t say ‘wow’!” Jada laughed. “They’re just … set in their ways. Like lots of people. Old-fashioned.”

  Ibrahim nodded. “Yeah. A’ight. But that’s just … wow.”

  Jada giggled again and looked around the room.

  The restaurant they’d gone to wasn’t really a restaurant. At least, it wasn’t an official, licensed establishment but rather a small house in a dicey neighborhood that looked like any other small house on the block. Except inside, it was set up with tables and chairs in what was probably meant to be the living room area, and people were being served and eating their meals like in any other restaurant you might go to.

  Jada had once seen a segment about places like this on the local news—underground restaurants that were run and frequented largely by illegal immigrants. It struck her as mysterious and intriguing at the time, that there was a thriving subterranean society and economy.

  According to the segment on the news, occasionally, the Health Department got wind of one of these places and shut them down. Or they tried to, but they might just as easily show up to find that the premises had been hastily vacated. Her father had seen the segment as well, and said that it was right that the city shut them down because the underground restaurants were a health hazard, the kitchens weren’t inspected by the city, and if someone got sick, there would be no way to get recourse.

  Her father was a practical man. He would find it hard to understand that something could seem rough and unfinished, but actually be priceless and precious.

  This place Ibrahim had taken her to was as clean as Jada’s own parents’ home. And it felt almost like a home. When they pushed the wrought iron gate and walked in the front door, a smiling man welcomed them and showed them a table. A girl no more than thirteen-years-old was their server. And a boy of about sixteen was servicing the other diners.

  It was exciting just being there, taking in the homey details like the floral curtains in the windows, the woven rugs on the floor and the mismatched tables and chairs. Every table was different, making the space look artsy and eclectic. The actual art hanging on wall looked rough and hastily done, but even that contributed to instead of took away from the overall charm of the place.

  Then the food had come out and Jada spent the first thirty seconds just enjoying the spicy aroma of the dishes Ibrahim had chosen for her. And the taste … everything—even the rice which she didn’t like in general—was so flavorful, she heard herself moan in appreciation several times during the meal.

  “Thank you for taking me here,” she said now.

  “You
’re welcome.”

  They stared at each other for so long, Jada’s eyes eventually fell to her lap.

  He hadn’t dropped her off after the beach like she feared he would. Instead, after he told her about his job, their conversation had taken a turn. She talked about school, and he listened. He told her about his school, and she listened. She resisted the impulse to tell him he could do, or be anything, even though she believed that to be true; because it might have come across as patronizing.

  But she wondered. What did he want to do, or be? Lots of people got out of jail with good intentions. But sometimes that’s all they were, intentions. And before long, they wound up exactly where they were before they got sent away in the first place. She knew this because her mother was part of the Women’s Auxiliary at church and sometimes, they tried to help men and women coming out. All the stories Jada had ever heard were grim ones. People dying, getting back into their addiction, or resuming a life of crime after only a few short months, but sometimes a matter of weeks post-release.

  “Let’s go get some ice cream somewhere,” Ibrahim said, inclining his head toward the door.

  “Why do you keep buying me ice cream like I’m a preschooler?” she laughed.

  Ibrahim grinned, baring those white, almost-perfect teeth.

  “Who says it’s for you? I got a sweet tooth.”

  “Hmm. That’s going to be a problem if you’re serious about that healthy eating kick.”

  He nodded faux-thoughtfully. “Yeah. I might have to figure that out, huh?”

  “You might.”

  “But it’s my only vice though,” he said. “Or … almost my only vice. I don’t do chocolate or candy, or any of that stuff.”

  “No sour apple Jolly Ranchers?” Jada pretended disbelief.

  “Nope.”

  “How about … weed?” she asked, feeling brave.

  Ibrahim looked momentarily thrown by the question, then shook his head.

  “Used to. Not anymore.”

  “You quit?” She didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but it came out that way.

  “Yup. I have a probation tail, so …”

  “What’s that?” Jada narrowed her eyes.

  Ibrahim hesitated, then he seemed to realize she was serious, and smiled.

  “Sometimes, after you serve a sentence, they give you probation on the tail-end to make sure you don’t, you know, fall off after you get out.”

  “Oh.”

  In the silence, Ibrahim cleared his throat and stood, helping her by pulling back her chair. He paid for their food by slipping a few folded bills into the hand of their young server who seemed too shy to look them in the eye. She smiled and thanked them for coming.

  As they headed out back to the car, which was parked a block over, Jada turned to look at Ibrahim.

  “How’d you know how much to pay? They didn’t give us a bill or anything.”

  “Every plate in there costs the same for lunch. At dinnertime and at breakfast they have different prices, but every lunch plate is five bucks.”

  “Five bucks? For all that food?”

  Ibrahim shrugged. “People who never had much are used to making a lot out of a little,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I wish I could talk my parents into going there. Or to a place like that,” she said, thinking aloud.

  She was imagining that, her parents in the little restaurant, when she almost walked into a guy coming from the opposite direction, holding two leashes at the end of which were a couple of angry-looking pit-bulls.

  Ibrahim reached out and took her hand to pull her out of the way. When the guy with the dogs had walked by, he tried to let go of her hand, but Jada wouldn’t let him. He glanced at her then, with slightly narrowed eyes, and smiled, shaking his head a little.

  At the car, he opened her door first and waited until she was in to shut it for her and then walked around to the other side. Jada wondered whether he always did that for girls, and then chided herself for letting her mind drift once again to the others who had come before her.

  Or maybe there were others now?

  It seemed unimaginable that there would not be. Ibrahim was handsome, and some girls were not as reticent as she was, about going after guys if they liked them. Lisa, for instance. To hear her tell it, she had basically attacked Earl the first time they did something. And he had just basically gone along for the ride.

  Jada didn’t tell her so at the time, but she thought that was a mistake. If a guy wasn’t motivated enough to chase you himself, maybe he didn’t think you were worth having. But now she understood how Lisa probably felt. If Ibrahim got in this car and took her for ice cream and then dropped her off without kissing her first, she felt like she might die. Literally wither up and die from longing for it.

  And who knew when they might see each other again? He was so mellow and seemed so laid-back about practically everything that for all she knew he would think seeing her once a month was just fine.

  When he got in on the driver’s side, he turned to face her, and his lips parted as he prepared to say something. Jada didn’t know what. She didn’t even care. She leaned over, tilted her head to one side and pressed her lips against his.

  Ibrahim froze for a fraction of a second, and she forced herself not to pull back in fear that he might not want it. But that was stupid. He did want it. He had said as much. She was just not used to this, being the one who moved things forward.

  She didn’t have to wait long after softening her lips and letting them part slightly. As soon as she did, Ibrahim did the same, his tongue touching the seam of her lips and pushing between them. Jada heard herself make a sound not dissimilar from the one she made at the deliciousness of their meal, and then Ibrahim was tasting her, and she was tasting him.

  Putting a hand at the back of his neck, she pressed closer, frustrated at the barrier of the armrest between them. She wanted to climb it, to straddle him and cup his face in both her hands. She wanted his hands on her; under her blouse, beneath her bra and then between her legs. It felt like they were pouring themselves into each other, so they were one body comprised only of lips and tongues.

  Jada heard her own breaths, and the increasingly insistent ones Ibrahim was taking, inhaling through his nose and then exhaling a little in the very few moments they allowed their lips to drift apart.

  16

  Now

  When Ibrahim and Jada finish their meal, the café is significantly busier. People are coming in and out, ordering at the counter and leaving with steaming cups of coffee, and bags of pastries. Some are shown to tables or mill about talking to neighbors and friends, exchanging hugs, pleasantries, and news.

  At the table next to theirs, a young couple is feeding their toddler, a little boy with curly auburn hair who is shaking his head and stubbornly refusing whatever is offered to him. The parents’ mistake is that they are too attentive, Ibrahim thinks, watching them orient their bodies almost fully toward the child, ignoring their own meals and beseeching him to eat his.

  Feeling the strength of his power over his parents, he is exerting it, as babies sometimes will. He can sense their near desperation to make him happy, and he is withholding his approval, because it gives him a sense of control and agency.

  Ibrahim thinks of his own son, and his infancy. When Kaleem was born, he was eager to learn fatherhood, studying it like a discipline, terrified of messing it up. Because he had a boy, Ibrahim knew then, as he knows now, that there was little or no room for error. He is proud of the man his son has become, and of the father his son is. But Ibrahim isn’t sure he had much or anything at all to do with it.

  Kaleem and Asha keep Anwar nearby always, but they never succumb to the urge to pamper him. They pick him up when he cries, or because he is wet, but more often, they go over to him and speak to him, kneeling in front of his crib so they’re looking at him eye to eye.

  What’s up, young warrior? Kaleem might ask, if Anwar makes a sound of distress. You need something?
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  As though his son is already able to answer verbally. And Anwar usually stops whining and focuses, already secure in the understanding that his father will come if he needs him, and whenever he calls.

  Kaleem never uses baby-talk and even Asha tends to show her affection for their son with hugs, kisses and cuddles more than through nonsensical chatter. When she is cleaning their apartment, or cooking, she sometimes has Anwar strapped on her chest or back and explains to him what she’s doing. When he is on her chest, he tilts his head backward and watches keenly, his wide hazel eyes following the movement of his mother’s lips as though he is trying to decipher the meaning of her words.

  “We should go see the kids today,” Jada says.

  She too has been watching the couple and their toddler, the mother a plump redhead with nervous mannerisms, and the father a slender Black man wearing eyeglasses with thick black frames.

  Ibrahim looks at her. “We’d have to call them. See what they’re up to.”

  “Of course,” Jada says nodding. “Who even knows if they’re around?”

  Kaleem and Asha stay on the move. Even now that the baby is here and Kaleem is training for Tokyo, their weekends are active, spent on hiking trails, at the beach, or visiting different national parks around the state.

  Kaleem likes to run at different altitudes, practicing to see how his body will acclimate, and whether it affects his speed. For training, he prefers higher altitudes for improved cardiovascular function, but he says the beach is another favorite site because running on sand forces him to work his quads harder.

  “Call ‘em,” Ibrahim suggests. “Wouldn’t mind seeing my grandson.”

  “Grandson.” Jada shakes her head. “That is not a word I thought we’d be speaking for a long time. Especially because of Kaleem and his … anyway.” She breaks off and takes a sudden sip of her tea.

  “His what?” Ibrahim asks, head falling to one side.

  He is always curious to hear more about his son, and what he was like in the years he was away. He missed so much.