Whatever It Takes

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “No,” Joan said, looking me up and down, “it’s not the clothes, although your outfit is nice. It’s something about you. Did you cut your hair? That flip is sharp.”

  “Ain’t it though,” Tracy added, standing at her desk with school records in her hand. “Turn around, India. Let us feel the ambiance of what you have on.”

  In a minute I’ma slap Tracy. She’s lucky the principal’s door is open; otherwise, I would cold-cop her ass!

  “Turn around, India,” Joan urged.

  I turned around so they could get a quick view and leave me the hell alone. “India,” Joan said, walking up close to me, “turn back around.”

  “Oh goodness, Joan,” I huffed, turning around again.

  “Now stay still,” she said, my back facing her. “Tracy, come here.” Joan placed her hand at the nape of my neck and pushed the back of my head forward. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “What?” I asked, agitated. “What is it?”

  “That ain’t nothin’, Joan,” Tracy said. From the sound of her voice, I could tell she was lying. If she starts stuttering, I know something’s up. “It-it-it’s just a blemish.”

  “What is it?” I asked, concerned. “Tell me.”

  “Just be still,” Joan said sternly. Then she laughed. “You have one, two . . . three hickeys on the back of your neck.”

  I almost passed out. How in the hell did I get three hickeys on the back of my neck? I can’t believe this. I was walking around here with six hickeys on me—three in the front and three in the back—telling all my damn business! And hickeys on the back of my neck? Hell, I might as well have worn a sign that said, ASK ME HOW TO DO IT DOGGY-STYLE. “All right, that’s enough,” I said, wiggling away from Joan and Tracy. I turned around and grabbed my purse. Took out my MAC concealer and press powder and handed it to Tracy. “Tracy, cover this up. And hurry before one of these lil’ nosy teachers comes in here.”

  “So,” Joan said, as Tracy started covering the hickeys up, “who is he?”

  “Would you lower your voice? It’s nobody,” I said tight-lipped.

  “Oh, you’re holding out on me?” She frowned.

  “Joan,” Tracy stressed, putting the finishing touches on the hickeys. “I’m sure she wants to keep some things private.”

  “Private?” I could tell Joan’s feelings were hurt.

  “Okay, Joan,” I sighed, “I’ll tell you. But you can’t react in any kind of way. We are at work and this is a school.” Let me see how I can drop some hints about Devin and me. “Well, Joan, the other day when I came to your house—”

  “Mr. Marcus,” Tracy interrupted, slightly nudging me in the back, “was in the car and he did it. I told this chile,” she said, stepping to the side and pointing to me, “to leave that dirty old man alone. Stop feeding him and letting him in her house. He’s like a stray fuckin’ cat once you feed him, you can’t get rid of him. I told her to let his old ass roam the parking lot.”

  Mr. Marcus? Is this bitch crazy?

  “I know you’re lying,” Joan said, catching an attitude. “Keep yo’ lil’ secrets. I don’t need to know!” She threw her right shoulder forward and stormed out of the office.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I turned to Tracy. The office was starting to get full with a few other teachers coming to sign in.

  “What’s wrong with me!” she snapped, tight-lipped and smiling as one of the teachers walked by. “I know damn well you weren’t going to tell her that you were sluttin’ it up with her son all weekend, were you?”

  “I was going to try.”

  “Is something wrong?” the vice principal, who’d just walked into the office, asked us. “Ms. Parker, Ms. Greene, is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Just fine,” Tracy and I said simultaneously.

  “I was just telling Ms. Parker,” Tracy said, “about my daughter’s school play.”

  “Oooh,” the vice principal said, “how nice.” She turned and walked out of the office.

  “If I were you,” Tracy said, with her eyes bulged and her lips tight, “I would keep quiet. Those three hickeys on the back of your neck don’t leave much to the imagination, Ms. Hit it from the back! Don’t be the cause of you and Joan falling out.”

  “Bye, Tracy,” I snapped, pissed off. “I have to go and pick up my students from the auditorium.

  * * *

  I am so not here today. Every five minutes Devin is running through my mind. My students must think I’m crazy. I’ve loaded them up with more work than I know they can do all because I don’t want to be bothered—I can’t take this. I’m going to cut him off. We’re done, over with. This is too much of a risk. Along with losing my friend, I can’t take the chance of having my heart broken by a twenty-three-year-old. I looked at the clock and it was twelve thirty. Oh good, lunchtime.

  “Come on, class. Let’s get ready for lunch.”

  I took my students to the cafeteria and dragged myself to the teachers’ room. I was not in the mood to be grilled in the smoke pits of the educated brothel, but I knew it was coming. When I walked in, Joan was drinking a Diet Coke and having a smoke while Tracy was eating a salad. Immediately Joan huffed and rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t be mad at me,” I said to Joan, sitting down to eat my sandwich. “Tracy was the one who said it.”

  “Yeah, but you have the hickeys.” Joan took a drag, “And I want to know from who? And I hope not another woman’s husband; you know how I feel about that.”

  “Naw,” Tracy said. “It sure ain’t from somebody’s husband.”

  “Well, who is he?” Joan insisted on knowing.

  “He’s just a guy,” I said.

  “A guy?” Joan smirked. “Is he a sugar daddy or a tender roni. Tell me.”

  “A tender roni.” Tracy laughed, with spit flying out of her mouth.

  I shot her such a look that I was hoping she could tell I wanted to punch her in the face.

  “I’m just playing,” she said, taking up a forkful of salad. “I don’t know who he is.”

  “India,” Joan nagged. “Are you going to tell me or what?”

  “Okay, listen. And I have to tell it quick, because the second period lunch teachers will be in here any minute.”

  “I’m all ears,” Joan said.

  Tracy’s eyes were popped open, as if she didn’t know what to expect.

  “I met a guy on BlackPlanet.com.” I sighed, hanging my head low.

  “You did what?” Tracy asked. I couldn’t tell whether she was surprised or embarrassed.

  I shot her ass the evil eye. “Oh yeah,” Tracy said, now playing along. “Black Planet. Uhmm hmm. But I’ll tell you this, that shit don’t work. I posted Ju-Ju an ad last month and not one person responded.”

  “Ju-Ju? Why would you place Ju-Ju an ad?” I asked, with a confused look on my face. “What did it say?”

  “It said, ‘He might not pay no rent, but he got a big dick. Please come get him. Signed, Wanted out by the New Year.’ ”

  “Oh please.” Joan frowned, taking a sip of her soda. “I have to admit I’ve even been a little curious about internet dating myself. I’m just so tired of chasing Devin Senior around that I don’t know what to do. The last time I jumped out a bush, I sprained my ankle and it wasn’t even him. I’m just about done. Plus D.J.’s grown. And guess what? He stayed out all weekend with some tramp.”

  “Tramp?” I was offended. “Is that the nicest thing you can call the girl?”

  “Yes, it is, because she’s a ho. Any lil’ girl that drops her drawls for a man all weekend is a no-good hussie tramp. And she needs to be slapped!”

  “And if the girl is a tramp,” I snapped, “what does that make him?”

  “It makes him a man. Now please tell us about Mr. Black Planet and don’t spare any details. I have to hear this. Start by telling us his name and then describe him. This way we can get the visual going.” She crossed her legs and smiled. Tracy sat back and shook her head.


  “His name . . .”—I hesitated—”was Faraad.” Yeah that’s it. “Faraad.”

  “How old is he?” Joan asked.

  “Uhh . . . twenty-nine.”

  “Oh hell, a young thang. You go, girl! But one word of advice: be sure you screw him real good before you meet the mama. This way your coochie will have already taken control and nothing the old broad says will make a difference.”

  “But first you have to slide him the dick test.” Tracy laughed. “Before you go and meet the mama. Because if he fails, he’s not a keeper.”

  “The dick test?” I frowned.

  “Yes, the dick test,” Tracy confirmed. “It goes like this: you wait for him to go to sleep, then you unbuckle his pants or dip your hands in the slit of his boxers, whichever one, and you proceed to hit him off with some head. If the shit stays soft in your mouth for longer than ten seconds, it’s a soggy dick. Cut him off.”

  “Why?” Joan asked.

  “Why?” Tracy looked surprised. “That’s the sign of a weak dick. Trust me. Put ten years on him and his ass’ll be needing Viagra.”

  “You are crazy!” I fell out laughing. “But you two can slow down, because I don’t think I’ll be seeing Black Planet anymore.”

  “Why not?” Joan asked concerned.

  “Well if you would let me finish,” I said.

  “Okay, go ahead.” Joan frowned, lighting another cigarette. “First tell us what his ad said.”

  “It said, ‘Hi, I’m a black, twenty-nine-year-old businessman, looking for the perfect one. If any of you ladies fit the bill, hit me up.’ Well . . . I hit him up—”

  “Where’d you meet . . . ? Wait . . . wait . . .” Joan interrupted. “Did you talk on the phone first?”

  “Dang, Joan.” I sighed, I need me a few minutes to get this lie together, and she’s rushing me! “I’ll get to that. . . . We started emailing each other and then we spoke on the phone.”

  “How long?” she pressed.

  “Almost a month ago.”

  “When did you get to see him?”

  “On Black Friday.”

  “That’s why I didn’t get my damn camera,” she complained.

  “You want me to tell the story or not?” I snapped.

  “Go on.”

  “Okay, he invited me to come and see him. He said that he was closing early and giving his employees half a day off.”

  “His employees?” Joan smiled. “I’m impressed.”

  “Me too,” Tracy added. “Damn, his ass was really runnin’ shit, huh?”

  “Anyway”—I rolled my eyes—”I jumped in my car and drove over to 155 Chancellor Avenue in Irvington, the address of where he worked. Now, truthfully it’s been a while since I’ve been up by Valley Fair, so I really didn’t know the area that well anymore. When I got in the vicinity of 152, 153, and so on, I couldn’t find 155 anywhere. There was a Wendy’s, an ice cream parlor, an African braiding shop, and a liquor store. Still, no 155. I decided to stop in the ice cream parlor and was told that 155 was next door.”

  “Don’t tell me, the African braiding shop?” Joan frowned.

  “Oh hell no.” Tracy sighed.

  “Oh hell yes.” I rolled my eyes. “He was braiding his ass off! Doing double-strand twist and the whole shit. I couldn’t believe it. And I knew it was him because he had his name designed on the side of his head, looking like a tired-ass K-Solo.”

  “That’s a hot-ghetto-ass-mess!” Tracy was so pissed that I think she forgot this was a lie. “His ass sittin’ up there,” she continued, “with Ampro gel slapped on the back of his hand. I can hear him now: ‘What you want, human or synthetic?’ ”

  “I hope you turned around and went home, India,” Joan said.

  “Joan,” Tracy chimed in, “how could she have gone home and she has hickeys on her neck? You gotta stop being so easy, India. I mean, really.”

  “Shut up,” I snarled at her. I turned back to Joan. “I almost talked myself into leaving, but before I could do that,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich, “I noticed that he was fine.”

  “How fine?” Joan asked.

  “Girl, he was every bit six-one, six-packed down, light mustache, shadow beard, with a tap of Hershey’s dark chocolate in his skin.”

  “Damn,” Joan interrupted, “he sounds fine-ass hell. Sort of puts me in the mind of D.J.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Tracy chuckled.

  “Anyway,” I continued with the story, “I looked at him and said, ‘Jahaad, do you know who I am?’ ”

  “Jahaad?” Joan said, puzzled. “I thought his name was Faraad?”

  “Oh yeah.” I sighed, trying to keep up with this lie. “Girl, you know I forget at times. . . .” My nose should be a foot fuckin’ long. I don’t even remember half of what I’ve said, and now I’m sitting here with a dumb look on my face because I can’t remember if I told them that I stayed in the salon or he came out to the car. Oh, God, please help me out of this lie. “So we were in his car,” I continued.

  “The car?” Joan interrupted. “I thought you were in the braiding shop? Isn’t that what she said, Tracy?”

  “Humph,” Tracy grunted. “Don’t even start me to lying. Damn if I can remember.”

  “Ms. Parker, Ms. Parker.” A voice came through the intercom. “Please report to the office.” Thank you Jesus. I wiped my brow. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  Joan and Tracy are so damn nosy. Why are they following me to the office?

  “Ms. Parker,” the parent coordinator said, as I walked in the office, “these were just delivered for you.”

  She handed me a long white box with a red bow wrapped around it, and a small card tucked on the side of the bow. Joan and Tracy were standing so close behind me, I was sure the heat from their breath would melt all the black off me. I turned around. “Could you two step back? Thank you.”

  They stepped back and I opened the card. It read:

  I can’t stop thinking about you; thoughts of you are constantly on my mind. When you open the box, just know that track 11 is my dedication to you.

  Mac Daddy

  Mac Daddy? I thought. Who is—oh my goodness—Devin? Where did he get Mac Daddy from? He is so silly. I completely forgot that I teased about his name being some serious Mac Daddy shit. I started blushing and laughing at the same time. I opened the box. Oh my goodness, a dozen long-stemmed red roses! And a Jill Scott CD. I have this CD already. Oh Lord, track number 11, “Whatever,” is my favorite song!

  “Tracy!” I yelled. “He wants some collard greens!” I held up the CD. “Track number eleven!”

  Tracy fell out laughing. “And some chicken wings.” She started singing, “ ’Do you want some fish and grits? I’ll hurry and go get it . . .’ ”

  “What in the world is wrong with you two?” Joan said, like we were crazy. I looked around and the entire office, including the principal, was staring at us as if we had lost our minds. “Oh, sorry,” we said simultaneously. The principal shook his head and walked back into his office. Everyone else resumed doing their jobs. Since I had about ten more minutes left of my lunch, I went upstairs to my classroom. Of course, the two groupies were behind me.

  “India,” Joan said, as soon as we got into the room, “there’s another card attached to the back of that CD.”

  Before I could flip the CD over to get the card, Joan snatched it off, “Let me see.” She ripped it open. “What is this?” She started reading it aloud:

  Now that you’ve laughed at my silliness, there’s a more serious dedication in the box for you. Track number six.

  Forever, D.

  I don’t know who reached for the box faster, Tracy or me. I snatched the box into my arms and then I took the card out of Joan’s hand. “Stop it!” I growled.

  “Who the hell is D?” Joan asked. “I thought Black Planet’s name was Jahaad.”

  “It was Faraad,” Tracy corrected her.

  “Whatever, but who is D?” Joan asked.r />
  “Don’t worry about it.” I smiled, taking out the Carl Thomas CD that was tucked along the side of the box. I couldn’t think of what track number 6 was and my lunch period was over, so I couldn’t listen to it. “Joan, I think we have some children to pick up. And, Tracy”—I pointed toward the door—”Principal Britt will be looking for you in a minute.” I knew Joan was talking about me when she and Tracy walked out but I didn’t give a damn. I picked up my cell phone before I ran to the cafeteria to get my class, and called Devin.

  ‘“This is Devin,” he said, answering his phone. He was sounding so astute that I could imagine him in a tailor-made Hugo Boss suit and Prada loafers.

  “Is this a good time?” I hesitated.

  “It’s always a good time for you. You get the flowers?”

  “And the CDs.”

  He laughed. “Make sure you listen to them.”

  “I will.”

  “I miss you,” he said.

  “I miss you too.”

  “I want to see you later,” he said.

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  “I’ll see you around seven.” And he hung up.

  I really didn’t want to let him go, but I knew I needed to get back to work. I held the phone to my chest. Please God, let him be the one.

  * * *

  After work, I couldn’t get in my car fast enough. I told all the lil’ second-grade cock blockers I tutor after school they had to go home. “Ms. Parker has an emergency.” What I really wanted to say was, “You ain’t gotta go home but you gotta get the hell outta here. Ms. Parker’s waitin’ on a dingaling to sing her a lullaby!” But since they’re children, I gave them the G-rated version.

  I started my engine up and slid in the Carl Thomas CD Let’s Talk About It, hit track number six, “Make It Alright,” and I felt like my whole body lit up. I can’t even lie, I felt lifted and I haven’t felt this lifted since I was in college, smoking hydro. I turned the volume up and listened to the words of the song. “ ’Don’t have to look no further . . . / I’m just here to love ya. . . .’ ” Oh God, he was really listening to me this weekend. He heard me when I told him, “I’m tired of being alone . . . and I don’t want my heart broken . . . again. . . . It’s about to be a new year and I want new things. . . .” I thought he would be turned off, but he’s not. I must be in Heaven. I looked over at the box of roses on my front seat, smiled, and started singing at the top of my lungs. I think cloud nine drove me home.