by Candice Dow
“Honey, I don’t know. Maybe you should go back and just get it off your chest.”
“What if he doesn’t want to hear it?”
“Can you handle that?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Well, I think you did the right thing.”
When my wailing became worse than when Derrick died, I pleaded, “Mya, let me go.”
“I’ll stop by when I get done, okay?”
When I hung up, I opened a bottle of wine. I decided to entertain myself while I got drunk, so I pulled out the manuscript from the envelope. It was titled: “The Perfect Script II” by Rashad Watkins.
My heart plummeted. Afraid to flip the page, I traced over the title. Would he describe a woman like me or someone else? I found the courage to read the summary of the characters. His words jumped off the page and pointed in my face. My shortcomings were all outlined in scenes: Ability to love like she has never loved before. Cook for me as often as I cook for her. Treat me with as much consideration as I treat her. Never say good-bye over the phone.
As I read on, I was shocked to see my positives as well as my negatives. His script stated that if the woman snores, she should wear nose strips. I’d asked him before if it bothered him, but, of course, he had said no. Damn it! I forced him to lie to me. His script showed that he saw the imperfect me as perfect.
My heart raced as I tried to think of ways to reverse this and really show him who I was. Getting fired and going home was the wakeup call that I needed. I’m alive. I didn’t die with Derrick and Rashad made me see that. I have to go get him. I need to tell him that I’m ready to give love in return. I knew: Nothing in this house mattered. I could leave it all. It represented a life that was over.
My chin was covered with aloe as I ran around packing my things. In my quest to go get my man, I peeked in the mirror to see why my skin was still stinging. I screamed, “No!”
Dark polka-dot scabs covered my chin and neck. Oh my goodness, the laser singed me. Not today of all days. How can I convince him that I’m the girl for the script when I look like a leopard?
I called the doctor’s office and yelled at the top of my lungs, “You burned me all up. What am I supposed to do?”
The nurse instructed me to continue using the damn aloe vera. I shouted, “That’s not going to make these scabs go away.”
She said, “The scabs will go away in due time. Usually it’s just the epidermis layer that is damaged and that sheds daily anyway. You’ll be fine once it heals.”
“I don’t have time.”
“I’m really sorry Mrs. Mayo. I think I explained to you extensively the side effects of laser on colored skin.”
I slammed the phone down and called Mya. She told me to slow down as I rambled off my plans and my physical damage. I repeated, “Mya, he wrote a script describing his perfect woman and I want to audition for the role.”
“Go get him, Tima. I knew he wanted you.”
As she boosted me up, I paused, “There’s one problem: I look like a leopard.”
“From crying?”
“No, from the laser hair removal.”
She gasped, “You’re lying.”
“Please, hurry up and get here. We have to do something.”
“Okay, I’ll be there soon.”
I continued gathering my necessities while reading the script until Mya arrived. When I opened the door, her eyes watered. She covered her mouth. “Oh my god, Tima. It’s really bad.”
Her reaction scared me because I assumed that I was overreacting. She stood beside me in the bathroom mirror and admitted, “You can’t go get him like that.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Just calm down. Maybe makeup can work.”
We grabbed my makeup and she tried to apply concealer.
I winced.
“Does it hurt?”
“It still burns.”
“Tima, we may have to wait until the morning.”
“What if that’s too late?”
“It won’t be. Just get there bright and early.”
“Can you go prep him for my arrival?”
She shook her head slowly. “Tima, that’s not very grown up. Now, is it?”
“I just don’t want to miss him.”
“You won’t. I’ll ask Steve to come up with something to stall him until around ten. Is that good enough?”
“I should just go.”
“Honey, trust me. You do not want to go like that.”
Scene 52
RASHAD
When my mother arrived at the apartment, she asked, “Did that young lady find you?”
I frowned. She clarified, “She came to the house and I told her where you were. Did she know you were moving to LA?”
“Why?”
“It just looked like she was running out of time. Like she needed to see you immediately.”
“Ma, how did you figure that all out?”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “Honey, I’m a woman. That girl really cares about you.”
I chuckled. She continued, “Now you know people are on the waiting list for these grants for years. She got you in this place in less than a month. I think she likes you.”
“Ma, that’s someone different.” I laughed off the confusion. “What did she say when she came there?”
“That she was looking for you and I just gave her this address.”
“Thanks.”
She looked at all my scattered boxes. “What have you decided to take?”
“I’m going to take most of this stuff. I’m going to leave these boxes in the basement.”
She sucked her teeth. “Don’t leave me with a bunch of junk.”
“Ma, I’m sure in between taping, I’ll be coming back.”
“It’s just so funny that the day that this place comes together, you get your break.”
I stretched out on the floor after helping my mother unpack and thought about Fatima. Why did she come here? What did she want? Each time I thought about how happy I was with her, I would remember the breakup over the phone and how the cops escorted me from her house. I never expected that my move to LA would be filled with so many unanswered questions. This is what I worked my entire life for, but something just didn’t seem right.
When my phone alarm buzzed the next morning, it was time to finish loading up and head across country. During one of my trips out to the van, I looked up and was shocked to see Fatima walking down the street toward me. I was frozen by her humility. She wore a sweatsuit, no makeup; her eyes were puffy and red, but she was still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I was confused by her presence. Especially the luggage she dragged behind her.
When she stood in front of me, I noticed strange-looking scabs all over her face. It looked as if it had been stonewashed. Was this a desperate plea for my sympathy? I frowned. “What happened to your face?”
The intensity in her face melted as she cracked a short grin. “We’ll talk about that in a minute. But what I came to say is…”
My inquisitive stare forced her to pause. Finally, she cleared her throat and an urgent confidence spoke for her. “Rashad, I came here to tell that I love you.” She took a deep breath. “I have loved you from almost the beginning, but I was afraid to admit it. I was afraid that if I loved you, I would lose control. I wanted to control the destiny of our relationship all because I was scared. I thought if I could protect myself from love, I would never lose it again.”
She reached out for my folded, resistant arms. “You loved me in a way no one else would have, even with all the money in the world, and I’m not scared anymore. I had to choose between love and fear…”
I watched in shock as she continued, “I choose love, Rashad. I want to love you. I’m not ready to let you go. I want to give you everything you need.”
“But why all of a sudden? A week ago you didn’t want anything to do with me.” I wondered if I could trust her again.
“Rashad, a week
ago, I didn’t want anything to do with me. I thought I had failed at being perfect. But now I know that being perfect doesn’t make me worthy of love. Being open to love is what makes me worthy and I’m open. I see my mistakes and I hope you’ll give me the chance to make things better.”
“Have you really thought this out? You’re standing here like you’re ready to move across country with me and…”
She pulled a piece of paper from her purse. As she unfolded the page, I noticed it was from my script. She flipped it over and pointed to the third item: Be spontaneous.
My heart belonged to this woman in front of me and I owed her all my love for free. To relieve her of the burden of explaining further, I ripped the page, tossed it up in the air, and kissed her passionately to let her know I couldn’t live without her either. Our hearts collided and I realized that love is not an accident—sometimes you have to write your own script.
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TAPPIN’ ON THIRTY
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1
TAYLOR
Toni and I sat on the steps outside my parents’ house playing Name That Movie, a silly game that we started when we were kids. One person would say a quote from a movie and the other person would have to shout the title of the movie.
She said, “No good’s going to come from what you’re thinking about doing.”
I laughed. “I don’t know that line. What movie is that from?”
“Knucklehead. I’m talking about what you’re about to tell Scooter.”
“What should I do if I’m not happy?”
She gasped. “Taylor, you need to figure out why you’re not happy.” Her eyes searched mine for an explanation. “Is it because you’re getting so much attention now?”
I snapped, “No.”
With an affirmative nod, she said, “You’re going to regret it. Watch.”
“See, this is why I don’t tell you anything. Why you always got to judge me?”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to tell you to think about this.”
“I have.” An arrogant I-know-what-I’m-doing smirk sat posed on my face momentarily. “I think I’m too young to be in a committed long-distance relationship.”
“Young is relative. Maturity is the only thing that matters. Maybe Scooter’s just too mature for your wild butt.”
I laughed. “Why I got to be wild?”
She rolled her eyes. My family had unofficially adopted Scooter during our five-year relationship. How could I explain to him that I wanted to see other people? After three months of contemplation, I was still uncertain. It just never seemed like the right time to explain that I’d fallen victim to all the fine black men lurking on campus.
As I fretted over what to do, Toni hissed, “That’s the problem with you. You don’t care about anyone’s feelings.”
“If I didn’t care about his feelings, I would just cheat on him, right?” I paused. “At least I want to break it off first.”
When we noticed his car cruising into the cul-de-sac, Toni’s eyes pleaded with me. If I’m not being true to myself, how will I ever be true to him? As I provoked my conscience to sympathize with my reason, I nodded. If not today, then when?
He pulled into the driveway and Toni grunted, hating the thought that I would crush Scooter’s world. I tapped my knee into hers apologetically, as he stepped out of the car and walked toward us carrying a McDonald’s bag. I half-heartedly hugged him. He kissed my cheek. “Hey Tay.”
I sighed. “Hey.”
When I sat, Toni stood to hug him. “Hey, brother.”
Her eyes scolded me as she sat down. He handed me the bag. “I got sundaes for y’all.”
Toni giggled. “Yea, Scooter.”
He laughed and patted the top of Toni’s head. He looked at me. “Are we hanging out here or do you want to go to the movies?”
“It doesn’t matter. We can go to the movies.”
When I stood, he admired the long, fitted cotton-striped dress that he’d given me as a just-’cause gift. “I like that on you,” he commented.
“Thanks.”
He asked Toni if she wanted to tag along, but my expression demanded that she decline. She chuckled, and said, “Y’all go ahead. I’m okay.”
I asked her to put my sundae in the freezer, as he opened the passenger side door. When I sat in the car, Toni’s expression criticized me. My eyes begged for her empathy. He started the car and pinched my cheek. “I made a tape for you.”
He popped the tape in and the first song to play was Tanya Blount’s “Through the Rain.” Scooter sang the lyrics as if he meant every word, while he held my hand. “Through the rainy storms together. We can last.” He nodded and smiled. “Gonna make it last.”
I winced. No, actually we’re not. When the song finished, I turned the stereo down. “Scooter, why do you always make stuff for me and…”
He looked baffled. “I’ve always made stuff for you. We make stuff for each other.”
“What’s the last thing I’ve made for you?”
His eyes questioned my disposition. I said, “Have you noticed I haven’t wrote any poems or made any tapes since…”
He tapped on the brakes. “Since spring break.”
I dropped my head and allowed the sting to resonate. We pulled up to the Bowie Movie Theatre. We sat in silence for a minute. My face crumbled into a sympathetic frown, pleading for his understanding.
Finally, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Scooter, don’t you think we’re too young?”
His temples popped out. His silence scared me, but I forged on. “I think this long-distance thing is too much for us.”
He snapped, “For who? For you?”
“It just seems like I…”
Tears formed in his eyes. Ooh, this wasn’t going so smoothly. My eyes shifted back and forth. What the hell was I supposed to say to make this better? I frowned.
As I studied the expression in his face, I winced. Finally, the tears fell. Not one or two. An endless stream flowed down his strong jaw structure.
“Taylor, I love you.”
Dumbfounded, I asked, “Don’t you want to explore first?”
He snickered through his sniffles. “I guess that’s what this is about. You want to explore.”
“Uh-huh.”
He banged on the steering wheel. “I’m on campus with a bunch of white girls. I don’t want to explore. I want to be with you.”
Was this all about our options? He had few. I, on the other hand, was on a campus full of fine-ass black men. My lips curled with confirmation. No one told him to go to Princeton.
“Scooter, I do. I do want to explore.”
This six-foot-five boy that I loved so much wailed like a chick in the confines of his small car. Where was his pride? Although I was repulsed by this episode, I asked, “Are you okay?”
He growled, “Do I look okay?”
My eyes danced in my head. I wanted to ask if he didn’t mind taking me home and we could talk about this when he was in better shape. Instead, I sat there and endured his begging. Needless to say, my stubborn ass did not surrender. The more he cried, the less I cared. Speed on, Scooter.
The propellers of my ceiling fan played episodes of my immature stupidity. The aroma of a humid summer’s eve and an insect symphony outside my patio door contributed to my delusions. My contact lenses blurred as I watched my life play out before me.
In less than three hours, my ten-year class reunion would take place. Anticipation left my restless body fatigued. In the midst of my daydream, the phone resting on the pillow startled me as it rang in my ear. I jumped up. “Hello.”
My partner-in-crime sang into the phone, “Make me loose my breath.”
I giggled. “Girl, turn that music down.”
“Whatchu doing?”
“Just lying here.”
Courtney huffed. “Girl, you better start getting ready.”
“I am.”
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” I snapped.
She chuckled. “Trying to get Mark’s ass to stay home.”
“You’re crazy. Here I am, wanting to pay somebody to go with me, just so I don’t look desperate and your crazy butt wants to leave your fiancé at home.”
“Girl, you never turn down meeting ops.”
“You’re stupid.”
“I’m honest.” She chuckled sneakily, adding, “Hell, I’m single until I tie the knot.”
“No, whore. The theory is you’re single until you get the ring.”
She laughed. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll let you know if he’s coming or not. Either way, I’ll be there at nine.”
A piece of me prayed he’d decide not to come. I didn’t want to be a part of the threesome strolling into the reunion.
My body peeled up from the bed. No more dress rehearsals. The full stage production approached. The tangerine-and-coral satin dress pinned neatly on the dry cleaner’s hanger decorated my closet door. I looked at it for the millionth time. When I first tried it on and when I tried it on an hour ago, it fit perfectly. Still, I hoped it made the impression that the $300 price tag made in my pocket.
After I showered and flat-ironed my ear-length layered flip, I stood in front of my dress once again. Courtney would be here in about thirty minutes, but I was scared to have more time than necessary to critique the finished product. Instead, I played with makeup for twenty-five minutes. Putting on my false eyelashes took longer than expected, but I was still on schedule. Finally, I washed my hands and stepped into my strapless dress. While I zipped up the side, I sucked in my already flat belly and stepped over to the full-length mirror. The subtle sparkles from my lotion glistened on my full cleavage. My makeup added to the striking effect of the dress. The zigzag hem complemented my long get-it-from-my-mama legs. I winked at the five-foot-nine cutie staring back at me.
Courtney rang the doorbell and interrupted my self-absorption. I took a second to slip on my four-inch strappy sandals. Then, I rushed to the door, peeping at anything resembling a mirror. When I opened the door, I was careful not to rub up against it. Standing nearly six inches below me, Courtney reached her arms out for a hug. Midstream in the embrace, she adjusted the straps of her tight black spaghetti-strap dress. Bronze sparkles glistened on her pale skin.
