“I’m going out of town tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” he asks, sounding like my father.
“I’m going to mind my own business.”
“My bad, I was just wondering because you should probably get the tire fixed and take this spare off if you’re going too far. Take this joint to the shop first thing tomorrow, and see if they will patch it up for you.”
“Okay, cool.”
“For real, you gone all weekend?”
“If you must know, I’m visiting my aunt and uncle in Columbia.”
“That’s what’s up. You want some company?”
“I’m good. Thanks a lot for coming out here to help me, Omar.”
“Text me when you get in,” he adds, then blows me a kiss and walks back to his car. A phone rings. I don’t remember it’s his until I’ve already answered.
“Hello,” I say. Omar spins around, coming back toward me. A woman answers. Probably one of his chickens.
“Give me the phone, Claudia,” he mouths.
“Omar’s not here right now, may I take a message?” He tries to grab the phone from me, but I push him away. “Who’s calling?” I run to the other side of the car. “Lucky what . . . huh? Oh, okay . . . not leaving tomorrow . . . yes, I will let him know. . . . Why you looking all worried, Omar?” I ask as I hang up.
“Huh? Who was it?”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t one of your hootchy mamas.”
“Stop playing, girl, and give me my phone.” He throws his arms around me, almost lifting me off the ground, and snatches the phone. “Who was it?”
“I had no idea, Omar Smalls.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lucky Dog Animal Rescue.”
“Oh, snap, that’s tomorrow. Dang, I almost forgot.”
“You volunteer with them. I’m shocked.”
“Whatever.”
“A lady named Ms. Williams—”
“Ms. Wilson,” he corrects me.
“Yeah, well, she said the dogs aren’t leaving tomorrow for Washington, D.C. It’ll be in two days.”
“That’s what’s up. Them dogs is my dawgs!” We both laugh. “I hope they all find homes up there in Chocolate City,” he adds, looking as sincere as I’ve ever seen him.
“Why you didn’t tell me you do volunteer work?”
“I didn’t tell you I can recite the Declaration of Independence, either.”
“You can?”
“No, silly. Be safe, I’m outta here.”
“Yeah, you too, Omar Smalls.”
Get in the car, Claudia. I’m standing in the middle of the street, still wearing his letterman’s jacket. The easy thing to do is to get in the car, go home, work on my physics homework, and eat ice cream. Get in the car, Claudia. Omar Smalls is a player and a playa. A below average student, and as shallow as dirty pond.
And he rescues dogs.
Omar starts the car and flashes his lights at me. He pulls up beside me.
“You miss me already, don’t you?”
“Whatever!” I roll my eyes. “Seriously, thanks for helping me.”
“T-Diddy knows how to treat a special lady. Have a good night.” He starts rolling up the window.
The easy thing to do is to let him drive off, go back with his boys, let some freaky freshman girl do the splits for him.
“Wait! Omar, wait!”
I’m afraid to really say what I am thinking. I don’t want to become another box for him to check off. It’s not like I like him. I don’t, really. I’m sure it would feel great in his arms. To walk hand in hand under the moon, yadda yadda yadda. Yes, we might have a connection. A thing. But I really don’t have time for any nonsense. Get in your car, Claudia.
“What is it, Claudia?” Nothing, never mind. “Well, it’s getting cold, homegirl. So just keep the jacket. I’ll pick it up when you get back to town.” He does the whole curly upper lip thing. Very smooth, Omar. Very frickin’ smooth.
“So now you’re just going to leave me by myself,” I say. “I thought we were going to the beach.”
Omar
“I hope you put some gas in Betty,” Willie Mack yells.
“IThoughtWeWereGoingToTheMidnightMovieT,” Fast Freddie screams. I rush out of the party, trying to get to homegirl before she changes her mind. And these jokers are following me.
“Pick me up for the gym tomorrow, Willie,” I yell.
“I thought you were going to D.C.”
“New plans. Same time. I’ll holla,” I say when I reach homegirl’s ride.
“OhSnapThat’sClaudiaClarke. WillieThisWoadieIsDissingUsForClaudiaClarke!” Before I can shut the door, Willie and Fast Freddie are over at her window.
“What’s new, Claudia?”
“Hey there, Willie. Hey, Fast Freddie!”
Fast Freddie starts cackling. He runs away from the car like he just won the lottery or something, screaming “BongBong!”
“What does that mean, Omar?” Claudia says, looking at me.
“Freddie can be so immature,” I say. That joker is wildin’ out. “Let’s ride.”
“Hole up, hole up, where y’all lovebirds going?”
“It’s not like that, Willie. Omar and I are just friends.”
As much as I want to tell him we’re going to the beach, the last thing I need is for the whole football team to know my biz. I can just hear it now: “Awwwww, T-Diddy and Claudia took a late-night skinny dip on Folly.”
“She’s just giving me a ride home. I’ll holla, Willie.” I motion to Claudia to start the car.
“Willie, you should come over—T-Diddy’s making omelets,” homegirl says, giggling.
“That’s what’s up. Let me go and get the fellas, and we’ll follow you,” Willie Mack says, excitedly, then jets.
“Gas it, homegirl.” I start the car for her in case she doesn’t think T-Diddy is serious as a heart attack. “Let’s do this.”
“This is insane. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“More insane than starting a schoolwide protest that has now spread across the city to other schools?”
“That’s different.”
“Whatever. I just want you to see something.”
“See what?”
“The lighthouse.”
“Uh, I can’t see the lighthouse. It’s pitch black,” she says, pointing into the distance. “Now can we get back in the heated car?”
“We have to get up close to see it.”
“WHAT? I’m not walking way down there. It’s at the end of the frickin’ island.”
“I didn’t know you were such a complainer. Can we just live in the moment?”
Jeez! “It’s dark and scary, Omar. Crazy! This is so crazy!”
“C’mon now. T-Diddy will protect you from the, uh, crabs.” I laugh just long enough for her to punch me in the arm.
Next to the ocean, it feels like forty degrees. Of all days not to wear socks. We’re so close to the water, my feet are squishing. My toes are ice cubes, and homegirl is mighty cozy in her gloves and my jacket.
“Maybe we should go back,” she says after we’ve been walking for a few minutes in silence. “You look a little cold.”
“Naw, I’m good. But I’d be better if you were a little closer.” I playfully pull her to me and stumble, almost falling into the water.
“You’re not getting in my car all wet. Mess around and fall, you’ll be walking back to Charleston.”
“You know they say that two bodies can create instant heat.”
In the distance, I see a figure approaching us. This apparently scares homegirl, because she inches closer to me. I put her arm inside mine, and she doesn’t move it. The guy passes us by. “T-Diddy won’t let anybody chop you up and throw you in the ocean.”
“What are you doing, Omar?” She pulls her arm back and punches me again.
“What happened to nonviolent resistance? I’m not the enemy,” I tell her, and take my shoes off. After I rol
l my jeans up to my knees, I slowly run ahead of her, splashing my feet in the water and hating every ice-cold minute of it.
“Omar, wait for me. Omar!” She runs and catches up to me. When she gets close, I turn around and pick her up. “Omar. OMAR, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
“Shhhhh! Before someone thinks you’re in real trouble or something.” I hold her in my arms, far above the water, and walk till the ocean is right at my calves.
“Put me down, now!”
“Okay,” I say, and start lowering her.
“NO, NOT HERE, OMAR!” she screams. “Take me back to the shore,” she says in the sweetest voice.
“Kiss me first.”
“Omar, stop playing. We could die right here. This water is frickin’ below zero.”
“Stop exaggerating, homegirl. A little piece of ocean won’t hurt you,” I say, and drop one arm long enough to splash her with a little water. She doesn’t open her mouth when she screams, but the sound is loud as thunder. Believe that! “I bench press more than you fifty times a day. I got you, homegirl.”
“But you can’t stop the waves. If a big enough one comes, we could both fall in.”
Love. The moon shows me her eyes, and they are magnets pulling me closer to her. Kiss her, Omar. Do it.
“Omar, I got to pee.”
“Good thing we’re in the ocean, huh, homegirl?”
Uncle Al and I come to Folly to fish a lot, sometimes at night. Spooky and Clyfe join us sometimes. We sit on the pier at nine, ten o’clock at night. They drink beer, and I listen to them jokers try to one-up each other with stories about women they’ve dated and cars they’ve owned. Hardly any fishing takes place, but every time they start arguing about random ish like whether South Carolina ought to have an NFL team, or who’s better looking, Michelle Obama or Oprah Winfrey, it’s worth the trip. Good times.
Later on, I started coming at night, alone, during the off-season to train. I’d start at one end of the beach and run all the way to the lighthouse. It was pitch black, and since the lighthouse wasn’t lit, I relied on the moon.
But my favorite time is when the whole Lucky Dog crew brings the dogs to run around, play in the water. Love to see them having fun and being free.
Nothing distracts me—not girls, not Facebook, not homework. I’m focused, at peace, and in tune with the rhythm of the ocean.
Claudia isn’t the first girl I’ve brought here at night. Believe that, for sure. This is where T-Diddy closes the deals.
I walk us back to the shore, the waves still crashing into my legs. I place her down in the sand.
“Who does that?” She’s obviously a little perturbed. “These gloves are useless. I can’t even feel my hands.”
“Look.” I point at the moon. “We’ll use it as our guide.”
“Oh, so now you’re Harriet Tubman,” she says, taking off her gloves and putting them in her pocket.
“We’re almost there. Come on, Claudia, let’s walk.” We got out of the ocean just in time. Several large waves smash into the shore. The sound is beautiful and haunting.
“It’s hard to even know where it all begins and ends. It’s just so dark. And big.”
“That’s what she said.” And she punches me again. “Seriously, for me, it begins with Claudia Clarke,” I add, stopping and turning to face her. “For me, a dark place is a bad place without you. Yes, I want to kiss you.” And smash. “But right now what I really want to do is hold your hand. Is keep you warm.” Is surrender to the wave that is crashing into my heart. “Is that possible, homegirl?”
Look out, the ladykiller strikes again.
Claudia
“For me, it begins with Claudia Clarke,” he says. My eyes are finally used to the darkness. The stars are ablaze and his face is in the center of the light. “For me, a dark place is a bad place without you. Yes, I want to kiss you. But right now what I really want to do is hold your hand. Is that possible, homegirl?” I can’t tell if he’s for real or not.
I don’t drink, but I’m a little intoxicated at the moment. The moon, the water, the sound of the ocean, everything has got me. Even the way he says “homegirl” all sexy and confident is starting to grow on me. Jeez. I didn’t think I liked him. I mean, he’s cute and we have a good time together, and the silent protest and yadda yadda yadda. Still, he’s a playa.
C’mon, Claudia. Did he really go through all this to get with you?
This jock who loves carrying a ball more than anything has somehow become a leader. Together, we’ve changed the way kids in our school think. The closest these kids would ever come to culture is bacteria. But he and I are changing that. We’re a team. Really, Claudia. Don’t be stupid.
Mr. Football has somehow become my tire-changing savior. My late-night-on-the-beach, dog-rescuing leader. And I kinda like it.
I like the way he smells. I like the way he walks, all confidently, head reaching for the moon. I like the way the diamond in his ear shines. I even like the way he carried me into the frickin’ ocean. And I really like that he just asked me could he hold my hand. But there’s no way that I like this guy. There’s just no way. I think. I need rehab.
He takes my silence for a yes and pulls my freezing-cold hand out of my pocket and places his fingers between mine. How is it that his fingers are so warm?
“Wow, you are cold-blooded,” he says, doing the curly lip thing again.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“You want to hear a story?” he asks as we continue walking toward the lighthouse. My hand gets lost in his. I’m a little worried that this is feeling so comfortable. Too good.
“As long as it isn’t scary, sure.”
“It might be a little scary, so hold on tight,” he says. Any tighter and he might get the wrong idea. I’m staying right where I am, Omar.
“Once upon a time, there was a farmer and his wife, who lived in a mansion. He had two assistants to look after his livestock and vegetable and flower gardens. The assistants also lived on the farm with their families. Aside from the farm, the farmer’s main responsibility was watching over a tower that was adjacent to his farm.
“The story goes that the tower was once a lighthouse built in the 1700s by King George the Third.”
“I didn’t know you were a history buff, Omar.”
“Just listen to the story, homegirl.”
I like the way you call me that.
“Anyway, like I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. It was replaced by a bigger and better one that was built in the 1800s. The lighthouse was used by the Confederate soldiers during the Civil War to alert them to approaching Union soldiers.”
It’s starting to get warmer.
“The lighthouse was also used by a slave during the Civil War. This dude was working on a military ship called the Planter. The ship had all kinds of military cargo—guns, ammunition, and whatnot. Anyway, the Planter’s three white officers decided to spend the night ashore, drinking and chasing women in Chucktown. So when they left, the slave got this grand idea. He was gonna escape, get as far away from his Confederate masters as possible. So he and about eight other enslaved crewmen decided to make a run for it. This dude was no joke. He put on a captain’s uniform and had a straw hat similar to that of the white captain, and he piloted the ship.”
How are both of our hands clasped, and why does it feel like someone turned up the heat on the inside?
“First they picked up their families, then this joker piloted the Planter past the five Confederate forts that guarded Charleston Harbor. He used the lighthouse as a beacon, the silver moon as his GPS, and made it to the Union ships, where he turned over everything to the soldiers, including a Confederate codebook that helped the North win the war.”
“Wait a minute, Omar. This story sounds familiar, like something I’d read about in AP History class. You stealing again?”
“The lighthouse ended up being destroyed in the war, but it got rebuilt for a third time. And this time, a farmer was put
in charge of making sure that nothing happened to it.”
I squeeze his hand tighter; playfully bend myself a little into him. And stay there. I do this without thought. It feels so natural.
“Well, one day, the farmer’s wife, who he loved very much—I think her name was Claudia.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I say, and punch him in the stomach. “Seriously, is this story for real?”
“As real as it gets, homegirl,” he says, and grabs me even tighter and closer than we were before. It may as well be eighty degrees out here. “Not so cold anymore, huh?” he says, wiping my forehead with his palm. How am I sweating?
“Anyway, like I was saying, the farmer comes home and sees his wife in the lighthouse staring off into the distance. He immediately goes up to the top of the lighthouse to see what she’s looking at.” Omar pauses, and for a moment I feel a soft wind blow in my ear. It’s either him or the ocean, both of which are close to owning me right now.
“They see a storm coming. Only it’s not just any old storm. It’s a typhoon.”
“Really, Omar. A frickin’ typhoon in Charleston.”
“Or a hurricane. The point is, it’s huge. And it destroys the mansion, the homes of the farmer’s assistants, the livestock, everything. It’s complete devastation. Over time, the land around the tower disappears. So now it sits in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by water on all sides.”
I’m standing on the beach, in his arms, and it just feels right. We’re so close to the water, I can taste the salt in the air. Every now and then a large wave brings a splash of cold near enough that my ankles and legs should flinch. But they don’t. I am on fire, somewhere inside. And the only thing I feel right now is too good.
“What happened to the farmer and his wife?” I ask.
“Rumor has it that they are still up there,” he says in a macabre voice, trying to scare me.
“Stop, Omar. That’s not funny.”
“Seriously, the lighthouse hasn’t been lit in over a hundred and fifty years, but if you come out here at night, sometimes you can see a glow coming from it. Look,” he says, and points just over the dunes. “We’re here. There it is.”
He Said, She Said Page 10
