He Said, She Said

by Kwame Alexander

  “Not exactly, Mr. Smalls, but next time, I got you. I promise.”

  “You were in such a big rush last time, ate all our good food and split. I didn’t even get a chance to introduce you to these fine gentlemen. This here is Spooky, and the guy in the colorful suit is Clyfe.” Colorful was an understatement. This guy looks like he could be a mascot for Crayola. Lavender suit, red shoes, and a purple-and-red hat. That’s all kinds of wrong.

  “Nice to meet you all.” I shake Spooky’s hand and think they should call him Sweaty.

  “If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?” is what Clyfe asks when I shake his hand. So this is where Omar gets his random quotes from.

  “What are you doing here, Claudia?” I’m on the bottom step; he’s on the top looking down at me. His eyes are fire. Maybe the volcano is in his heart. At least he’s talking to me.

  “Boy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Spooky chides him.

  “Smalls, talk to this woman like your momma raised you,” Mr. Smalls adds.

  “It’s okay—he’s just a little salty with me, and rightly so,” I tell them.

  “No excuse for being rude, not on my stoop,” Mr. Smalls says.

  “You old-timers let T-Diddy handle this.” The three men look at each other, and then at him, and then at me, and then they laugh like somebody just told the best joke ever.

  “Mr. Football thinks he’s on the field,” Mr. Smalls jokes. “This here is my stadium. I run this!”

  “This boy is trying to quarterback us,” Spooky says.

  “Spooky, what was he just saying about love and wanting to know—”

  “A’ight, a’ight, chill. Claudia, how you doing? Come on inside.” He motions for me to follow him up the stairs.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, homeboy!” Mr. Smalls hollers. “Let us know if he starts tripping again, Claudia.” I nod and smile, but not too much because Omar is looking at me with eyes ready to cut. “And don’t be turning your music up so loud. Put your earphones on.”

  “Without music, life is a journey through a desert.” I turn around, because that sounds way too familiar. Not the voice, but the words. I’ve read them before.

  “Pat Conroy, right?” I ask Clyfe. He nods. “He’s my favorite novelist.”

  “She’s the first person on the planet to identify any of Clyfe’s quotes. Methinks she’s a keeper, boy,” Spooky hollers after us.

  When we get inside the house, I follow him into the living room. He sits down in a chair, which leaves me sitting on the couch by myself. Somewhere in the house, there is music playing. It’s soft, but it grows louder with each second we sit in silence.

  We’re right across from each other, maybe two feet apart at the most. Feels like we’re in a tunnel, on opposite ends.

  “Oh, these are for you,” I say, and set the vase of flowers down on the coffee table that separates us.

  “Roses, huh? These aren’t my favorite.”

  “You don’t have a favorite, Omar.”

  “What’s my favorite color?”

  “You don’t have one.”

  “Wrong,” he says confidently.

  “You have two, orange and green.”

  “Well, whatever.”

  The silence takes over again. We look at everything but each other. He runs his finger along the seam of his jeans. I curl and uncurl my toes. He purses his lips. I smack mine. He rubs his ears. My phone rings. Jeez, I forgot to put it on vibrate.

  “You need some privacy? I can step out while you talk to your little boyfriend, Leo.”

  I let the phone ring, even though it’s probably my sister wondering where I am. We have a few more awkward minutes, and then I speak.

  “You have any candles?”

  “Random.”

  I get up, exploring his living room.

  “What are you doing, Claudia Clarke?”

  “Oh, now I’m Claudia Clarke. I prefer homegirl.”

  “Apparently, so do a lot of guys,” he says, and gets up.

  “Where do you keep your candles?”

  “I don’t know, maybe in the kitchen,” he answers, and I walk into the kitchen and start rummaging through drawers. “Wow, this kitchen is immaculate. You not only cook, but you clean, too. I may just have to marry you.” It comes out before I can catch myself. I turn around to see if he hears me, to see if maybe I just thought it and didn’t say it. The quarter smirk on his face lets me know that, yep, I said it.

  “There may be a big candle in the bathroom upstairs,” he says, now half smiling.

  “Perfect,” I say. “Show me, but grab some matches first.”

  I follow him up the stairs. When we get to the top, he tells me, “Wait in the hallway.” Then he walks into the bathroom. A few seconds later he comes back out with a deformed-looking candle and a book of matches. “Now what?”

  “Take me to your room, Omar?” The smile on his face is gargantuan now. “In your dreams, homeboy.”

  “What is this, make-up sex? Are you trying to get back in my good graces?”

  “Hardly. I just want to talk.”

  “Talk, huh? Yeah, right.” He hands me the candle. “Okay, come on. You talk, I’ll listen, Claudia Clarke.” You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you, Omar? He pulls out a key from his pocket and sticks it in the padlock that seals his room. A lock, really? Who does that?

  His room is what I’d imagine a typical guy room looks like. As soon as we walk in, he starts picking up a ton of clothes off the floor and throwing them in the closet. Trophies line the shelves and windowsills. Newspapers, mainly the sports section, are strewed out all across the bed, which doesn’t look like it’s been made in decades. I know where I’m not sitting.

  Sticking its head from underneath one of his pillows is a two-liter of Sprite. I guess he sees me eyeing it, because he tries to explain.

  “I have to hide food and stuff, because of all the jokers coming through this place during the day. Got to protect my ish.” That explains the padlock.

  On the walls are framed black-and-white pictures of his family. While he’s hiding junk—his version of cleaning—I look at the photos.

  “Is this your mother? Wait a minute, Omar, this has got to be your dad; he’s got your eyebrows. Where is your grandmother?”

  “You sure do have a lot of questions. What are you, a reporter or something?” he says, and laughs out loud. “I’m done. So now what?” Still with the attitude.

  “We’re gonna play a game.”

  “What, like Scrabble in the dark? Jeopardy by candlelight? That’s kind of wack, Claudia. This is your way of apologizing? I’m still pissed off.”

  “We’re going to play the free game. My sister told me about it. It’s real simple. But first I need you to turn off your cell phone, unplug all the clocks in the room, and take off your watch.”

  “What days do you have therapy?”

  “Ha ha! Now sit down and cross your legs.” He does, and I do the same, facing him. “And, the candle goes here.” I place it in the middle and light the wick.

  “Already this is loads of fun.” I shoot him a mean look that says, Enough with the sarcasm.

  “Patience, grasshopper. Now, hold my hands and look into my eyes.”

  “I’ve heard about this low-country Gullah voodoo stuff. You aren’t trying to put a spell on T-Diddy, are you?” I grab his hands while the fire burns between us.

  When he looks into my eyes, the fire shoots up, like a geyser of red and orange. Our eyes get wider, then the fire settles down. My sister told me that the energy between two bodies syncs with the fire from the candle, but I just took that as exaggeration. Maybe she was right.

  “Okay, so here’s how it goes. You ask me a question, and I have to answer it truthfully. Then I ask you a question, and you have to answer it truthfully,” I say to him.

  “Any question?”

  “Yep, anything you want to know.”

  “And what if you lie?” />
  “If you lie, then you die. The other person has the right to set you on fire.” I can feel his grip tighten. I start laughing profusely.

  “Homegirl got jokes.”

  “Supposedly the more truth you share, the longer the fire burns. The longer the game goes on.” The longer we’re connected, Omar. “Plus we have to look in each other’s eyes. It’s hard to lie when you’re looking dead at someone. You ready?”

  “I’m going first.”

  “Fine, Omar. Go ahead.”

  “What did you and Leo do after I left?”

  “I gave him some books that belonged to him, and he left.”

  “Did you kiss—”

  “Wait a minute, it’s my turn. Did you sleep with Kym King?”

  “Uh, no. Did you kiss him?”

  That was too quick. Don’t think I’m not coming back to that question, mister. “Kiss him when?”

  “You know when. Did you kiss Leo earlier tonight, after I left your place?”

  “That would be no. You really ought to ask some better questions. What were you and your uncle talking about before I came up?” Judging by his hesitation, this is a good question. His grip tightens again.

  “We were talking about a lot of things. The protest, and, uh, honeydew.” He loosens his grip, but mine tightens.

  “Honeydew fruit.”

  “Yeah, something like that.” The fire wanes a little. “Here comes the big one, Claudia Clarke. You ready?”

  “I’m ready, Omar.”

  “You ever kissed a girl?”

  “That’s what you wanted to know? You’re making this way too easy, Omar. Yes, I have.”

  “Oh, snap, who?” and then he realizes it’s my turn. “My bad.”

  “Why did you start the protest?” The fire shoots up between us. If I were into all that energy stuff, I’d say that this is a defining moment.

  “I started the protest to, um, impress you—”

  “And—”

  “Hole up, hole up. I’m not finished. Be patient. And I was hoping that I could get you to think I was the kind of guy that you would go for. That you would, um, sleep with.”

  “Hmmm. Wow! That’s pretty manipulative.”

  “That was then. I don’t feel like that anymore. Have you been in West Charleston all your life?”

  “I’ve been all over. I was born in California. Lived in Canada, which is where I learned French. Before we came to Charleston, we lived in Haiti, where my parents worked as missionaries. Where were you born?”

  “I was born in New York, in St. Luke’s Hospital. My mom’s family is from Long Island, but my dad’s family is from Beaufort. What do you think your parents would say about the protest?”

  “I can tell you exactly what they would say, because I told them,” I say proudly. “They are the ones who got me into social justice and peace. My mom told me, and I quote, ‘Give ’em hell, Claudia. Make us proud.’ And my dad said, ‘Don’t forget to take the car in for service.’” He laughs and does the curly-lip thing, and everything is on its way back to better. “Do you miss your mom and dad?”

  “I miss my folks a lot. And Muppet.”

  “Muppet?” I mouth.

  “Muppet is my basset hound back home. That’s my dawg.” Awwwwwwwww! “You think I can cook, but my mom is a beast in the kitchen. She used to make these things called pastalias. She’d wrap ground beef in homemade dough, brush it with butter, then bake. Best thing I ever ate. She taught me everything I know about cooking.”

  Hearing him talk about his mother like this reminds me why I’m feeling him. As if you need a reminder, Claudia. Jeez! He asks me about my mom and dad. I tell him they live in different third world countries half the year and here the other half. I find out his dad is an eye doctor who loves going to Broadway plays. I tell him Leo was a jerk, and that I hope I never see him again. He really opens up about playing football at Miami, and even though he’s excited, he’s nervous as hell. I tell him his secret is safe with me.

  “When’s your birthday, homegirl?” He called me homegirl again.

  “Next week.”

  “Whoa! I didn’t even know. That’s what’s up.”

  “When is yours?”

  “August.” He pauses like he’s about to ask a deep question. “Don’t think I forgot. Who was the girl you kissed?”

  “And you were doing so well, Omar. I kissed two. My mother and my sister.”

  “Oh, you got me. I thought I was about to find out some juicy gossip. You know there’s a rumor going on that your girl Blu is gay.”

  “That’s not a rumor—she is,” I say matter-of-factly. His head drops along with his jaw.

  “Oh, snap! Wow!”

  “It’s not like she’s hiding it. You got a problem with that?” I ask, and intentionally squeeze his hands tightly.

  “No, no, actually it’s kind of cool. So, you two ever—”

  “What is it with guys’ infatuation with two girls kissing? I never understood that!”

  “Is that your question?” he asks me.

  “No, my question is, ‘Why me?’”

  “OMG! Homegirl is getting deep now. Look at that fire, it’s burning.” He shifts. “How long we been in here? My butt’s asleep.”

  “I feel you—I’m getting a little crick in my neck,” I say, and stretch it from side to side.

  “You want me to massage it for you?” he says, smiling that devilish smile he’s perfected.

  “First, you’re holding my hand and you can’t let go, because then the game is over. And second, answer the question, please.”

  “Why you? Hmmm. You, because throwing a ball is nothing if you don’t have someone to catch it.” This makes me laugh. “You, because since I met you, I want to be better.” This almost makes me tear. “You, Claudia Clarke, because before I met you, my world was as big as a football field. Now, it’s an ocean.” This makes me want to take off all my clothes and let him dive in. Again? Hurry up and ask me a question, Omar. Please. Before I do something stupid.

  It’s the staring that does it. My sister said that after playing the free game, you either fall madly in love or you never want to see each other again. It’s that powerful. I can believe it. Keep it together, Claudia.

  “Why’d you break up with college boy?” I so want to not be looking at him now. How can he ask me this question? There’s the truth, and then there’s part of the truth. I’m not gonna lie to him, but I’m not sharing that story. I’m not going into what went down like this, that’s for sure.

  “Why did y’all break up?”

  “I heard you the first time,” I say, a little testy. “We had a disagreement that got out of hand,” I add warily. “He just wasn’t the kind of man he pretended to be.” For the first time in the game, the fire dies down a little, which makes me look even more suspicious. Before Omar challenges me, I jump in with my question.

  “What does bong bong mean?”

  “Oh, snap! No you didn’t!” He starts laughing so hard, he almost falls to the side. “Really, homegirl?”

  “Answer the question, please.” At first I was just asking something to change the subject, but now I really want to know. “I’m waiting.”

  “It means, uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “It means, uh, okay, first off, I didn’t make this up, so don’t be judging me and whatnot.”

  “Omar, just tell me. Jeez.”

  “It means banging on nasty girls.”

  “Is this what you tell people you’re doing to me?”

  “No!” he says emphatically. “Hole up, hole up. That was two questions. Is there a penalty or something for breaking the rules?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “There is now. T-Diddy, I mean, I hereby institute a rule that says if you break any of the free game rules, you have to kiss the other person.”

  I shake my head.

  “So far you owe me one kiss.”

  “Yeah, whatever, homeboy. Ask me your question.” Actually, I
owe him two kisses, but it is what it is.

  My sister talks a lot about energy and karma and spirituality stuff. Just because Omar and I are holding hands and there’s a candle burning, and the lights are out and our eyes are locked on each other, does not mean that our “energy” is connected. I’ve listened to my sister’s spill time and time again, and I’ve always acted like I was interested in it. Primarily because she gets so amped up about it and because she’s my sister. But the truth is I’ve never believed any of her mystical ideas. Until now. He says a bunch of stuff, but all I hear are the last five words.

  “You ever have an abortion?” he asks.

  Omar

  Homegirl thinks she’s slick. I see the fire getting lower. That’s kind of spooky, for real. But hey, maybe this game actually works. I’m going to call her on her lie, but just not now. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. But don’t think T-Diddy isn’t keeping score. That’s three, homegirl.

  “Are you still mad at me?” she asks.

  I’m a little salty, but I ain’t really mad at her anymore. I mean, she did call him all kinds of jerks and whatnot. “Yep,” I tell her, even though it’s hard to keep the grin off my face.

  I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, but it feels like a forever. My butt is knocked out.

  She asks me a question, then she slips up and asks me another in the same breath. Let me lighten the mood a little.

  “I hereby institute a rule that says if you break any of the free game rules, you have to kiss the other person.” She shakes her head. “So far you owe me one kiss.”

  “Yeah, whatever, homeboy. Ask me your question.”

  Truth is, I don’t really have any more questions. I’ve been watching her lips form words. Seeing her chest rise with each breath. Paying attention to each strand of black hair and the way it lies across her shoulder. I don’t have any more questions, because I don’t want to talk anymore. I know it sounds corny, but I want to pull her close to me and just be held. Be kissed. I just feel so good right now. Yeah, I want us to make some love, but not because of a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bet. I want to do it because I feel good with her. So good that I really don’t want it to end.

  I want her to know that I’ve been reading her blog, so I say, “I saw your article on teen pregnancy and abortion. I know several girls who’ve done it. You ever have an abortion?”