Cuz. It all made sense then. And what drama was he talking about?
I said, “I’m saying.”
Say little and hope he says much, that was my creed.
He said, “You that bird was with her at the party last month?”
I lied, “Yup.”
His tone changed. “You got a fatty, girl. What’s up with you?”
“Trying to get my jeans back. Homegirl took my joints and I ain’t heard or seen her since.”
He was quiet. I must have messed up some way.
Then he said, “What Monique gonna do with your jeans? You ’bout a foot shorter than her.”
Uh…
He said, “She was airbrushing them for you?”
I said, “Exactly.”
He laughed. “Monique swear she Kimora Lee Simmons. Always designing something.”
I laughed, too. “Right…”
“Go by her crib and get ’em.”
I said, “We don’t roll like that. I don’t even know where she rests at.” I decided to roll the dice. “I ain’t living like the Huxtables…like Monique.”
He said, “I heard that. I don’t roll through her spot, either. I keep it straight hood.”
“Exactly.”
“I was really feeling that fatty, though.”
“Give me Monique’s address so I can get my jeans back and I’ll really let you feel this fatty.”
He said, “That’s what’s up,” then proceeded to give me Monique’s address. “Yo, I can get your math, though?”
“I got yours, I’ll hit you back.” Thank God I’d been smart enough to block my number before I called him.
“Mos def hit me back.”
“Later.”
I clicked off. I had everything I needed to track down Monique and get some answers.
There was only one way to find out the truth.
I was about to be up in Monique’s hood like check-cashing spots and Chinese restaurants.
Except it wasn’t a hood.
Homegirl was living like she’d written all those plays and movies instead of Tyler Perry. He came to mind because I was a mad black woman when I walked down Monique’s street. Two buses and a hell of a walk later, I was finally there.
Of course her house was the last one on the expansive block. My feet were crying like Jerry Springer when he got the boot from Dancing with the Stars.
But I pressed on.
All the houses were beautiful. Manicured lawns, mailboxes with the family name engraved on them, luxury vehicles everywhere. It was like nothing I’d ever seen up close and personal. It made where I lived look like downtown Baghdad.
I couldn’t help but dream of a fantasy life out here with Ricky.
Deep inside I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Michael Jackson would have a baby the old-fashioned way before that happened. I thought of Lark then. I needed my homegirl with me for moral support, but she was going through some family drama and I didn’t want to pile my issues on the ones she already had. So Kenya was going for dolo. Alone. Solo.
Monique’s house was the typical American dream. A two-story Colonial, complete with a white picket fence. It boasted a large open front porch and a beautiful flagstone walk you had to take to get to that porch. I was jealous and more than a little bit angry as I trotted down the walk.
I hadn’t quite decided what I’d say when the door was answered.
I’d just have to freestyle.
Get my Kanye West on.
In one of my classes—I forget which class exactly—we talked about the three-second rule. Within three seconds of wanting to approach someone or a situation, we had to act or we’d succumb to doubt. I’d come too far for doubt. One way or another I was going to handle things that moment.
I rang the doorbell quickly.
A woman answered the door just as quickly.
I stood there, stunned by how beautiful she was.
More than three seconds passed.
She had almond-shaped eyes in a rich dark brown. Thick black hair, pulled back in a braid that kissed her butt. High cheekbones, pouty lips. A somewhat thin nose. Skin the color of pecan pie filling. Close to six feet tall.
And stylish to the nth.
She wore a cashmere turtleneck sweater that covered a graceful swan’s neck. Dressed in all black, from her boots, to her hip-hugging jeans, to the cashmere sweater, of course.
She had a flat tummy, a healthy chest and strong thighs and legs that seemed to never end.
Maybe I had a little Sheryl Swoopes in me after all.
Nah.
I did want to be her when I grew up, though.
“Yes?” she asked. “May I help you?”
“I’m…I’m looking for Monique.”
The corners of her mouth twitched, I noticed. “Monique’s not in at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?” “Do you know when she’ll be in? I really need to speak with her.”
“I didn’t get your name, young lady.”
I thought about what Monique had said at the Against All Odds store, about Ricky having my name scribbled all over his Beyoncé poster. I started to lie to that woman, in case Monique had mentioned my name to her. But I didn’t lie. I was too in awe of her to lie. I didn’t know if she was Monique’s mother, but I suspected so. Monique was sure to turn from ugly duckling to swan if that was in fact her mother.
“My name’s Kenya.”
She said, “Are you one of Monique’s classmates, Kenya?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”
“A friend?”
“No,” I admitted. “More of a rival, I suppose.”
Surprise found her face. “Rival? Over what?”
I said, “A boy.”
She frowned. The good cheer left her face. “Come inside, Kenya.”
I hesitated.
“I don’t bite,” she said, in a tone that let me know it was a lie. She definitely bit if need be.
We moved inside, through a spotless foyer to an equally spotless living room. The television was playing, on some cooking show. She turned the sound down with a universal remote, tossed the remote on a chair and extended her arm toward one of the suede couches in the room. “Sit.”
That was a command.
I sat.
She did, as well. On the couch I hadn’t chosen.
She said, “Tell me about this boy.”
I asked, “Are you Monique’s mom?”
She frowned again and then nodded. “Tell me about this boy.”
“He’s my boyfriend now. But before me he was with Monique.”
I noticed her jaw tense. Intense interest was on her face. “Really, now?”
“Monique didn’t talk about her boyfriend?”
“I’m just her mother,” she said. “Last to know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Never knew Monique even had any interest in boys. She was awkward, self-conscious.”
I said, “Was?”
She tried to fight something off but couldn’t. Tears filled her eyes. She fanned in front of her face, tried her best to chase down some composure. I didn’t see her as the type of woman who broke down often. But this was an emotional meeting for her. I kept a small pack of Kleenex in my purse; I pulled out the pack and handed several to Monique’s mom. She blotted her eyes, blew her nose. After a while she sighed, smiled.
She said, “I apologize for that.”
“It’s okay.” I hesitated. “Is Monique all right?”
She looked at me with a sadness I’ve only seen on one woman’s face ever before: my mama’s the day my daddy left for good.
She said, “I’ll be right back. I want to show you something.”
I looked around while she was gone. Her CD tower was pretty one-dimensional: all jazz CDs. A bookshelf was stuffed with mostly academic texts: medical books and investing tomes. Black African sculptures were carefully appointed throughout the room. Paintings were on the walls. If Mama had had th
is woman’s money, our house would have looked the same. Mama had a penchant for Afrocentric sculptures and whatnot, too. This place was especially beautiful; made me want to go out and purchase some art myself. I’d never been in a house that made me so proud to be black.
I went up to a particularly beautiful picture, touched its edges with my fingertips. The surface wasn’t smooth. It was an authentic painting.
“Women’s work is never done,” I heard from behind me.
I turned. “I’m sorry?”
“That painting you were looking at. That’s what it’s called. Women’s Work Is Never Done. It’s by Sadie Patterson.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“That it is, Kenya.”
Suddenly, I was embarrassed. “I don’t even know Monique’s last name. I’d like to address you respectfully, Mrs…?”
“Ms.,” she corrected me gently. “Monique’s father and I divorced when she was a little girl. Done it all by my lonesome. For the most part it’s been more rewarding than difficult. Raising a girl can be tough, and a black girl, at that. I thank God for His grace in my situation.” She was so unlike my own mother. No bitterness lived inside her. It was refreshing to get that perspective.
I looked over toward her bookshelf. “You’re a nurse?”
“Doctor, obstetrics.” She smiled gently. Everything about the woman was graceful. An odd emotion captured me; shamed me, too. I wished she were my mother. “But to answer your question, Kenya, our last name is Thompson. But I don’t like formal. Makes me feel old. Just call me Scent.”
“Scent?”
She smiled again and moved into the room. “Well, it’s Millicent, actually, but Scent has kind of stuck. Thank God for small miracles.”
I liked her a lot.
I said, “I’m sorry I came over here like this. I don’t know what I was thinking, what I was hoping to accomplish.”
Scent said, “We’ll get to that, Kenya. I want to show you these things. Sit.”
That time the word—sit—was spoken with warmth.
I sat.
She did, too. On the couch, right next to me.
In her hands were two shoe boxes. You had to be Italian to read the names on the boxes. She had expensive tastes to go along with everything else, I realized.
Boy, did I want to be like her when I grew up.
Scent opened one of the boxes and handed me a leather-bound photo album. I opened it to pages and pages of a small, awkward-looking girl. She was skinny, tall for her age, with glasses too big for her head and teeth too big for her mouth. I thought of Lark.
“She’s a two, Ken.”
“Too skinny.”
“Teeth too big.”
I said, “Monique.”
Scent surprised me, said, “No. Me.”
“You?” I was dumbfounded. “Couldn’t be. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you, Kenya.” She paused, gathered her thoughts. “I’d like to think I was beautiful then, too. And that my daughter is now. I was awkward, for sure…just like Monique. But there was a beauty in my awkwardness. There’s beauty in hers.”
I didn’t cosign that thought.
She said, “Black girls…black women…we have it tough. Society doesn’t celebrate our beauty, our natural beauty. Too many of us walking around believing we have to go to the extremes of Lil’ Kim to be beautiful.”
I said, “I think Lil’ Kim looks a hot mess now. She took plastic surgery to a whole ’nother level.”
Scent nodded, tapped one of her old photos. “That beautiful little awkward girl that grew into a beautiful woman would have given her eyeteeth to look like Lil’ Kim. Toni Morrison’s novel pretty much sums up how I felt about myself.”
I said, “You’re talking about The Bluest Eye?”
Scent smiled. “You know the book?”
“I do.”
The corners of her mouth twitched again. “Gave it to Monique years ago, a birthday gift. She read it, but it didn’t affect her in the way I hoped.”
I took the mention of Monique as a chance to redirect the conversation.
“Is Monique all right?”
Scent looked at me. “Are you sexually active with this boy, Kenya? Monique’s old boyfriend.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m a virgin.” And I don’t know what came over me but I added, “Close, though. I mean…if everything were everything…I would.”
Scent touched my hands. “Hold on to your gift, Kenya.”
“My gift?”
“Your body and who you offer it to is a precious gift, Kenya. That decision shouldn’t be made lightly. It’s like a beautiful flower, Kenya. We must start thinking of it that way. That’s why they call it deflowering a woman, I want to say. It’s a beautiful flower, Kenya. I tried to get that message across to…” She couldn’t finish the thought.
I gulped. “My boyfriend was with your daughter?”
“Trampled my baby’s rose garden.” The bitterness that lived in my mama was in Scent’s tone for the first time.
I thought about my next question for what felt like an eternity before I worked up the courage to ask, “Is Monique pregnant?”
Scent swallowed. “What have you heard?”
“That she’s pregnant and you shipped her down south to have the baby.”
Scent closed her eyes, breathed deeply. “We live in a YouTube, MySpace, and TMZ.com world. I guess there are no secrets anymore. People can’t even live their lives without intrusion.”
I took that moment to close my eyes. Breathe deeply my own self. I hadn’t wanted it to be true. I wanted my boyfriend to be special. I wanted to be special.
Scent asked, “What’s his name, Kenya?”
I opened my eyes. Didn’t even hesitate. “Ricky. Ricky Williams.”
“I’d like to speak to this young man.”
I pulled out my cell phone, dialed Ricky’s number. He didn’t answer. That was the way it had been the past few days. I kept dialing the number back. More than ten times in a row. Finally, he picked up. The anger in his voice startled me. I handed the phone to Scent. I stood up then and went back to the Sadie Patterson painting. Women’s Work Is Never Done. Again, I touched it.
I heard Scent say, “I’ve been looking forward to having a word with you, young man.”
Eric
This should be easy.
But it’s difficult.
I have the card with Fiasco’s number on it in my left hand.
I have a cordless phone in my other hand.
All I have to do is dial.
I am ten dialed digits away from hanging with someone most people could only come in contact with through BET or MTV. I imagine how the kids at school would treat me if they knew I was best buddies with Fiasco. The snickers would stop. The taunts would cease. Guys would want to shoot hoops with me. Girls would invite me over when their parents weren’t home, and not so I could help them memorize all the presidents, either.
I place the phone back in the cradle.
I’m just Eric Posey. I’m not cool. I never will be. I need to put aside this fantasy.
The phone rings. I don’t even have to look at the caller ID. Only one person ever calls me. I hesitate. Contemplate answering the call. But I don’t. On the fourth ring the tape from my old-fashioned answering machine clicks on.
Benny starts out slow.
“Hey, Eric.”
There’s about fifteen seconds of white noise before his voice comes on again.
“Being friends means never having to say you’re sorry.” He sniffs out a self-conscious laugh. “I got that from a Hallmark card. Pretty cool, huh?”
I look at Fiasco’s card. It’s still in my hand.
“But I am sorry, Eric. I’m very sorry. I can’t tell you enough. My dad was very upset, too. He’s color-blind. And so am I. You’re my best friend. I thought we’d always be. I can’t imagine it otherwise. I keep calling and leaving you these messages. I don’t mind. We’re friends. But…well, give me a cal
l back. Please.”
At some point I have to start thinking selfishly. Or else I will commit myself to a life of unpopularity. Benny’s been a good friend, for sure. But he’s the wrong friend. No question about it, the kids at school view me as the lame black kid with the lame white boy as a best friend. That doesn’t win me any points. Benny prevents me from ever getting in the inner circle.
Fiasco, on the other hand, offers nothing but hope.
When Benny’s voice fades away and the tape stops recording, I pick up the phone and dial Fiasco’s ten digits.
I have a feeling my life will never be the same again.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing on the curb in front of our place, waiting patiently. My wait isn’t long. A black Range Rover pulls up, idles, its windows rattling with the loud sounds of one of Fiasco’s earliest songs. I know the words verbatim. I move toward the vehicle. And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, the passenger-side window slides down.
I expect to see Fiasco, but a woman is in the driver’s seat.
“You gonna stand there all night?” she asks.
She looks like one of the girls in the Pussycat Dolls. Exotic and beautiful. It’s hard for me to get my thoughts together. My brain doesn’t want to send the directive to my legs to move. Nicole Scherzinger, I keep thinking. Lead girl in the Dolls, has a video out now with T.I. Could it be?
“Get in, boy,” she says.
I get in.
I say, “Hi.”
“High is right. You were standing out there like you smoked something today.”
“Sorry about that. Wasn’t sure what to do.”
She nods at me, says, “My name’s Mya.”
That disappoints me, briefly. I wanted her to be Nicole Scherzinger. Wanted to be cool with two celebrities. On the job one day and already I’m greedy. But even though she isn’t a Pussycat Doll, I’m okay. She’s too beautiful for me to stay disappointed for long.
I say, “I’m Eric.”
“I know.”
“Where’s Fiasco?”
“I’ll take you to him.”
We ride in silence for a while, and then I say, “You look like the girl in the Pussycat Dolls.”
She nods. “I get that a lot. Her and Kim Kardashian.”
“You’re…”
Dirty Jersey Page 11
