by Nikki Harmon
The next 42 minutes were excruciating. I blushed, got angry, sad, and paranoid. But by the end of it, I was somehow relieved. Some of the girls in my class were even more confused than I was.
“But Ms. Brown, I don’t understand. Why is she looking at her like that? Why are they talking about loving each other? They are both women!” cried an exasperated Wendy.
“Ugh, don’t be such an idiot! They’re dykes!” Tamika hissed venomously.
“Please don’t say ‘dykes’, say ‘gay’ or ‘lesbian’,” said Beth. She was head of the Students for Social Awareness and took her job seriously.
“I didn’t even know black women could be gay,” Sidney said.
My heart skipped a beat when Candace put her hand up. I watched her out of the corner of my eye but she never looked my way.
“I don’t know about the whole physical thing, but I know in my life, I’m surrounded by other girls. My mom’s a single mom, I have three sisters, am close with my five girl cousins, and my best friends are my heart. I don’t know what I would do without my friends who have my back no matter what. Women are strong, we help each other, listen to each other, so I can see how Celie, who never had that, would fall for it,” she shrugged.
I nodded and politely smiled. Inside, I felt a little spark ignite inside me.
“Lezzies, bulldaggers, whatever!” said Tamika. “It’s disgusting and they should be shot!”
Well, that comment got the rest of the students on the defense. After all, poor Celie had had a hard life. Weren’t we in her corner? We debated the issue for almost the whole period. Ms. Brown was well prepared for the wide range of emotions and points of view and managed to keep the conversation somewhat civil. At the end of it, most girls allowed that even if they disagreed with people being gay, Celie deserved some love and happiness no matter where it came from. Some girls however, made it clear that they would never tolerate it. I took mental notes and learned that day about silence.
As the class was leaving, I snuck a look at Candace. She looked thoughtful. Normally we chatted as we packed up. Today, I was quiet. I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, that was interesting, huh?” she asked quietly. I nodded and tried not to meet her eyes. My face felt hot. She started to turn and walk away but stopped in front of the board.
“Hey Dee?” she said. I looked up.
“You wanna do this project with me?” she said casually.
“Oh sure,” I said equally casual.
“Good.” She walked back, took a pen out of her backpack and wrote on the inside of my notebook cover.
“Here’s my number, call me so we can talk about it. Bye!” she said waving and walking towards her friends outside the door.
“Bye,” I murmured to her back.
I guess it made sense for us to pair up; we were friends in the class. But I was suddenly uncomfortable with the whole idea of it. Was this just a logical extension of our friendship? Did she have suspicions about me and feel sorry for me? Was this some kind of trick? Honestly, I didn’t know what to think.
So I decided not to think anything. I was already on information overload. I was in the middle of some kind of emotional upheaval that I couldn’t express to myself or anyone else. It was all just too much. That night, I couldn’t call Candace. I tried 23 times but I could not think of one thing to say that would not sound fake, phony or forced. I couldn’t be myself because I wasn’t quite sure who I was anymore. So I just kept reading The Color Purple and I finished it.
The next morning I was tired but satisfied. I finally knew how the book ended and it didn’t scare me. It gave me hope. I went to school and spent the morning trying to craft my apology. By the time English class rolled around, I was prepared with a white lie of being swamped with homework but it was not necessary. Candace was not mad at me. In fact she seemed pretty bubbly, just chatting away, blowing off my missed phone call and making me give her my number instead since I couldn’t be trusted. I was filled with relief. She didn’t seem nervous or suspicious at all. I relaxed and almost felt normal again.
That night, she called me. There’s something about talking on the phone that lets you open up more than you would in person. That night, all the automatic distance that I put between any potential friend and myself just started to melt away. We talked, really talked. We talked about our families, childhoods, music, and movies. We talked about things we liked, things we hated, and things we really just didn’t care about at all. Every night that week, we talked. For me, it was like I’d finally found a friend. A true friend who wanted to know and seemed to genuinely care about what I thought, how I felt, and what I wanted. I was overjoyed.
The following week was the same. As a class, we finished the book and were overjoyed to see Miss Celie exact some revenge and gain some dignity. Candace and I continued our late night phone conversations, though in school we didn’t see each other as much. In class on Friday, Ms. Brown reminded us we had the group assignment to complete. From the five choices, Candace and I picked the collage assignment. It seemed the least intimidating and promised the least amount of writing. Plus, Candace said her mom used to be a hairdresser who had kept a ton of magazines we could cut up. We decided to meet Saturday afternoon at her house. She seemed a little nervous. I was excited; I didn’t go visiting friends too often. We didn’t talk Friday night. She went out to dinner with her family and I watched an old movie with my mom. Friday night was always pizza and movie night at my house.
Saturday morning, I woke up feeling inexplicably anxious. I spilled my orange juice, tripped over my bathrobe, banged my head on the low stairwell, got toothpaste in my nose (which burns!!!!), and tried on seven outfits before I went with jeans, black tank and a purple hoodie (in honor of the book, of course). I called Candace to confirm, got my SEPTA TransPass and headed out with a humongous awkward whiteboard for the collage.
As I waited for the bus, my heart thumping away in my chest, I started to think. OK, I might like girls. I might like this girl. What am I going to do? I like her as a friend. I like her a lot as a friend. What if we are just good friends, that would be perfect, right? But what if she “knows” something about me? What if I do something stupid and then she decides that she doesn’t want to be my friend anymore? What if she’s disgusted? What if she doesn’t like me that way? (Of course, she doesn’t!) What if she gets offended? What if she beats me up? Or gets her friends to beat me up? What am I thinking? I can never let her know what I think I know about me! She can’t like me, right? That’s just stupid. A girl like her could never be weird like me.
It was a long bus ride and by the time I got to her house my mind was swirling and my stomach was in knots. I could barely walk. Candace lived in West Oak Lane, close to Washington and Ogontz Avenues. It was a nice looking rowhouse, probably the nicest on the block. Next door, there was a teenage boy with a black hoodie and wool cap sitting on the steps; he gave me the barest of nods. I opened the screen door and closed my eyes as I pressed the doorbell. I could feel sweat drip down my spine.
By the time I opened my eyes, she was flinging open the door and yelling, “Hi! I thought you’d never get here!”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, banging the whiteboard all over the doorway. I smiled, but my stomach was still upset and I tripped into the house. Her mom and sisters were all sitting on the couch with their coats on looking at me. I looked at them, embarrassed and bewildered. They looked restless and curious.
“My mom wanted to meet you,” Candace said. “They are all going out shopping but I told them I had a book project to do so I couldn’t go.” She seemed a bit over-excited.
“Hi,” I said offering a polite wave. “I’m Deirdre . . . Armstrong?” I didn’t know what to say.
Candace’s mom rose and said, “Hi, honey. I’m Ms. Wheeler, this is Denise, Kim and Carrie, Candace’s sisters. It’s always nice to meet one of Candace’s friends. OK then, you two have fun with your assignment, we’re off to have fun at Macy’s!
” She turned to Candace and said, “There’s plenty of food in the fridge but leave the chicken alone, that’s for dinner tonight, OK?”
“OK, mom. See y’all later. Pick me up something cute,” Candace yelled after her sisters who were already half way out the door grumbling about having to wait for something so stupid.
They left and we were alone. I just stood there with my backpack and churning stomach. Candace let out a huge sigh, bit her lip and looked at me.
“Let’s put on some music! Are you hungry? Thirsty? There are the magazines,” she said pointing to a stack of 30 or so Ebony, Jet, National Geographic, Black Hair, Good Housekeeping, and Glamour magazines. “I thought we could use the kitchen table when we’re ready to put it together. Did you bring an extra pair of scissors? I can’t remember the last time I used a glue stick. I hope this’ll be fun …” She walked into the kitchen, leaned back and said, “Have a seat. What kind of soda do you like? Orange? Grape? Lemon-Lime?”
“Black Cherry if you have it. Coke is fine if you don’t.” I sat on the floor near the magazines, took my extra pair of scissors out and started to look through the nearest Black Hair. The living room was Philly typical – wall-to-wall rust-colored shag rug, a big beige sectional sofa facing a mirrored wall. There was a small TV in the corner next to a large stereo system. She came back in the room with the drinks and put them down near me on the glass and black lacquered coffee table.
“I looked through some of my mom’s music that I thought might get us in the mood for the book and stuff, you know,” she stammered. She quickly turned away toward the stereo. I heard a click, and then Billie Holiday’s “Lover Man” filled the room. I looked at her. Wait a minute, what was going on here? Maybe she liked me? She picked up a notebook from the table.
“I thought we should make a list of definite pictures we would like to look for or need for the project.” We started to make a list – young girls, babies, words, African landscapes and people, the South, a jukebox, anything purple, a beautiful woman, a bathtub, good food, etc. Then we got to work leafing through the magazines, looking, talking, laughing, and cutting.
When we got to the last couple of magazines, I said, “Too bad we don’t have any good pictures of women hugging.” Candace shot me a look. “Oh, I mean for her sister, to show her sister and her. They really loved each other, you know.” I said.
“Yeah, you’re right. We should show something about the love they had for each other. …” she paused. “But what about Celie and Shug?” she ventured. I shrugged.
“How would we show that?” I asked. “I don’t think we’re gonna find any pictures of girls kissing in these magazines.” I laughed nervously.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen any pictures of girls kissing … ever,” she said.
“Me either,” I said.
She looked in the mirrored wall as if talking to herself, “I wonder what that looks like.”
I froze. She looked at me through the mirror. I looked at her. She was waiting for my reaction. I kept my gaze steady. Time froze. I swallowed my panic. It was as dry as the desert and the buzz was back in my ears.
Still staring at the mirror, she slowly reached her hand towards mine. I watched it, but still gasped when I felt her hand. It was warm and smooth. I stroked it with my finger. She turned it over and over slowly; my finger circled her hand. My heart pounded. It was so quiet. Billie had stopped singing.
Still staring into the mirror, she inched toward me, I was fingering up her forearm. She had goose bumps. I could barely breathe. Watching in the mirror, I slowly turned toward her and nudged away the last two magazines between us. She was on her knees, so I got up on mine. We inched closer and closer until my finger had traveled up her arm, onto her shoulder and up her neck, her hand reaching out toward my waist to bring me closer.
Finally, we were inches apart, facing each other with our heads turned to the mirror. I was close enough to smell her. She smelled clean, but warm and spicy like ginger. I was scared but excited. I watched her breathing. I watched her watching us. I watched her expression turn from curious to certain. She licked her lips. My whole body vibrated with anticipation and a sudden want. I leaned forward, watching my lips get closer to hers, I saw her eyes close to half-mast and I kissed her lips gently. I watched in the mirror for a few seconds, then I turned full on to her, closed my eyes and really kissed her. I kissed her softly, slowly, seriously, with my whole being, with unexpected relief, with meaning. She kissed me back, sweetly at first but I could feel her passion growing behind it. Our bodies didn’t touch; we kept those inches between us. One step at a time and the kissing was good, good enough to last for hours.
~~~
BRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrring! Startled, I almost spill my drink! Laughing at myself, I set down my wine glass and get up to get the phone. That ring is my “patient” ringtone. After 37 weeks, I give my moms my direct number. I know it must be Anita.
“Hello, this is Dee,” I say.
“Dee, sorry to bother you but I think I’m having contractions. I had some spicy food today and now my belly is hard and I’m having pain all around the middle. I know I’m supposed to wait for something more regular and consistent but I think this could be it,” Anita says hopefully. I am doubtful but agree to meet her at the birth center just in case. I need to get some air anyway.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, I decide to go for a run on Kelly Drive. I’m not a regular runner but I should be. I love running; it makes me feel powerful, capable, and strong. Sometimes I meditate while I run; sometimes I listen to music; sometimes I pray, and sometimes I just appreciate the trees, the flowers, the people and the river running beside me. As I’m pulling on my sweat socks, my phone rings again. It’s Pepper. I hesitate, but answer it.
“Good Morn-ting!” I say brightly.
“Hey babe,” she says sleepily. “What are you up to today?”
“I’m going for a run. Wanna come?” I ask this knowing she does not like any kind of exercise.
“Nah, I’m just getting up. But would you like to come over when you’re done? I’ll make us brunch,” she says.
“Sure! I’ll be there around 11 a.m. OK?”
“Great, see you then.” I packed a bag and was off.
My run is perfection. The air is still brisk and clean with the promise of spring to come, the river is sparkly in the morning sun, the sky is a pale blue with those fine wispy clouds I love, and I push myself to three miles. Feeling good, I take a rest on one of the benches and my thoughts turn back to Candace. What if that is her? What if she is Meadow’s patient? What if she’s married? What if she’s married to a man!?!? What if she’s happy? Of course, I want her to be happy, right?
That was so long ago; we were so long ago. I haven’t seen her since our senior year in high school 14 years ago. I know she went to Spelman College in Atlanta and I went to Yale University in Connecticut, but we had broken up long before that. The thought of seeing her now makes me … I think I would be too nervous. I know they say you never forget your first love, but we were everything to each other back then. I could not breathe without her, my day didn’t begin until I heard her voice and I knew everything was all right in the world. I’ve had a lot of girlfriends since then, but I never loved anybody the way I loved her. My heart feels heavy as I realize that. I look out on the sparkly water, feel the cool breeze on my face and realize I’m crying. Stupid.
I angrily wipe my tears, shake my head, take a sip of water, and start walking back to my car. That was so long ago and so much has happened since then. I make myself think about Pepper. A fine woman who is making me breakfast right now. A sexy woman, probably still in her t-shirt and panties from last night. A good woman, smart, funny, and possibly with biscuits in the oven. I walk faster, shaking off Candace and the past. By the time I get to my car, I feel better. I turn on the radio, Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Starting Something” is playing and by the time I get to Pepper’s house, I’m hyped to see her
.
Pepper opens the door of her University City apartment and smiles at me. Damn, she’s already dressed. I smile, step in, close the door behind me and reach for her. We kiss but she pushes me off some.
“Um, breakfast is ready, but you my darling, are sweaty and disgusting. Do you want to take a shower?”
“If you take it with me?” I reach for her again. She sidesteps out of my grip.
“I’ve had my shower. What has gotten into you?” she laughs.
“What?! I had a good run, I’m feeling energetic and you look so fine and it smells so good in here. Come here,” I plead. I grab her hand and bring her close to me. I kiss her passionately. I run my hands slowly up her waist until I cup her breasts. Lightly I finger her nipples and she starts to respond. They get hard under my touch. I walk her backwards towards her couch, slip my hands down onto her sweatpants and slide them down her legs. I kneel before her, just looking at her red bikini panties. Curly black hair poking out around the sides, strong brown thighs under my hands, I slide my fingers up, hook them under her panties and slide them down.
I can hear her sigh. I can smell her musk. I’m wet with anticipation. I poke my nose up in her hair and dip my tongue up. Wet, sweet, peppery. I slowly pull her down so she can sit on the couch, spread her thighs and I go to work. I lick her, slowly, then fast, then slow, I bring her up, take her down, pause and make her thrust her hips up to meet my tongue. She’s got her hands in my hair but I don’t let her take charge. She swells under my tongue, I know just what to do and when she’s just about ready to come, I slip in two fingers and fuck her slowly while I lick her to a growling orgasm. I hold my tongue steady until she stops pulsating under me. Slowly, I withdraw my fingers, my tongue, my face.
