I give him a big grin. “That’s my boy.”
Michelle walks up on us still looking a little sheepish. “I think your mama is parked outside. A lady who looks an awful lot like you is standing in front of a black Mustang.”
“That’s my mama. Hey, Michelle, do you think you can make my prom dress? I can come over once a week for a couple weeks until it’s finished, if that’s how it’s done.”
My request must please her because she starts smiling from ear to ear. “Sure, I would love to. Do you have a pattern in mind? If not, don’t worry. We can design one. That’s what I’m doing with the other girls. I have about five girls coming over on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, so either one of those days will be fine. And plan on the first couple of visits taking the most time, but after that how much time you spend is up to you.”
Another group of kids exit the theater and are heading directly toward us. We start walking toward the exit. I am between her and Carlos.
“Wow, you design, too? I’m going to tell my mama that we will be starting next week. Hey, don’t mention a price to her. I’ll take care of all that.”
I want to stop them both from walking toward the door, so I can nail down the plan, but they are keeping pace with the little kids.
“Okay, but I am very affordable. Your biggest cost will be the material because I don’t do much of the sewing. I teach you how to do that.”
A breeze blows through the lobby, and when I look to the door, I see my mama coming in. Dang. She’s looking at her fox jacket, and the smile on her face is not warm, but she seldom snaps on me in public. She has on her long black leather trench with matching leather boots and cap. She could have on a housecoat under it, or she could be dressed.
Quickly I say, “We were just about to come outside to you. I want you to meet a friend of mine. Ma, this is Michelle. Michelle, this is my mama. And, Mama, she sews. She’s going to help me make my prom dress.”
Still smiling my mama extends her hand to Michelle. “It’s good to meet you, young lady.” My mama steps aside, and the little kids go around us and out the other door. To Michelle, my mama says, “I need a new seamstress, so if I like what you do for my daughter I’ll be checking you out.”
Shaking my mama’s hand, Michelle answers, “Like I was telling May, what I do is teach others how to sew. When we are done, she will be a good seamstress. She should be able to do most of your sewing.”
My mama huffs, “Mm, hope I live to see it. And what’s wrong with you, Carlos, cat got your tongue? When did you stop speaking to me?”
“Ah, no, Ms. Joyce,” he says. “It’s not like that.” He bends to kiss her on the cheek. “I was waiting for you to finish talking.”
“Now, boy, you have known me all your life. You know I am never finished talking. Come on, May, we got to get on back home. Your uncle Doug is back in town.”
That means her friend Doug must have found another job. He probably came over with a pocket full of cash and a bottle, and Mama is more than likely working the cash out of his pocket bit by bit. First, she will hit him with her needs. Then, she will probably tell him about me being a senior and all the fees associated with that, and next will be the house and her car. That conversation will go on and on until more friends come over, and then the card games will start. Her other friends will leave in the wee hours of the morning, and then she and Doug will go into her bedroom where the bulk of what remains in his pocket will be left behind.
I think about the $300 in my bra and Carlos saying I sound like my mother. I don’t want to be like my mama, but I do want the $300. My happy feeling about the money is changing, a little. But, I’m still happy.
As we all are exiting the theater Carlos says, “Hey, don’t forget about Walter. He’s supposed to have a pair of gym shoes for me, too.”
I had forgotten about Walter with Mama’s upcoming party on my mind. The house is going to be loud all night and, since she will be entertaining people, I will have to mind the back door for our after-hours business. If I go home and go to sleep now, when she starts calling me around three in the morning, I will have gotten a little rest. I really don’t have time for slow-acting Walter tonight, new gym shoes or not.
“Hey, why don’t you come over and sit with him for an hour and a half and talk about old movies and comic books?” I ask Carlos.
“Naw, you got that. Ah, shoot, that’s right. I do have a Fantastic Four piece for him that my mama ordered, so I will stop by.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, and to the back of my neck he says, “And I want to see what ol’ boy gave you.”
Once we get in the parking lot, my mama walks ahead of us to her car.
“All that ain’t your business,” I say to him in regard to Samuel’s gift.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. You can come see Walter, but everything else you talking about is you being nosey. You’re trying to put your nose into grown folks’ business.”
“Yeah, right. You ain’t grown. Messing with an old-ass man don’t make you grown. See you tonight.”
“Michelle, ain’t you got something for your man to do that will keep him out of my business?”
She answers me with giggles as Carlos holds open the Cadillac door for her.
Chapter Four
Mama has two other friends and Uncle Doug at her party. There are four old folks in total and me and Walter in the kitchen. Mama and her friends are in the front room, and thank goodness there is a dining room between us because Uncle Doug’s blues music is really getting on my nerves. He is playing it as loud as he plays his gospel music on Sunday mornings when he stays over. And he is playing the spit-hacking, throat-clearing, and countrified Bobby Blue Bland, the worst one out of all his blues singers as far as I am concerned. But, to Uncle Doug, Bobby Blue Bland is the “man.”
I think Uncle Doug likes him the best because people say they sound the same when talking, and Uncle Doug can mimic his singing to a T. With the kitchen door closed, the real Bobby Blue Bland and Uncle Doug are both muffled. Now, if I could only muffle Walter.
He has been trying to get downstairs to the recreation room, but that is not happening. I am glad he is here, though. I have to man the back door for the store when she has a party, so I don’t get any sleep. When Walter texted me to come over, I told him to come around two this morning, and he did. I would not have done that for him, but he has been begging me to sneak downstairs since he’s been here. And I keep telling him that’s not happening.
My pussycat is finished getting petted for the evening. Matter of fact, she is finished for the rest of the month. I never do it more than once a month. My vagina is not going to get stretched all out of shape. I’m not sure if it’s having babies, or too many ding-a-lings, or age that causes a pussycat to get stretched out all big, and I don’t want to find out.
Carlos told me he did it to a girl on the beach last summer, and her pussycat was so big that he just went right into her with no type of resistance, and he said he could barely feel her insides because nothing gripped his ding-a-ling. He said it was like he stuck his ding-a-ling in a bowl of warm, soupy oatmeal. I wondered how he knew what it felt like to stick his ding-a-ling in a bowl of oatmeal, but I didn’t ask. No way am I going to let my pussycat get it into that kind of shape. And he said that the girl was a senior last year at Calumet. That means, at the most, she is only two years older than me.
The only time sex really gets on my mind is right before my menstrual. The few times I have done it was before my period. Other than that, a boy can beg until he is blue in the face and balls, but it’s not happening unless I feel like it, and I only feel it when the boy is totally into me.
Walter was the first person I did it with, and we have done it three times since then. I chose him because I was certain he wouldn’t tell anyone about it, and he hasn’t. He didn’t even tell Carlos. At least to my knowledge he hasn’t. Besides, if he did tell, no one would believe a girl as fine as me gave it to a nerd lik
e him. He’s still shocked over it.
I have done it with two others boys besides Walter. We were on vacation in Florida last summer, and I met this boy named Andy. A beautiful half-Greek, half-black boy who told me he had prayed to meet a girl like me. He swore it was love at first sight for him. We did it on his grandfather’s rooftop under a sky filled with stars. The other boy was Quincy. He wrote me thirty-seven love poems, made fifteen mix tapes, took me to his family reunion in Gary, Indiana, and bought me a gold and cubic zirconia bracelet that he sold his mountain bike to get. We were alone in his basement after his father’s funeral when I decided to give him some. He was so sad, but not afterward, which made me feel pretty good.
The three other times Walter and I did it were by default. Once, I was mad at a boyfriend. The next time, I was a little tipsy and it was close to my monthly, and our last fling was Christmas. He gave me my first real Gucci bag, and I was happy about it, so I took him down to the recreation room and gave him some, but tonight I am not tipsy, and the Nikes he bought me are not a Christmas gift, and my mind is on Samuel.
That man made me feel good this afternoon. Imagine a grown man like him wanting me as bad as he does. He told me if he were not married he would marry me, and I believe him, too.
Whatever I need, he said he would get it because he is my man, not my boyfriend, my man. I told him what I needed, and he gave it to me: $300. And he gave me the money after we made love, so it’s not about him trying to get something out of me like Carlos was saying.
My fine grown man has a thing for me, and I got a thing for him too. He is one good-looking man who knows how to do it. I know looks aren’t everything, but they sure help. Samuel makes me like to think about having sex. When I hear his deep bass voice, and when I watch him walk, and when the man kisses me, I catch on fire. No begging boy has ever made me feel like he does.
Begging boys are annoying. Walter is a begging boy, and right now he is very, very annoying. Maybe if he were half as fine as Samuel he would stand a chance. I remember when Papa showed me the meaning of the word “fine.”
We were at a Saturday morning Operation Push meeting. He and I went to park the car while Mama and Grandma went inside the building. By the time we got back all the seats were filled, so Papa and I stood along the side wall of the hall. While standing there, he told me to look through the crowd and see if I could find any women prettier than my mama and Grandma. I tried my best because I was mad at them for not saving us a seat, but there wasn’t a prettier woman present.
“The only person in here as fine as them is you. You come from beautiful people. Don’t ever forget that May, never.”
I didn’t think too much of what he was saying back then because I was only about eight, and now I don’t think too much about it because the boys won’t let me forget. If I weren’t attractive, Samuel wouldn’t have looked at me twice, and if he weren’t fine, I wouldn’t have looked at him once. Those green eyes of his send me off to dreamland every time. If I could change anything about him, I would make him a couple of shades darker with the same eyes. Darker men look tougher, harder. Not that Samuel is soft, because he’s not. It’s just that he would look better darker. Walter’s Tootsie Roll brown color would look good on Samuel.
Lord knows Walter would never let me forget I am attractive. He has written dozens of poems about my beauty, he buys me greeting cards that profess it, and he tells me every time he sees me how fine I am. Especially when he wants to do it like he does now. When he is in this state, I can make him do almost anything with only the slightest sexual reward.
The punishment my mama assigned for me wearing her fox jacket without asking was scrubbing the back hall walls along with mopping the bathroom and kitchen floors. Since she and her company are up front, I was able to get Walter to do the punishment chores for me, and all I had to do was let him suck my breasts for a little while. Boys are stupid, but horny boys are very stupid.
The only boy I know who doesn’t tell me how good I look all the time is Carlos, but I don’t tell him how good he looks either. I really didn’t notice his looks until other girls started pointing them out. Once, when we were kids, I told Mama Carlos was my boyfriend. Man, she flipped out. She called Ms. Carol over and everything.
The two of them sat Carlos and me down and told us we were like brother and sister and could never play boyfriend and girlfriend. They told us that playing brother and sister was way better than boyfriend and girlfriend, and they took us to McDonald’s to prove it. “See, brothers and sisters can do all kind of fun things together,” one of them had said.
That was one of the few times I can remember my mama and Ms. Carol coming together on something. They are usually at odds. Each of them rolling their eyes and smacking their lips at the sight of the other. When I was younger, I thought they disliked each other because my mama had left the water hose on one day and drowned all of Ms. Carol’s roses, but I now know their battle started before Carlos or I was born.
Walter is getting on my last nerve begging to go downstairs. Good, somebody is ringing the back doorbell. Looking up at the clock I see it’s three-fifteen. The liquor store on the corner closed about fifteen minutes ago. People are going to start coming over.
It’s not a customer at the door. It’s Carlos and Michelle, and Michelle looks like she’s been crying. I let them walk in without asking questions. Although I have a bunch of them like, why is Carlos out at three-fifteen in the morning when his mama still enforces a strict one a.m. curfew, even on weekends? And what happened to make Michelle look like she has pink eye in both eyes?
I let them sit at my mama’s new blond oak kitchen table, and I pour them both some of my hot chocolate, made from milk, not water, before I ask, “So what the hell happened?”
Michelle starts crying out loud, and Carlos pulls her head to his shoulder. Walter moves the coffee mugs out of the way. He puts them both in front of me instead of taking them to the sink. Stupid.
“Her mama,” Carlos begins. “We got in kind of late, and her mama snapped, called us both all kinds of names. Then she called the police and told them I raped Michelle. She tried to make me stay there until the police came. Statutory rape is what she kept screaming, said I was too old to be going out with Michelle. She’s crazy. We are the same age.
“I just raised up out of there, and Michelle followed me. After driving around awhile and not being able to figure nothing out I called my mom, but Michelle’s mama had already called her and filled her head with all kinds of mess. My mom told me to take Michelle to the hospital and have the doctors check her out if I didn’t rape her. She told me I couldn’t come home until it was all straightened out. Michelle didn’t want to go to the hospital because we have been getting busy, and she said the doctor would be able to tell that she is not a virgin.”
Hold it. Did he say virgin? “Wait, you gave your virginity to him?” I ask Michelle while pointing to Carlos with my thumb.
My question makes her cry more. Carlos looks at me as if I just slapped an infant and he grunts out, “Hey, her giving it to me is better than you giving yours to Walter.” He doesn’t say it loud. It is plainly stated, but the words sound off and echo in my head. I turn my gaze to Walter.
“I didn’t tell him. I swear,” he mouths in a whisper.
From him, my eyes go to Michelle then back to Carlos who has a stomach-twisting smirk on his face. “You just told me, May,” he says looking directly into my eyes. “Guess I ain’t as dumb as you think, huh?”
Oh, I hate him, and I am about to tell him just how much, but my heart starts beating loud in my head, so loud that I cannot get my mind around what I want to say to him. Under the kitchen table, I feel Walter’s hand grabbing a hold of my hand. I hold on. I hold on tight to Walter’s hand, and I breathe. Exhaling along with squeezing his hand is calming me down.
Clinging to Walter feels good. Now, isn’t that strange?
Okay, there must be something I can say to Carlos to get that smug look off
his face. It’s kind of weird because even though he has that dang smirk on his face, his eyes are still sad. The situation he and Michelle are in has really gotten to him and has him acting out of character. I’m going to be the bigger person. Besides, I am not the type of girl who would kick a dog when it’s hurting, never mind my best friend.
I decide to say nothing mean. What I say is, “If you wanted to know about my virginity all you had to do was ask me. I’m not bashful about anything I do.”
Carlos looks away. The kitchen is quiet. I grab the mugs from the table, stand, and take them to the sink.
When I sit back down Michelle says, “I love Carlos. Sharing myself with him was what was supposed to happen. Of that, I am certain. From the first day my eyes saw him, my heart knew he was the one.”
In my whole life, I have never heard a black girl say anything as corny as that.
Blues music floods the kitchen, and we all look to the opening door and see Uncle Doug two-step through it. “How all y’all doin’?” His eyes are glossy and red, and his face is flushed. Uncle Doug and I share the same complexion, and we both flush easily.
What has always confused me about Uncle Doug is the way he dresses. He wears what Mama calls slacks: thick polyester dress pants with a waistband. I have never seen these pants in any stores, but he always has on a new-looking pair, and the colors range from rust to sky blue, no grays, no blacks, no navy blues. Lime green, burnt orange, maroon, purple, and white are his choices. His shirts are just as much a mystery: shiny nylon with long collars, and they too always look new. Carlos calls his shoes roach killers because of the pointy toes. He says even if a roach ran in the corner, Uncle Doug would be able to smash it with the pointy toe of his patent leather shoes. Tonight, his roach killers are black, his slacks are red, and his nylon shirt with the long collar is black and red. A hot mess in my opinion, but Uncle Doug thinks he is fly or “sharp as a tack,” as he says.
Mama's Girl Page 5
