Fiasco hesitated. “What’s good, friends?”
He was performing. That’s what he did.
Endia and Tanya were too tongue-tied to offer more than “Hey.”
“How’s the tour going?” I asked.
“It’s going.” He grunted.
Endia’s grip on my arm tightened even more.
Then she spoke.
Later, I’d wish she hadn’t.
“Mr. Fiasco…?”
“Just Fiasco. Who dis?”
“Endia. Eric’s girl. I mean, E’s.”
My heartbeat quickened. Mouth got dry. I felt dizzy.
Either I’d gotten food poisoning, or I was happy to hear Endia say she was my girl.
Fiasco’s voice brightened for the first time during the conversation. “E’s girl, huh?” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Fiasco. I mean, Fiasco.”
“Endia…Endia,” Fiasco said. “That name rings a bell. Hey, E, is this—?”
“Yes,” I cut him off.
I could hear his smile through the phone line. It was that loud.
“What did you want to ask, Endia?” Fiasco said.
And then she said it.
“Do you know Yung Chit?”
There was silence on the line for a bit. “Yup,” Fiasco said finally. “Sure do. He’s the dude that sells out venues I can’t even book. Sure do know him.”
The bitterness in his voice couldn’t be disguised.
“Cool,” Endia said.
Totally clueless.
The first points I’d had to deduct from her tally.
That disappointed me.
“Aight, then,” Fiasco said. “Be cool, friends. E, I’ll get up.”
“Bye,” the girls screamed.
I don’t even think he heard it, because I heard dial tone at the same time.
He was the second person I cared about but had let down that day.
I was batting oh-for-two.
Not good.
Chapter 11
Kenya
I have a million concerns, a million questions for Donnell. But just to ease my mind, I’m going to ask him a million and one.
“How many times?”
“What?”
“How many times?”
“How many times?” is repeated back to me.
Frustrated, I look around, search for the source of the echo. We’re not in a canyon. Not in some kind of echo chamber. We’re in the park around the corner from my house. Birds chirp in the distance. The sun is slowly receding from a blue-orange sky. A white father wearing flip-flops, cargo shorts and a skater T-shirt pushes his daughter on a swing. A Latina mother wearing black Lycra stretch pants and a green T-shirt that hangs below her waist gleefully watches her baby master walking in a sandbox.
We’re not in a canyon.
No need for an echo.
“How many times did you have sex with Melyssa Bryan, Donnell? And don’t repeat my question back to me. I don’t have time for this. If you want to act like the typical dude, I’ll just leave.”
“Once,” he says. No certainty in his voice.
I narrow my eyes and watch him closely. He drops his head, looks at his feet, eyes blinking nonstop. I don’t look at his hands. But I know he’s wringing them. Women are lie detectors. We learn that early on, as girls. Have to have the ability to weed out the truth from lies if we’re gonna deal with men. Men are liars, every last one of ’em. That realization makes me sad. I want this to be different.
Now I’m an echo.
“Once?” I say. “You’re sure about that?”
“T-twice,” Donnell stutters.
See. I’m not even stunned. I didn’t want my third degree to yield another confession, but I was pretty sure it would. So sad.
“Twice?” I ask.
“Kenya,” Donnell whines. “Damn.”
I pay that no mind. “Twice? You’re sure about that?”
This is torture.
“Twice,” he says. “I’m positive.”
“You’re positive now. So how come your math was messed up the first time I asked? A simple enough question and you flubbed it.”
“This is an uncomfortable conversation. I’m nervous.”
I think of Lark. “No need to be scurred.”
Don’t know why that came out. I’m not feeling the least bit playful.
Truth is, I’m nervous, too.
“Easy for you to say,” Donnell says. He winces, probably after noticing the change in my expression. Immediately regrets that comment. “I mean…you know.”
“Easy, huh?” I say. “That what you think? Nothing is easy about this for me. Nothing.”
He moves to me. Tries to touch me.
Can’t.
Doesn’t.
Unable.
I move away easily. Elusive.
Catch me if you can, I’m the Gingerbread Woman. This means, of course, I crumble.
Donnell stands five feet away from me. Feels like five miles to me. Probably five hundred miles to him. He’s stuck on stupid, unsure of how to proceed.
That makes two of us.
I don’t know how to proceed, either.
“So, twice…How many times did you two go out?” I ask.
“Once.”
I hunch my eyes, cock my head, and place my hands on my hips. “Let me get this straight. You went out once? But had sex twice? That doesn’t add up, Donnell.”
“It is what it is.”
I want to strangle him for that comment, but I don’t. Have to remain calm, composed. Have to keep digging until I get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Unfortunately for Donnell, I’m his judge and jury, and possibly executioner. I hope not. But like he said, it is what it is. I’m down for whatever.
“Okay,” I say. “Once. That isn’t bad math again, is it?”
Donnell sighs. “Once, Kenya. We kicked it once.”
“And y’all had sex twice?”
“Yes.”
“Explain that one.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
I reposition my hands on my hips, tap my foot nervously. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“You look like I need to throw you some raw meat,” Donnell says.
He tries to smile.
I don’t.
Donnell sighs again.
It sounds like his last breath.
I’ve died a thousand times since I found about him and Melyssa Bryan.
He can die this once.
“I’m waiting,” I say. “This better be good.”
“Thought we settled all of this earlier, Kenya.”
I frown. “You must be…I was too stunned earlier. I didn’t ask you hardly anything about any of this. But I have a million unanswered questions now. And I have to ask them.”
“I have to answer them?”
“No.”
Donnell relaxes. His shoulders ease down, and the tension leaves his posture like air from a punctured tire.
“But if you don’t…lose my number.”
He eyes me. A funny thing happens.
His eyes turn hard.
Jaws set.
Lips protrude.
He’s angry. Ready to turn this around, I bet. I wish he’d try.
The anger is good, though. Makes us partners in our ire.
“You broke up with me, Kenya. Messed me up. I begged you to reconsider. You wouldn’t hear me. So I went and made a mistake. While we weren’t together. I repeat, we weren’t together. That’s a point you seem to be forgetting.”
“If you’re gonna take that defense, we can end the conversation right now.”
His eyes turn harder.
Jaws set firmer.
Lips protrude farther.
Angrier.
“What you need to know? Fire away. Settle this…”
“Tell me how you ended up doing it twice with Melyssa Bryan in one day?”
Donnell runs his hands over his head. His chest heaves. He rub
s his eyes. Shakes his head. “She hung out with me at my rest. My father had driven to Virginia to get my aunt to help him with…”
His mother.
For a brief moment I feel sadness.
This is all too much.
Donnell’s going through enough.
I say “Forget this” in my mind, but not out loud. Color me selfish; I can understand, but I need to know, have to know.
Donnell clears his throat. “Melyssa hung with me watching movies. We were just relaxing. We watched a couple movies. Nothing was happening. Just two people hanging.” He pauses, sighs. “I don’t know, Kenya. I wasn’t planning on anything happening. I know that sounds suspect, but it’s true. We ended up messing around. I fell asleep right after. Restless sleep. I think I might have dreamed about you. No lie. And I’m not just saying that.” He looks at me for some kind of hope. I give him none. He shakes his head, goes on. “When I woke up…things were happening again. That was all on her. She was on top of me.”
Too much information.
Can my heart handle all of this?
“Twice,” I say. “Once could be a mistake. Twice means no remorse.”
Donnell’s eyes widen. “No remorse? I told you how it happened.”
“No remorse,” I repeat. “Or remorse after the fact.”
Donnell gives up. “I did what I did. I can’t take it back. Wish I could, Kenya. I really do.”
I ask a simple question.
But complex at the same time.
“Why?”
Donnell plops down where he was standing. We’re on the incline of a grassy hill in the park. The children’s playground sits at the foot of the hill. More than fifty feet separates us from the playing children. They’re carefree.
Fifty feet away from us.
Fitting.
I’m eighteen.
A short distance from being a child.
This conversation is as grown-up as I’ve ever had.
“I’ve had so much going on, Kenya,” Donnell says. “Mom sick. Dad stressed, sick himself. You going away. Breaking up with me.” He frowns. Swallows, hard. Adam’s apple looks like a buoy floating in rough, choppy waters. “I just wanted something easy. Something that wasn’t stressful. Something just for me. Something that felt good.”
They say the truth hurts.
And most can’t handle the truth.
They’re right on both fronts.
“Something that felt good?” I whisper.
Forever an echo.
Donnell nods slowly, purses his lips. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. It’s supposed to, Kenya.”
The white father in the flip-flops, cargo shorts and skater T-shirt has his daughter on the slide now. The Hispanic mother in the black Lycra stretch pants and green T-shirt that hangs below her waist is off on a bench in a quiet corner of the playground, changing her baby’s diaper. The chirps of the birds are farther away. The sun is starting to recede faster.
“I’ve never asked you how many girls you’ve been with,” I say.
Donnell blinks.
Doesn’t answer.
“Well? That was a question. I suggest you answer it.”
Donnell frowns. “Love at first sight. That’s some movie nonsense.” He shakes his head. “But when I saw you for the first time, freshman year…”
I just look at him.
“I knew you were the one. I knew you were special.”
I hug myself against the chill that travels up my spine. “I don’t feel so special. As a matter of fact, I feel anything but special.”
Donnell nods. “I know. And I’m sorry, Kenya.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
I vaguely remember conversations Mama had with my father when I was little. How he’d try to shift and change the course of Mama’s probing questions. How she wouldn’t let him get off track. I’ll always remember those conversations. And as long as I’m in relationships, I’ll have to. Men are manipulative. Manipulative liars. That’s a sad but true reality. Ricky proved it. Donnell, he’s proven it, too.
“You weren’t listening, Kenya,” Donnell says. “I did answer your question.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wanted my first time to be special. I wanted it to be with you.”
My heartbeat starts to race.
I frown. “Are you saying…?”
“That I was a virgin?”
Somehow I nod.
“I was,” Donnell says. “Melyssa’s my first.”
I’ve never run into a brick wall.
Never fallen off a steep cliff.
But now I know how it must feel.
I start to laugh.
Uncontrollably.
Wipe my eyes.
Donnell comes to me. “Kenya, what are you doing?”
Laughing.
Uncontrollably.
“I’m leaking eye water, baby,” I say.
Lark’s boyfriend, Donovan, would understand.
My tears flow like my laughter.
Neither will stop.
“You’re scaring me, YaYa,” Donnell says.
That snaps me out of it.
“Don’t call me that,” I bark. “Ever again.”
“Kenya, I want to fix this,” he says. “I need to fix this. I love you.”
I shake my head. “This can’t be fixed.”
“Everything can be fixed.”
“Not this,” I repeat. “Not this.”
“Gotta be something.” Donnell’s grasping for some hope.
I think of what can fix this.
Consider what can take away the pain and get us back on track.
“Only one thing can fix this, Donnell. Only one thing.”
“Name it. I’ll do anything.”
“Make yourself a virgin again,” I say.
Donnell’s shoulders sag, his face drops. “Please don’t get hung up on that, Kenya. It was a mistake. A big one, I know. But I’m human. I make mistakes, and I’m always gonna. The thing is whether I learn from my mistakes or not. Trust me on this, I have. So don’t get hung up on this, please.”
“First time is supposed to be special, because you’ll remember it forever. So you’ll remember Melyssa Bryan forever, Donnell. You know how that makes me feel?”
“Before I told you about it, you assumed I wasn’t a virgin.”
I shrug. Not my fault. “Loose lips sink ships.”
Heard Mama say that.
Mama’s here with me.
Need her for this very grown-up conversation. This very grown-up situation.
“YaYa.”
“Told you don’t call me that.”
Donnell groans.
“You’ll always remember Melyssa,” I say. “Well, I also want you to remember this moment for the rest of your life.”
“You think I won’t?” The sound of burden in his voice lets me know he will.
He should’ve thought of that before he did it.
I start to walk off.
He calls me.
I turn, hands on hips. “What?”
“In my mind…when I was with her…it was really with you.”
Somehow that doesn’t help.
I leave him standing in the park with his regret.
Much later, as I reflect, I’ll regret my next move.
But at the moment I’m moving on adrenaline.
I’m angry with Donnell.
No doubt.
But I’m just as angry, or more so even, with Melyssa Bryan. She took something special from me. Something more special than I ever knew. And there is no way I can get it back. She has to be held to account for that violation.
Jimmy Gents Convenience Store looms ahead of me.
You can get anything in Jimmy Gents. Milk, OJ, bread. Ten-cent candies: Mary Janes, jawbreakers, Blow Pops, tiny packs of Nerds. Mixtape CDs: a full representation of the R’s—Rap, R & B and Reggaeton. Faux leather belts. Do-rags. Strawberry shortcake ice cream bars. Everythi
ng. Jimmy Gents is the epicenter of the neighborhood. Been in the same spot since I was little. Will probably be there when I’m fully grown up with children of my own.
But it’s what’s across from Jimmy Gents rather than what’s inside that occupies my mind.
Skintight blue jeans, a cutoff T-shirt with the word Dime emblazoned on the front, fake Steve Madden boots.
That’s what that ho is wearing.
Melyssa Bryan.
She’s on the corner, across from the store, with two other similarly dressed hoochie girls. Matter fact, they’re worse than hoochie. They give hoochie a bad name.
A cigarette dangles from Melyssa’s lips, plumes of smoke around her head.
Donnell isn’t in the car with me. But I feel his presence. It’s like he’s riding shotgun in the passenger seat.
“There goes your future baby mama, Donnell,” I say. “You do know how to pick ’em.”
Can hear Donnell’s labored breathing for a second.
Then I realize it’s actually mine.
Breathing harder than P. Diddy after he ran the marathon. But I’m cool.
Kewl.
Also, hurt.
Angry.
But cool. Kewl.
Melyssa Bryan and her two girls don’t have a care in the world. I eye Melyssa, cigarette dangling, doing a nasty dance right out in broad daylight. Her girls crack up, join in. All they need is a stripper pole. They’re not far from that world.
I park in front of Jimmy Gents, right in front of a truck delivering goods to the corner market. I take a deep breath, then slide out of the Acura. Brush my damp hands on my pants. Take another deep breath. Start to walk toward Melyssa and her two girls. In my mind I give them stripper names: Cinnamon, Cashmere, Candy. The three Cs.
I don’t have shackles on my feet, my hands aren’t manacled, but you couldn’t tell by my labored stroll. Donnell’s actions have sentenced me to something. What, I don’t know. But I’m prepared to do my time. I’m a stand-up female.
One of Melyssa’s girls taps her, points in my direction. Not the least bit subtle. But that’s how these gutter girls are. I don’t expect more. Melyssa nods, continues coolly inhaling nicotine from her cigarette. Her other girl crosses her arms, plasters a scowl on her face. She must not know how close I am to scratching somebody’s eyes out.
“Can I get a minute with you, Melyssa?” I ask when I reach them.
I address them all, though I’m only interested in one. Respect. Diplomacy.
“’Bout what trick?” asks the girl that tapped Melyssa.
Dirty South Page 12
