Deuce looked up from his plate, and tried to catch Zora’s gaze but she was moving her eggs around.
For some inexplicable reason, as soon as he saw her that morning at brunch, he was pissed. He was already downstairs on the patio eating with Robyn, her brother, Nate, and her mom, when Zora came to join them, wearing pink velour sweatpants and a long-sleeved white tee with bright-white tennis shoes. Her hair, which the night before had been wild and free, she had pulled back into an Afro puff. With no makeup and no jewelry, she was a little swollen around the eyes.
She smiled at Deuce and said ‘good morning’ to everyone before walking the length of the buffet table and choosing eggs and lox for her plate. Touching Deuce lightly on the back of his neck as she passed him, she chose a seat opposite his at the table and began reviewing the party with Robyn and her mom, complimenting the food, and the decorations, and sharing how excited she had been to see some of her favorite musicians.
She didn’t really give much of a crap about seeing famous musicians, Deuce knew. But if she had seen Anderson Cooper, or Van Jones, then she might have been excited. She was being polite, and making conversation, but behind her smiles, and her studious pretense of interest when anyone else spoke, Deuce could see that she was already thinking about what she had to do next.
What she had to do next was go home, spend time with her family and plan her early departure back to school with Rashad.
Rashad Dixon had been there with them for the entire week and a half they had been hanging out. Just offstage, an unacknowledged and heavy presence that Deuce sometimes sensed at unexpected moments. He showed up most often when they were laughing, or clowning around. Like when they’d gone to a dive bar where Deuce tried to teach her how to play pool and Zora had accidentally catapulted one of the balls across the room, almost beaning a waiter right between the eyes. They had both doubled over in laughter, while the waiter stood there looking none too amused, his eyes wide in shock at his near-miss with a concussion.
Looping his arms around Zora’s waist, Deuce kissed the back of her neck and pried the pool cue from between her fingers.
Lemme take that, he said, turning her around in his arms. This ain’t your game.
And for a moment she smiled at him, nodding her agreement until just as quickly, the smile disappeared and he saw in her eyes the exact second when some unspoken memory replaced it.
There were other moments like that—like the afternoon they spent in his room playing video games on his Wii, both of them only partly-dressed. After hours of aimless gaming, they napped on and off, and had lazy, quiet, furtive sex, excited and frightened at the possibility that someone might just wander in on them, opening Deuce’s unlockable door. Later they went down to the kitchen and scavenged a meal, then returned to nap some more.
When Deuce opened his eyes again, the light outside was a gray and dim, wintry dusk; he and Zora had slept most of the day away. Or he had anyway, because Zora was awake and leaning on one elbow, looking out toward the French doors leading out to his terrace.
Do you realize, she said. That we just spent like ten hours doing nothing at all except satisfying our basest desires? It feels so … wrong.
Jesus, Zee, what’re you talking about now? He had moaned, turning over onto his stomach and dragging her against him.
Later he would remember what she’d said and think of how the words sounded as she spoke them. Like they weren’t her own. Like she was channeling someone else’s ideas—someone who would make her feel guilty that even though she was barely twenty and a college student, she had spent one afternoon eating, lazing around and having sex with her boyfriend.
Except he wasn’t her boyfriend, Deuce thought now as he glanced over at her again.
He was her Winter Break.
He was a “base desire” that she felt badly about indulging in.
Chapter 9
“Human relationships are complicated,” Rashad said. “You can’t rig that shit. It just happens the way it happens.”
Zora said nothing, keeping her hands folded on her lap, listening to him talk.
Usually, she loved listening to Shad talk. He had such agency of expression, such complete command of his words. They were currency for him—buying him entrée into circles where most young, Black men would never go. After Penn State, he was going to law school at Stanford, and after that, who knew? The sky was certainly the limit for someone like Shad but he wanted to be out West. He liked that he was going to be close to Oakland, because like lots of East Coast Black activists, he was in love with the city as the birthplace of the Black Panther Movement and imagined that there, some of the magic from that time would rub off.
“And I definitely understand why you were curious about him. I mean, hell, how many like him we got out there, apart from the ballers?”
He was talking about Deuce. Because after an hour of barely-disguised curiosity about how inaccessible she had been to him over most of the Break, he guessed that she had what he called “a fling” with someone. So, not wanting to act like Deuce was a dirty secret, and most of all wanting to put an end to the probing, Zora had just come out with it.
I drove home with Deuce Scaife, she said. And we wound up spending some time together over Break.
Yes, they spent time together. Lots of time. And then there was New Year’s Eve which was amazing. Scarily so. So scary that when Deuce had taken her home the next morning, Zora ignored all his calls and texts, instead immersing herself in her parents and brother for the next day and a half, then packing all her stuff to return to school.
She called Shad late on the night of the third of January, and suggested that they get going sooner rather than later. He was there before nine a.m. on the fourth and they had hit the road in his reliable but beat-up Toyota 4Runner.
Today, she knew for sure, Deuce would give up calling and stop by her parents’ house. He would have exhausted his limited patience by now; and knowing her planned departure date would simply show up. He was spoiled in that way. Spoiled in every way, really. He just wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. He never waited for anything. Not even for her. When he wanted her, he just … took her.
Sighing, Zora shook her head. It wasn’t working. She wasn’t going to be able to work up anything resembling anger at him. Because he had never treated her with anything but respect, and care and consideration. If his greatest sin was that he wanted her all the time, and didn’t like waiting to have her, then she was in for a hard road to get him and their “fling” out of her system.
“I don’t mean to get all in your business or anything,” Rashad continued. “But as far as you and him …”
“Nothing changes,” Zora said. “We were just … kickin’ it over Break.”
She couldn’t even look at him when she said those words, because they felt so blatantly false. But it was basically what she and Deuce had agreed to—the temporary shedding of expectations. And that was all.
“Figured.”
“What does that mean?” Zora snapped.
Rashad shrugged, looking away from the road for a moment. “Nothing. I just don’t see bruh at a BLM march, do you?”
“It’s not like he’s oblivious to what’s going on out there. He’s been stopped before.”
Rashad laughed. “Impressive. Him, and every other Black man in America. That’s hardly the equivalent of street cred.”
Zora rolled her eyes. “He’s more than you think, Rashad,” she murmured. “And besides, that wasn’t what it … what we were about.”
“Okay, so tell me,” Rashad’s voice rose a little, and Zora heard the annoyance, and the jealousy he had concealed before. “What were you about?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Because …”
“Did you fuck him?”
“Shad.”
“You did, right? Because that’s all I can think of that would make someone like that interesting to someone like you. Curiosity about the magic dick that sends all these du
mb-ass girls scurrying his way to get used.”
Zora’s stomach clenched at the phrase, ‘sends all the girls scurrying his way.’
But that was Deuce’s rep. And though Rashad hadn’t said it, implicit in his comment was some judgment about the type of girls Deuce was notorious for bedding. He generally checked for Latinas and White chicks, and the precious few who weren’t, may as well have been since they looked it. His type was so firmly established that even people on campus who had never exchanged three words with him could probably pick his likely sex partners out of a line-up.
Zora knew what it was like to be fetishized. Since puberty there had been guys, some of them White, some of them Black, for whom her darkness, her unmistakable Blackness, seemed to be her single most irresistible feature. They stared at her in a manner that was vaguely disturbing, sometimes putting their arm against hers, rhapsodizing about the contrast in their skin tones. Or they played a little too often with her wiry, kinky hair, testing its texture, stretching and releasing it; examining each component of her as though she was a rare museum piece.
Deuce wasn’t like that.
He never remarked on their differences, but instead, often told her she was beautiful, or pretty. Even Rashad had never done that—leaned in, though they were in a crowded room, in a Target checkout line, or waiting for movie tickets—and with mouth against her ear, whispered, you’re so beautiful or damn, you look amazing today.
Where’d you learn that? Zora had asked him once. Where did you learn to make a girl feel so good?
But that time, she meant something else entirely. Deuce had been at the foot of the bed, between her legs. When he lifted his head, he looked dizzy, and drunk with her. Sliding up along her body, he was rock-hard.
Making you feel good, makes me feel good, he said almost matter-of-factly. And you don’t know, Zee … you taste better than anything in this world.
Then he kissed her, long and deep so she could taste herself as well. But Zora still didn’t know what he was talking about. To her, what made the kiss good, was just … him.
“You know what?” Rashad said now. “It don’t matter. You fucked him, but it’s over. That’s the important thing. It’s over. And I’m confident in my shit … Fuck that nigga.”
Shad almost never used the word ‘nigga.’ On principle, he avoided it, believing that the argument that Blacks had somehow ‘reclaimed’ it was nonsense. That was how Zora knew he wasn’t even close to being over this news of her and Deuce.
“So, we’re hoping to have L.A. finalized by spring,” Zora said. “A huge rally, and refocusing of the movement, so that people know we’re still here, and still keeping the pressure on.”
“That’s Spring Break though,” Mia said.
“Yeah, but I’ve never been to L.A. so I’m cool with it. Can we count you in?”
“Nope. You know I need to go get my tan on.”
Zora rolled her eyes. Mia had been her freshman year roommate and they remained close, but she was more an ally of the movement than an active participant. If Zora told her they needed bodies in a room, Mia could be counted upon to mobilize her sorors, but she wasn’t exactly a dedicated adherent to BLM.
Right now, Mia was lying on Zora’s bed watching her as she folded and put away laundry. They hadn’t talked about It, but Zora knew they would. Mia was simply waiting for a decent length of time shooting-the-breeze-about-meaningless-shit to pass before she pounced.
It had been three days since Zora returned to campus with Rashad, but Mia and most everyone else had just gotten there that afternoon when the dorms reopened. It was Saturday, and classes resumed Monday. Most of the morning, and still now, Zora was on edge. Deuce’s calls and texts had only just stopped coming the evening before, and she already missed them though she had been trying to convince herself she should be relieved. She hadn’t responded to any of them, but it made her feel strangely reassured each time she saw that he reached out. It made everything that happened between them more real.
She still hadn’t figured out what she would do when she inevitably ran into him on campus, but thankfully she had plenty of other things to occupy her. Rashad had been liaising with a few other BLM chapter heads over Break and they agreed that as a general strategy they wanted to spotlight three instances of excessive force in California, giving the East Coast chapters time to regroup after a spate of bad PR and loss of support.
And according to Rashad, what he called “some dumb-ass state legislator” in California had proposed a Blue Lives Matter bill that would make the shooting of a law enforcement officer a hate crime with enhanced sentencing options.
That gives us something concrete to advocate against, he’d said with excitement in his voice. A real policy to oppose, instead of some nebulous opposition to excessive force.
So now, they were working with a group of law students at Stanford—where Rashad would hopefully be in the fall—on alternative legislative language. Thinking about bill language had unexpectedly piqued Zora’s interest, and now she was wondering whether she should bite the bullet and declare a major already. Her coursework wasn’t exactly all over the map. She was on track for a sociology major if she wanted to go that route, but had left the door open for other choices as well. She could even be pre-law, like Rashad, but something about walking lockstep with him yet again, choosing as he chose, didn’t sit comfortably with her.
“Okay, I can’t do this anymore,” Mia said suddenly. She released a long sigh. “I’m dying, girl. Tell me about you and Deuce.”
Zora laughed. “I knew you didn’t give a crap about anything else I was saying. I was just waiting to see how long you could hold out.”
But Zora didn’t want to talk about Deuce. Not with her closest friend. Not with anyone.
“How was he?” Mia asked slyly, sitting up.
Turning away so her friend wouldn’t see the way she smiled and shut her eyes, Zora continued shoving t-shirts into drawers. Finally composing her expression, she glanced over her shoulder.
“He was cool,” she said, shrugging.
Mia gave her a look. “You know that’s not what I mean. I mean, how was he?”
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable …”
“Oh shut up! How many times have we broken niggas down? I want to know, and I think even more than that, I deserve to know.”
“Deserve to know?” Zora laughed. “How do you figure that?”
“I was there the first night, remember? If I hadn’t forced you to come with me and Sophie over to his table, you never would’ve even met.”
“I don’t know whether to thank you. Maybe I should actually be kicking your ass for that,” Zora said, shaking her head.
“Was it that bad?” Mia asked softly, grimacing.
Shaking her head, Zora looked at her friend. “No,” she said. “It was that good.”
Mia’s eyes grew saucer-like in size. “Oh shit! Tell me. Tell me everything, Zora.”
She told her some, but not everything. Some things about her time with Deuce were much too intimate for public consumption. And others were just too precious.
When she was done, Mia stared at her with something close to sympathy in her eyes. She shook her head and then came over to hug Zora, resting her chin on her shoulder.
“Damn, girl. I knew you shouldn’t have messed with him.”
Zora pulled back and looked at her incredulously. “Are you serious? You said exactly the opposite, Mia!”
“Since when you listen to me? That was like playing with fire. And now that you’re back at school, when you see him with all those girls, your ass is damn sure going to get burned.”
“What you up to right now?”
Zora looked up into Rashad’s eyes and offered him a smile and a shrug. They had just delivered the news of their plan to the members, and it had been well-received. Some of them committed to try to make it to L.A. for the rally, and others said they would help spread the word. Rashad was planning to find sponsors to pay
for him and Zora as co-chairs, and about five others to make the trip, all expenses included. He was in high spirits because the meeting had gone well, but Zora hadn’t been able to muster up any enthusiasm for just about anything lately.
Four days. They had been back in classes for four days, and Deuce’s attempts to get in touch had officially come to a halt. She was beginning to feel like an idiot—an idiot for wanting him to try, and an even bigger idiot for planning to ignore him if he did.
“No plans,” Zora said, letting Rashad help her gather her laptop and notes, and shove them into her backpack.
“Then come get a burger with me,” he said inclining his head toward the door. And when she hesitated, he smiled. “No strings, no agenda. I promise. Just a burger.”
Zora nodded. “Sure.”
They went to a pub-style restaurant on the edge of campus, where they were lax about checking ID, so Zora ordered a beer to go with her blue-cheese burger and fries. Rashad didn’t drink alcohol, so he asked for a Coke with his food, though Zora could see him forming questions in his mind, and judgments about her wanting to drink.
When they were together, she scarcely did. Because he didn’t drink at all, and it wasn’t that important to her, she had just naturally abstained when they went out to eat. The fact that she hadn’t done so now, she knew, would cause him to draw all kinds of conclusions. The only accurate conclusion would have been that she liked the sharp taste of beer with salty foods like french fries. It was no deeper than that.
“It’s weird not seeing you every day,” Rashad said when their waitress left them alone again.
“It’s weird for me, too,” Zora said honestly.
“Weird-good, or weird-bad?”
“Weird weird.” She shrugged. Her eyes filled, and her vision became blurred.
Rashad reached across the table and held her hand, leaning in. “Hey. What’s the matter? Tell me what’s going on.”
Zora shook her head and tugged her hand away, blotting the corner of her eyes with her fingertips. “It’s just … I don’t know if you know, and I don’t know how to tell you that …” Her throat clogged, so she cleared her throat and started again. “You’re one of the most important people in my life, Shad. Like, ever.”
Young, Rich & Black Page 10
