Plus these days I never let grown men around my daughter. No way, too many perverts out there and my eleven-year-old daughter, with her sixteen-year-old body, and a face that her agent at Ford Models called the young face of the new millennium, didn’t need to be around testosterone. I did everything to protect Angel Valentine Johnson, the true love of my life.
“I thought you told me that your daughter wasn’t coming home till later,” Rocco said, squinting as if he was studying me to see if I was lying.
I tilted my head. “Is that what you thought? Hmm . . .” I turned around so that my back was to him. “Nope. She’s coming home about”—I glanced at the clock: 7:48—“about eight. Oh, my God!” I exclaimed as if I was just noticing the time. “You’ve got to go. She’ll be here at any moment.”
“Dang!” he said, dashing to gather his clothes that he’d tossed around my bedroom. “Why she coming home so early?”
“Because . . . it’s New Year’s . . . and . . . we always have breakfast together on New Year’s.”
There was a part of me that was proud that I could come up with a good lie on the fly. But really, was that a character trait or a character flaw?
When Rocco started walking toward the bathroom, I said, “Where’re you going? You’ve got to get outta here.”
“I don’t even have time to take a shower?”
I shook my head.
“Well, do I have time to take a leak? A guy’s gotta take a leak first thing in the morning.”
Those words made my eyes roam down his body. Damn! Maybe I could tell him that I made a mistake. That Angel wouldn’t be home till nine, or ten. Or I could tell him the truth . . . that she wouldn’t be home till sometime tonight.
But then . . . Bobby. I’d feel like I was cheating.
So, I let Rocco take his leak, then dress as slowly as any man ever did.
“Okay.” Rocco slipped his suit jacket over shoulders that looked like he should’ve been playing football instead of basketball. “So,” he said, straightening out his collar, “I’m gonna see you tonight?”
“We’ll see.” I led him down the stairs and at the door gave him one of those long, slow tongue kisses so that he wouldn’t forget me. But as soon as he said, “Bye, call me,” and stepped out of that door, I closed it and forgot him.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I dashed back up to my bedroom, grabbed my cell, and clicked on my best friend’s name. Noon’s phone rang and rang, and when her voice mail picked up, I hung up and called back. I didn’t know where she was, and I didn’t care whose bed she was in; I needed to talk to her.
It took four callbacks before she answered with a growl, “This had better be good.”
I laughed. Hadn’t I just said the same thing? We were like sisters, with a bond thicker than blood.
“This is better than good,” I said.
Noon moaned.
“Wake up, I have to talk to you,” I whined.
“Call me later. I’m sleep.”
“Well, wake up.”
“I can’t.”
“If you hang up, you know I’m gonna call you back.”
“Ugh!” she growled again. “Hold on a second.”
When she said that, that meant she was with her current man, Brett, and was getting out of bed to talk to me privately.
“Okay, what’s up?” Noon asked with an attitude.
That was okay; she’d be all right after I told her this.
“Well, first, Happy New Year!” I said with glee.
There was a pause, and then, “Chiquita, if that’s why you called me, I swear . . .”
I didn’t even hear the rest of her sentence. Did my girl just call me by the cray-cray birth name my mama had given me? My mother, who abandoned me when I was two and left me to be raised by my grandmother, had named me after a banana. I was still pissed about it, but at least I was smart enough to have changed my name legally.
I wanted to insult Noon back, call her by her birth name. But her birth name was Noon . . . Noon Thursday Jones, given to her by her mama who was as cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs as mine.
So since I couldn’t insult her, I got right to the point. “I’m getting back with Bobby.”
“Bobby who?”
“See, you wanna play. Really, I’m getting back with Bobby.”
A beat, and then, “For real?”
If Noon had been sitting in the room with me, her eyes would be all wide, and she’d be on the edge of the chair. ’Cause if there was one thing that Noon knew, it was that I wasn’t overly dramatic. I accepted whatever situation came my way.
Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But for the most part, once I did all that I could and saw that I couldn’t change a situation, I accepted it.
“So, when did this happen?” Noon said, all awake now.
“Can you meet me?”
“When?”
“Now. Are you with Brett?”
“Yeah, but I can hook up with you for a few hours. Where we gonna go so early on New Year’s Day?”
That was a good question, but then I said, “The mall. The malls are open, so meet me at the Beverly Center. Starbucks. In the food court.”
“The Food Court?” Noon said. “Is that the name of some new restaurant, ’cause you know, I’m not pedestrian like that.”
“Pedestrian?” I laughed. “Heffa, have you forgotten that we grew up on the same street in Compton?”
“Shhh . . .” She lowered her voice and chuckled at the same time. “Brett thinks I’m from Kenya.”
“I’m gonna tell that white boy the truth if you don’t meet me in an hour.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” she said.
We laughed before we both clicked off our phones.
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Sinners & Saints Page 28
