“Move your Jenny Craig rump, you’re not the only one trying to look cute,” Blu says, bumping me with her caboose so she can see herself in the mirror.
“My closet is bigger than your bathroom. Why we didn’t use your mother’s, I have no idea.”
“I don’t want her seeing these, that’s why.” Blu holds up her mother’s MAC lipstick, paint stick, eye shadow, and Lustre Drops. I don’t even know what Lustre Drops are, but it’s MAC, so it is what it is.
“Oooh, I’m going to tell.”
“And I’m going to tell Kym King you’re going over to her dude’s house.”
“I changed my mind. I’m not going.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I know what he’s trying to do, so I’d be stupid to go over there. Unless you come with me.”
“Girl, stop tripping. You saw all them kids he had at the rally. How many you think you woulda had? I’m just saying.”
“I don’t know.”
“Uh, you’re the one always talking about saving the world. Take one for the team. It’s just a frickin’ meeting, Claudia. Stop being a chump.”
“Don’t call me a chump.”
“Then stop trippin’ ’cause you find him attractive.”
“What?”
“You know he looks good, girl.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I’m not staying for more than thirty minutes.”
“Girl, that’s enough time for the candlelight dinner?”
“See, you got jokes.”
“Well, all I have to say is, if I was into his fine football ass, which I’m obviously not, and he invited me over for dinner, the only plans being laid out would be me. I know that’s right!” she says, cracking herself completely up.
“It’s not dinner. He’s a little cute, but too immature for me. Plus his reputation is horrible,” I say.
“And? So is yours!” She laughs. She’s right, but it’s not the same. I get eyes rolled at me because I’m smart. And maybe a little snobbish. He’s a ho and a cheater. That’s a big difference. “Girl, he’s slept with most of the cheerleaders and half the dance team, and they all talk about him like he’s Tyrese or something. You better enjoy that meal tonight.”
“Not going to happen, Blu. That’s the problem with this school—everybody treats sex like it’s not something big. Like you’re not giving a piece of your soul to somebody.”
“Is it that deep, Claudia? Really?”
“It is to me.”
“Girl, why are you frontin’ like you’re a virgin? I know you let Leo hit, remember. Save that BS for school. Blu ain’t no fool.”
“Ugggh! Please don’t say his name in here.” Or I might puke. The drama that fool put me through is not what I want to be thinking about right now.
“Then don’t try and play all bougie with me.”
“I’m just saying. The guy has to mean something to me, to mean something to himself. He’s got to take me there, ya know, before I let him take. Me. There.” We high-five and laugh. Then I bump her so I can try some of those Lustre Drops before I head over to my “meeting.”
“What’s that smell?” I ask Omar, frowning.
“Oh, I just cooked up a little something.”
“Omar, I told you I’d meet about the protest and that’s it.”
“Slow down, homegirl, why you always so tense? Chill for a minute.”
“I’m outta here.”
“Don’t even act like it doesn’t smell good. That’s fresh food. Homemade. You should try it sometime.”
No way. Mr. Football jerk has got this house smelling like tomato, basil, and garlic.
“Claudia, don’t go. It was my night to make dinner. That’s all. I’m almost done—then we can meet.”
“Why does it say Library of Progress on the front door?” I ask him.
“During the day, my uncle runs a community service center here. Helping folks who need, uh, help.” He takes my bag and motions for me to sit down on his couch. I choose a chair. “You look real good, Claudia.”
“Whatever.” He’s wearing a muscle shirt, jeans, and apron with Miami’s logo on the front. “Look, Omar, I hope you didn’t really cook, because I can’t stay for long. I’ve got an article to write for the paper tonight, and then Blu and I are rehearsing some routines for the dance team.”
“Now who’s playing who? It ain’t no more dance team, homegirl. That’s why we’re meeting tonight. Chill—I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, he walks in with a plate that looks incredible, like it could be served in a restaurant.
“Don’t worry, T-Diddy’s not gonna keep you long. I got to get ready for my big press conference next week.” He sets the tray down on the green-and-red table in front of me and leaves again. “Everybody wants to know which college T-Diddy chose.”
It’s obvious which college he’s chosen. The banners on the wall, the ashtrays, his apron, the rug; they all make it pretty clear. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a gold tooth with a big M on it.
“So you must be homegirl?” a bald-headed man with a long white beard says to me. I immediately stand up.
“Forgive my seat,” he says to me with a slightly evil smile that reminds me of Omar’s. Then he giggles and rolls his wheelchair over to the mozzarella and tomato Omar just brought in. “Sit down, little lady, get some of this antipasto. That mozzarella is fresh. The cow’s name was Frankie.” We both laugh.
He hands me a plate, and I sit back down on the couch. All of a sudden I feel a little stupid and unprepared. Why am I here? You loathe this guy, Claudia. And who is this old man in the wheelchair stuffing his face with cheese from a cow named Frankie?
“I see you’ve met Uncle Al,” Omar says, placing another tray of food down on the table and removing what’s left of the first. I can’t even respond because of the piece of smoked mozzarella that’s dancing inside my mouth. “I hope you enjoy the first course as much as you’re enjoying that, Claudia.” He smiles, sets a bowl of pasta with mushrooms and asparagus right in front of me, and walks back out. Am I being punked?
“Two things that boy knows how to do: throw a ball and make a meal. He’s a genius,” Uncle Al says. I finally finish chewing.
“I’ve never had cheese this good” is the only thing I can think to say.
“In the two years Smalls’s been here, he’s never cooked for a girl before. You must be something special,” he says, scooping some pasta onto my plate.
“We’re just working on some small stuff for school.”
“A man makes a five-course meal for a woman, that’s not some small stuff.”
“A five-course meal,” I say, almost choking on a mushroom.
“You okay, Claudia? Smalls, bring the lady something to drink,” Uncle Al yells into the kitchen. Omar comes out, in the middle of my very unattractive coughing. He hands me a wineglass with something red in it.
I’ve had wine twice in my life, not including communion on first Sundays at church. Once at Blu’s bat mitzvah—her mother’s Jewish—and once when I went to a college party with my ex. I hated it both times. But I was choking, I needed something.
“Don’t worry, it’s sparkling, nonalcoholic,” Omar says. Who knew the jerk had another, more decent side? I drink the whole glass.
“Slow down, homegirl. We got like three more courses to go,” Omar says, and then leaves for the third time. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to what he came with next.
“So what’s this thing y’all working on together?”
“Have you heard about the state arts funding cuts?”
“That’s not the only thing your governor cut. Our funding got sliced, too. I might have to rob me a bank like them rappers to keep these doors open. I swear fo’ Jesus, them politicians don’t know nothing about nothing. Somebody needs to stand up to that madness.”
“That’s what we’re working on, a protest. It started today.”
“And Omar is helping you with that,” he says, laughing.
“Yes, sir, it was actually his idea.”
“That’s interesting. I tried to get him to take a little petition next door and he tripped. Yeah, he likes you.” I stuff a little more of the pasta in my mouth, hoping he gets the message that I really have nothing to say to that. “What are these, fritters?” I ask when Omar serves us the main course.
“This isn’t store-bought shad, little lady. I caught this fish with my bare hands.”
“Your bare hands, Uncle Al. Really,” Omar says. “Claudia, we went fishing out at Folly. For the record, I cleaned it. With my bare hands.”
Mr. Smalls says the grace, and I taste the first bite of fish. And the second. And twenty minutes later, after I’ve eaten three pieces of fish and I have to force myself not to ask for a fourth, all I can think is, WOW, this boy can cook!
Right before dessert, Uncle Al gets a phone call and excuses himself, leaving us alone. A little too convenient to be a coincidence.
OMG! Mocha chocolate cheesecake. It’s better than good. He puts on the radio and it’s the Slow Jamz hour. I just roll my eyes.
“What, I didn’t know they were going to play that,” he says. I kick off my shoes and almost put my feet on the couch . . . when he starts licking his lips, rocketing me back to reality.
“I didn’t come here to have dinner with you, Omar. But yeah, thanks.”
“I’m just glad you showed. Would have been wack if T-Diddy had cooked all them good eats and got stood up.”
“It was really good. Where’d you learn how to cook like that?”
“T-Diddy can’t tell his secrets.”
“Seriously, enough with the T-Diddy this and T-Diddy that.”
“When I was seven. I was at my cousin’s house for Christmas, and she got a Betty Crocker oven. That joint was fire.” I try not to laugh out loud but am unsuccessful. Mr. Football used to play with a Betty Crocker oven. Wow!
“Did you play with her Barbie also?” I laugh.
“Don’t hate. I baked in that joint all day. Cried when I had to go home.”
“Awwww!”
“My dad wouldn’t buy me one, but my mom let me watch her cook dinner every night. I’ve been cooking ever since. Only reason I started playing ball was because my dad wanted to toughen me up.”
“So you don’t even like football?”
“I love football. I just love cooking, too. It’s sorta like if you had kids, could you love one more than the other? Not possible.”
“If you were one of the kids, then yeah, very possible,” I say, and playfully jab him in the stomach. His abs are rock hard. “Nice, uh, shirt.” Oh my!
“Look, no flirting. This is not a date. We’re meeting, remember?” he says, catching me off guard. I punch him in his arm. That’s twice I’ve touched him in five seconds. I’m feeling some kind of way. He throws his arm over the couch behind me. When did he get this close? I slide back a little. His arms are trees.
“So what’s the plan, Mr. Football?” I ask, inching away a little more. You’re not slick, Omar.
“Simple. We keep it up. Every day we add five minutes to the protest. Eventually they’re going to decide to do the right thing.”
“What if they don’t? What if it goes on for like weeks?”
“All that is good and accomplished in this world takes work.”
“Who said that?”
“Me. Just now.” I smirk at him. “I don’t know, I read it somewhere.”
If it wasn’t for the piece of basil lodged in his front teeth, the awkward moment might get the best of me. I should tell him. Not.
“Look, I tweeted it right before you got here. And I posted it on Facebook. It’s on for tomorrow, Claudia. You would have known that if you’d accepted my friend request.”
“I think we should give the principal our demands.”
“Ya think?”
“We should give her a list of things we expect her and the school board to do. Jobs reinstated. Arts funding restored, all that.”
“You think that will work?”
“I don’t know, but eventually they are going to ask us to stop the silent protest, and we’re going to tell them we will, but only if—”
“They meet our demands. Right! That’s what’s up, Claudia Clarke. You’re a pro at this revolution stuff.”
Why is it so hot in here?
“What’s the end goal?” I ask him, sweat tickling under my arms. “Are we going to be able to save the teachers’ jobs?” He puts his left leg on the couch. It brushes mine. “We’ve got to get the arts funding back. Why is it so hot in here?” He wipes my forehead. “Will this really do anything?” I’m talking so much, so many questions, I don’t even see him until he’s inches away from me. My hair drapes his chest. I can smell the sweat on his head. His mustache tickles the air between us. And then it happens.
He takes a finger and softly slides my hair from my face, and around my neck, just like he did at my locker. He does this two times, not saying anything. The basil is still there, but it’s not funny anymore. I can’t move. Did he give me one of those date-rape drugs? Seriously, I’m paralyzed. Now he moves his fingers up to my bottom lip and rubs it slowly. Then he kisses me. Or tries to. Right before the front door opens.
“Good thing I forgot my wallet.” In the second it takes me to turn my head and see Omar’s uncle roll in the front door, Omar defies time and space and circumstance. He sneaks a kiss. It happens so fast. It is soft and hard and now my heart is about to jump out of my chest. Or the palm of my hand is about to collide with his face.
“Uh-oh, Al, they got on Usher. That there is baby-making music,” I hear someone say.
Embarrassment doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.
“I have to get home,” I say, grabbing my jacket and sprinting for the door.
“You ain’t gotta leave on account of Spooky. He was just messin’.”
“Hole up, hole up! Claudia, wait,” I hear Omar say, but I ignore him.
I’m five minutes away when I realize I’m not wearing any shoes.