Homegirl thinks she’s slick. I see the fire getting lower. That’s kind of spooky, for real. But hey, maybe this game actually works. I’m going to call her on her lie, but just not now. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. But don’t think T-Diddy isn’t keeping score. That’s three, homegirl.
“Are you still mad at me?” she asks.
I’m a little salty, but I ain’t really mad at her anymore. I mean, she did call him all kinds of jerks and whatnot. “Yep,” I tell her, even though it’s hard to keep the grin off my face.
I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, but it feels like a forever. My butt is knocked out.
She asks me a question, then she slips up and asks me another in the same breath. Let me lighten the mood a little.
“I hereby institute a rule that says if you break any of the free game rules, you have to kiss the other person.” She shakes her head. “So far you owe me one kiss.”
“Yeah, whatever, homeboy. Ask me your question.”
Truth is, I don’t really have any more questions. I’ve been watching her lips form words. Seeing her chest rise with each breath. Paying attention to each strand of black hair and the way it lies across her shoulder. I don’t have any more questions, because I don’t want to talk anymore. I know it sounds corny, but I want to pull her close to me and just be held. Be kissed. I just feel so good right now. Yeah, I want us to make some love, but not because of a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bet. I want to do it because I feel good with her. So good that I really don’t want it to end.
I want her to know that I’ve been reading her blog, so I say, “I saw your article on teen pregnancy and abortion. I know several girls who’ve done it. You ever have an abortion?”
Her eyes get big. Her hands tighten around mine. Then they collapse. I see the perspiration forming on her forehead. Maybe it’s the heat from the flame, because it’s definitely not hot in here. By the way she drops her head to gaze at the candlelight, our eyes unglued for the first time in who knows how long, I know that something else is causing her to sweat.
“I’m sorry, Claudia, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
The tear that comes from her eye mixes with the sweat, and now I just want to hold her. I relax my hands, to wipe her tear, but she grabs me tighter.
“No, don’t let go.” Now she’s crying even more. It’s not like I’ve never had a girl crying in front of me. But this is different.
“It’s just a game—we can stop. Let me get you a tissue, Claudia.”
“No, I’m good,” she says, and then tries to laugh but winds up crying some more. Something tells me to crack a joke, but something smarter tells me to just sit here and be quiet. And let her cry it out. Eventually she talks.
“I sort of lied a little when you asked me why Leo and I broke up,” she admits, looking back up at me.
“Yeah, I caught that.”
“What’s that, like two kisses?”
“Actually, it’s four now, but who’s counting?” I squeeze her hand reassuringly, like my mother did me when I burned my first lemon pound cake.
“I was a virgin when I met Leo. I told you how religious my parents are. Well, they didn’t just forbid me and my sister to have sex, they actually told me if we did before we got married, we would die.”
“Wow!”
“Yeah, exactly! So I grew up afraid of sex. I mean, what little girl wants to get murdered?” she adds, and offers a weak laugh. “My sister didn’t buy any of it. When she became a Buddhist in college, she totally started having sex, not like a slut or anything, but she was like, ‘If I’m in love, and the guy loves me, I’m going to share the temple of my body with him.’”
“Whoa!” The temple of my body.
“I know, right. I’m not sure what being a Buddhist had to do with it, but she definitely was a free spirit. My parents hated it, but she was in college, so they really couldn’t do anything about it. Anyway, a few years ago, I went to a party with her, and I met Leo. He was a college freshman.” She pauses, looks at me even more intently than she’s been doing all night. It’s almost as if she’s deciding if she should go on or not. I got you, homegirl.
“I got an itch,” I say. “I need to scratch my head.” I pull her hand on top of my head, and we both rub together. “Oh, that feels so much better. Thanks. Okay, continue.” She gives me a half smile.
“Fast forward a year, and Leo and I are getting serious. He’s telling me he loves me, talking about marrying me one day. I’m happier than I’ve been. But I still haven’t had sex with him.”
“Because of the whole being-killed thing,” I say, and she laughs out loud, which is a relief, because I know this is tough for her to talk about. Whatever this is.
“Right. So, one day, I’m at his dorm room studying. He’s working on a song. Did I tell you he plays guitar?” I shake my head. “Well, yeah, he plays neo-soul. Anyway, so he tells me to listen to something he wrote. And he plays this incredible song about me and how I’m the apple of his eye and he wants to peel me, and it’s just this beautiful, touching song. Well, at least I thought it was then, but in actuality it was just a song he sang to impress me, to get me into bed. Sound familiar?” Now I feel really stupid.
“Did it work?”
“You already asked your question, friend. Now you owe me.”
“I’ll be glad to pay my debt.”
“I bet you would. Anyway, after hearing this remarkable love song, I kiss him. I end up spending the night, and sharing the ‘temple of my body’ with him. And apparently my parents were lying, because I didn’t die.” The fire is blazing higher and brighter than it has since the beginning of this game.
“Afterward, he changes. I mean he literally changes the next morning. He doesn’t call me every day like he did before; has meetings all of a sudden and can only see me on Tuesdays. This goes on for a month or so. One day I show up on a Wednesday, because I miss him.” She pauses and squeezes my hand hard. “Actually, not just because I missed him, but because I had to tell him something important.”
“And he’s with another chick.” I knew he was cheating on her.
“Well, yeah, but as it turns out, he was with several other chicks. Playa had a different one every night.” All of a sudden, the word “playa” doesn’t sound so cool anymore. “I cried all the way home and into the next morning. I don’t think I even went to school the next day. What I’d wanted to tell him was that my period was late.”
This hits me like a sledgehammer. Knocks me so hard I almost fall backward. I hold her hands tighter to keep my balance.
“He’s avoiding me, but one day I catch him as he’s leaving work, at a clothing store on King Street. He hugs me, tries to act like he’s been so busy, but he’s happy to see me. I tell him I think he’s going to be a father. I don’t know why I said ‘I think,’ because by then I was almost two months late and three tests had been positive. He doesn’t even pause to think or smile or frown. He just looks at me all nonchalantly and says, ‘Maybe it’s not mine.’ Like I wasn’t a virgin before him. Like there was another guy, other guys, that I’d been with. Like I was just some rotten apple that he’d thrown away.
“He came over later and apologized, and I thought that maybe I had misjudged him, that maybe it was me, not him. And then he kissed me on the cheek, slapped four hundred-dollar bills on the table, and turned to leave. ‘It was just bad luck, Claudia,’ he said. “I mean, we did use protection. How the hell unlucky is it that the condom broke?’ and then he laughs, like it’s a big joke. ‘Look, I’m heading out of town for the weekend, so I won’t be able to take you to get the procedure done. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, though. I’ll holla.’
“He called it a procedure. Like lying back with my legs spread wide, altering destiny for all of eternity, is a fucking procedure. Sure, I asked him if he had protection, but why didn’t I ask him if he had enough of it to guard my heart, to give shelter to my soul in case of emergency?
“My sister took me to the clinic, sat with me while I waited to be called. Held me when I came out bawling. Told me everything was going to be all right. Took me home, put me to bed, watched over me. I never thought I would be one of those girls. It was the worst day of my life. And I’ve never talked about it with anyone, not even Blu. I just felt so stupid and horrible.” She takes my hand, and we wipe the tears that are coming fast and furious. “So to answer your question—”
“Finally,” I say, hoping that my attempt at sarcasm will make her smile, even a little. It does.
“Yes, I had an abortion.” We are both hushed. We sit quietly, staring at each other, listening to our hearts beat. I want to tell her I’m sorry. There are simply no words to punctuate the air. I am sorry.
After about ten minutes, she finally says, “Thank you, Omar.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For letting me open up with you. Now don’t you start tearing up, too,” she says.
“Ain’t nobody crying over here,” I say, sniffling.
I wish homegirl didn’t have to go through that mess. Ol’ dude really is a jerk. Am I? I know a couple of girls who had abortions. I even went with one of my exes in Brooklyn, to get one. It wasn’t a big deal. Until today.
“Liar! That’s two kisses you owe me,” she says, trying to lighten the mood.
“You all right, Claudia?”
It feels like an hour of quiet passes between us. Thing is, it’s not even awkward. I feel close enough that I can smell her mint breath. I would have said something by now, but I don’t know what to say. Give me a football and eleven guys bulldozing toward me, and I can figure out what to do in a split second. But this situation is strange and unfamiliar. So I sit here, tightly clutching her hands, waiting for Claudia. To. Be. Okay.
“Enough of the drama. This is supposed to be a fun game,” she says, as if she can hear my thoughts.
“You okay?”
“Uh, you already asked that question. Yes. My turn. Omar Smalls, are you afraid of death?”
“Wow, really. Yeah, this is a lot of fun now,” I say, and we both laugh. “I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it. I don’t want to die. I got a lot of things I want to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like play in the NFL. Like buy my uncle Al a pimped-out RV, so he can hit the road with his boys. Like travel. Like get the arts funding back. I’ve been thinking about it, and we should have better textbooks. And we should have a school marching band. And we should be a better school. Feel me.”
“Omar Smalls wants to change the world. Go figure!”
“I also want to be your dude, like really.”
“I feel you, babe.” She calls me babe about fifteen more times during the game, and it sounds better than any nickname I’ve ever had. Even T-Diddy. We ask each other questions about random stuff, like favorite TV shows and rappers. We talk about girls I’ve dated. She tells me about the time she cheated on a spelling test in fifth grade. I tell her about how I’d like to have my own cooking show one day. After my NFL career, of course.
The free game goes on and on, until the light from the candle is no longer our source of illumination. Until we look out the window and see a remarkable sight.
The sun.