When she gets home from school today, there will be a plain brown envelope. It will contain a CD. Written on it in black Sharpie will be PLAY ME.
When she puts it in her laptop, it will play the Mission: Impossible song, and then my voice will come on: “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make your way to the middle of Marion Square, at exactly five twenty-seven p.m. Eastern Standard Time. There you will rendezvous with a stunningly attractive dude who will be wearing a suit and holding indigo tulips. He will also have on orange-and-green underwear. The future of the free world is now in your hands. This CD will self-destruct in five seconds.”
“You’re early.”
“I was excited. I thought maybe I had a secret admirer or something. But I see it’s just you.”
“Oh, you got jokes, do you?” I say to Claudia, and grab her hand. “Walk with me, birthday girl.”
“Where are my tulips?”
“Tulips. Plural, really? Why not just tulip? Let me find out Claudia Clarke is high maintenance.”
“Uh, you’re the one who said I was getting tulips. I’m just saying.”
“I changed my mind. Come on, let’s walk.”
I put my arms around her and we walk to the corner of King and Calhoun. There’s a skinny little black boy in a hooded black shirt selling sweetgrass flowers. He head-nods me and comes up. Normally I walk by, never even look these jokers in the eye. I just pretend they don’t even exist.
“What’s good?” I ask him. He looks at the basket of flowers on the ground next to him.
“Dem flowers fuh sell,” he says to us, in Gullah accent.
“How many you got, homeboy?”
“Mo’ nuh da,” he says. I have no idea. The kid puts two dirty pinky fingers in his mouth and whistles loud as a train. Seconds later, about three more boys with baskets rush over.
“I need a double deuce,” I say, flashing two fingers twice.
He whispers to the group, and they weave twenty-two sweetgrass flowers right there on the spot. “How long?”
“Fas’,” he says, not looking up.
“Cool, how much?”
“T’ree.”
“C’mon son, three dollars?” I say to this little hustler. Claudia bows me in the ribs. “What, he’s trying to get over on a brother,” I say, smiling at her. “Look, I’ll give you two dollars each, homeboy.”
“Two and haff,” he counters immediately.
“Little man, you ought to move to New York, ’cause you keepin’ it really hood. That’s cool, though. Holla at us when you finish, we’ll be over there,” I say, pointing to a nearby bench.
“Omar, you still trying to impress me, I see.”
“It ain’t even like that. I was going to get tulips for your birthday, ’cause you know that’s your favorite flower and all,” I say, smiling. “But I figured that these kids could probably use the money more than them big flower shops.”
“Awww, that is so sweet!” She kisses me on the lips and makes a soft, moaning, sexy sound. “But why twenty-two?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know, homegirl. Today is our twenty-two-day anniversary from when we met at the house party. For each day that I’ve gotten to know you a little better. For each day that we’ve grown closer. For each day that I’ve realized that there is no other girl on earth who rocks my world like you do. For each day that we’ve changed the world together, I am getting one flower.” I get down on one knee, like I’m about to propose. I’m not, LOL. She starts getting all teary-eyed.
“The sweetgrass plant was originally harvested by slaves in South Carolina. It’s now considered a treasure. Claudia Clarke, you have harvested me from a boy to a man.” I don’t even care how corny it sounds. I’m feeling it. Feeling her. “Happy birthday, homegirl.” And I hand her a gift.
“Wow, I don’t know what to say, Omar.” She kisses me on my cheek. “But a book? Really, for my birthday. No jewelry or cash even,” she adds, chuckling.
“Maybe you should just open it, homegirl.”
She does. Slowly. Carefully peeling back each corner of tape, slowly pulling the wrapping off. Yes, it is a book, homegirl, but not just any old book. How do girls cry and laugh at the same time? Never understood that.
“My bad—you don’t like it,” I say sarcastically.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that, uh, you remembered. He’s my favorite,” she says, thumbing through the book. The Pat Conroy Cookbook. Yeah! I wipe her tears with my finger. “Omar, why is there a stain on this page?”
“Oh, you know I had to try out the shrimp and grits recipe. That joint was fire! Pat Conroy is the best chef I ever read.”
She gives me a look. “He’s not a chef, Omar.”
“I know, homegirl. Just messing with you. I picked up one of his novels at the library last week. A little long, but he’s a decent writer.”
“Omar, I’m a decent writer. Pat Conroy is the best frickin’ novelist ever.”
“Happy birthday, beautiful. I hope you enjoy it.”
“I love it, Omar, and I love—”
“Heh.” The boy in the hoodie interrupts, handing me the sweetgrass flowers. I give him two twenties and a ten and tell him to keep the change.
“Appreciate that, homeboy. Be easy,” and then I hand the flowers to Claudia. “Happy birthday, beautiful,” I say, and give her the T-Diddy special kiss, with my hand cradling the back of her neck. Oh yeah!
“Omar Smalls, you do rock my world.” She stands up, leans into me, and we kiss again in the middle of Marion Square like we own the night.
“Homegirl, plenty of time for this, but we gots to be out. We’re on a schedule.”
“Out? We are out. Where else are we going?” I pinch my lips together with my fingers. “Everything’s a big secret tonight, huh, Tom Cruise? Okay, I’ll play along. Just as long as you don’t try to blindfold me.”
“Well, actually . . . ,” I say, and pull out an orange-and-green bandanna. She almost has a conniption.
“You’re insane. I’m not putting that on.”
“Trust me, Claudia. I got you. You’ll be happy, I promise.” I spin her around and place the bandanna over her eyes and around her head.
“Please don’t mess up my hair, I just got it done. Jeez.”
I tie it, but not too tight, and then grab her hand. “Okay, just stay close to me—I got you. Let’s walk.”
We cross the street, just to throw her off a little. I take her back down King Street. We pass the Frances Marion Hotel, St. John’s Lutheran church, and a doctor’s office. When we get to the Charleston visitors’ bureau, we cross back to the other side of King Street.
“I have no idea where we are, Omar.”
“That’s kind of the point Claudia.” But you’re about to be wowed, believe that!
This guy must really be all that, because there is a line of people coming out of the door and going along the sidewalk. Thanks to Mr. Washington, we don’t have to wait. He shops here a lot and knows the owner real well: “I called Jonathan, and it’s all set, Omar. He’s been keeping up with the protest, and he thinks it’s very cool. When you arrive, go to the back door and ring the buzzer. Tell whoever answers that you’re my student, and they will let you in,” he told me earlier today.
His plan sounds all romantic and whatnot, but I adjust it a little, so I don’t reveal to Claudia exactly where we are. I want this to be a complete surprise, homegirl.
We ring the buzzer, and a tall girl with long black-purple hair and oval-shaped glasses answers. I hold up a sheet of paper with the following words written in big black block letters:
I’M OMAR SMALLS.
MR. WASHINGTON SENT US.
She looks at me like I’m the weird one, and then waves us in.
“We’re almost there, Claudia,” I say, just to reassure her. The store is long and narrow, a hallway with shelves on each wall. It’s unlike any other bookstore I’ve ever been in. Actually, I haven’t been in a lot. There’s even a gray cat that runs in and out of the tiny rooms off the hallway. When we finally get to the main room, which is just a little bigger than Uncle Al’s van, the commotion ratchets up a bit.
People are drinking red wine and talking. A guitarist sits in the corner playing music that I don’t recognize and don’t particularly care for.
“Nice music,” homegirl says.
Uncle Al’s van can comfortably seat about nine football players. I’ve done this a few times. The main room of this bookstore has fifty people crammed into it, and there are another couple hundred lined up outside.
Everybody’s here for the author in brown slacks and a tan blazer, signing copies of his latest book. The famous author who goth girl is walking us over to right now. The pale-looking, pudgy, famous author dude who homegirl thinks is the Best. Frickin’. Writer. Ever.