His hands were clasped around my neck. The thick thumbs pressing into my pulse points, and the pads of his fingers digging into the top of my spine. I imagined that I was turning blue, for sure. Ain’t never really seen a black person turn blue. I guess that’s as stupid as a black person blushing. But I would bet I was blue, ‘cause not an ounce of air was getting down my scrawny, eight-year-old throat. He was screaming at me, but I couldn’t hear him. Just saw his lips moving. Think my eardrums popped like I was 10,000 ft. high. His eyes were bloodshot. Angry spittle was flying from his lips to my face. And all I could hear was the ringing inside my head. The sound that lets you know you can’t be dead just yet. I diverted my eyes to Blanca, who sat shivering in the corner. She had gotten a good ass-whuppin’ with the belt earlier. The brown leather belt that always hung on the basement door to remind us. She’d gotten off easy because she took the whuppin’ like a good little girl. Me… I was a bit more mouthy. And now I was seeing the light that came after the ringing. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mami’s amber glass lamp coming toward us. It was cradled in Luis’ hands like volleyball. No, Luis, not the lamp. Mami went to three flea markets to find a lamp like that. Before I could blink, that lamp was shattered into a million pieces over the crown of Calvin’s head, and his hands fell from my neck, dropping me to the floor where I choked and gasped so hard my lungs felt like they would burst like an over inflated party balloon. I yelled out at the sight of the crimson blood dripping onto the carpet, assuming it was coming from my body, but realizing that it was flowing from a gash atop Calvin’s head.
My eyes flew open to find Lance shaking me by my limp shoulders, yelling for me to breathe. I blinked away the bright light and gasped in enough air to feel like I was making up for that minute of asphyxiation almost two decades ago. Lance frowned at me and handed over a glass of water as my breathing returned to normal. I wasn’t thirsty, but drank to hide my embarrassment. To bide time thinking of an explanation. Lance had no intentions of leaving without one. Shifted his body so that he was facing me head-on. His five o’clock shadow was scraggly and masculine. He wore a pair of sweatpants and his chest was bare. The premature love handles he was developing conveniently caught my attention, and I stared at his body to avoid staring into his eyes.
“Farrah, talk to me,” he said in a pleading tone. “Every time I stay over, you wake up screaming and choking-”
“Everybody has nightmares,” I interrupted.
“Not like this,” he said, “And not this often.”
I chuckled awkwardly and climbed from the bed. Pulled the 1968 Olympic protest t-shirt from my damp body. He was pissing me off with this shrink act.
“Oh, so you’re the psychologist now?” I asked sarcastically.
Lance stood also.
“I don’t hafta have a degree in psychology to know that that shit ain’t normal. And you, being a counselor, should know you need help.”
I felt my eyes dimming. Felt that wave of disgust that I thought only Blanca could ignite.
“You think I need help?”
I felt my voice rising to that pitch I hate. Whiny…Bitchy…Weak.
“Who the fuck you think you are?” I exclaimed.
He threw his hands over his face in frustration for a moment. Took a deep ragged breath. Lowered his hands. His face was covered in concern. I looked away. Wasn’t trying to get pulled in over some emotional bullshit. Smoothed the hair of my eyebrow with an index finger. Crossed my arms to display my stance.
“Baby, listen to me. We been doin’ this shit for two years, and it’s goin’ nowhere. I don’t’ know shit about you. You won’t commit to me. You got so many fuckin’ walls up around yourself and…I just want you to let me in. Damn girl, I love you.”
I frowned and released a cynical chuckle. Then I faced him, unblinking.
“We have fun together. We fuck from time to time. Why you makin’ somethin’ simple more complicated than it has to be?”
Hurt was all over his defeated face.
“My love for you ain’t complicated at all. But I feel like I keep hitting a brick wall.”
His eyes pleaded with me. His hands were palms up. Humble.
“Maybe you should walk around that wall and find a new path.”
My words were daggers. I saw the pain in his face. Watched as he pulled his t-shirt and sweatshirt from the limp heap of clothing we had ripped from our wanting bodies the night before. Half of me wanted to stop him. The smarter half of me felt relieved. Once again, I had successfully managed to swallow my emotions instead of spewing them out carelessly like a lovesick adolescent. Lance slowly made his way out the bedroom door with the staggered stroll of a person expecting his loved one to stop him. I didn’t. Didn’t even flinch at the forceful slam of the front door.
My chunky rubber snow boots crunched the fresh fallen snow, destroying the fluffy perfection and leaving my footprints behind. My mark that I had been there. Tiny miniscule snowflakes danced and landed on my face as a group of Mexicans almost forced me into the street where the snow was wetter and blacker. I ain’t no racist. Could tell that they were Mexican because they were so stocky and short. A stout race of people multiplying by the millisecond. Baby makin’ machines. Since I had left Plainfield, I had noticed some interesting changes in the area. Asian-Americans, Indians and Arabs, South Americans and Hispanics were the majority. Blacks were no longer the underdogs. And the blue-eyed, blonde-haired bandit had been demoted to minority. Made me feel slightly uneasy; probably how white folks felt when blacks got free and began working for less money, thus taking all their jobs. I hoisted my tote bag more securely on my shoulder. Cringed from the pain of carrying my work with me 24-7 like a fetus. Stepped into Sound Express to defrost my face for a minute.
“You need some earmuffs,” Hasaan said from where he sat on a rickety barstool behind a glass counter filled with cell phones.
His ass was wider than the seat of the stool. Wasn’t that wide six years ago when we first met. I fought the urge to invite him on a morning run. Browsed the CD’s in the New Releases section.
“And you need some customers,” I retorted, becoming bored with the radio-friendly bullshit and moving on to the bulletin board fliers announcing upcoming performances in the area.
He nodded, “You got that right. Business been slow for everybody ‘round here.”
He said it matter-of-factly, not the way you’d expect a man to sound when his business could be in trouble. But Hasaan always had a side hustle. Which was one of the reasons I thought he was a light-skinned brotha when we first met. He turned out to be an Arab with a Brooklyn accent.
He went on, “Mr. Chin is packin’ up shop in a few weeks.”
I looked up from a flier advertising Hip-Hop night at Harvest Moon, a local bar down the street that attracted white co-eds with dreadlocks and grunge attire to rebel against society…or their parents.
“Whatchew mean, packin’ up shop?” I asked with a scowl.
“I mean,” Hasaan said emphatically, “He goin’ to Florida to retire wit the wife.”
Mr. Chin. Movin’ to Florida? Didn’t make sense. Whoever heard of a ‘hood without a black beauty supply shop? Shook my head in irritation and handed over a CD by The Roots for Hasaan to scan. I wondered how many customers he’d had so far that day. The dry sea-foam carpet inside the front door and the lack of fingerprints on the glass countertops gave me an idea. Handed Hasaan a twenty, told him to keep the change and headed back out into the icy, winter air. Saw several of my students from the high school, huddled together giggling on cell phones or sneaking cigarettes. They were everywhere, living and learning in the same environment as me. I stepped back from the curb as a red and black Scarlet Knights shuttle full of college students whizzed by, offensively splashing wet slush across the sidewalk. Made me feel nostalgic of routine rides to track practice and dreams of beating my own record flooding my head and heart.
The beauty supply store was about a block away. Expected a rush of heat to blanket me as I stepped inside, but it was just as cold in there as it was out on George Street. Mr. Chin, his wife, and his daughter all stood behind the counter, wearing coats and scarves. Like an Eskimo family. Always wondered why it took three people to ring up hair weaves and cheap cosmetics. His two sons patrolled the five or six aisles, as usual, watching out for sticky fingers.
“You wan’ beeswax?” Mr. Chin asked with a wide grin on his face.
Does he not notice the puffs of cold air exiting his mouth?
“No, I was over at Sound Express, and Hasaan told me that you’re leaving.”
I watched their faces intently, but Asians always seem to be expressionless.
“Dat true?” I asked.
Mr. Chin leaned in like he had a wonderful secret. His 5’2” frame didn’t allow him to lean much.
“I sell store one month ago. Three time make more than store worth.”
His words were saturated with delight.
“But, who would…I mean, why would somebody wanna buy...”
I let my words trail off, fearing that they might insult him. But as I looked around, it baffled me that anyone would pay so much for such an old establishment. The leaking ceiling, stained carpet, drafty foundation...none of it made sense.
“Is the new owner gonna take over running the store?” I asked.
The Chin family chuckled and nodded at each other. I somehow missed the joke. Mr. Chin pulled open a drawer behind the countertop and retrieved a business card. He handed it to me carefully as if it were delicate crystal. Then with a whisper, he leaned in again.
“Mr. O’Shea, and the Sanchez’s sell too. We all retire.”
I stepped back out onto the sidewalk and watched the dinnertime rush on the street. I watched college kids consuming fast food, businessmen leaving law offices and financial firms, tourists exploring the plethora of gift shops, international restaurants and local theatre. Finally, when my nose ran and eyes burned from the freezing wind, I turned the small ivory card over in my gloved hand and stared at it. Inside the metallic gold trim, it read: Golden, Levinson and Styles: The Department of Planning, Community, and Economic Development, Justice E. Styles, Director of City Planning.
My lunch hour couldn’t have come quickly enough. Monday. The emotional draining of my career sent an angry roar through my empty stomach. Child Psychology was supposed to be rewarding. To be able to pick apart a child’s head and use the pieces to put together the puzzle of his heart...it was a duty no one ever performed for me. That theory once fed my drive. But after meeting with a formerly molested kid who cuts himself, and an angry teen mother who beats on anyone who crossers her, my drive was dwindling like the melting snow that blanketed the asphalt of Livingston Avenue.
I crossed the street in front of the Dunkin Donuts, silently wondering why George Street also needed a Starbucks and the Cyber Café. I eased my way around a group of young businessmen who were huddled around the doorway of SoHo like hornets at a honeycomb. Carmen was easy to spot in the restaurant full of well-dressed businessmen and bow-tied waiters. Habitually, we kissed cheeks, and I sneezed from her over-abundance of perfume before plopping down into the trendy, iron-framed chair. Everything about SoHo was trendy, from the frosted glass light fixtures, to the brushed chrome bar accessories. Abstract, geometric art decorated the walls. It was a fairly new restaurant where the up-and-coming movers and shakers could stand around exchanging business cards and tasteless discussions of promotions and raises. Non-stop happy hour. Carmen was wearing that loud, gluey lip gloss that always sticks to her hair when she tosses her head flirtatiously...which is often.
“You’re always late for everything!” she said in a dramatic roll of her eyes.
That was the way most people greeted me. I was even late for my own birth, letting Blanca push past me on her exit from the womb. Carmen was scolding me, and in the next breath, she was my best cousin again.
“Lemme do your hair!” she said, reaching across the small table to fix a couple of my dreadlocks so that they framed my face.
I ducked out of her way.
“Don’t have time. Bigger priorities.”
Carmen rolled her eyes again and flipped open her menu. She spoke to the pages inside as if her opinion was the lunch special.
“Farrah, you need to live. You need a man, a serious makeover, and for God’s sake, an orgasm.”
There was amusement all over her golden face. I gasped dramatically.
“You rice-and-beans-eatin’, go-go-boots-wearin’, cheap-knockoff-pocketbook-carryin’ bitch. What the hell is wrong with the way I look?”
We both fell out laughing like old girlfriends, but we were much more than that. Her mama turned the same soil as my mama back in the Dominican Republic, before Carmen and I were even thought of, let alone conceived. Our mothers were twin sisters. They were birthed from the same womb, fed from the same breast, embraced by the same arms, pushed Carmen, Blanca and I into the world within weeks of each other. Carmen is a half-Dominican, half-Puerto-Rican with an accent thick enough and a style loud enough to see and hear her coming from a mile away. No one would expect us to be cousins. But it is she who should have been my twin. She checked out the horrid strawberry red polish on her acrylic fingernails before waving them at a gentleman at the next table. I kicked her under our table as she winked at him. Subtlety was not her forte. Our waiter brought us water and took our orders. I stuck with my usual mandarin salad. SoHo’s menu options offered what they described as an “American Cuisine”, whatever the hell that means.
“You see Lance today?” Carmen asked finally.
I knew that question had been burning on the tip of her tongue. Didn’t want to think about the pathetic look on Lance’s face when he walked by me a few times at work. Each time, he gave me that look that showed he was in disbelief by my stubbornness.
“Passed each other a couple of times,” I said nonchalantly, “which is exactly why you shouldn’t date a man you work with.”
“So he didn’t speak?” she asked rhetorically. “He’s giving you the silent treatment, but can you blame him? You yo-yoed him for like two years, and personally, I think he is muy stupido for hanging around that long with somebody who’s got serious commitment issues. Hello!!! Do you see split ends in my hair? I think I’ma trim it tonight. Where’s that waiter guy with my shrimp?”
I ignored her ADD.
“I don’t have commitment issues. I just don’t jump into relationships with every dude who shows a little interest. You could stand to learn a little about that.”
“I don’t do that!” Carmen exclaimed with a slight smirk.
She had one eye on me and the other on her new friend at the next table.
I snapped my fingers in her face playfully to bring her attention back to me.
“I’m over here, fast ass. And yes, you do do that shit with men. Remember Gino?”
She smiled sheepishly as our waiter placed our platters in front of us.
“Okay, Gino was a ...momentary lapse of judgment. But…”
“Momentary lapse of judgment?” I said loudly through laughter. “You knew him for three weeks and moved him in your apartment where his greedy, unemployed ass ate all your food and put a permanent dent in your couch, bitch.”
“His sex was good,” Carmen said, loudly enough to cause our acne-ridden college-aged waiter to haul ass in the direction of his other tables.
“Oh, please, get a vibrator,” I said with a cynical chuckle.
She scrunched up her nose at me and pulled a pocket mirror from her purse. She applied another sticky layer of pink lip gloss. Who puts on lip gloss before they eat?
“You’re gonna electrocute yourself one day,” she said before stabbing a piece of jumbo shrimp with a salad fork.
I squeezed lemon over my salad and sneered at her.
“I use batteries, not a power cord. And don’t change the subject. What about Dorian? And Pedro? Don’t forget Jean Pierre, either.”
“Okay, okay, stop puttin’ my business in the streets, dammit.”
We both giggled again.
“Maybe I have dealt with my share of stupid men.”
I raised my eyebrows. She’d just spoken the understatement of the year.
“But,” she went on, “I’m only 28. I’m tryin’ to live my life and have fun along the way. When can you honestly say was the last time you had fun with a man?”
I sighed and looked around the restaurant at all the downtown dwellers to avoid eye contact with Carmen. Our conversations always took this annoying, predictable detour. I eyed a white couple at the bar. Both blonde in black blazers. Her skirt was too short. His hand periodically touched her thigh. Probably an office affair. Corporate couples were all over the place, having midday drinks. My eyes settled on a brotha drinking what appeared to be seltzer water with lime. He was a tall, dark-complexioned, debonair Morris Chestnut-type; the type of brotha who couldn’t get a girl to save his life back when light skin was in, but redeems himself now by juggling a stable full of needy broads. Now that most women don’t give a damn about complexion half as much as they care about the thickness of a man’s wallet. He smiled at his lunch date, flashing a mouthful of white teeth. Probably caps he swiped on one of his plastic cards. She was extra high-yellow, light enough to keep people guessing her nationality, but having enough pigment to pull the race card if she needed it. I studied a few more couples, finding them more interesting than the overpriced, limp spinach on my plate. Like my salad, that commitment shit looked appetizing on the surface, but after the final purchase, it proved to be less filling than expected. And in some cases, just resulted in a damned stomachache.
Lola was drunk. I think she tried to grope me about a dozen times just during the five-minute walk from SoHo back to my office. One of the things I’d always liked about her was her classy nature. She could sip on an entire bottle of merlot by herself and still walk, talk and cross her long, butterscotch legs like a lady. But today, all of her poise and intricate debutante training had evaporated into the January breeze, somewhere between the trendy, glass bar at SoHo and my office on the fifteenth floor of the pavilion on Albany Street.
“Wait…just let me loosen my tie,” I said as she backed me into my desk chair.
“I want you to keep the tie on,” she said seductively as she lowered herself to the carpet.
I watched as she swiftly unbuckled my belt and unzipped my slacks with one move of her wrist. I could barely concentrate on her head bobbing up and down in my lap. I suppose I should have been ecstatic experience this fantasy: a stunningly beautiful, accomplished woman unleashing her sexual fury on me in the risky, yet thrilling atmosphere of my office. Yes, most men would trade places with me in a heartbeat. But I could feel my mind and body inching toward a flaccid terrain.
“You okay?” Lola asked, once she came up for air.
I knew that voice. It was a tone full of duality where she wants to sound concerned, but ends up sounding irritated.
“I’m fine,” I said, “I’m just warming up.”
One of her eyebrows jumped up into her forehead skeptically.
“You sure?” she asked. “Because I can do something else for you if you need it.”
That translated into, If you can’t maintain an erection, then you’re wasting my time.
Lola was not insecure. She was an impatient woman at best. Pleasing men came easily to her. She can read and interpret a moan or grunt and respond appropriately before her counterpart’s toes have a chance to uncurl. Everything about her lovemaking was skillful, and she knew it better than anyone else. I realized right then, that that overflow of skill was predictable. And I was filled with boredom. Lola was a mirror image of me with the sexy, feminine packaging of a woman. We were both overly ambitious with ever-growing confidence. I’d seen her look into the blue eyes of suited wall-streeters and minimize them down to size with a few words and an overabundance of self-assurance. Like me, she knew how to exceed expectations. Like me, she was cultured, spoke multiple languages, earned a ridiculous amount of money and would never be caught dead in anything that was a knock-off of the real thing. Like me, she always got what she wanted; chasing some things just to vindicate to herself that she could attain them. I watched as she stumbled out of her sheer stockings. She wasn’t wearing panties. She was the only black woman I’d ever met who went pantyless and sported a Brazilian wax in the core of winter. But Lola did a lot of things that no Black women I’ve dated would dare try. I used to think it had something to do with her mother being white and her father being filthy rich. I sat back and tried to relax as she ripped open a condom. I never have to perform much for Lola. This was her show. In the last seven months, she had done things to me I’d never openly admit to anyone. My job was to lay back and let her get her satisfaction from the kinky and taboo. She really did not need me at all. Lola was capable of climaxing off of her own ambition.
Fifteen minutes later, I was watching Lola from my office window as she hurried across the street to the train station. She ran over the slush in her heels with her suede coat flapping behind her like majestic robes. There were almost three car accidents as men neglected watching the road and feasted their eyes on the long, lean, vanilla-smooth beauty that was Lola Bradshaw. I went over to my leather-topped bar and took a shot of scotch. My memory of Lola’s tongue lapping between my legs like a Golden Retriever and straddling me in my desk chair was pushed aside and forgotten before her train even arrived at its next stop on the way to Manhattan. I used to wonder who she was going home to greet or who she would kiss when she walked through the door; some poor, unsuspecting idiot who wouldn’t even realize that he was tasting me on her lips. I don’t do too much wondering about life outside of me anymore. The liquor dispersed through my body slowly, feeling like holy cleansing, reminding me of communion Sundays back in Savannah...my head resting against Noni’s shoulder... the rhythmic tapping of her feet lulling me so that the choir’s praise felt like part of my heartbeat. I could hear her voice, humming the gospel melody from a deep soulful place in her chest. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the name of the hymn. But her voice was still so clear that it was as if she was standing in my office at that moment, humming me to sleep. The beeping of my desk phone yanked me back into the present. The soft, sensual voice of my secretary, Monica, helped me push that memory into my subconscious.
“Mr. Styles, New Brunswick High on line one.”
Alarmed, I rushed to my desk where I hit the button for the first line on my phone.
“Justice Styles,” I announced.
“Mr. Styles,” the voice of a Hispanic woman began, “we have Malachi here in our administrator’s office.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“We found marijuana on him.”
Walking through the almond-tiled hallway brought back unpleasant memories of adolescence. The sounds of delinquent teenagers and the slamming of aluminum lockers grouped with the odor of hormone-driven kids-none of it had changed. Only then, I had been scrawnier, poorer and angrier. Only then, I had to fight to hold onto my ounce of manhood, knocking a few kids around and distributing a couple of black eyes to make a point. Now I empty pockets to mark my position. I stepped out of the way of roughhousing students as they chased each other past me. The green light on the metal detectors gave me the go-ahead to enter the lobby. Malachi sat slumped in a plastic fold-out chair. I watched the way he crossed his arms across his chest defiantly. His stance said I don’t care, but his face was colored in fear. The principal’s secretary already informed me over the phone that charges would not be pressed against Malachi. For that, I was able to diffuse my anger before approaching him. He heard the soles of my Italian wingtips and sat up quickly as our eyes met.
“J, I know you mad-”
“You don’t know shit,” I interrupted in a strained voice.
I leaned closer to him, close enough to see the beads of sweat inching toward his hairline.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hissed at him.
“I s-swear to God,” he began, stuttering the way he does when he’s scared shitless and attempting to lie, “I n-never…I mean, I was j-just holdin’ it for my boy-”
“So, you takin’ the fall for one ‘a ya boys? Where the hell is he? Why ain’t he in here facin’ this like a man? Just shut up, man,” I said as I stepped back and regained my posture.
I adjusted my tie as I approached the secretary. She was a young, sexy woman with an abundance of cleavage and too much jewelry. I was not surprised to see the miniature Puerto Rican flags decorating her desk.
“I’m Justice Styles. Is Principal Espinosa ready to speak with me?”
She blushed as she took in my appearance, eyeing my tailored suit and checking out my watch. She assured me that she would inform the principal of my arrival. I opted not to sit right next to Malachi. There was no one to keep me from wrapping my hands around his neck. I tried to mentally take myself back a decade to when I was in Malachi’s shoes, playing tug-of-war with adolescence and manhood. I vaguely remembered joints being passed to me, or party punch being spiked with liquor, but of course I fell to the peer pressure. I wasn’t half as smart or talented as Malachi. I tried to conjure in my thoughts what I’d say to him once we got home; what my faceless father should have said to me back when I was living through the same pressures.
After about ten minutes of waiting-room silence, a robust Hispanic woman wearing a pin-striped suit two sizes too small entered the receptionist area.
“Mr. Styles,” she said assertively as she headed toward me.
I stood as she approached and accepted her firm handshake. She motioned for Malachi to join us and led us down the corridor toward what I presumed to be her office.
“I’ve asked Farrah Fairmont, our school psychologist to join us,” she said. “I’m hoping we can discuss some interventions to prevent expulsion.”
I heard Malachi grunt behind me at the principal’s last words.
We followed Ms. Espinosa inside, both my brother and I with the heavy, dreadful steps of offenders meeting their judge. The cramped office held the musty odor of water-damaged carpeting. To my right were empty seats facing Ms. Espinosa’s desk. It was a desk too massive and ornate for the smallness and dinginess of the office. In my peripheral, I caught a glimpse of someone else. There was a woman sitting there waiting. I had to look twice to be sure my eyes were not deceiving me. I’m not sure of what kind of individual I expected to be waiting to dissect our lives with textbook bullshit. Maybe an angry, social justice crier, one who was probably an abolitionist in her former life. I expected to see someone fighting against sexism, which was probably just anger about being ugly. A homely woman. A woman no man would desire. But I found myself staring at the anomaly to my twisted paradigm. She stood slowly to greet us. She was beautiful, but more so than that, her presence was stunning. And I immediately recognized her as one of the locals. The long, wavy dreadlocks that looked like she carefully hand-rolled each one. The piercing honey-brown eyes. Dark brown skin like coffee before the infiltration of cream and sugar. The tiny silver stud in her nose. The waist tiny enough to rival the bingers and purgers on the covers of Cosmo, but the ass thick and tight enough to make a man believe he’s hearing an African drumbeat when she enters a room. The horny man in me smiled. It was not reciprocated. Instead, she stared at me, from my tailored suit down to my $350 shoes. Her eyes eventually made it back up to mine, and she stared with a look steely enough to give me a chill. Finally, she held out a petite hand.
Couldn’t put my finger on it, but I’d seen this brotha before. Can’t forget a face like this; smooth and dark like mahogany, chiseled and sculptured like the CK models on the billboards. Tall enough to have to look up at him. He shook my hand and I glanced down at it as I returned the firm shake. Manicured nails. Soft smooth hands like he’s never known a day of hard work. Platinum Rolex. Expensive cufflinks. No wedding band. He smiled stupidly for a moment. Let his eyes quickly roam the contours of me. Wasn’t clever or slick enough to do it when I wasn’t watching. Or he was just that cocky.
“Mr. Styles, meet Ms. Fairmont, our school psychologist. Ms. Fairmont, this is Mr. Styles, Malachi’s guardian.”
Diana finished with her introductions and we all took seats across from her desk. Malachi fidgeted with his hands as Diana began talking. His older brother sat still with the poise of a damn Prince. No, more like a politician. A prince is noble. A politician wants people to think he’s noble. He probably thought he was impressing somebody. The Sicilians down on George Street could’ve hooked him up with a knock-off, three-piece suit that woulda fit exactly the same way. He glanced my way as we endured Diana’s routine spiel. I pretended to find something interesting in the notes I’d taken after reading Malachi’s file.
“Ms. Fairmont, would you like to add anything?” Diana asked, turning the floor over to me.
I hadn’t been listening, but I knew the drill.
“I’m going to recommend Malachi to meet with me twice a week for a half-hour each session,” I began.
“When will he fit that into his school day?” his brother interrupted.
He was dancing a jig on one of my biggest pet peeves. Why do men think that they can just open their mouths in the middle of a woman’s sentence and expect the whole world to listen? I paused for a second and stared at him, making it clear that I didn’t appreciate being cut short. Hell, they needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed them.
“We can schedule sessions during your study hall period,” I said, directing my response to Malachi, who at that point, had been discussed as if he weren’t sitting in the same room.
His brother cleared his throat and propped his ankle up on his other leg. Only a woman should own shoes that beautiful.
“I just don’t want anything to distract Malachi from his studies. If his GPA falls below a 2.5, he won’t be eligible to play for the remainder of basketball season. That cannot happen. He has recruiters coming in to see him play almost every game.”
That cannot happen. This fool had a lot of nerve.
“If he continues the behavior he’s been exhibiting lately, you won’t have to worry about basketball season, because Malachi will be taking a permanent bench seat at home on expulsion,” I said.
Our eyes met for a moment, neither of us wanting to look away first. Damn, he was fine.
“Mr. Styles,” Diana interjected in her ass kissing voice, “our purpose here is to find out what Malachi is going through that would cause him to violate school rules-”
“That’s my job,” he interrupted forcefully. “You’re not dealing with a kid who needs to be psychoanalyzed. He’s a teenager. It’s his job to make stupid decisions to try to fit in with his peers. All we need from you is a slap on the wrist, and we’ll be on our way.”
I closed my notebook slowly, all the while keeping my eyes on the kid who looked like he wanted a hole in the floor to magically open up and swallow him.
“Unfortunately, that’s not the way it works here,” I said. “The good news is that you have a choice. Malachi can meet with me twice a week until I get to the bottom of this new behavior…or he can be removed from the basketball team, develop a permanent, negative school record, and possibly repeat his senior year, destroying his chances of earning an athletic scholarship.”
Malachi’s brother grinded his back teeth at my cynicism.
Me, 1. Big Shot in the expensive suit, 0.
