Beware of Boys (11 page)

“Charly! Oh, that is you! Charly! I heard you were coming to help us,” a little girl's voice yelled.

Charly picked up her face from the dirty ground, turning it in the direction of the little girl, who she guessed couldn't be more than nine, then her greeted with a smile. The girl had two ponytails and wore a huge snaggle-toothed grin. Her red E
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T-shirt was covered in fresh dirt and paint, and she held a wet paintbrush in one hand and had a bunch of flowers in the other. “Hey! Yes, it's me,” Charly said. She widened her smile, then froze at the sight of a group rushing toward them.

Lights flashed. Jean-and-T-shirt-clad reporters, obviously unprofessional and not with a major network, ran toward them from the direction of the street entrance. One of them yelled, “Yep. They're on break!” Without thought or consideration, they all but ran over the little girl with the ponytails.

“Ouch!” the little girl yelled, tumbling over and landing on her side as one of the armed-with-camera novices took it too far.

Charly was on her feet in seconds. She rushed to the little girl's side, pushing the wannabe reporter with all her might. “Get back!” she yelled, reaching for the little girl's hand, but accidentally grabbing the wet paintbrush. Without thought, she wiped the loud red paint on her yellow sundress, and helped the girl to her feet. “What's wrong with you?” she snapped at the guy, walking up on him and shoving him as Lex jumped in front of her, protecting both her and the girl. “Are you okay?” she asked the girl. “You need me to call your mom? Who are you here with?” Maybe she should alert someone in case the little girl was more hurt than she appeared.

The girl nodded. “Yes. I am now!” Her words were as lit as her dazzling eyes. “But I'll be even better if you give me your autograph,” she said, then shrugged. “And I'm a big girl. I'm here by myself. I go everywhere by myself because my momma's always at work, and before you ask, I don't have a daddy. . . .” Her words trailed off. “Duck!” she yelled to Charly.

Charly looked behind her and saw one of the reporters' cameras toppling through the air, coming in their direction at top speed. With one swoop of her arm, she reached out to cover the little girl, and tried to make a run for it at the same time. Again, her heel stabbed into the soft dirt and refused to budge. “Ohhh . . .” Her word stretched as the ground zoomed toward her face again, and she met it with a hard thud. The camera landed next to her. She closed her eyes, and heard the curses of Lex and Faizon flinging through the air like objects. “Language! We've got a princess here,” she reminded them at the top of her lungs.

As if nothing was occurring, the group advanced, still thrusting microphones and cell phones outward. “Charly! So word is you and M
kel are secretly dating. So did you catch him cheating on you, or were you sliding out on him? Why was y'all fighting in the shoe store? Lex, do you plan on knocking ol' boy out in the first round? Faizon, are you with Charly now?” various voices questioned them all while Faizon helped Charly up from the ground.

“Block 'em, Lex,” Faizon said, then took the little girl's hand. “Go with Eden, lil mama,” he directed.

While getting to her feet, Charly saw Lex move forward with his chest thrust out and his arms squared. Security, all wearing red T-shirts, finally swarmed from behind the gates. “Couldn't be, M
kel's not here,” she said, when she thought she spotted a huge man who looked an awful like Butter Pecan, M
kel's bodyguard.

“Let's get in motion, Charly,” Faizon said, pulling her the opposite way of the brick pillars. “The wannabe journalists won't get to us out here. Trust me. There's way too much security.”

Charly's brows rose as her feet reluctantly treaded behind Faizon. Running behind the brick-pillared wrought-iron fence would've made more sense to her. With the children and teens in the back, she was certain there would be more than enough safety. “You sure? Wouldn't we be more secure in the event area? I mean with the networks and Lex's staff?”

With his hand holding hers, Faizon led her through the opening of the rugged chain-link fence and onto the sidewalk. “Pardon me, bruh,” he said, excusing them past an obvious hardcore thug, who gripped the neck of a beer bottle and was tatted everywhere Charly could see. “Nah, Charly. We're safer here on the streets. Those bootleg journalists don't wanna test these cats out here. Trust.” He looked back at her. “And you're in good hands. I may be an actor, but knowing how to get down for mine is real.”

F
aizon hadn't lied; he wasn't window dressing. He was the real thing, and truly held no fear. He had the respect of many of the street guys, Charly discovered as they made their way through the sketchy neighborhood. Boys dressed in the latest trends gave him pounds, thugs nodded their heads in his direction, and even some druggies extended respect to him, telling him how they wanted to be like him when they grew up. Charly took it all in, and relaxed. Yes, she was safe with him, and the rough hood, while it would've been scary to many, wasn't foreign to her. She'd walked through worse on Chicago's South Side, and frequented a bookstore on One-Two-Five in Harlem, a street that outsiders thought was located in a dangerous section of New York, but it wasn't. Not to Charly. She didn't perceive danger the way many did, and this area wasn't too different for her, she noticed as she looked around. Her feet carried her down the cracked, littered sidewalk, and her hand was still in Faizon's as they crossed the intersection. She had no idea where they were going, and really didn't care. With Faizon by her side, she was at ease, and excited to be in his company. Even if it was over one hundred degrees out under the blinding sun, she liked being with him. It wasn't often she got to hang with someone who knew her side of the entertainment business. No, she wasn't on the big screen like him yet, but, like her, Faizon knew what it was like to have to come to life in front of a camera.

“This way, mama,” he said, leading her and gripping her hand tighter, assisting her with stepping off the curb and over the grated drain. “You good?” he asked, looking back into her eyes.

Charly squinted, nodding. She held her free hand over her eyes to shield the blinding sunlight and smiled. “Yes. Where are we going?” she asked, scanning her eyes over the area. “Is there a beauty supply or shoe store around here? I really need to grab a pair of flats so I can help.”

Faizon took off his baseball hat, then adjusted the clasps on the back of it to her size and put it on her head. “It doesn't really rock with your outfit, but it'll do. I can't have you out here cute and blind, not unless I really do plan on getting it in. 'Cause one of these cats may forget who I am, and try me by hitting on you, nah'mean?” He looked up and down the busy street. “This is the hood, so it has to be at least three beauty supplies around here. You know y'all sisters don't play when it comes to keeping yourselves polished.” He laughed.

Charly laughed with him, then laced her arm through his, keeping herself close to him as they approached an oncoming crowd. The group parted as she and Faizon zigzagged their way through, giving their respective hellos and thank-yous to a few who acknowledged them.

“Yo, your last flick was sick,” a guy complimented Faizon. “My girl said you shoulda gotten an Oscar for that. Right, baby?” He looked over at a girl to his left, who was pushing a stroller.

Faizon thanked him.

The girl eyed Charly and nodded her hello. “That's a nice purse,” she said, then gently shook the stroller handles to rock the baby, who'd begun to whimper. “That's like three months worth of rent, groceries, and diapers. I'll never have nothing like that,” she mumbled barely above a whisper, pulling Charly's heart strings. “What you doing around here?” she asked aloud, her expression dull. “ 'Cause I know y'all not here to make over anybody's room—not in this neighborhood.”

Charly looked the young girl up and down, trying to size her up. She didn't know if the girl was being nasty or honest, but she had Charly's attention. The baby's whimper turned into a cry, and the girl's face held concern. For an instant, Charly wanted to reach out and give her a hug and tell her that everything would be okay, that she could have so much more in life than an expensive designer handbag, but the baby wailed louder, capturing Charly. “You mind?” Charly asked, unleashing her arm from Faizon's, then moving to the front of the stroller. She bent her knees and crouched until she was eye to eye with the cutest little infant she'd seen in a long time. “Is she yours? She's beautiful,” she said, almost unable to contain herself. She wanted to reach out and scoop up the baby, who'd stopped crying when Charly spoke. The child was butterball fat and smelled sweet. “She's precious! How old?” Charly looked to the girl, meaning every word.

“She's mine, and she's almost seven months.” The girl smiled, and Charly's heart broke for the young mother. She didn't know the girl's situation, but she could guess it was hard to be a teenage parent. The girl had to be younger than her.

Still squatting, Charly reached into the stroller and straightened the baby's dress, then smiled when the baby found her pacifier and stuck it in her mouth. “So what's your name, and why do you think I wouldn't be here to help in this neighborhood?” Charly asked, rising to her feet, and catching sight of plastic grocery bags stored in the stroller's rear basket next to the diaper bag.

The girl shook her head and shrugged. “They call me Charlie, but it's spelled with an ‘i-e,' not a ‘y' like yours.”

Charly's eyes widened, and a smile spread on her face. She'd never met another Charlie before. “Charlie. I love it!”

“But my name is Charlotte. And I don't want to say why you wouldn't be helping here,” the girl said.

“Baby, don't get all bashful now. Say what you say when you watch her show,” the guy said, nudging her arm.

Faizon moved to Charly's side. Charly raised her brows, waiting. “Well, what do you say?” She tilted her head.

The girl shrugged. “That you only help rich people or teenagers who come from good homes and neighborhoods and schools. Teenagers who have good parents—even if they only have one, that's one more than I have.” The girl shook her head. “Y'all never help nobody like us; people who just want to get outta the hood and have a better life.” The girl looked down, a mask of defeat covered her face. “Girls like me. I mighta had a baby early, but I took her with me to night classes so I could get my GED.”

“And she registered at the community college,” the guy added.

Charly's heart dropped. She'd been one of the people the girl spoke about, minus the teenaged mother part, and she remembered it well. She'd wanted to get away from her neighborhood, to capture her dreams, and not live from check to check like her mother. The girl was right.
The Extreme Dream Team
had never remade a teen's room in a neighborhood like the one they were in now or helped a teen who'd had a background close to her own. And Charly knew and would bet a dollar to a dime on it, the way the show was set up—to assist honor roll students, teens with nonprofits and middle- and upper-class do-gooders, the people Americans wanted to see as their future—
The Extreme Dream Team
would probably never help someone like the teen mother who stood in front of her with the beautiful baby. That bothered Charly to the core, but she didn't know what she could do about it.

“I still watch the show though because you're on it. It's cool to see somebody who looks like me star on a reality show. It gives me some hope for her future,” she said, nodding toward her baby.

Charly smiled, genuinely touched. “I'll be right back,” she said to Faizon. “I'm going to step over there.” She pointed a couple of feet away, then beckoned to the young mother. “Can I talk to you in private over there? And please bring the stroller,” she said, walking toward the corner store.

“Yeah?” the girl said, catching up to her. “What's up?”

Charly stared into the girl's eyes. “First, I want to thank you. Thank you for watching my show, and thank you for bringing up what you did. And you're absolutely right, I should be helping everyone, especially since I come from a neighborhood like this, and, for a long time, it was pretty much just me and my sister. So I know where you're coming from.” She pointed to the stroller. “Pass me one of those grocery bags,” she said, fishing out the contents of her purse.

“Why? What are you doing?” the girl asked, reaching in the back of the stroller to get a bag.

“I'm giving you my purse. You said you liked it, so I'm giving it to you,” Charly stated, still digging things out of her purse.

“But why?” The girl removed something from the bag, then stood. She handed it to Charly with a smile on her face. “And what are you going to carry? A plastic bag? All day?”

Charly shrugged. “It's not a big deal. I have other purses. I'm giving you this one because I want you to know you can have and be anything you want. I heard you say you'd never have one like this, so now I'm proving you wrong. You can,” she said. Then her eyes widened when she looked at the bag the girl was giving her. “Is that what I think it is? A sneaker store bag . . . as in brand-new adult sneakers?”

The girl nodded. “Yeah. You got something against shoe bags or new tennis shoes or something? And I'm not accepting your purse. I don't do charity. No offense.”

Charly looked at the girl's feet, sizing them up. “You have to be at least a size eight, right?” The girl nodded. “I'll tell you what. I can respect you not wanting my charity, though it isn't really charity, so I won't give you my purse. We'll barter. I'll
trade
you my purse for your shoes. I don't even care what they look like, but you have to let me help you help yourself. I want to donate to your education—pay for your college books. If that's not good for you, think of it as a gift for the baby.”

 

“So what's your story, Faizon?” Charly asked, handing him the shopping bag that held the sneakers and, now, the contents of her purse. “I know you're from the islands, but your word choice is very New York. You also have an untouchable demeanor, like you've been seasoned in the streets, but that can't be all. Not with you contributing to this project. So who's the girl that made you want to do this?”

Faizon smiled, nodding. He walked toward the corner, back in the direction of the event. “Let's try there. There's a corner store. They should have some cotton balls to help you fit your too-big sneakers.” He laughed, shaking his head. “The things you women come up with. Who woulda thought about putting cotton balls in shoes to make 'em fit?” He reached out, taking Charly's hand in his again. “Okay, mama. So you want my story now? You can't wait for us to have our sit-down after the event?”

Charly shook her head no. “I heard you're only here for the day, so I need to be sure I get your info. I have to hear it from you because your personality goes into the project. That's the plan, anyway.”

He nodded in appreciation. “That's cool, and it's what I want. I guess I should start at the beginning, then bullet-point the main points. I was born in Kingston, Jamaica, to a single mom who moved us to Queens, New York, when I was two. After she scraped her pennies together to feed us while she put herself through school, we moved to Vegas, then to Hollywood. I was around eleven then, which is why I'm a little rough around the edges. I fought in the streets to protect myself in Queens—you'd be surprised how many preteen roughnecks you can encounter,” he said, laughing. “Then after we moved to here and to Cali, I had to literally fight my way home from school. My mother was a linguist and vocal coach who helped actors, newscasters, and other TV people lose their accents. So, of course, I can turn mine off and on.” He looked at her with pain-filled eyes. “
Was
is the key word, Charly. I lost my mom just a couple months ago to the Big C, as many now call it.”

Charly nodded, following him into the market. She didn't know what to say because she knew there were no words to erase his pain. “It's a good thing you're doing, Faizon.”

Faizon switched gears, then laughed again. “You know, you're not wrapped too tight, Charly. You could've gotten us robbed or something, pulling out your wallet on the street back there. You must really want to see me act up.”

Charly shook her head, looking at her watch. They needed to get back, but she needed the cotton to fit the too-big shoes, and she was thirsty. She exhaled, appreciating the air-conditioning in the store as she found a small cosmetic section and grabbed a bag of puffballs. “You must not know my background,” she said to him. “I'm not too much different from you; I'm from both sides of the street too. I can take care of myself and you.”

Faizon pulled her in the opposite direction, then walked to the cooler, looking at the contents through the frosty glass. He let go of her hand and laughed. “Word? So you think you can take care of me, huh? Why's that, Charly? 'Cause I've played a dancer, a singer, and have pretty much been typecast for leading male roles in romantic comedies?” He shook his head, sliding open the door. He took out a bottle of water with a blue label, held it up to her. “This brand good for you or do you want another kind?”

Charly shrugged, leaning against the coldness of the cooler's glass. The chilliness climbed her arm, making her tingle. “Water is water.”

Faizon nodded. “Yeah. If you say so. But I don't drink nothing else besides what I grew up drinking. I'm not really good with change, and have no desire to become good with it either, unless it's for an acting gig. I can switch back and forth with parts, then I trash the fake to keep myself real. Nah'mean?”

Charly nodded, taking a mental note. His not being adaptable was something she'd have to keep in mind when she came up with the design for the girls' center. She never would've guessed someone as young as Faizon would be so rooted in his ways, but everybody was entitled to their quirks, and she knew from experience, many artists were eccentric. “Gotcha,” she said, surveying the different brands of water in the cooler, then squatted down to take one off the bottom shelf.