Boaz Brown (25 page)

“I just don’t like to jump to conclusions,” he defended himself, entering traffic and heading back to my house.

“It’s not about jumping to conclusions. It’s about the black experience in America, Stelson.”

“Look, I understand what it means to have someone look at you and assume you’re a
serial killer
or a
stalker,”
he said with obvious reference to the questions I’d asked before agreeing to a date. “I know that’s not fair.”

I blew out a hard breath of air. “Stelson, you and I are talking about two different things. At worst, the general public probably assumes that because you’re a good- looking white man, you must be arrogant and pushy. My first thoughts about you weren’t that you were dangerous. I didn’t give that a thought until you asked me out. But blackness has its own negative connotations from the start, and until you’ve worn black, you can’t begin to empathize with me.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he countered. “You’re not giving me enough credit as a human being, let alone as your brother in Christ.”

“I give you some credit, Stelson—you do try. And a lot of well-meaning white people like you have always tried to understand. It’s just.. . I don’t know how to explain it, Stelson. It’s something you have to live.”

Stelson didn’t have a response for that one.
I don’t even know why I let this little friendship get this far.

When he pulled up in my driveway, I flicked the switch to unlock the door and let myself out of his SUV. With my hand on the handle, I turned to him and said, “Good night, Stelson.”

“That sounds final.” He peered into me with his deep blue eyes.

“I think it is, Stelson.”

He walked me to my porch but, respectfully, didn’t approach the door. I reached into my mailbox and pulled out Saturday’s mail, thumbing through it as though Stelson weren’t standing right behind me.

“Can I tell you something I’ve wanted to tell you since I met you?” he asked.

“Go ahead.” I stopped and looked at him.

“You’re a beautiful person, LaShondra—inside and out. If I never see you again, I just want you to know that.”

“Thanks, Stelson. So are you. Good-bye.”

Through the peephole I watched him walk back to his car, one hand in his pocket, the other cupping the back of his neck. Part of me wanted to say something else to him, though I didn’t know what there was to say. Stelson was white. I was black. And as much as I enjoyed our conversations the few times we spent together, we couldn’t expect to live our lives in a bubble. We had to face reality.

He stopped. I stopped breathing, wondering what his next move would be. Then he moved toward his car again. The engine revved, and he backed out of my driveway.

Good-bye, Stelson Brown
.

Most of the mail was junk, but there was one from the Plainview Independent School District that caught my eye. I opened it, read it, and learned that I was scheduled for an informal conference on the first day of the spring semester. I was to meet Dr. Marion Hunt, the executive director of personnel, regarding allegations of unprofessional conduct and practices.

Lord, I don’t have time for all this mess!

Chapter 12

What happened?” I called Peaches as soon as I got home from school. “I heard you got suspended!”

“I did,” she blared.

“What happened?”

“I told Mr. Hopewell that he needed to get out of my purse and he could kiss me where the sun don’t shine.” She smacked her lips and popped her gum.

“What! Peaches, why did you do that?”

“Because he put his hand inside my purse, trying to see if I had some mace.”

“What made him think you had mace?”

“Cause a white girl told him she saw me with some mace in the bathroom. Then he gone just come up and put his hands in my purse like some kind of crazy man, so I told him to get out my purse and kiss my behind. He better be glad I didn’t slap him!”

“Oh, man,” I sighed. “How many days are you suspended for?”

“Three days!”

“What about prom?”

“I can’t go.” She tried to hide her pain by increasing her volume, but it wasn’t working. “When I got to the principal’s office, I told Mr. Lathan everything. And I even told him that I was a senior and that I was already ready for prom. He said that if I show up, I could get arrested for trespassing. I can’t go anywhere near school property or attend any school functions while I’m on suspension.”

“Did you tell him that Mr. Hopewell went through your personal belongings? Did you show Mr. Lathan that you didn’t really have any mace?”

“Yes, I showed him everything in my purse when I got in the office. They saw that I didn’t have any mace, and then they just started making up stuff, saying that it didn’t matter if I had mace or not, because I had been disrespectful to my teacher. But I don’t give a care about Mr. Hopewell! I didn’t have any mace, and he didn’t have no business trying to go through my purse.”

“You told your momma yet?”

“No. You know how my momma is—any phone call from the office means that somewhere down the line I did something wrong. I’m waiting until the last possible moment to tell her.”

She had a point. “Dang, Peaches.”

“Mr. Hopewell is so prejudiced!”

“All of them are,” I griped with her.

“Now I can’t go to the prom.” Her cry broke through. “I swear, I cannot
stand
white people.”
 

* * * * *
 

Quinn and Peaches rode together to singles Bible study, but she promised she’d save me a seat next to her.

“Hey, girl.” We hugged.

“Hey, Quinn,” I said to him.

“Hello. Mark has been asking about you,” he joked.

Peaches elbowed him. “Please. Don’t even go there. Your boy needs prayer.”

“I know, I know,” he laughed.

I felt like the third wheel, with Quinn and me sitting on either side of Peaches. Next time I wouldn’t take her up on the offer to save me a seat. They whispered and giggled and slipped in a touch or two, Peaches letting her hand fall on his arm in laughter, Quinn checking her wristwatch for the time—I just knew Brother Johnson was gonna kick them out of class. Still, I liked knowing that my best friend was in love.

Brother Johnson followed up on the previous week’s session topic: the pre-negotiations. “There are some things that you need to let others know up front. Can anyone give me an example of those things?”

“Kids from previous relationships,” a sister called out.

“Marital status,” another sister yelled. A few of us laughed. She added, “Crazy as it sounds, you’d be surprised how many people get involved without saying that they’re married. They’re like, ‘but you didn’t ask me.’”

“I agree,” Brother Johnson said. “What else?”

“Other obligations that you might have,” a newcomer commented. He was short and a little chubby, but otherwise handsome.

“Such as?”

“Elderly parents, siblings that you care for—ongoing obligations that affect the level of attention you can give to the relationship,” he clarified.

“I understand completely. Anything else?”

“Where you stand spiritually,” I said.

“That’s imperative,” Brother Johnson said. “Let’s read Second Corinthians, six and fourteen. It says, ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness and unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?’ I think we’ve all heard this quoted at one time or another. What does that mean to you?”

“It means don’t marry someone who isn’t a believer,” Quinn said.

“In its simplest, most basic form, yes. Don’t get married to someone who hasn’t accepted Christ. But let’s take it further. A lot of people consider themselves ‘saved’ or forgiven. The issue isn’t whether or not a person who has accepted Christ is forgiven. But what do you look for in terms of their spiritual maturity?”

“Someone who willingly serves the Lord, without grumbling about it. They don’t see church as a chore but as a place to worship and receive power for living,” Peaches said.

“A person who reaches out and wants to help others come to higher ground spiritually,” the newcomer added.

A brother who had come in late added, “Someone who exemplifies the spirit of Christ by showing their love— helping you out, treating you well. Someone who’s always ready to take your hand and go seek God for answers to life’s problems.”

Someone like Stelson.

All the way home, I knew what I had to do. But it took me another day to follow through.

Stelson called on Wednesday and left a message asking if there would be a tutoring session. I purposely returned his call at his home during business hours and left the message that there would be no tutoring until mid-January because we were out for Christmas break.

I went on to church, glad to have the opportunity to contribute to corporate worship—something that I always missed when I had to tutor. I stopped off to use the restroom before entering the sanctuary. Shannon was there, with her wide, transparent smile. “Will Mr. Brown be here tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, no. Not tonight,” I said casually.

“Mmm. Well, I hope you guys give me a call so we can all do something some time.” She shook the excess water from her hands and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser.

“You know,” she continued, “I was gonna say the other night—it looks like we’ve somehow got our checkers mixed up, huh?” She crossed her arms and waited breathlessly, as though she was prepared either to laugh or offer a defense, depending on my response.

“I don’t know about
you,
but
my
checkers are fine,” I said with a calmness that I could only attribute to the fact that I was in a church restroom.

She rushed to deny offense, her hands held out like a traffic officer. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just saying, it’s a shock, seeing a black woman with a white man like Mr. Brown.”

The audacity!
I put my hand on my hip and let my backbone slip. “Shannon, you’ve got a lot of nerve. Do you think white women have some kind of monopoly on interracial dating? That you have a privilege to be with
any
man because you’re white, but I don’t? That I can’t be with a white man ‘like Mr. Brown’ because a white man ‘like Mr. Brown’ should be with a white woman like you?”

“LaShondra, I don’t know what to say.” She threw her paper towel into the wastebasket.

“Well, I am not trading any so-called checkers with you, and you can stop with the whole let’s-get-together-sometime act. It’s not gonna happen.” I left her standing there with her mouth wide open.

I called Stelson later that night, when I knew he’d be home, to really talk to him. I wasn’t sure exactly what to say, but I needed his conversation. To hear his voice, feel him laugh. Thank God he answered the phone.

“Hi, Stelson, it’s me—LaShondra. Hey, I want to apologize for the other night. I took my anger out on you and I really didn’t mean to. There’s just so much to this whole black-white thing. I think we need to talk. When can we get together again?”

He took a deep breath.

I held mine.

Then, I heard pages flipping. “Um, it looks like…Thursday morning and afternoon—but I’m flying home to Louisiana late Thursday night, so any time after six is out. Are you open?”

“Well, I do have some shopping to do.”

“Do you mind if I tag along?” he asked.