Boaz Brown (3 page)

I reentered the building and walked past the water fountain and the makeshift window we used to order plates on Sunday afternoons. The poster board displaying prices of chicken dinners, pies, and other fundraising eats was cleverly displayed near the entrance of the room with clear stipulations:
 
NO CREDIT. NO CHECKS. DON’T ASK.

Sister
 
Lacefield
 
called the Purity Class to order in the back room of the church, which functioned as both the cafeteria and large group meeting room. The walls were partially lined with imitation wood, and the faded wallpaper had begun peeling near the ceiling. But there was
 
a realness
 
about the room, an intangible authenticity that sanctified this space of fellowship.

We gathered in the usual circle—older kids on one side, us on the other, everyone holding hands—and waited for Sister
 
Lacefield
 
to appoint someone to offer the prayer.

“Let’s have Kelvin open us up in prayer” she said.

Jovanna, also new to the Purity Class, squeezed my hand
,
and looked up at me, smiling.
 
It took everything in me to keep from smiling at Kelvin Nash. All the younger girls in the Purity Class thought he was to die for. He had a long, silky
 
Jheri
 
curl cut into
 
a perfect
 
shag, skin as smooth as butter, and a voice that carried the entire tenor section. One glance from him made me feel as though someone had cinched a belt all the way around my torso and pulled it to the very first hole.

Problem was, Kelvin was nearing eighteen, and my little crew had just turned twelve.
 
In the words of the elders, “He wudn’t
 
studyin’ me.”

Purity Class was the one place we could be real with a man or woman of God besides our parents. We talked about the issues that faced us as young adults, teens, and preteens, and how we should use our lives to be of service to God. It was there and in Young People Willing Workers (YPWW) that we focused on the everyday life that God intended for us: from the way we acted at school to how we talked to our parents, to the rewards God has in store for those who love Him. One of those rewards was a fulfilling relationship with the mate God intended for us.
 
Jovanna
 
and I laughed through much of it, but the seed was planted. It would take years of watering and tending to blossom.

* * * * *

Saturday night I invited my best friend, Peaches, over for a girls’ night of fun and relaxation. Peaches brought along
 
Deniessa, one of her acquaintances from work, who was
 
down and out over a man. I only knew
 
Deniessa
 
casually, but I figured, the more the merrier.

They arrived at around seven o’clock, with Peaches’ unmistakable, startling pounding on the front door.
 
I wish she wouldn’t do that!

I walked to the front door, preparing my face to go along with the lecture that I was about to give Peaches—and knowing she wouldn’t give it a second thought.
 
“You
 
scared me half to death, beating on the door like that.”

“This way you know it’s
 
me
 
and not some crazy
 
maniac.”
 
She exaggerated her words with bulging eyes.

“That’s debatable,” I teased her. She hugged me, and I was instantly engulfed in her expensive perfume. Peaches wore a staple white blouse with fitted black slacks and a cute little narrow pair of slip-on heels that probably would have had my toes stacked one on top of the other.

“Hi,
 
Deniessa.”
 
She hugged me, too, and I welcomed both of them into my home. “Make yourself at home, girls. It’s just us tonight.”

“Thank you,”
 
Deniessa
 
said, taking a big breath. “I need a good talk with some girlfriends tonight.”

“By the way, I love your hair!” I remarked, tugging at the lengthy braids that bounced freely from the twist on top of
 
Deniessa’s
 
head.
 
“When did you get it done?”
 

“About a month ago.”

“Girl, this looks so good. How long did it take?” I asked.

“Ten long hours.”
 
She shook her head and added, “But it was worth it. My curling irons have been under the sink for four weeks, and I get an extra half hour of sleep every morning. These
 
microbraids
 
are priceless. I’m spoiled.”

As we talked,
 
Deniessa
 
picked up on Peaches’ cues and imitated her make-yourself-at-home gestures. She took off her tennis shoes, and they both removed outer layers of winter clothes.
 
Deniessa
 
raised her bulky pink and green AKA sweater over her head, folded it, and tossed it onto her purse.

“Yeah,
 
you sure
 
do
 
need to take that off” I teased her.

“Don’t hate us because we’re beautiful.” She swung her pinky finger around and flashed a placid smile.

“Whatever!” Peaches held out her hand.

I helped Peaches put the food into the refrigerator, and we watched a little B.E.T. while we waited for the spaghetti to boil. I curled my feet up beneath me on the sofa and contributed my two cents of chitchat before Peaches got down to the real nitty-gritty with
 
Deniessa. We turned the channel to a smooth jazz music station and listened while we talked.

“Okay,
 
Shondra,
 
Deniessa
 
would like a third opinion about her relationship with her boyfriend, Jamal.”

“Ex-boyfriend,”
 
Deniessa
 
corrected her.

“
So-called
ex-boyfriend.”
 
Peaches smacked her lips and looked at me out of the corner of her eyes. “Anyways, she wants to know if she should try to patch things up with him.”

“What happened?” I faced
 
Deniessa
 
to get a firsthand account.
 
 

Deniessa
 
swung her braids over her shoulder and waved her bright red acrylic nails. “Well, Jamal and I have been together for four years now.”

“What kind of together?” I asked.

“We’ve lived together for about three years—dated for almost a year before that. Anyways, I let him move in with me with the understanding that it was a temporary arrangement. We agreed that as soon as he got on his feet, we would either go back to our own places or get married. Weeks turned into months and now years—I just can’t take it anymore. I knew it wasn’t right when I agreed to let him move in. But it took me three years before I gave him this ultimatum. Now he’s saying that he’ll be out by the end of the month.” She gave me a blank stare, lips open.

“Okay, back up, back up. Does he work?” I asked. “By ‘work,’ I mean, is he steadily employed?”

“Not really.”

“Aw, girl, he did you a favor.” I slapped hands with Peaches.

“Good riddance!” Peaches said.

“But he’s leaving with four years of my life,”
 
Deniessa
 
said, holding her head out on the end of her neck like a flag on a flagpole.

“Okay, but you
 
gave
 
him those four years,” I said. “It’s not like he stole them from you. But you’ll be okay, girl. You live and learn. A lot of us have been down that road before, and we’ve learned what to look for in a good man.

“Listen, what I learned through my experiences was that I want somebody who knows the Lord and loves Him so much that everything he does reflects his relationship with Christ.”

I laced my fingers behind my head, eased back on the sofa, and closed my eyes. “My Mr. Right will
 
add
 
to my life, not subtract. He’s secure. He’s considerate. He knows how to treat a lady, but he’s not a ladies’ man. He handles business and he does right because it’s just
 
in
 
him, you know? He’s not perfect, but his heart is in the right place and his intentions are good.” I opened my eyes and returned to reality. “It would also be nice if he was tall, double- dipped-chocolate dark, and slap-the-judge handsome.”

“Ooh-wee!”
 
Peaches fanned
 
herself. “Girl, y’all would have to pick me up off the ground if I met a brother with all that on his résumé.
 
Tall, dark, and handsome, too?”

“Right about now I’d take the short, white, and ugly if I could recoup the last four years of my life,”
 
Deniessa
 
said as she folded her arms across her chest and laughed.

“I could do the short and ugly, but I don’t know about the white,” Peaches said with a scowl on her face. “White men just don’t turn me on. They’ve always got those big, pale, hairy feet in some sandals. They need to cover that mess up.”

“Get real.”
 
Deniessa
 
shoved her. “White men can be just as good or as bad as the brothers.”

“I wouldn’t know and I am not trying to find out.” Peaches shrugged.

“I just couldn’t see myself with a white man.” I bunched up my lips. “That would be...
 
I don’t
 
know.
 
. . like going against myself.”