Boyfriend Season (16 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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17
DYNASTY
L
ipstick was a mess. A real live wire of a mess that was in Dynasty's way, her personal business, clothes that City had bought her, and was now taking up room on her mattress. She lay there, looking up at the ceiling, and trying to see how far her smoke rings would rise. She coughed, and it sounded as if a garbage truck were stuck in her throat, rumbling. She reached over to the floor, grabbed her tube of lipstick, and painted her lips with it over and over. Dynasty sat on a chair in front of the window watching her and wondered how on earth did someone put on lipstick and smoke at the same time. Her mother had her own technique. She'd hold the cancer stick between her lips and work the waxy color around it, only burning her hand once or twice a day, which wasn't a lot since she applied the makeup every fifteen minutes or so.
“So you still mad?” she had the nerve to ask Dynasty.
Dynasty just looked at her. What made her mother think that pale orange, bright fuchsia, or silver lipstick went with a dark complexion? Her lips rotated among looking like someone had dyed them the same color as potent urine, looking like they'd been dipped in fluorescent pink paint, and looking like they'd been dusted with flour.
She's color blind.
She watched as her mom changed her mind, wiping off the orange, then applied a color Dynasty hadn't noticed before today. Lavender.
Great!
“I know you hear me, Dynasty. What, you mad cause you can't go to New York?”
No, I'm mad because you show up and want to pretend to be a mother, then disappear.
“When are you going to rehab?” asked Dynasty, cracking open her dictionary. She figured she might as well learn something new while listening to her mother lie, because that's what was coming next.
Lipstick pushed her almost-one-hundred-pound body up from lying on the mattress, then turned sideways and kicked out her bare feet. Her toes were crusty and her soles looked like they'd been walking through cooling coals. Her hair stood wildly on top of her head, and was different lengths. It looked like rats had been sucking on it. She shook a little and nodded. Dynasty could tell her mom was high. The nod gave her away.
“I'm thinking about going next week. But—” She licked her lips, plucked nonexistent lint from her flimsy tank top that covered her flat, saggy, braless breasts. “But . . .” Her eyes rolled up into her head. “Whew!” She rubbed her chin and continued licking the lavender from her lips. “Your mouth dry, too?” she asked, managing to open her eyes.
“When, Lipstick? When are you going to rehab?”
Lipstick banged one ashen foot on the floor. “When I feel like it! Don't be asking me no stupid questions. I'm yo momma. I ask you.”
Dynasty turned and looked out the window, then stood and stuck her head out. From where she was, she could see City putting his luggage in his trunk. She turned back, saw her piece of a mother suffocating her teenage life, and she wanted more than ever to go with City. The trip was only going to be a couple of days, and she'd explained it to her mother. Told her how it'd be good for her education, earning money, and saving for college, but Lipstick didn't care. She'd told Dynasty that she was a child, and as her mother, it was up to Lipstick to make the rules. It took every ounce of strength that Dynasty had to stop her from telling Lipstick that she didn't have a mother. But the truth was she didn't. Not since she was one year old.
The bedroom door burst open, and Aunt Maybelline appeared in her classic clownishness. Drawn-on eyebrows. Inch-long eyelashes thickly coated with crusted mascara. More eyeliner than the law should allow and circles of orange creamy blush on her cheeks were only outdone by the cherry-red lipstick that bled past her lip line, clearly mirroring Lipstick's, and her wig was matted and tilted to one side. Aunt Maybelline stood there in a cloud of smoke. Dynasty shook her head.
Now I live with Bozo
and
Ronald McDonald
.
“Lipstick! Lipstick! Get up!” Aunt Maybelline yelled as if she weren't right in front of them. “You ate my last doggone pork chops! Yeah, heifer, Pork Chop told me. And he said you was scheming on my green jelly shoes, my good wig, and my medications.”
Lipstick managed to lift her head, though it still bobbed. She laughed. “Heifer, you crazy. Ain't nobody eat Pork Chop! How I'm gonna eat your man?”
“Come on!” Maybelline invited. “Come get this whoopin'.”
Dynasty stood up to leave. There was no way she was going to watch this madness. A drunk crazy person and a heroin addict fighting wasn't her idea of entertaining. It was sad, and she just hated that it was a part of her life. She skirted her thin frame around Aunt Maybelline's heft and smoke, zipped through the hallway, down the steps, and out the door as fast as she could. If she was lucky, she'd be able to catch City. And if she did, she'd beg him to take her with him.
 
“Shuckey duckey, quack, quack. Unlucky, hungry-looking, and burnt black. What's going on, Die Nasty?” called Rufus from his throne, the grungy picnic table bench, while his hand was stuck in a bag of potato chips. A bottle of hot sauce was on the table, and from the red saucy stains dripping down his shirt, it was apparent that he'd been using it. He put the bag of chips to his mouth, then dusted off the contents, then swapped it for a superlarge bag of pork skins.
Dynasty crossed her arms over her shoulders and shook her head. She'd maneuvered the projects once and, now, almost twice, but City's car was nowhere to be found. She couldn't believe her luck. She'd only seen him loading his things into the trunk a couple of minutes before she'd bolted down the steps and out of the apartment.
“Please, not today, Rufus . . . okay?”
Rufus got up from the bench and laid the pork skins on the table. He wiped crumbs from his mouth, and tried to dust the chips and crackled pig skin from his hands as he walked over to her. He tilted his head and eyed her like a science project.
“Please?” he almost whispered. “You okay, Dynasty?” he questioned softly. “You know I tease you a lot, and I know you think I'm a troublemaker, but that's only because you're my friend.”
“I know, Rufus. . . .” She stared down the parking lot, past the other parked cars, hoping for a sign of City. She didn't feel them at first, and wished they'd dry up and disappear, but she couldn't stop them. The tears came naturally, but they weren't cleansing.
“You crying? Why you crying?” Rufus stooped down until his face was in front of hers. “Dynasty, please don't cry. I ain't never seen you cry. You the strongest person I know.”
Dynasty leaned into Rufus. Her arms were still crossed. Her tears kept flowing. Her shoulders moved up and down as she began to heave. She felt as if someone—Lipstick—had reappeared in her life to ruin her world. She hated her mother. Well, not her mother, but the drug addict who'd moved into her mom's body, and made her ruin everything and hurt her children. City was her only way out for now; he'd taken better care of her in the past weeks than Lipstick had in her whole life. He didn't make her feel like a check like Aunt Maybelline, and he hadn't tried to take her innocence or lied on her like J.R. More important, he was her friend, and though he was all boy, he'd become her cheerleader, pushing her to do better and celebrating her accomplishments and the new words she added to her vocabulary. She wasn't supposed to be here; she was supposed to be in New York. Now Lipstick had messed that up too. Why couldn't she just go away?
Rufus kissed the top of her head. “You know what, Dynasty. Im'a hurt 'em. Whoever made you cry is dead meat. Don't nobody mess with my friend and get away with it.”
Dynasty looked up and saw that Rufus was serious. Upset about not being able to go with City, she'd forgotten that Rufus was her friend too. He got on her nerves, played too much, and called her all kinds of names, but he was always there. Had been for years.
“Thanks, Dufus,” she said, smiling and wiping away her tears.
“No problem, burnt-black crybaby.” He let her go, then resumed his position back on the picnic-table bench. The plastic bag crunched when he picked it up. He looked at the pork skins like they were gold, then moved his stare on Dynasty. He shrugged like he was trying to make a decision. “ 'Ey? You a bookworm, so answer this question for me 'cause you know I don't know all the words like you do. But maybe one day you could help me . . . ? You know, so people can stop calling me stupid.”
Her heart fell. She'd called him stupid more times than she could count, but she never meant it. She hoped he knew that. “Sure, I'll help you. What do you want to know.”
“What's it called when someone offers you something so y'all can make up? There's a word for that, right?”
“A peace offering.”
He held the bag her way. His peace offering. “Have some?”
Dynasty crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Rufus, you trying to make up with me? You're extending
me
a peace offering?” She couldn't believe it.
Rufus snatched back the bag, then looked away from her. She could tell he was embarrassed. “No, Dynasty. Ain't nobody trying to be your friend!”
“Thank you, Rufus,” she said, smiling. She turned around, deciding it was time to get back to the house. As much as she couldn't stand to be around an addict, she wasn't sure how long it'd be before her mother disappeared again. That's how she'd started to view Lipstick, as two people: the addict, and the woman who gave birth to her.
“ 'Welcome, burnt-black. I'll check you later.”
 
Dynasty set down the college dictionary, then picked up an unabridged one. She'd been in her room for hours thumbing through pages, searching for just the right words for Rufus. Before she could open the heavy book, Aunt Maybelline felt the need to disrupt her life. She'd just put her hands on the old dust cover, wanting to lose herself in the prized words and come up with a list that'd make Rufus feel better. Good words that he could learn and grasp.
“Dynasty! Get yo behind down here.”
She could hear the slur in her aunt's voice and smell the puff of smoke that she was sure was lingering around her head in a cloud before she made it back down the steps. She cradled the dictionary to her side.
“Ma'am?”
“That big black boy that you be with. The one who be scheming on my shoes . . .” she began, then pulled on her cigarette.
“You mean Rufus.”
“Yeah. Him. One of his sorry, equally big and black little snot-nosed brothers just came here and said he fell out. Had a heart trouble or something. Oh, yeah . . .” Aunt Maybelline added before Dynasty made it through the front door. “Lipstick done took off again . . . and she took my pork chops.”
 
There was an oxygen mask on Rufus's face and what seemed like hundreds of white sticky circles with wires coming out of them stuck to his chest. Dynasty's eyes followed the wires to a heart monitor, where wavy lines moved across the screen. His heart was working, but she couldn't tell if it was beating hard enough or too hard.
“Sorry, Rufus. I'm sorry for not always being nice to you.” She put her head on the hospital-bed bar.
“You should be sorry,” Rufus remarked, surprising her.
She sat up and smiled. “You okay?”
Rufus attempted to smile back. “I am now. 'Least now I know you're really my friend and don't just feel sorry for me. My only friend.”
Dynasty picked up the dictionary and began reading words to Rufus. Words like
confidant
,
ally
, and
steadfast
. Words that described Rufus.
18
PATIENCE
H
er shoes. Patience had searched mountain high and gutter low, and still hadn't been able to find the shoes Trill had bought her. And, after Bishop sat on her bed holding her purse and sunglasses, he'd kept his promise about punishing her and made sure she had plenty of time to hunt for anything she wanted to find. Plenty. She'd been locked down for two weeks, and during that time had scoured her room and closet, then made rounds throughout the house, starting with both of her sisters' bedrooms. She'd come up empty handed each time. Still though, she was determined. She may've been upset with Trill in the beginning, but she still wanted to wear his gift. She exhaled, thinking about him and that crooked smile she loved so much. Even though she wasn't completely over the girl at the studio, the mean heifer who threatened her, she missed him. At first her anger had been something bordering on hate, but as the days added up and he'd called, e-mailed, and texted her more times than she could count, her attitude calmed. Especially once she discovered the girl was the one she replaced on the track.
“She's just jealous,” Patience told herself, turning back on the vacuum cleaner.
She'd been sentenced to hard time. Too hard and too much, she thought, calculating how many more rows and pews she'd have to clean in the church. Bishop had instructed the cleaning crew that Patience was responsible for one of the balcony sections, and that was a lot of space to clean in a mega, stadium-sized church. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she smiled. It had to be Trill because Silky had gone back overseas to tour with her mother. Because she had no idea if Bishop was watching her on the cameras, she kept on vacuuming, and decided to call Trill back later from one of the places she knew Bishop didn't monitor, the women's bathrooms.
All the lights switched off, and Patience rolled her eyes. Who'd shut them off at this time of day when so much had to be done? she wondered. Suddenly, as quick as they had shut off, the lights in the lower section came back on. From where she stood, she could see the stage was lit. A live sax blew, then melodic music she'd never heard before filled the space. Patience closed her lids, moved by the sounds. Despite what The Good Bishop believed, gospel music was intoxicating too, just like Trill's raps and Silky's mother's songs. So how could anything so moving, so elevating, be considered bad?
A voice like none she'd ever heard before sang to her from below. Patience closed her eyes again. The beautiful alto caressed her ears and seemed to erase her anger caused by the Bishop and the hurt she felt over not being able to see Trill. The voice switched to tenor, then bass, then somehow did the unthinkable—it flipped back into alto again. She never would've guessed it was possible. Sure, she'd heard of people being able to master a couple ranges, but not three.
Four?
she questioned when a smooth soprano met her ears. Her lids shot open and tears streamed down her face. No one had ever made her cry before, not from singing. In a rush, she dropped the vacuum handle and made her way down to the first row of the balcony. She had to see whom the voice belonged to. She was only able to see his back, and it wasn't enough.
In a flash, she zoomed up the balcony steps, pushed her way through the door, and took off down the stairs that led to the main floor, almost falling once or twice. She didn't care. The only thing that mattered to her was getting to the owner of the voice.
“If this is what Bishop means by being moved by the spirit, well, let it move me faster then!” she said, as she barged through the heavy double doors that led to the sanctuary, then froze. In her rush, she hadn't realized how much noise she was making or how much strength she had until the doors ricocheted off the walls, banging like bombs and causing the singer and sax player to stop. “Sorry,” was all she could say.
“Hello,” the boy greeted from afar.
Patience's eyes stretched. She hadn't realized the owner of the voice belonged to someone so young. From where she stood, she could tell he wasn't Trill. He looked ordinary, maybe even a little square. She laughed. He looked like she did only weeks ago, and here she was judging him.
In hard-bottom loafers, jeans, and a shirt that was buttoned all the way up, he made his way over to her. Up close, she thought he looked like he was choking, and she wanted to reach up, loosen a button or two, and free his neck. She didn't want anything to restrict his breathing; he'd need his breath to sing.
“Hi . . .” she managed to answer, staring at him. He seemed familiar, but she couldn't think of where she'd seen him before. She was certain she hadn't run into him at church. She'd remember him if she had.
The boy reached over, and swiped his warm hand across her face. “You okay?”
“Yes. Why would you ask—”
“Then why are you crying?” He was concerned as if he knew her.
The old Patience—the Patience before Trill—would've told him that he and that beautiful voice brought her to tears, but that wasn't her anymore.
Man up
, she urged herself.
“I'm good.” It wasn't a lie; she was great now because he'd erased her troubles and pushed Trill to the back of her mind. “I'm—”
“Patience. I know. Bishop said you'd be here taking care of some important church business. I hope I'm not disturbing you.” He smiled, and she could see he was genuine.
He doesn't know I'm on punishment. Good.
She took a closer look at him, and realized that he was no Trill. But he didn't have to be. He had a church-boy-next-door appeal to him that said he could be trusted and she felt as if she knew him. His cocoa skin and deep dimples also showed promise. If only she could talk him into getting rid of that army box cut some barber had butchered his head with, he'd be someone she could be seen with.
Wait a minute
. What was she thinking? She had a boyfriend. Or did she? she questioned. After the “talk” with the girl at the studio, she wasn't so sure. Even though Trill had assured her the girl wasn't there for him and had just unexpectedly showed up to re-lay her vocals, which of course she couldn't do thanks to Patience's taking the song, a warning in Patience's gut said something else. Instinct told her that she hadn't only taken the girl's vocals but maybe, just maybe, also the girl's boyfriend—Trill.
Were they together?
She shook away her insecurities and doubts, remembering the voice.
“No, you didn't disturb me. In fact, you saved me . . . from overworking.”
He smiled. “You have time for a little more saving? I forgot my earpiece and can't fully hear myself without it. Do you mind?”
Earpiece? Was he hard of hearing?
“Mind what?”
“Telling me how I sound. I'm practicing for something very important. And . . . you know, without being able to hear what I sound like to the audience . . . it's just weird.”
Patience leaned against the pew, wondering how to ask him if he had a hearing problem. “But you can hear me just fine—”
He laughed. “Not a hearing aid, an earpiece—technically it's called an in-ear monitor. You know, like a mic for your ears so you can hear your range, what you sound like to the audience. I'm sure you've seen them in singer's ears before while they were performing.”
Ahh. Now she understood. Patience laughed too, leaning forward to touch him while she did. “I'm just playing. I just wanted to see if you would fall for it.”
He nodded, walking back toward the stage. “Yeah, okay. If you say so. How about you be my in-ear piece, then afterwards we go to lunch so you can tell me what you think? My treat.”
 
Patience walked next to Choir Boy as he strolled through the parking lot toward an exit. She hadn't traveled by foot in so long it almost felt foreign. At a loss for words, she sized him up. He was shorter than Trill, a little thicker, and his jeans, which stopped just at the bottom of his ankles, had a slick gleam to them.
Over pressed, over starched
. He did—thank God—have on trouser socks, and not white ones like she'd assumed he would. Still though, he bordered on average. Bordered because he wasn't regular, he was stuck somewhere in the middle of normal and square. She shook her head. Poor thing.
“So . . .” she decided to break the silence, but didn't know his name. She'd assigned him a nickname like she did everyone, a trait she'd inherited from her father. Trill had been Pretty Boy. Silky's boyfriend was the Growler. Now the nice guy with the pretty voice was Choir Boy.
“So . . .” he answered back. “Tell me about Patience.”
She began to point at her chest, then stopped herself, thinking of T.
Yeah, he's talking to me.
“What do you want to know?”
They exited the lot and turned right, and she wondered where they were going. Nothing was close. All the restaurants, dives, and stores were at least four or five blocks away, country miles as her mother called them. The church grounds were enormous, so they'd have to walk past the business offices, homeless center, and public works where all the machinery and extra equipment was housed.
“I want to know about Patience. What do you like to do? What school do you go to? How old are you? What's your passion?” he drilled her. “Not in that order. Just tell me something.”
Patience reeled her head back and stopped. She assumed he knew more than he led her to believe. He did, after all, say Bishop told him about her.
“You wanna know why I was in the church today, is that what you're asking?”
Choir Boy laughed. “No. Why would I ask that? The question is, why wouldn't you be in church? Why wouldn't everyone want to be in their place of refuge?”
Now she knew he was crazy. He sounded just like Bishop, and she told him so. “I guess when you grow up, you're going to go to theology school, then Seminary, and minister to the world and save it too, huh? I guess when you grow up you're not going to live and have fun and go out and dance and listen to secular music. You'll probably shield your family from the world until all they seek is the world because you're going to be too busy saving everyone else that you forget about the ones under your roof,” Patience lashed out.
Choir Boy whistled. “I take it you're mad at your father for his calling? Don't answer that. I shouldn't have said that.” He put his hands on Patience's shoulders. “When I grow up, I'm going to do me. I'm going to live how I want to live like I do now. And believe it or not, I go out. I listen to all kinds of music. I even dance. I'm not a dancer, I'm terrible at it, but I do it. Believe it or not, I even date,” he teased, raising his eyebrows and flirting. “In fact, I'm preparing for prom—already lining up all of my girls to see which one's going to match my tux!”
They both laughed.
“Enough of this seriousness. I want some ice cream, a milkshake, something cold and frosty.” He began walking.
Patience caught up to him, and drew her eyebrows together. “Won't that be bad on your throat? Dairy? You said you're preparing for something big. You know dairy's not good for you now. What are you preparing for anyway?”
“Ahh. Bishop did mention that one of his daughters used to sing. Must've been you. Who knows, Patience, maybe we'll sing a duet together.”
They turned the corner. With each step she tried to figure out why he seemed familiar, but she wouldn't ask him. She liked how their conversation was flowing, and she didn't want to stop it.
“I didn't used to do anything. I still sing, thank you very much. You didn't answer my question.”
He grabbed her hand, and she started to pull away, but stopped herself. His touching her was friendly. Brotherly even.
“The Stellar Awards.”
“
The
Stellar Awards. The gospel equivalent of the Grammys . . . good for you, Choir Boy.” Her nickname for him fled her mouth before she could stop it.
“Look at you, all flirting with me and stuff, and you don't even know my name. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to match my tux for prom.”
They rounded another corner, and the main street was in sight.
“Okay, you got me. What is your name, Choir Boy?”
He smiled. “Tell me your boyfriend's name first, then I'll tell you.”
“Trill,” she admitted before she knew it. “Man . . . please don't tell Bishop.”
The smile from Choir Boy's face faded. “Trill? As in the award-winning, doughboy who all the ladies love more than Cool J, Trill?”
Patience nodded, and though she tried not to rub it in Choir Boy's face, she smiled. “Sorry.”
He raised his brows and looked down the street. “There's a DQ down there. Ice cream! And there's no need to be sorry—not yet. If anything, I should be sorry, because Trill is definitely competition. He's gonna make me wooing you harder and more expensive,” he said, laughing. There was still defeat in his voice.

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