Choose Me (13 page)

The enthusiastic rustle of turning pages filled the gym, silencing Johnny. I didn’t even need to shoot him a look of self-satisfaction.
It would’ve been the wrong thing to do. Just knowing it was enough.

*   *   *

On the last Saturday of August, when thousands of college-bound kids were into their second week of classes, the college fair
was teeming with prospective students and parents. Despite the number of fairs held every year, there always seemed to be
too many students who had not been encouraged to attend college and were uninformed about the vast availability of financial
aid and scholarships. If I weren’t educated, and prone to paranoid tendencies, I would agree with Rashid, an avid conspiracy
theorist, who believes that the inequities in education are a deliberate plan by the powers that be to keep the country in
its present condition. For this reason, I believe it is my calling to steer young Latinos toward higher education, particularly
given the threat against affirmative action.

Adam showed up late in the afternoon with his two “little brothers.” If it weren’t for his distinctive hair color and style,
I wouldn’t have recognized him. He wore a casual shirt, tie, and slacks, in varying hues of olive green. With his face freshly
shaven, save for a thin mustache and goatee, and his dreadlocks gathered back in a ponytail, he looked less barbaric. Except
for his dense eyebrows, which could have used a waxing, he actually looked normal.

“You clean up alright,” I complimented him, then I felt self-conscious because it sounded like something Simone would say.

He smoothed down his tie and smiled. “Thanks. I did look kind of raggedy the first couple of times we met, didn’t I?”

“You had sort of a slacker thang going on.”

“I call it chic-grunge.”

“Whatever,” I kidded, and we both laughed.

He then introduced me to his two protégés: Ricky, a hyperactive boy of nine, and Justin, a shy teenager who looked young for
seventeen. Adam explained that he had been their Big Brother for a year, and had signed on to be their mentor until they graduated
from high school. It was evident that they were very close to Adam, particularly Ricky, who hung on to his arm the entire
time, bouncing up and down.

I told Adam that Justin would be eligible for both Black and Hispanic scholarships and gave him the brochure and information
packet, which included my business card. Then I walked them over to Rashid, who was in a booth across from mine, and introduced
them.

“Hey, did you bring my editorial?” I asked Adam, before walking away.

He cringed sheepishly. “I forgot. I’ll mail it to you.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“I’ll mail it, I promise.”

My booth was inundated with parents and students, keeping me, Dana, and the student advisor, Fátima Cruz, very busy. Rashid’s
booth was just as crowded. The number of visitors didn’t dwindle until the very end. When five o’clock rolled around, I sent
Dana and Fátima home, thanking them for a job well done. I decided to stay an extra half hour, along with a couple of the
other recruiters from CU and other colleges, in case any latecomers showed up. I knew many parents used public transportation
and came as far away as the South Side. As I was packing up the surplus brochures in boxes, Adam returned, Ricky still hanging
on to his arm and Justin trailing behind, browsing through the material.

“How long are you going to be here?” Adam asked.

“I’m getting ready to leave now.”

“You want to get some coffee?” he asked casually. “Or dinner?”

“You said we were going to McDonald’s,” Ricky whined as he jumped up and down.

“Burger King,” Justin interjected.

“McDonald’s!” Ricky shouted as he tried to kick his brother.

“Ricky, my eye is twitching,” Adam said, squinting down at him. “What does it mean when my eye twitches?”

“Um … you’re getting irritated?”

“Now, you said you were going to chill, right?”

“Right.” He stopped jumping.

I smiled down at the rambunctious boy who didn’t smile back. He looked at me like there was no way I was going to deter his
Big Brother from taking him to McDonald’s, then he stuck out his tongue, which Adam missed. I bit my own tongue to stop myself
from sticking it out at the little monster. Actually, I should have been grateful to him since his temper tantrum gave me
a reprieve from having to answer Adam right away.

When I looked up, I saw a woman peeking from behind Adam, listening to our interaction with a very impatient look on her face.
Next to her stood a surly teenaged girl who looked as if she had been brought against her will.

“What do you say?” Adam asked. “I’ll take these guys to McDonald’s—”

“Burger King,” Justin muttered.

“Justin,” Adam warned him, then turned to me. “I’ll drop them off, and swing back and pick you up? I’ll bring the editorial.”

Behind him, the mother cleared her throat loudly. “Jew eh-speak eh-Spanish?” she asked.

I nodded and waved her around Adam.
“Si, señora.”
I turned to Adam and said, “Let me take care of this lady.” He nodded and led Justin and Ricky to the side.

I turned my attention to the woman, grateful for a diversion. I half listened to her talk about how she couldn’t understand
why her daughter wasn’t eligible for financial aid and demanded an explanation. I regretted sending Fátima home since the
government financial aid forms were her area of expertise. As I attempted to translate the forms to the woman, I could feel
Adam’s eyes on me periodically as he waited with the boys. I had to quickly think of a good excuse. Anything other than the
truth—that I didn’t want to complicate my life with a man like him—would be a lie.

I offered the mother several options for her daughter: The girl could work for a year and save up, take out a loan, and/or
apply for a work-study program. The mother curled her lip at the options, no doubt expecting me to perform some miracle and
get her daughter some assistance. She then began explaining her personal situation with her ex-husband, how he had stopped
paying child support as soon as the daughter turned eighteen, how he had two other children with his new wife, and how unfair
it seemed that she had worked and paid taxes for twenty years and now that her daughter needed assistance, none was available.
Nothing I offered seemed to appease her. Over the woman’s shoulder, Rashid was demonstrating in pantomime different methods
of suicide and I had to look away to keep from laughing. I caught Adam looking at our interaction with a wrinkled brow. All
around me, the other college recruiters were packing up their booths and leaving, glancing at me sympathetically, but grateful
that it wasn’t them. In the end, the woman took the information before walking away, grumbling to her daughter in Spanish
something about Latinos refusing to help out their own.

“Sorry,” I told Adam, as he came back to the table.

“Look, if you don’t want to go, it’s no problem. I just thought, you know, I haven’t had good company in a while, present
company excluded, of course.”

My efforts to stall had not gone unnoticed. I felt guilty, desperate to come up with a good explanation.

“No. It’s … it’s just that my car … my car is down here. I’ll have to go home first.” I sounded like a stammering idiot. Okay,
I convinced myself, it didn’t have to mean anything. Coffee, stimulating conversation, hopefully. I would make sure I paid
for my own coffee so there were no expectations.

“I can pick you up at your house,” he offered.

“No … I don’t think …” I stammered. I didn’t want to sound like some frightened little woman. “How about if we meet at the
coffee place?”

He smiled. “Okay, I get it. Just in case I turn out to be a psycho.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “How about Starbucks?”

“No. No fast-coffee chains. You know Coffee Will Make You Black on Milwaukee and Paulina?”

“Cool name.”

“It’s an old African American saying that means—”

“I know what it means. My mother used to say the same thing to me in Spanish ’cause I liked my coffee black.”

“Oh, yeah? How do you say it?”

“Café prieto te pone prieta.”

“Huh,” he said, watching my lips a little too hard. “Anyway, it’s a bookstore café. They sell self-published books and sometimes
they have singers or an open-mike for poetry.”

“I’ll find it. How’s seven?”

“Seven’s good.”

He waved as Ricky pulled him away, anxious to get to McDonald’s, or Burger King.

As I loaded the boxes of leftover brochures into my luggage rack on wheels, Rashid walked up.

“So that was Adam? Love the uh …,” he said, then he gesticulated comically with his hands, “the hairdo.”

“They’re called locks.”

“Is he a Christian?”

“He’s not a Muslim,” I assured him in jest. “I met him at a party last week. My sister thought we should meet.”

“Ah, Adam and Eve-ah. Charming.”

“Shut up.”

“So you’re going on a date?”

“We’re going for coffee.”

“Good for you. I asked Dana out. We’re going to a play tomorrow.”

“Nice. Is she going to convert?” I didn’t realize my words sounded biting until I heard them out loud.

“Jealous?”

“Muslim,
please!
”

He laughed uproariously, and I joined in, ignoring how suave he looked in his skullcap and trimmed beard.

As soon as I got home, I called Maya to tell her about the editorial, but Alex answered, informing me that she had gone shopping.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was off meeting Luciano somewhere, then I decided not to speculate. Maybe she really was
shopping. Browsing through the casual side of my closet, I picked a pair of stretch flare jeans and a cotton shirt with French
cuffs that didn’t need ironing. I added more gel to my ponytail and, without bothering to look at myself in the mirror, set
out again.

On my way to the café, I stopped by Simone’s to kill some time. I casually mentioned that I was meeting Adam for coffee. She
was more excited than I was, embracing me and squealing in my ear, “
Chica!
I’m so proud of you.”

“Calmate,”
I told her to calm down. “We’re just having coffee.”

“First comes coffee, then comes dinner, then comes sex … oops, I mean marriage. I’ll be your maid of honor, Maya will be the
matron of honor …”

“My bridesmaids—if I were ever to marry again—are all going to be virgins.”

“Forget you, wench,” she hissed, then squealed again, “I’m so happy!” She critically scanned my outfit. “I
know
you’re not wearing that.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

She shook her head reproachfully and led me to her closet as I protested along the way. “This is not a date. It’s just coffee.
I am not changing into one of your hoochie outfits.”

“I do not wear hoochie-wear.”

I glanced at her body-hugging tank dress skeptically, which clearly revealed she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

I didn’t like any of the outfits she pulled from her closet until she hung a silk tangerine blouse with long, wide bell sleeves
under my chin. I remember when she wore it how heads had turned to look at her, men as well as women. Because she was taller
and slimmer, I knew it wouldn’t look the same on me.

“The sleeves will be too long on me,” I protested.

“Try it on.”

I changed into the blouse and looked into the full-length mirror and was pleasantly surprised at what I saw.

“Just don’t get any coffee on my blouse,” Simone warned, then she added, “Or any other fluids.”

I smacked her arm. “Pig.”

“Prig,” she countered.

Before I could stop her, she pulled the ponytail holder out of my hair.

“Let your hair breathe, girl.”

I snatched the elastic band from her and hastily secured my hair back into a ponytail. “It’s out of control. I need a touch-up.”

“You are crazy. You’ve got beautiful hair. I don’t know why you insist on damaging it with relaxers.”

“You used to
damage
your hair with relaxers,” I reminded her.

“Emphasis on ‘used to.’”

She began searching her drawers wildly, pulling out scarves and hats. “Here.” She pulled out an orange paisley-patterned scarf
and wrapped it around my hair, rolling the long ends around my puffy tail and into a big knot at the nape of my neck.

We both stood in front of the mirror, admiring the transformation. For just one brief moment, I almost didn’t recognize the
woman staring back at me.

QUITE BY ACCIDENT
, after dodging a woman I had to cut loose, I discovered the Coffee Will Make You Black café one day. It
had been an insignificant failed romance that had ended very badly. Half a block away, I saw my ex walking, more like charging,
toward me with a homicidal look on her face, and for a moment I thought she saw me, but then I remembered that her permanent,
mad-at-the-world look had been part of the problem in our relationship. I had ducked into the darkly lit café and stayed for
the coffee, reading the selected poems of Haki Madhubuti and listening to a mediocre West Indian rapper. I kept going back
because I liked the ambiance and the fact that I could write until closing time without getting kicked out. I liked it because
it was owned by a fearless Black couple, Hassan and Caswanna, who despite the lure of attractive offers from greedy real estate
moguls, refused to be bought out. I liked that the African American literature dominated the store and was considered mainstream
and not a separate section like in the larger bookstore chains. But most of all, I liked the mixed crowds: the Black bohemians,
the liberal White college students, and the different dialects and accents that wafted through the air.

When Eva walked into the café, I almost fell from my chair, which I had been leaning against the wall. It wasn’t that she
was a knockout, though she looked very nice; mostly, I lost my balance. She had changed out of her charcoal-gray fitted pantsuit
and was wearing flared jeans and an orange blouse with long flowing sleeves that almost reached her knees. An orange print
scarf covered her head, gathered into a large bun at the nape of her neck. The color accentuated flawlessly the red tones
in her dark caramel skin.