Friends and Lovers (4 page)

I could imagine her little Asian-American butt freaking out when she shrieked, “Oh, my God! How did you get my number?”

“Oh, my God! Miracle of technology.” I counted backward from five, exhaled and said, “Why did you screw in my bed? I’m not mad because you screwed Bryce. I just don’t appreciate you doing it in my bed. You could’ve at least took him to your place.”

When Nancy started talking like she was crazy, I handed Bryce the phone. By the time he hung up with her I had packed some clothes and taken my work uniforms out. Bryce stood over me while I gathered up a few pairs of shoes and stuffed my gym bag with Reeboks and T-shirts and spandex.

Bryce said, “This isn’t all my fault.”

“Of course it isn’t. I had the remote for your dick and accidentally programmed it for the wrong vaginal channel.”

“You haven’t been the most affectionate sister I know.”

I said, “Asian either, for that matter.”

“If you took care of my needs, then that wouldn’t have happened. You’re always with Debra, don’t have time for me.”

“You know what? It don’t matter. Because if we take fucking out of this relationship, which I already did, you see it ain’t about shit. And I can’t be in a relationship based on how much sex I give up.”

“You ain’t took care of my needs in over a month.”

“And?”

“All I’m saying is compromise.”

“Compromise?”

“Maybe we could do it on Monday and Wednesday and on the weekend.”

I didn’t believe what I was hearing. And he had the audacity to say it like it was the most logical thing in the world. You know, if I wanted to deal with children. I would’ve kept on being a teacher.

Bryce said, “Where are you going at four in the morning?”

“Debra’s.”

“Sure?”

“Don’t even play the jealous role. I’m going to my friend.”

“Figures. Why don’t you stay? We can talk this out.”

“Already stayed too long.”

“Are you mad?”

“Nope, just disappointed.”

“I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

“You didn’t. I disappointed myself. You don’t have the power to disappoint me.”

Bryce picked up the heavy stuff. I carried the rest. Brother was moving so fast I couldn’t tell if I was leaving or if I was being kicked out. Let me tell you, I crammed as much in the hatchback as I could, barely managed to get it closed. There was so much stuff I’d hardly be able to shift gears.

Bryce asked, “Anything else you need?”

“I want you to pay me for my bed.”

He looked at me like I was Queen of the Stupids. He asked, “How you gonna get your stuff?”

“I’ll come back with Debra. And if you’re going to be fucking one of your bitches on my mattress, please put something down, maybe a towel, so I don’t have stains.”

I
screeched
my Z out of the parking lot.
Screeched
so hard it sounded like a demon screaming. I don’t think I had ever been so glad to leave a man in my life. Didn’t feel bad in the least. That’s one good thing about me. Give me half a reason and I’ll leave a brother in a heartbeat. Will leave and won’t look back. Because there ain’t but three things a man can do for a woman—I’ll tell you about that later.

* * *

Debra was dead asleep. She didn’t hear me when I tiptoed into her rented condo and dumped my stuff between the sofa and love seat, right below all of the pictures of me and her family. Her cousin Bobby is our
age, twenty-eight, and a photographer. Thanks to him, Debra had family pictures for days. She had a bunch of shots of me and her. Pictures from middle school to the ones we took last month in the Bahamas.

Debra didn’t stir when I went into the bedroom and turned off the little television on her dresser. Robin’s egg-colored night lights were on all through the place. Debra is afraid of the dark. She was on her back, glowing like she was sixteen.

Debra is the same age as me, only I’m a Cancer and she’s Leo. We’re almost the same size, only my butt is bigger and her hips are wider. My booty’s not too much bigger than hers; it’s definitely just higher and fuller and rings out
Africa!
with every sway of my sashay. I do a bunch of squats to keep my assets tight; do beaucoup abdominals to keep my waist looking small. Debra does the same. But I got the butt. In two shakes of my tail I could hypnotize a brother and any other.

Debra’s skin is light brown, but next to me she looks like a stick of butter with light-brown hair. I’m dark brown. And I could stand to be two or three shades darker if you asked me. Would love it. Debra feeds my ego and tells me I’m beyond gorgeous and have the prettiest skin she’s ever seen in her life. And I do. I haven’t owned a blemish since high school graduation. Rarely had a monthly pimple. My high cheekbones give me a naturally smiling mouth that makes me always look happier than hell, even when I’m as pissed off as I am now. That’s why I get away with being snappy and sarcastic. My cynical mood was one part character, one part defense mechanism. So it would take a special kind of man to calm me. And right now I don’t know any men of that caliber.

When I did a creep-creep-creep into the bedroom, I stumbled over Debra’s sit-up thingamajig she bought at Target. Hurt my damn toe. I limped and moved it between the pine dresser and the two fifteen-pound weights she had on the floor. Debra jumped when I plopped down on the bed, but she didn’t sit up or open her eyes. This wasn’t my first time doing this. And the
way my life has been going, probably wouldn’t be my last.

I said, “It’s me.”

“I know.”

“For all you know I could’ve been a pillowcase rapist.”

“With a door key?”

“True.”

“How was your trip?”

“Same old. I worked with a new sister named Chiquita.”

“Happy for you. Dag. What’re you doing now?”

“Putting on my spandex and a T-shirt. I’m going running around the college and down to Crenshaw and back.”

“What’s your problem?”

“Gonna put in about ten miles and get rid of some stress.”

“No you’re not. It’s dark outside. All those psychos are out and about looking for some free coochie.”

“Can’t fuck what you can’t catch.”

“Shelby. Get in the bed
now.
We can run later.”

I huffed, kicked my shoes off, sat on the bed, yawned. And if the truth be told, I
loved
the attention. Loved it when a man begged. Loved it when a sister cared enough about my well-being to mother me for a minute or two. I crawled into her bed. The safest place this side of my mother’s heaven. Somewhere inside, I was hurt, but I’ve never known how to let that much hurt come up and come out. Still, I played the role: grunted, groaned, mumbled, until Debra cracked open one of her eyes.

Debra said, “Everything okay?”

I hesitated. Then told her what had happened.

She said, “Good for you. About time you broke up.”

I hit her with a pillow. “Thanks for the sympathy. I’m homeless. Bryce was screwing somebody in my bed.”

“On your new mattress?”

“Ain’t that disrespectful?”

Without explanation, Debra understood where I was coming from. When I grew up, I didn’t have my own
bed, didn’t have my own mattress. It might sound trivial, but that was important to me. I spent most of my nights bundled up in covers on a floor. If the apartment floor was carpeted, that was a bonus. I slept in the twin bed with my momma sometimes, but only if it was real cold and she wasn’t being a bed warmer for her boyfriend. Most of the time I made a pallet and slept on a hard floor by myself. Isolated. We had a sofa, but
nobody
slept on the sofa.

Debra said, “He’s never been respectful.”

“At least act surprised.”

“Not surprised. He’s always looking at other women. I hate that shit. Never date a man who doesn’t like your friends.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means you deserve better for yourself. You always date men who are beneath you. Upgrade to first class and stop flying coach. Are you scared of professional brothers or something?”

“Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“I told you to keep me out of that shit. I don’t meddle.”

“Until after the fact.” I popped her upside the head.

Debra chuckled and said, “Maybe you’ll meet somebody nice at Playboy. Somebody professional.”

“Don’t be out there trying to hook me up when I just got disconnected.”

“You never were connected. Not on the right level anyway.”

“Debra?”

“What?”

“Go to sleep.”

Debra said, “Keep putting those extra miles on your vagina. It’s going to look as worn out as Pico Boulevard.”

I kicked her ass. A real kick. Reflex action that time. What she said hurt my feelings down to the bone. Friends can do that to you. But I wouldn’t let her know how bad she made me feel. Bad choices don’t make me a ho. I really should’ve left right then and gone for a
long run. Running always took away whatever was messing with me.

“Shelby?”

I snapped, “What?”

“You crying?”

“Yeah.”

“Come here. Let me hold you, girl.”

“Don’t put your hands on me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t appreciate what you said about my coochie looking tore down like Pico Boulevard.”

“I was joking.”

“That shit wasn’t funny.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Guess I was kinda feeling that way and you said what I was thinking. I wish I was stuck-up and celibate and lonely and living by my damn self with a dried up and rusty coochie like you.”

“Get out.”

“Go to sleep.”

My girlfriend kicked me and moved to the far side of the bed so I couldn’t kick her back. I was asleep when my head hit the pillow. Not the most peaceful sleep I had ever had, but it was sleep. I could still smell another sleazy woman’s cheap perfume left over in my nostrils.

Positive Positive Positive

“Debra—” Faith said my name three or four times. Each time a little louder, a little stronger. I heard her each time, but didn’t answer. Then she said, “It came back positive three times. Each urine test had a high HCG. Hormones don’t lie. There is no doubt in my mind, shouldn’t be any in yours.”

I trembled for a few seconds. Then I felt this knot in
the pit of my stomach. My hands were working on their own, the tips of my French-manicured nails were scraping, smoothing out the wrinkles in my peach-colored nurse’s uniform. My eyes didn’t water up, but I wished they had, so that way I would be crying on the outside. Faith put her arms around me and led me to a chair. But I didn’t sit down. The knot in my stomach loosened and became bearable. I snapped out of my disbelief.

I said, “I’m okay. I’m just shocked.”

“Why
would
you be? It’s not your problem.”

My eyes wandered around the examination room. All the fluorescent lighting and mauve walls were so clean. Cotton balls. Rubber gloves. Smell of alcohol. So sterile and pure. Inside my head, the place spun a little. Maybe because I hadn’t eaten anything except for a few orange slices, a bran muffin, and apple tea. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth and tasted muffin crumbs. Then I took a few deep breaths and felt okay. I smiled at Faith. Not a real smile, just one that let her know I was back to being professional. Personal feelings had been packed up and thrown into my closet.

I said, “I don’t want to believe it.”

“Neither does she. Anytime somebody takes this many pregnancy tests, they’re in some serious denial. You fuck, you get preg. Plain and simple.”

Faith sounded as insensitive as an urban middle school teacher. That bothered me. Made me wonder how long it would take for me to become like her.

I said, “Faith, doctors shouldn’t talk like that.”

“This isn’t about any code of ethics, sweetheart. If you have intercourse, knock boots, or whatever kids are calling it nowadays, just like yesterday you will get impregnated, fertilized, or whatever
you
want to call it.”

Faith adjusted her kente-patterned doctor’s smock. I picked up the patient’s file. Read her name. Ericka Stockwell. It said Mrs. Stockwell was a social studies teacher at Rincon Intermediate in Culver City. Mr. Stockwell was in aerospace at Hughes in El Segundo. Faith adjusted her stethoscope. I did the same to mine.
Faith’s short graying Afro and her glasses made her look more like a chunky African studies professor than an OB-GYN.

I said, “Sorry for getting involved.”

“You’re only human. Remember what I told you when you were in college?”

“Leave my personal feelings at the door.”

“Right. Otherwise you’ll get eaten up with other people’s problems.”

“I’m a nurse. I’m supposed to have a higher level of responsibility.”

“So you say.”

Faith and I went into the adjacent examination room, which was being used as a private consultation room at the moment. When we knocked on the door, Mrs. Stockwell—that was what she wanted us to call her, even though every one else in Los Angeles was on a first-name basis—replied with a stiff “Come in, please.”

She said it like we were intruding in her home. There was irritation, anger, disappointment mixing in her voice. Mrs. Stockwell was around Faith’s age, early forties, and dressed in a below-the-knee flowered skirt that hugged her kangaroo pooch a little too tight. She had been coming here for her yearly pelvic for the last ten years. I’ve only been working at Faith’s clinic for the last four years, and have had the displeasure of looking up inside Mrs. Stockwell’s vagina once every year. Some people you just don’t want to know
that
well.

Faith and I stood side by side. Faith towers over me at six-foot-one, making my five-six-and-a-half seem insignificant. Mrs. Stockwell is an itty-bitty woman at five-three—and that height included her two-inch heels.

Her thirteen-year-old daughter was sitting on the table behind her mother. At first she was nervously toying with the stirrups, trying not to look up when we came back in. Her leg was bouncing up and down, thumbs making circles around each other. Ericka was already six inches taller than her mother; three inches taller than I’d ever be. She wore baggy jeans and a big cotton blouse with green and red sun-flowers blooming happy
faces. Her hair was parted down the center—a zigzag part—that gave her two shining pony-tails which hung down both sides of her face. Sad, heavy ponytails of grief. Her middle school
Elements of Literature
textbook rested at her side. It looked like she had been trying to occupy herself with homework while she waited for the test results. Her mother was so strong-minded, so adamant, so much in disbelief, she’d made the poor child take a preg test three times this morning.