Just Too Good to Be True (9 page)

CHAPTER
17

Barrett Takes a Bounce

B
arrett was about thirty minutes into her afternoon cheerleading practice when it happened again. Her partner Dan almost dropped her while doing a pop-up chair, which is a very basic cheerleading stunt. She didn’t know if Dan was just a weakling or doing it on purpose. She’d told him how she and her former cheer partner had come in first nationally in stunting and she expected him to live up to her expectations. But of course that wasn’t true, since Barrett had never been a college cheerleader. Still, T-Mack, a former college male cheerleader and Barrett’s private instructor, told her all the time how she could win partner stunt competitions.

Nico had hired T-Mack and a lovely blond girl named Barrett Rawlins to teach Barrett how to pass as a college cheerleader. They had told the male and female cheerleader who were from the University of Arkansas, that “Bethany” was an actress preparing to play a college cheerleader in a movie. The real Barrett was so nice to Bethany, even on days when she was a complete bitch, that she had decided to take her name along with the skills she taught her.

“I’m sorry,” Dan said. “I guess I need to dry my hands,” he added as he looked around for his towel.

“You need to learn how to stunt,” Barrett said as she walked off to get something to drink. She spotted Brooke, one of the cheerleaders who had questioned her on how she was able to get a spot on the squad without trying out.

“Looks like you guys are having some problems stunting. Are you two going to be ready for the first game?” Brooke asked with a cool, self-possessed smirk.

“Bitch, mind your own damn business before I have to make you disappear,” Barrett said, restraining herself from slapping or pouring her cup of water on the captain of the cheer squad.

When she spotted Kraig, the head cheer coach, she told him she needed to talk with him in private.

“Sure, Barrett. Let’s take a walk,” Kraig said as he put his arm around her and guided her toward a private area next to the gym where the cheerleaders practiced.

“You have to give me another partner,” Barrett said firmly.

“What?”

“It’s just not working out with Dan and me. He can’t even do a pop-up chair and he drops me all the time. If it wasn’t for Tim always spotting us, my body would be black and blue, and that’s not what I signed up for.” Barrett hoped she could accomplish her mission before the football season ended, leaving the squad short one female member. It would serve Dan and the rest of them right. Besides, college cheerleading took up more time than Barrett wanted to spend.

“Just try and work with him. I can’t change partners a week before the first game. Maybe he’s just nervous because this is his first year on the gold squad.”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s his tenth year. I am not used to working with amateurs. I was told that I would get to pick my partner, and I want Tim,” Barrett said. Tim was a handsome ex–football player with black hair and green eyes. Not only was he one of the best-looking guys on the squad, he was also one of the strongest. His current partner was a tiny blue-eyed blonde who was attractive but unexceptional as a cheerleader. Like most of the others, she had practically ignored Barrett since Barrett had joined the squad without a tryout. She was obviously not impressed with Barrett’s skills.

“Barrett, I can’t do that. Tim and Julie have been partners since last year,” Kraig said.

“All the more reason to make a change,” Barrett said with a stony look on her face. “I don’t think it’s good to have your best cheerleader being dropped in front of the fans. That’ll make you look bad, since you’re the coach.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t make a change,” Kraig said with a rising edge to his voice.

“Look, Julie is the size of an American Girl doll. Dan won’t drop her. You need to make a change and do it before the next practice, or else you have to find yourself another black girl, because this one don’t play that being dropped crap,” Barrett said, then walked off in a huff.

Barrett found a private
spot outside the athletic complex, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Nico’s number.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hey, we got a problem. This cheerleading bullshit has
got
to go. The way that boy is throwing me around and dropping me, I might break my neck, and you’re not paying me enough for that.”

“Listen, baby, I paid a lot of money to get you onto that squad, and you know what’s at stake. You have a job to do, so do it and I’ll make it up to you later.”

“You will?”

“You know I know how to make your pussy sing.”

“In that case, I’ll make it work, even if I have to pull a Tonya Harding on one of those bitches,” Barrett said.

“I knew you would, baby girl. Thanks. Oh, I need you to get homeboy’s social security number or his checking account number.”

“Consider it done,” Barrett said.

“Thanks, love.”

CHAPTER
18

Carmyn Gets a Scouting Report

I
was in my bedroom, matching a couple of my blouses with the new white linen pantsuit I’d bought for Brady’s first game. Even without working out like I should I was a perfect size 6, the same as when I entered college.

When the phone rang, I looked at the caller ID and recognized Lowell’s number, so I picked it up after a couple of rings.

“How’re you doing, Professor?”

“All’s well in academia,” Lowell said. “How’s the beauty business?”

“You know it’s good. Women will still miss a meal or not pay a bill to get their hair done,” I said as I took a seat at the desk in my bedroom. On top of the desk were my Bible, a compact, and about four pictures of Brady at different ages. Above the desk was a picture of Brady at the ring ceremony at church when he joined Saving Ourselves. It was one of the happiest days of my life when, without much encouragement from me, Brady told me he would join the group and was willing to be celibate.

“I just called to see if you were coming in on Friday or Saturday?” Lowell asked.

“I checked the Web site today and kickoff is at two, so most likely I’ll come on Friday night,” I said.

“Do you need a place to stay?”

“I might. I made hotel reservations for most of the games, but not for this one. You got room?”

“Always got room for you, love. I had that handsome son of yours over for dinner the other night and we had a good time,” Lowell said.

“Did he mention somebody named Barrett?”

“Yep. I think your son is smitten with a new coed.”

“Have you met her?”

“No, but I’ll see her soon enough. She’s a cheerleader,” Lowell said.

“Is she black?” I asked. I felt my heart beating—no, make that thudding—as I thought about the lineup of CGU blond-haired cheerleaders from previous years. I know it was wrong of me, but if Brady was going to have a girlfriend I at least wanted her to be a sister. I remember how the little white girls who were Pee Wee league cheerleaders used to make a fuss over him after the first time he made a touchdown. I hoped Lowell was wrong and that Brady was keeping his attention on football. I’d spent most of my life keeping him focused on academics and sports. I wasn’t ready to be a mother-in-law or, even worse, a grandmother.

“I think she might be black. He didn’t say. But maybe if Brady does fall in love, it’ll put you back on the market. You still got a lot of good years left, Carmyn,” Lowell said, chuckling.

“Why does everybody think I don’t date because of my son?” I asked.

“Because it’s true,” Lowell said quickly.

“You’re one to be talking. How many times have I told you that you need to be teaching at Morehouse or Tech, or at least in a major city where you could meet someone your own age?” I said.

“I might do that in a year or two. But I got tenure down here and they let me do what I want. Besides, things might be looking up for my love life,” Lowell said.

“Have you met somebody?”

“I don’t want to say. I might jinx it.”

“Is there somebody new on the faculty or staff?” I asked. Lowell had a strict policy against dating his students, even though I know he was flattered when some of his male students made subtle passes at him for grades. Every time I met somebody gay in the shop, I tried to introduce him to Lowell, so I guess I was just as bad as Kellis. When I hired Zander, I thought he would be perfect for Lowell. I was disappointed when I found out Zander was straight and acted gay only because it helped him bed more women. He would slowly gain their confidence in a gay-boy way and then go in for the kill. I was surprised by how that strategy worked for him. I hadn’t told Lowell about Sylvester because I didn’t hold much hope for it lasting much longer, and I knew Lowell would definitely have something to say about my dating an hourly worker.

“My lips are sealed, Carmyn. But if something happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay. Can I let you know tomorrow if I need to stay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Lowell, see what you can find out about this girl Brady’s interested in,” I said.

“Okay.”

“And one more thing I need you to do for me,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Make sure Brady is still wearing his celibacy ring,” I said.

“What if he’s not, Carmyn? Will you be able to handle it?”

“Why worry about that until I have to?” I said.

CHAPTER
19

Brady: The Body Beautiful

W
hen Delmar and I opened the door, there was a guest on our doorstep. She was an African American woman in, I would say, her mid-forties with short reddish-blond hair with black streaks. She was wearing skintight white jeans and a glittery top that seemed to bring attention to the gold strips outlining her two front teeth. She looked like an over-the-hill cleat chaser, a term players used to describe groupies.

I glanced quizzically at Delmar and then asked, “Can we help you?”

“Yes, you can! Which one of you is my baby?” she said.

“What?” Delmar asked.

“You heard me. You got problems with your hearing, chile? Which one of you fine young specimens is my baby?” she asked as she stepped into our apartment like her name was on the lease.

“Are you sure you have the right place?” I asked.

“Let me see,” the lady said. She pulled a little piece of paper from her purse and adjusted the tiny glasses that she rested on her nose.

“Man, shut that door. This woman is crazy,” Delmar said.

“Well, now I know for sho it’s you, ’cause you act and look just like your daddy,” she said, pointing toward Delmar.

“What do you know about my daddy?” Delmar demanded.

“Oh, I know plenty because I’m your mama. I’m Maybelline Jean LaRue. May-Jean for short,” she said as she moved over and tried to hug Delmar.

He pushed her back and said, “What are you talking about, lady? You must be smoking crack. I don’t know you and don’t want to know you.”

“Of course you do, baby. Don’t you remember when the two of us used to go to Chuck E. Cheese? As a baby, you loved pepperoni pizza,” Maybelline said. “Honey, I was living in New Orleans until that bitch Katrina came through. My place is a mess now. Them motherfuckers are crazy if they think May-Jean is staying in some damn FEMA trailer.”

“Delmar, are you all right?” I asked as I placed my hand on his shoulder. I was trying to prevent him from falling over.

“I’m straight, B.”

“You want some private time?”

“Yeah, baby, we got a lot of catching up to do,” Maybelline said.

“I ain’t got no time to talk. And I have a class to go to,” Delmar said. I looked at Delmar strangely, because he
never
wanted to go to class. He always told me that he only went to class so that he could stay eligible for the bowl games, and then it was “so long, school!”

“I’m glad to hear my baby is tending to his books. That’s fine; we got plenty of time to talk. Here, let me give you the number to my celly. Call me when you get some time. By the way, I need a ticket for the game this Saturday.”

“I ain’t got no extra tickets,” Delmar mumbled.

“What about you, handsome? You got a ticket I can use?” Maybelline asked as she looked at me.

“Uh, let me check,” I stuttered as I looked at Delmar for some clue as to what to do. Mom usually gave one of my tickets to Lowell, but he could always get a ticket because he was tenured faculty.

Maybelline wrote down some information on a piece of paper and handed it to a still-shocked Delmar.

“And what’s your name, baby?” she asked as she turned to me.

“I’m Brady Bledsoe,” I said, extending my hand to her.

“Nice meeting you, Brady. You sure are a handsome young thang. I bet you treat your mama real nice.”

“Come on, dude, let’s bounce. I don’t want to be late for class,” Delmar said as he moved out the front door.

“I bet my baby is smart. Ain’t he? Look at him going to class and shit,” Maybelline said as she walked out the door.

I laughed to myself and moved swiftly to catch a fast-moving Delmar. I looked back and saw Maybelline take out her compact, touch up her lipstick, and then pull out her cell phone.

Delmar and I rode
in silence for a few blocks before I finally spoke.

“So, how are you feeling, man?”

“What you talking about, how am I feeling? That was some fucked-up shit that just happened,” Delmar said.

“Are you mad at your dad for lying to you?”

“My dad didn’t lie to me. I mean, I knew she wasn’t dead, but to my dad and me, she was. She didn’t want to be a part of our lives, so to us she was dead.”

“You knew she was alive? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“Tell you what?”

“That your mother really wasn’t dead.”

“Look, dude, I don’t want to talk about this shit no more. Didn’t you hear me say she didn’t want to be a part of my life? The only reason her ass is showing up now is to try and make some money. Crazy bitch didn’t even know which one of us she gave birth to. That shit is whack. So don’t ask me another fuckin’ thing bout it. All I want to do is get to campus and hang at the Union till practice. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Understood?”

As we pulled into the parking garage, I said, “Understood.”

“You don’t shave down
there, do you?” asked the wiry photographer with untidy blond-streaked hair and small round glasses.

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to take your hands and act like you’re about to pull your pants down. We will tease them with a little pubic hair peeking from that jockstrap,” he said.

I gave the photographer a
you’ve got to be kidding
look, then, as I started to feel nervous sweat spill down my back, I asked if Kevin Trainor, the sports information director, told him to take a shot like that.

“Nobody tells me how to take a picture,” the photographer barked.

I was in the middle of a photo session for the “Run” poster, another special promotion the university marketing department had come up with in support of my campaign for the Heisman Trophy and I hoped, making an All-American team. The plan was to come up with a poster that included my career rushing stats with glossy color photos of me wearing my football uniform and practice clothes in ways that highlighted my body. They had also given students who bought season tickets a T-shirt that said
I
BB.

At first, I didn’t want to do the poster because I thought awards like the Heisman Trophy and All-American honors should be based on what I did on the field. But Kevin reminded me that even though I was big at school, I was an underdog for a lot of the postseason awards and we had to be aggressive with our marketing efforts. CGU didn’t have the advantage that players from long-standing football powers like Arkansas and Michigan had.

Kevin pointed out that the leading candidates, Brady Quinn from Notre Dame and Troy Smith from Ohio State University, were on television almost every Saturday and that even South Bend and Columbus were much more glamorous locales than Scarlet Springs, Georgia. We were lucky to have a few games on ESPN2 every season. Still Kevin had managed to secure interviews for me with two of college football’s best writers, Clay Henry and Dudley Dawson. Everybody who followed college football read these guys.

“I don’t feel comfortable doing that,” I said. I didn’t object to the photographer when he took photos of me wearing only my shoulder pads and tight football pants, with a jock clearly visible under the sugar-white pants. He’d also taken several of what could only be called ass shots of me in my tight white uniform, which made me feel a bit uncomfortable, because he was one weird dude. Chloe had made me comfortable in front of the camera and had often said my ass was one of my best assets. I hadn’t objected when the photographer’s assistant sprayed my face and hair with water and then spread something that felt like Vaseline across my lips. But showing my pubic hair was going too far. I grimaced at the thought of my mother seeing a photo like that or any of the ones Chloe took.

“What are you talking about? If I had a body like yours, I would do everything butt-naked,” the photographer said. “You’re a natural, Brady. Besides, sex sells.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. I’m not for sale,” I said as I grabbed my jersey and headed for the dressing room.