The Boy in the Black Suit (14 page)

She held it up and looked at it for a second.

“My name is Love.” She let the chain fall down to her chest. “Renee was my mom.”

Ouch. Sometimes when you try to be too smooth, you really end up blowing it.

“I'm sorry. I didn't know,” I said, sinking down into myself. I was so embarrassed, but even though I had made things a little uncomfortable, I still couldn't help but try to see Love break a little, at least at the mention of her mother. But she didn't even flinch.

“It's cool,” she said, pinching the skin off a piece of chicken. “It was a long time ago.”

“Never get's easier though.” I knew I was going too far, but I couldn't help myself. It was like I had diarrhea of the mouth, as my mom used to say.

Love—Lovey—chewed the chicken and squinted as if she was thinking about what I had just said as well as trying to swallow her food before saying something back.

Then, she pointed her fork at me. “Not for people who don't want it to. But for me”—she stabbed a few green beans and lifted them to her mouth—“it definitely got easier.”

Chapter 8

WIDE OPEN

“W
AIT.
L
ET ME GET THIS
straight. The girl from Cluck Bucket is your
girlfriend
?”

Chris took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch.

“Man, no, she's not my girlfriend. I just met her, forreal,” I said, even though I couldn't stop myself from cheesing so hard it hurt. If only Lovey had been around when I was taking my senior pictures.

“Uh-huh,” Chris said, looking at me. “You . . . you . . .” He paused. “You open.” He busted out laughing and pointed at me like a kid. I wanted to tell him to grow up, but I couldn't front. He was right. I was open. From one conversation, wide open.

But it wasn't like a regular conversation. It was different. We talked about school, how she was in some special photography program at hers, and loved it, and was hoping to go to college
to study photography, and then after college she wanted to just be a full-time camera clicker. But not like a paparazzi. Love said she wanted to be a photojournalist, and tell stories with pictures. I thought that was pretty cool.

I told her that I was finishing up this year too, and that I wasn't sure where I wanted to go to college. I mean, part of me wanted to get out of New York, go away somewhere different. Maybe Georgia where the weather's warmer. But another part of me didn't want to go too far and leave my father alone. I wanted to tell her all that, but I didn't because I knew it would make her ask questions about my folks, and I just wasn't ready for that. I mean, the conversation was flowing, but I was trying to keep it light.

Thankfully, she didn't ask anything that would force me to either lie or tell the truth that my mom had died. I knew her mom died too, but I didn't ask how because it didn't seem like she was offering all that up, which was cool. We were on the same page with that one. It was none of my business. But Lovey did talk about her grandma, Ms. Brown, telling me stories about how she raised her.

“Every holiday I had to visit and feed the homeless,” she said.

I never really knew anyone who helped homeless people. I mean, I've seen someone give them some change on the train, but I was so used to ignoring them, or watching other kids laugh at them, that I never even thought about people really helping them. So I thought it was cool that Lovey was into that.

When the repast was over, and everyone had pretty much left,
even Mr. Ray, I helped her pack the food up and waited with her outside for a cab. When the cab came we both got in with all the leftovers, some of which she gave to me.

“So, where you live?” I asked.

“Hmmm. I live alone now, and you seem nice but you could be a killer”—she joked, but was half-serious—“so how 'bout we drop you off first.”

“But I also live alone and you might be a killer too,” I said.

“Maybe,” she replied. She tried to turn away and look out the window before I caught her smile.

As we pulled in front of my house, I reached up and gave the cabbie enough money for both of our rides, and the tip. Luckily, Mr. Ray paid me every day, so I could do that with no sweat and look pretty cool at the same time. Lovey seemed weird all of a sudden. Like, she got real tense right before I got out. I figured she was just nervous and didn't know if I was going to try anything, but it was way too soon for all that. I had just met her. She told me to put my number in her phone. I did, then just said, “Nice to meet you.” It was all pretty awkward.

As I was getting out of the cab, Chris was walking down the block, coming from the store. I wanted to wait for him to get closer to the car just so he could see there was a girl in there, but he was taking too long, bopping down the street lazy and cool. It was still perfect timing, though, because I felt like I was walking on air and he was the only person I could really talk to about it.

“But she definitely got something,” I now told Chris as he flopped down on the burgundy spaceship couch. I loosened my tie and hung my jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Backpack, keys, money, cell phone, all on the kitchen table. Then, I put some of the food from the funeral in the microwave for Chris, which is always an extra reason for him to hang out.

“What you mean, she got something? Like a disease?”

“No, fool!” I snapped, already a little emotional about this girl. “Not a disease, just like a thing, man. It's hard to explain. Like, she's just so cool. She got like a
thing
, like a swag about her.”

Chris nodded, trying to be serious. “What's her name, again?”

“Love.”

So much for serious. Chris laughed. Hard.

“No joke, what's her name?”

“That
is
her name. Love. But people call her Lovey.”

“But that's not what I remember you calling her when you asked me if I thought she was cute.”

“I know. I thought her name was Renee, but I was wrong. It's Love.”

“Oh. I thought you was trying to be all poetic and stuff.” Chris frowned. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was thinking when I first heard her name—who would name their child Love?

“Man, ain't nobody trying to be poetic,” I informed him, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. “Plus, like I said, I don't even know her like that.” I tried to play the whole thing off like I wasn't tripping about Love. But I was.

The microwave dinged. Chris literally jumped up, and when he saw me look at him like he was crazy, he tried to play it off and walk all smooth to the kitchen to get his food. He popped open the microwave door and a cloud of steam carrying the smell of reheated fried chicken came bursting out.

He took a deep breath. “Smells good, but let me see what this repath food taste like.” He picked at the chicken.

“Repast.”

“What?”

“Repast. Not repath,” I explained, handing him a fork even though I knew he had no problem eating without one.

Chris picked up the hunk of meat and took a big bite right out the middle of it. It was hot, and he hung his mouth open like a panting mutt to cool it off. Then he grabbed his fork and ran it straight across his plate, making a valley in each mountain—the mountain of green beans, and the mountain of mashed potatoes—and took it straight to the face.

“Oh. Well, repast, repath, rerun, whatever they called, the food is slammin',” he growled with his mouth full of everything. “Your girlfriend cooked this? If she did, then now I get why you buggin'.” Chris smiled, thankfully with his trap closed, all the food stuffed in his cheeks. “She cook better than you!”

“No, she didn't cook it, she's not my girlfriend, and”—I grabbed the garlic powder from the counter and sprinkled it on his potatoes—“it don't taste better than my food.”

Chris took another spoonful of potatoes. His face let me know that now they tasted better.

“Okay, so maybe you're right about the food, but she's definitely your girlfriend.”

“No, she's not.

“Not yet.”

I didn't say anything back, just pretended I didn't hear him and let Chris go on inhaling his food like a human vacuum. But I couldn't help but think about the possibilities of him being right. I mean, Chris had more experience with girls than I did. He used to kick it with Shannon Reeves, a certified winner. Shannon was so fly, all the older dudes would try to get at her until they found out she was only sixteen. And even then, some of them still tried to get at her. He also used to kick it with Lauren Morris and Danni Stevens at the same time. Danni was kind of geeky, but in a cute way. And Lauren was a cheerleader at our school, so she had that whole thing going on. Long hair, pretty smile, in shape, all cheery, all the time. The two girls knew about each other, because Chris was up front and told them the truth. Crazy thing is, they didn't even care.

Guys always wondered how Chris was doing it—how he was getting all the ladies. But I knew exactly what it was. He was nice. He was honest. He was always dressed in the latest, which was a major plus. He was hilarious. And the key to it all was the fact that he was a mama's boy. I was too, but it was different. My mom had my dad to make her blush and feel all fuzzy. Chris's mom had nobody but him. His pops wasn't around and she never had a boyfriend (said she wouldn't date until Chris went to college), so he spent a lot of time figuring out what made his mother smile.
What made her feel special. And that pretty much made him the smoothest dude I knew. So, for that reason, I had to listen to him whenever it came to understanding girls.

“I mean, just tell me the truth,” he said, now taking a sip of juice. “You like her?”

“Yeah.”

“She like you?”

“I don't know.”

“Did she flirt?”

“I think so, but she's hard to read.”

“Did she look at you when she flirted?”

I thought about the car ride, and how she looked away.

“Naw, I don't think so. She kept looking out the window,” I explained.

Chris leaned back in the chair like a proud father who just watched his child figure out how times tables work. But instead of times tables, I was figuring out females, and Chris was loving every minute of it.

“What?”

“C'mon, Matt. You the smartest dude I know. And the dumbest.” He laughed.

“What, so if she looks away, then that automatically means she likes me?”

Before Chris could give me some slick answer, my phone started buzzing, vibrating the whole table. The noise shocked me. I reached down to see what it was.

1 TEXT MESSAGE

“It's her,” I said, way too excited. I tried to catch myself but it was too late.

The text said:
Hey. It's Lovey. Busy?

I put the phone back on the table so Chris could see it. He read it, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

“Told ya.”

Chapter 9

IN LOVING MEMORY

C
AN I ASK U SOMETHING
?

By now I had pretty much pushed Chris out the door. He tried to be funny and finish his food slowly—something that I'm sure took every ounce of will power he had—but I leaned over and coughed right on his plate, a stupid immature move I learned from twelve years of New York City public school.

“Not cool,” Chris said, heading toward the door. “You lucky you my best friend, and I understand you in love, and it's making you a little crazy and—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, opening the door. “I'll just holla at you tomorrow.”

I laid down on the couch, trying to keep myself as calm as possible while talking—well, texting—Lovey. We had been texting for exactly thirteen minutes, asking random questions, trying to figure out if we knew any of the same people, or if we liked the same kind of music—the usual interview process you go through when you're trying to get the job as boyfriend. Of course we talked about where our families were from. It's a thing you sort of have to discuss in New York, because everybody's family is from somewhere that ain't America, like Jamaica, or Haiti, or Trinidad, which is where her grandma was from. That's if you black. Unless you're me. My folks were from Baltimore and South Carolina. So curry wasn't a big part of our meals, but I could tell you what crab cake and barbecue are supposed to taste like.

Can I ask u something?
I read her latest text again.

I responded, a little nervous, just because whenever someone asks if they can ask you something, there's always a sucker punch in the nuts right behind it.

Yep . . . ???

When we were in the cab, and u said u live alone, is that true?

Lol yea

Oh . . . why? I mean not to be all in your biz, just sayin' I don't know nobody else our age who live alone

Dang. Nosy!! Lol

Whatever. You don't have to tell me
:-/

Of course I had tell her. Well, I didn't have to, but for some reason I wanted to. It was one more thing we had in common.

It's cool I'll tell u . . . my mom passed a few months ago. Breast cancer. And my pops . . . car accident, but he alive. Recovering.

:(
I'm sorry.

Don't be. I'm cool.
;)

I propped my head up on the armrest to get more comfortable. I felt like I was doing a good job talking to Lovey. Like, I knew I was being honest and just being myself, but without all the awkwardness I usually have around girls. Probably because we were texting, and texting is way different from really talking to someone. Texting
My mom passed away
, and saying it out loud, are two very different things. I mean, I could say it and not break down, but I would definitely feel more of a sting and probably get all robot faced. But texting it, I didn't feel much of anything, and I liked that. It was the first time I could mention her death and not feel like I was dying too.

I waited for the next message and daydreamed about what Lovey was doing, even though she had already told me she wasn't doing anything, which means she was probably watching
TV
. Nobody really does nothing. She was probably lying on the couch, just like I was lying on mine, her cell phone next to her head so she could read the messages without having to pick the phone up. I imagined she had on sweats and a T-shirt, and had her hair wrapped in a silk scarf, like my mother used to do before she went to bed. Clearly, I don't have a very sexy imagination, but there was something about her that made it okay to imagine her in baggy pants, a faded family reunion T, and her hair pinned and wrapped. She was that fly.

My phone buzzed.
1 TEXT MESSAGE
.

Next question. Ready?

Lol ok

What u doin for thanksgiving?

Probably finishing the rest of these leftovers u gave me. U?

Same thing. Lol.

I didn't say nothing back. I just waited, hoping the conversation wouldn't end here and that the phone would buzz one more time.
Come on. One more time.

Buzz.
1 TEXT MESSAGE
.

So maybe we could eat old chicken together?

Only if we pretend it's turkey
;)

I was
so
much smoother on text message.

Lol. Fine. But we gotta meet at my house.

Why not my house?

You know . . . the killer thing?
:)

Smh.

The next morning, sunbeams shined brightly into the living room, almost forcing me to open my eyes. It's amazing how you know when a room has light in it, even when you have your eyes closed. Light always wins. I was buried deep in the couch cushions, lying in a position that wasn't uncomfortable at all, until I woke up.

First thing first. I reached for my cell phone. Every muscle in my body cracked. Neck, back, legs, fingers, popping and snapping,
reminding me of why I should never fall asleep on the couch. It was like I got thirty years older overnight.

I ran my hand along the floor until I found my phone.

3 NEW TEXT MESSAGES

The first message said,
So it's a date
:)

Then ten minutes later,
Hello???? U sleep???

Ten minutes after that,
Goodnight smh lol

I read them and just like that, I was young again. I laid there for a minute with the phone flat on my chest. A date. Matty Miller, the boy in the black suit . . . had a date.
Hope you're watching, Mom.

I can admit it, school that day was way better than it had been since it started, but nothing was really different about it. The guys were still being stupid, slapping books out of people's hands and running through the halls dodging teachers. And the girls were still checking the reflection of their faces in their cell phone screens, powdering their cheeks, and buttering their lips. Gotta make sure you look good . . . when you gossip. Class was still ass, but I didn't care, because I felt ten feet tall. It was like all of a sudden I had a force field around me—nothing could phase me. The black suit seemed like it was just a really smooth outfit, not a work uniform. Not a funeral suit. Like it made me even cooler. I was untouchable because I had a date, and the one person I wanted to tell more than anyone was standing at my locker when I got there.

“Wassup,” Chris said, leaning against the locker next to mine.

“Wassup,” I said, cool, turning the lock left, then right.

I could tell Chris was waiting for me to spill it, and I wanted to, but I didn't want him to think I was pressed to just run to him and tell him everything. So I just started putting my books away like nothing was going on. The whole time, my heart was high-fiving my brain, and I literally felt like at any second I could sprout wings.

“Come on, Matt,” he said, flat.

“What?”

“Matt.”

“What?” I said again, staring into my locker. I cracked a slight smile. I couldn't help it.

“What happened?”

I pulled
The Canterbury Tales
from my locker and dropped it in my backpack. Even that boring-ass book couldn't ruin my mood. Then I slammed the locker door. Chris stood there staring me down.

“Come on, Chris. You of all people should know, real dudes don't run their mouths. I don't kiss and tell.” I totally do kiss and tell, just not in the first twenty seconds of talking to my boy.

“Oh, I see,” Chris said, crossing his arms. “Only thing is, you ain't kiss her yet, fool!” He laughed. “Plus, I know you want to tell me, Matt. Stop frontin'.”

He got me.

“Seriously, it ain't really nothing.” I looked over my shoulder as if what I was about to say was a secret. “We just gonna spend Thanksgiving together. Alone.”

I had to throw the “alone” in there, just for Chris. I mean, it
was true, but I said it because I knew it would definitely add some gas to the story, which is what we both wanted. The way I see it, it's not really gossip if I'm talking about myself.

Chris's eyebrows went way up and he extended his hand to me. I grabbed it, and we did a grown man shake before going off to class. I definitely deserved one, I thought, and bopped to Grovenor's room like a prom king in the making.

There was one other person I wanted to tell about Lovey. Mr. Ray. I know I said I don't kiss and tell but I had to tell Chris because he was Chris—my dude. And I had to tell Mr. Ray because he was my . . . old dude. So old that I knew he wouldn't gossip. Who was he gonna tell? One of his superchatty casket dwellers? Right. Anyway, after school, I caught the bus to the funeral home. I knew there wasn't any funerals going on that day, but I still showed up ready to work, just in case something popped up. Plus, whenever we didn't have a funeral, Mr. Ray would always find some work for me to do, which was really just a reason to pay me.

When I got close to the funeral home, I noticed Robbie was sitting on the stoop, trying to light a cigarette. Every time he flicked the lighter his gold rings blinged in the sun.

“I'll be damned, young blood, you right on time,” he muttered, the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Willie said you'd be here at twelve thirty, and”—he checked his watch—“it's twelve twenty-nine.” Robbie cupped his hands around the cig to try and light it again without the wind blowing out the flame.

“Wassup, Robbie,” I said, sort of wondering what he was getting at.

Robbie flicked the lighter a few more times, turning his body away from the breeze, until finally the tip of the cigarette turned red. He inhaled slowly, then blew the smoke up into the air as cool as anybody could. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper and handed it to me.

“Willie ain't here,” he said simply, tapping the ash off the tip of the cigarette.

Robbie had been acting funny toward me ever since that first funeral I did. I guess he felt like I was a suck-up or something, because I was always on time and did everything Mr. Ray asked me to do. Plus Mr. Ray was looking out for me and I think Robbie was a little jealous, since that was his big brother. But I didn't pay Robbie no mind.

I unfolded the paper Robbie gave me. It was a note from Mr. Ray saying that he had a cancer support meeting he had to go to and he forgot to tell me, and that he would've called but young people don't answer cell phones, they only answer text messages, and could I teach him how to text and he'd see me tomorrow bright and early to go see my dad.

I folded the paper back into a small rectangle and slipped it in my pocket.

“Got it,” I said to Robbie, who also could not ruin my mood no matter how he was acting. “Have a good Thanksgiving.”

Without work my schedule was wide open, but I didn't really have anything to do. Chris was still at school. I thought about hitting Fulton Street and walking up to Cluck Bucket to see if Lovey was there, but then I remembered that she had to meet with some
people about her grandma's paperwork, like insurance and all that kind of stuff I didn't really understand, stuff that no teenager should have to worry about. But I could tell from our text messages that she wasn't a normal teenager. She had that same thing I had when I first went back to school, that grown-ness about her—maturity—except she had it times two. No, times ten.