The Ex Factor: A Novel (16 page)

“Is that papi from the club?” Sabrena asked as she, Tasha, and Quiana walked over.

“Yeah,” Imani said, staring at Kree.

“You gon' get with him?” Quiana asked.

“No, I have a man,” Imani snapped.

“Good.” Sabrena cocked her neck to the side. “Well, let's run a train on him and turn that niggah out! You know they say Puerto Ricans are freaks.”

“A train?” Quiana laughed. “Sabrena, you stupid!”

Imani ignored the girls as they continued to go on about how sexy they thought Kree was. Instead she called Walik again, and still no answer. “Where is Walik at?” she huffed.

“Who?” Quiana asked. “Walik?”

“Yeah.”

“Yo, fuck that niggah. You know he up to no good. You know a stray dog don't have a home—so he gon' roam. So either you shoulda brought his ass with you, or you shoulda just psyched yourself up to accept the fact the lady and the tramp is a true story.”

“Why would you say some shit like that to me?” Imani snapped. “Why?”

“ 'Cause it's true,” Quiana said.

“How do you know it's true?”

“ 'Cause it's staring at you.” Quiana cracked up.

“Fuck you!”

Imani stormed off and went to sit next to Monica and Chauncey. As she sat down, they were getting up. “Where are you going?” Imani asked Monica. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Monica raised her eyebrows. “You know I shouldn't be speaking to your li'l lyin' self, but Chauncey wanted to dance, is that okay with you?” she asked sarcastically.

“But I needed to talk to you.”

“It'll have to wait. Period.”

“I don't believe you!” Imani stormed away from Monica. As she went to find Starr, she spotted Red first. He seemed to be upset— he was stuttering and blinking. He was standing face-to-face with a woman who had finger waves in her hair and a spiked draw-string ponytail. She had red lipstick with black liner and red and blue eye shadow that covered both her eyelids and sprang from the sides like wings. She rocked back and forth. Her sequined baby-doll mini dress was hiked up on one side and low on the other. She kicked her shoes off and looked at Red. “I'll bust yo' shit, fat boy!”

Imani had to do a double take because from the looks of it, this woman was serious and Starr was nowhere around. Once Imani was standing next to Red she noticed that this woman had arms that stopped just below her elbow and hands the size of a midget.
What the fuck.
And to make matters worse it didn't seem that she could control her arms very well because every time she moved they flapped around. Not to mention that one of the woman's legs was shorter than the other.

“Now, hold up,” Red said to the woman, looking at how she was bouncing around. “What, you having a seizure? Why don't you go sit down? I'ma have to find Nadine to restrain you.”

“Nadine!” the woman screamed.

“Yes, Nadine.” Red stuck his chest out. “My sister, your counselor, Nadine, the one who brings y'all to every damn family function we have.” Red pointed to the group of mentally and
physically challenged people Nadine was responsible for. All Nadine's life she swore that her calling was to take care of the disabled, so she dedicated herself to opening up her own group home, caring for five and sometimes six mentally retarded and physically handicapped adults.

For the most part the people Nadine cared for were nice and quiet and talked among themselves, but this bunch was straight ghetto. Ever since they came they'd been loud, cussing, drinking, and eating everything in sight. One time they were even on the dance floor and making shoutouts on the DJ's microphone, which neither Red nor Starr particularly appreciated.

“Nadine!” Red yelled. “Come here, right now! Nadine!”

“Nadine—Nadine can't do shit to me. I'll beat her ass!” the woman yelled, rocking back and forth.

“Humph.” Red smirked. “All you can do is beat yo' own ass with the way them arms and hands flappin' around.”

“I ain't got to kick yo' fat ass with my hands, I can handle you with my feet.”

“Oh, you wanna fight? Arms and hands lookin' like chicken wings and you tryna fight somebody!” Red said, taken aback.

“Chicken wings? Well, watch me cluck all over yo' tired ass! We can do this.” The woman started skipping in place, like a boxer. She threw a couple of punches in the air, but to Red she looked to be throwing her body around.

“Oh yo' ass is crazy,” he said. “Why can't you go sit down with the rest of the slow group.” He pointed to a group of people on the other side of the backyard.

“Red,” Imani said, still amazed. “What's going on here? Where's Mommy?”

“Ya mama had a li'l gas. She got a li'l lactose problem. But don't you worry about me, 'cause I'ma get Nadine to come and give this one here a tranquilizer.”

“A tranquilizer? Why?”

“She asked for a beer.”

Imani looked at the woman, who was still skipping in place. “You—can”—Imani spoke slowly—“not—have—any—al-co-hol— it—will—mess—with—your—medication.”

“Medication! Oh hell naw!” the woman screamed, kicking at Red. “Jimmy!” she screamed, “Jimmy! Let me tell you somethin', you played-out fat ma'fucker!”

“Oh hold up.” Red was getting upset. “You better hold ya roll, home girl.”

“He ain't played,” Imani said, taking up for Red. “This niggah is retro.”

“Jimmy!”

A few minutes later Jimmy walked over, his chest poked out. “What's wrong, Roxanne?”

“You better get fat ass,” she cried, “and tell him something.”

“Tell him what?” Jimmy looked Red up and down.

“I went to get a beer, and he gon' practically cuss me out talkin' about I'm one of Nadine's people and that me and my kids is the wild and retarded bunch.”

“I ain't say nothin' about yo' kids,” Red insisted.

“Yes you did.” She pointed to the rowdy group that Red thought had come with Nadine. “Those is my kids and we ain't no slow group.”

“Oh, Jimmy,” Red said apologetically, “I didn't know. I just thought she had escaped from someplace…I thought…you know … that maybe she was a part of Nadine's group.”

“Nadine didn't bring no people with her this year, Red.” Jimmy looked him up and down. “So what exactly are you trying to say?”

“I'ma kick his ass,” Roxanne said.

“Naw, baby, calm down.” Jimmy said to Roxanne. “Ya man got this.”

“Oh hell no,” Imani said. “You on ya own with this one, Red. I'm going to check on my mother.”

Before Red could respond he heard his name being yelled across the yard. “Redtonio! Redtonio! Come mere, Redtonio!”

Red looked around and saw that his aunt Sistah was calling him. “Redtonio! Redtonio! Come mere, right now.”

“I'll be back,” he said to Jimmy and Roxanne. “What's going on, Aunt Sistah?”

“This fool,” she pointed to the white-gloved butler who'd been serving the guests cheese puffs and shrimp kebabs, “said I can't serve my fatback with pickle dip or fried chitlins on a stick.”

“And do you know he stopped her,” Red's cousin Lula-Baby said, “from setting up her food because he said her collard greens were dripping green water. I have you to know,” Lula-Baby said to the butler, rolling her eyes, “that that's collard green juice. You get you some fried corn bread and you got a meal.”

“It won't just the collard greens either, Red,” Aunt Sistah said. “He also said that I couldn't serve my lima beans and neck bones. Will you tell this fool that I put my foot in my neck bones.”

“What's the problem?” Red said to the butler. “Why can't they serve the food?”

“Sir, we were hired to serve the guests. I offered them the option of allowing us to take the food into the kitchen so it can be served properly with the other entrées.”

“Y'all wanna do that?” Red asked his aunt and cousin. “My man here will hook it up with a li'l class. People'll be talkin' about how the butler was servin' chitlins on a stick.”

“Now, what the hell wrong with you?” Aunt Sistah frowned at Red. “You know we don't let nobody go in our pots, now you know better than that.”

“Anybody seen my porta-potty?” Mama Byrd yelled. “I'm warnin' y'all I need it.”

“Oh Lawd,” Aunt Sistah said, “let me go help my sister. Straighten this out, Redtonio. I expects that my food will be served.”

Lula-Baby stood and watched Red and the butler. “Lima beans make you fart when they get cold, Redtonio.”

Red looked at the butler. “Let them serve the food.”

M
ONICA LAY HER head on Chauncey's shoulder as they swayed to Chaka Khan's “Through the Fire.” For a moment her eyes connected with Sharief and she saw the hurt and anguish in his face, which only caused her to grip Chauncey tighter. Although she loved Sharief, Chauncey would do as a safe substitute.

Sharief sat at the makeshift bar, shaking the ice in his 7UP, wanting desperately to order a beer, or a rum and Coke, or anything that would calm his nerves and stop him from snapping on Chauncey as he rubbed his hands across Monica's ass.

“I've missed you, Monica,” Chauncey whispered, stroking her back.

“Yeah right.”

“I have. I've missed you a lot…and I've been wanting to talk to you for a while.”

“Why didn't you call and tell me? I would've made time, or you should've come over.”

“I didn't want to come over, because whenever I did your brother-in-law shot me nasty looks or did things like walk around
with the butt of his gun showing. And I wasn't quite comfortable with that, so I stayed home.”

“Is that why you haven't been calling me?”

“I've called you. You just never called back.”

Monica placed her hands around Chauncey's neck. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” “Come again?” Monica stopped dancing.

“Don't stop dancing. Dancing will make this easier for me.” “Okay,” Monica said as they started to slow-dance again, this time to Babyface's “Whip Appeal.”

“Monica, I've been thinking about our relationship and how long we've been seeing each other. And it seems like the relationship isn't going anywhere.”

“I thought we were past this.” She took a deep breath. “We've already talked about that. I don't want a relationship right now.”

“But I do. That's the problem,” Chauncey said.

“But I don't. And I won't compromise my life to settle. I'm twenty-nine years old, and I'm happy. Don't try and take that from me.”

“I don't want to take anything from you. And I didn't ask you to live with me or for your hand in marriage so take it down.”

“Oh…”

“Listen.” Chauncey stopped dancing and looked at Monica. “I'm seeing somebody else and I want to see her exclusively. You're not sure of what you want, you're always distracted and un-focused. I can't deal with that and neither do I want that. You seem to think that you'll be twenty-nine forever. Well I know better. So now I've said it. I hope we can be mature enough to be friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, I like you as a person. I just can't be in a relationship with you.”

“Oh.” Monica swallowed hard. She absolutely couldn't believe this shit. “Well if that's how you feel, Chauncey, then I wish
you the best.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You can go home now.”

“So now you're putting me out.” He frowned.

“No, I just figured that you would wanna step, being that you just dumped me.”

“I didn't dump you.” He grabbed Monica by the waist. “I was just following your lead and you didn't want to be with me.”

“I care about you, Chauncey.”

“And I care about you.” As Monica went to hug Chauncey his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it and looked at the caller ID. His eyes lit up. “Excuse me, Monica, I need to take this.” And he left her standing there.

“This bastard.” Monica chuckled. “Just dumped me, ain't that some shit?” She walked over and sat at the bar by Sharief.

“You know I'm not speaking to you, right?” she said, bumping Sharief on the shoulder. “I'll have a glass of water,” she told the bartender.

“Listen.” Sharief stared at Monica with a serious look on his face. “I love you, I'm in love with you, and as fucked up as it may be, I would leave my wife to be with you. But don't ever in your fuckin' life play me by throwing a niggah in my face.”

“You were fuckin' kissing your wife.”

“She kissed me. It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.” “If you say so.”

Sharief and Monica sat silent for a minute. The bartender handed Monica her drink. “Let me tell you.” She pointed to Chauncey, who was still on the phone. “The square dumped me.”

“What?” Sharief raised his eyebrows. “He did what?”

“The niggah left me.”

“Oh, you were a couple?”

“No.”

“Well, how did he leave you?”

“He said that he wanted to see someone else, because I didn't want to commit to him and shit like that. And…”

Sharief cracked up laughing. “And what…”

“The bitch called him while we were dancing and he stopped dancing with me to talk to her.”

“Poor baby.” He grinned. “You just got played?”

“Oh, you think the shit is funny?” She mushed him in the head. “Now that your competition has removed himself.”

“I had competition?” Sharief asked seriously.

“No, baby, none at all.” “What competition?” Celeste asked, sitting down on the other side of Sharief. “What are you talking about? And why are y'all always holding li'l side bar conversations?”

“Don't start, Celeste,” Sharief said sternly, “I'm not in the mood.”

“Excuse me.” The videographer stood in front of them. “Would you all like to say something to the bride and groom?”

“Sure, why not?” Sharief said.

“Thank you, sir. Let me get you and your wife first,” he pointed to Monica, “and then this young lady.” He pointed to Celeste.

“Excuse you?” Celeste frowned. “I'm his wife.”

“Oh I'm sorry,” the videographer said. “I didn't know …I tell you what, I'll come back.” He turned and walked away.

“Everybody's your fuckin' wife but me, Sharief.” She pointed to the bandage on his hand. “That's the root of our problems.”

“You know what, Celeste,” Monica snapped, “something's not quite right here. How did you go from confiding in me to accusing me?”

“I never accused you! It's not every day you wake up and your sister's in bed with your husband.”