TheProfessor (5 page)

But I’m having fun. Really.

The agent, a really cool guy by the name of Darryl Strawberry, not to mention all Danielle’s internet people, were absolutely frothing at the mouth when they realized how much money they would save using digital cameras.

I swear, you would think they’d never heard of a digital camera. I can still get a laugh out of Danielle that way.

Just the other day, something happened that still makes me blush a little. I was going in to the recording studio to setup a laptop and webcam station. Little did I know, until I went in the room, that she was recording. Fortunately I was just going into the control room and not the recording booth itself. When I barged in and saw what was going on, I turned around to beat a quick retreat, but Danielle must have seen me. A male hand came down on my shoulder. “Hold up. Lady wants a word.”

So I turned back around. Danielle was indeed in the recording booth, a microphone before her and a set of headphones on, her hair in a bun. “Jeff, is something wrong?”

Feeling all the male eyes in the room on me, I said, “Uh, no. I was just about to come in here to set up the camera. But I’ll just do it later.”

The producer relayed what I said through the intercom.

Danielle smiled back. “Don’t rush off on my account. Stay for a minute. I’m recording a song and I’d like you to hear some of it.”

The producer found a chair for me and I sat down next to him, grateful to no longer be the center of attention. He was easily six feet tall, with a slender, almost lanky build, chocolate skin like a candy bar, with a bald head, dressed in baggy cargo jeans, and a white t-shirt and black vest, with big white sneakers.

He said, “Who you supposed to be, man?”

“Oh, I’m just the guy who’s installing all the video cameras so Danielle can have her behind the scenes video diary.”

“Cool. I’m Charles, the producer.”

“Jeff.” We shook hands.

“So, Jeff, we were just in the middle of recording a song. I would imagine that hardly any of this stuff intimidates you, seeing as how you obviously are familiar with all this.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Cool.” He turned back to his boards and tapped a few keys on a keyboard, then leaned over to speak to the intercom. “Okay, Danielle, we’re ready when you are. Second verse, take two.”

And she started to sing. I had no reaction that I can point to, except that it wasn’t an intellectual reaction. I’ll admit that no, I’d never heard of Danielle Evans or her music. But she was good. Not only that, her voice was silky smooth, yet husky, and she could hit the notes, even the high ones. And she could sing with emotion, too.

That wouldn’t have been so bad, except she was singing a love song. A really hot, sexy love song. And whoever she was singing about, he was going to be one lucky dude.

After she’d sung the whole second verse straight through, I was reluctant to stand up, because my pants were a little snug around the crotch.

Charles turned back to me and grinned. “That sounds pretty good, huh, man?”

I grinned back. “Yeah. Sounds really good.”

From the booth, Danielle said, “Really? Does it really sound good?”

Charles answered for me. “If that were any better, we’d need a cigarette. And I don’t even smoke.” He turned to me. “What about you, man?”

“Me neither. But now that you mention it…”

Danielle laughed out loud. “Okay, okay, guys, I get it. Thanks for staying a few minutes, Jeff. I won’t keep you from your work.”

Charles turned to me, holding out his hand. “Catch you later, man?”

I took it. “Definitely.”

“Don’t work too hard.”

“Same to you.”

Chapter Six

Danielle

Oh my God. Do you think I showed too much?

It wasn’t my fault that Jeff came in to the studio just as I was recording a hot sexy love song. And it seemed appropriate to let him listen to me sing.

I said, “Charles, I need to visit the bathroom.”

Through the intercom, he said, “Okay, everybody, let’s take five.”

From the recording studio, I practically ran upstairs to my bedroom, found the bathroom, shut the door and sat on the toilet, covering my face. I sat there several minutes. This was bad. I finally had the man in my house, and now I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him?

That memory came to the surface again. When you’re a teenager, no matter what Mom or Dad does, you want to do it, too, whether it’s good or bad. And I suppose that’s why I want to fuck a white man, too.

* * * *

I’ll never forget the first time I saw a white man fucking a black woman.

It was pretty unforgettable. Because it was my
Mom
. Yes,
my
Mom
.

The day started normally enough. I came into the kitchen that morning, and Mom had
that
look in her eye, the look that meant she had something planned.

She handed me a bowl of cereal and said, “Danielle, baby, do you have any activities after school today? Any rehearsals?”

I said, “No, Mom. No rehearsals after school today.”

Mom reached into her big black leather purse and handed me a ten dollar bill.

I just stared at it. I know my eyes must have been big.

Mom laughed. “Well, take it, baby! You’ve certainly earned it. Your dad said to give you that for all your good grades. I know there’s a single at the record store that you’ve been obsessing over.”

“A couple. One or two.”

Mom smiled. “A couple. Listen to you.”

I took that ten-dollar bill and put it in the pocket of my jeans. “Thank you, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, Danielle. Now come on, eat your breakfast. It’s almost time for you to be leaving for school.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Just don’t be too late coming home. We don’t want your Dad thinking I’ve corrupted you or something.”

We both laughed.

All day at school, I kept daydreaming about how I would spend that ten dollars. That afternoon I was on my way home, proudly carrying a plastic bag in my hand which held the latest forty-five RPM single by Madonna,
Like A Virgin
. I couldn’t wait to get some quality play time out of this little slice of heaven.

I stopped short when I arrived at my house. There was a strange car parked in the drive way, a shiny red Corvette.

My friend Jasmine said, “That red Corvette couldn’t possibly belong to a woman.”

I turned to her and said, “And how would you know?”

“
Girrrll
, how many times have we played this game?”

“A lot.”

“And how many times have I guessed that a car belonged to a man, and I turned out to be right?”

I swallowed uncomfortably. Because of course the answer was, “Many times.”

Her voice unexpectedly soft, she said, “You want to come to my house for a little while and play that record?”

This time I smiled at Jasmine. She was my best friend, a café au lait beauty, peanut butter to my chocolate. “No, but thanks. I have to practice my scales.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. But you can make sure I get in okay if you want.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll do that. Just in case.”

I surprised Jasmine with a hug. “You always got my back.”

“Always, baby girl.”

“Hang out here for a little bit while I get inside. If I wave, it’s all good.”

“Okay.”

So I left the sidewalk and went up the driveway, looking at that red car. Jasmine was right. That red Corvette was definitely a man’s car.

Very carefully, as quietly as possible, I opened the screen door and tried the door knob. It was locked! My heart sped up. Why would Mom lock the front door when she’s at home? Maybe Dad was back home early!

I slid my key into the deadbolt and turned it.
Click
. Then I slid my key into the knob, and turned it. The door opened, and I eased inside as quietly as possible. As I eased inside, I remembered to wave at Jasmine, our signal that everything was okay. She waved back and went on her way.

Then I closed the door and looked around. I even managed to close the front door without its customary loud
click
.

It was pretty obvious Mom was at home. Mom and I had a system for when Dad was out of town. If she wasn’t going to be home when I got home from school, no matter what for, she would leave me a note on the fridge. And there was no note.

I said, “Mom?”

Slipping off my shoes, I took off my backpack and dropped it on the couch, and then slinked down the hallway to my bedroom, to put away the new record.

And then I stopped on a dime. I could hear my mother, making noises I’d
never
heard her make! But that wasn’t all I could hear. I could also hear bedsprings squeaking away in a precise tempo.

I could also hear a man’s voice. And it wasn’t Dad’s voice.

At first all I could hear was just the voices, not what they were saying. But that was enough for me. At that time, I was still a virgin. Having sex with anyone was as frightening a concept to me as losing my Mom and Dad. But I knew what sex sounded like. A little like music, a song with its own uniquely naughty mix, if you will.

As I went in to my room at the end of the hall to leave that record next to my record player, suddenly I could hear my Mom saying some straight-up nasty things in between those naughty noises she was making.

“Oh,
yeahhhhuuhhh
! Oooh,
yeah
!
Fuck
that black pussy!
Fuck
the fucking
shit
out of that black pussy!” Then the moans slowed down. “Oooooh,
baby
…”

I came out of my bedroom, and saw the door to my parents’ bedroom hanging halfway open. Mom couldn’t have been stepping out on Dad. That would have been unthinkable. But it also explained a lot in my teenage mind about Mom’s odd behavior.

My eyes were riveted to that door. Obviously I could hear them. But did I really want to see them?

Very carefully, I stepped to the door and looked through.

Mom was laying on her back, naked, her legs spread wide open. And a man was in bed with her! A naked man. A naked
white
man! He had an athletic build, toned and muscular but not overly so. And he was blond.

Mom had jungle fever. No way!

He was on top of her, their eyes locked, their faces intense. My mother’s brown hands made an attractive contrast with the man’s pale skin. Her long French nails dug in his back with every dip of his hips. He moved his hips slowly and smoothly, and her shouts got louder, her language more explicit with each slow gentle thrust.

“
Shit
!
Fuck
that pussy!
Fuck
it!
Fuck
the
shit
out of it! Goddamnit you fucking
white
boy!”

Hands clamped over my mouth, eyes wide and round as saucers, I quickly ran back up the hall to the living room.

I tried to block them out. Unfortunately, no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t help but hear them. Hear the bedsprings squeaking. Hear my mother’s heavy breathing and her sudden high-pitched squeals, voice raised high. “Oh!
Ohh
! Oooh,
yeah
! Oooh,
yeahhhhhhhuuuhhhhh
!”

The man made a long rude groan.

The bedsprings stopped squeaking. Then contented sighs and murmurs came from the bedroom. Kisses. Laughter. “Mmm
yes
, baby!
That’s
what I’m
talking
about.”

I tried to concentrate on my homework.

A few minutes later, that white man came into the living room, fully dressed, jingling his car keys. Mom was following behind him, wearing her red terrycloth bathrobe, hair tousled, lipstick smeared. He had the nerve to kiss my Mom on the mouth in front of me, and say, “I’d like to see you again.”

Mom gave me the swiftest of glances, then looked at him. “So would I. But don’t call me here at home. I’ll call you.”

“When?”

Mom deliberately said, “When my
daughter
isn’t here.”

He actually coughed. “Right.”

“I’m sorry but you need to be going. I’ll call you when I call you. Okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“You were wonderful, baby. I’ll call you soon.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” The guy went out the door. Mom closed the door behind him. Then awkward silence followed. Mom turned to me and said, “So. How was school, baby?”

“It was alright. Felt kind of strange not having any rehearsals.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. How was your day?”

Mom and I both watched as that white man with blond hair got into his red Corvette, started the engine, pulled out and drove away. Then I watched Mom as she released a sigh and grinned from ear to ear. “It was interesting.”

I giggled. “Yeah, I’ll bet it was.”

My Mom giggled and blushed as she sat next to me. “Danielle Renee Evans!” Our giggles faded out. Then Mom gazed at me. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“For what, Mom?”

“Baby, be honest, you must have seen us. I know you heard us.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I’m sure you’ve got a few questions.”

“Yeah.”

“Like what, baby? Ask me.”

“You promise you won’t get mad?”

“I promise I won’t get mad. Now ask me.”

“Well…why were you stepping out on Dad? And with a white guy?”

She nodded. “I kind of thought you might ask me that. I know your dad would probably have a heart attack if you brought a white boy home from school. I, however, wouldn’t mind, because I have raised you differently.”

“You mean you were practicing as you preach?”

Mom slipped her arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “That’s right. I’ve always loved white men. But it’s not something I can talk about with just anybody. Other black women, maybe, but certainly not in mixed company.”

“Is that why Billie Jean can’t come over while Dad is here?”

“Unfortunately, yes. My sister decided to marry a white man. You would think with the civil rights movement still so fresh in everyone’s memory, interracial dating and marriage and mixed-race children wouldn’t be such an issue. But children of mixed race are an especially touchy issue for black people.”