Throb (Club Grit) (18 page)

“You know, we should hang out sometime,” said Jaina softly as she styled my hair into the easy wash-and-wear cut she remembered I liked. Her own hair was longer and curlier, kept in a loose ponytail with a black handkerchief to keep the part of her hair that was convinced it was meant to be bangs out of her face. It matched her apron and the rest of her outfit, all black, reminding me of Jason.

“We should,” I agreed, and I meant it. I’d always worked so hard, trying to get out of Compton, to get to Beverly Hills, to the “big time”, but now that I’d flown too close to the sun and been burned too hard, I didn’t want to go back to that world any time soon. I didn’t know what I was doing this summer, but while I figured it out, I knew I would have my family around to support me.

“What are you doing about graduation?” she asked gently.

“I’m going to skip it. Finals and then I’m done,” I said with a soft smile, not wanting to turn and mess up her handiwork as she ran her hands through my hair again, in a way that no girl at the sorority could do so respectfully.

“You sure that’s what you want?”

“Yeah, I do. By the way, the salon...it looks really nice,” I said. “Not to  imply that before, it didn’t, or anything.”

“It’s fine. Yeah, I’m going for a modern, sleek look. I’m part owner now,” she said, smiling widely. “I’ve been continuing to take some more classes at night, and I want to get certification for the products I make in the back. I think that people would want to buy them. Plus...well, a certain celebrity is looking at endorsing them.”

“Please don’t say it’s Lana Minashian,” I groaned.

Jaina laughed. “If that bitch set her foot in this salon, it’d be the last place she set it. And no, Keanne isn’t endorsing it either. You know that singer, Kiara Lynn?”

I nodded. She had natural hair and was described as the “black Taylor Swift” but in ten year’s time, some other woman would be described as the “Asian Kiara Lynn” or something. She was a country singer who added a dubstep influence to her work. She’d made it big in Nashville and her album was set to be bigger than Keanne’s had been last summer.

“Well, her stylist tried some of my product, and then used it on Kiara, who loved it so much that her people called my people – so, just me,” said Jaina with a laugh. “And anyways, next time she’s in town, we’re going to do a before and after photoshoot. I think the product is going to change things, Becca. There’s nothing on the market like it right now.” She held up a lock of my hair and held it closer to the marquee lighting. “Look at that shine. Look at the way that the light hits your hair, the way it makes it practically glow. There’s no bleach in it, but basically, it’s meant to bring out the best colors in hair without damaging it or changing its texture. Everything on the market right now is meant to relax or straighten hair, it’s meant to hide it rather than accentuate its best features. I want to change that.” Jaina was right. The locks of hair, which had been dull and frizzy when she first undid the braids, were still curly but had an additional shine that didn’t look or feel oily. The hair shined a natural brown, but not just a single color, like a gloss: an entire wooden-toned rainbow was reflected in my hair, as if it was a prism in a sepia world.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “And your product does that?”

“While leaving minimal buildup and no long or short term damages,” she said proudly. “It’s weird. I never thought that I’d be into the natural hair thing. Remember, growing up, you wanted books for your birthday, and I wanted a weave? Things have changed a lot, haven’t they?” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder and rubbing it.

“They sure have,” I said. “They sure have.”

Jaina and I had changed so much in the last four years, but so had our dreams, our goals, our focuses in the last six months alone. She’d thought she was going to work for celebrities that could afford to put in a weave or extensions for just a single night, and I’d thought I was going to live the high roller lifestyle with Keanne, but now? Both our goals were so different. She was launching a product for women with natural hair, and I...well, I didn’t know what I was going to do.

When I got home, I saw my dad for the first time in months. He didn’t say anything, just gave me a long hug, the kind only dads can give, before pulling away, giving me a kiss on my cheek, and sitting next to my mom. We talked about everything that had happened and gone on, and my parents told me they weren’t ashamed of me, but annoyed at the unjust society that protected men like Keanne at the expense of women like me, who were tried  and tested in ways he’d never be. My mom was angry, and my dad, the voice of reason, calmed her nerves, but still, I was stuck in a liminal place, not knowing what I should do. Should I try and find a place in some other city and become a journalist for a small town paper?

I didn’t know, and that night, I had a restless sleep. The next day, all I wanted to do was sleep some more, but my mom said I had to wake up and do something. I tried journaling, I tried playing video games, I tried everything, but I couldn’t get the thoughts of Keanne’s betrayal or my abandonment of Jason out of my head. I didn’t dare check my email, social media accounts, or my phone, though, because I knew that Jason must have contacted me, and that was something my parents still didn’t know about: Jason.

That night, my dad turned on the news, and I was forced to remember his face as I watched his parents, the news anchor wonder couple, on the television. They talked about the traffic in Los Angeles, about world events, and then...

“We have a special treat for you tonight, Los Angeles,” said the perky middle aged blonde woman. “Our special celebrity guest tonight is none other than the rapper, Keanne!”

“Oh no,” said my mom, and my dad reached to turn the channel, but I was intrigued. What were the chances of Jason’s parents interviewing Keanne?

“Leave it, dad,” I insisted. “I...want to see what they have to say.”

“Are you sure?” asked my dad, but my mom shushed him.

The camera panned as Aaron and Eileen Darryl walked over to the set where there were three cheery orange chairs on a yellow carpet. Keanne was sitting in full regalia, as usual: thick gold chains over a tuxedo with a loud patterned tie, wearing neon sneakers. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his sunglasses.

“So, Keanne, your new album is set for release this summer...but is the truth?” asked Aaron.

“Uh, I don’t have a single called “The Truth””, said Keanne, cool as a cucumber on the outside, but I didn’t know if he was feigning ignorance or trying to hide something else: guilt.

“You’ve stated that one of your interns, who will go unnamed, came onto you on your private plane, yes?” asked Eileen.

“That’s right,” said Keanne. “This ho –” The word was bleeped out. “She tried to get up on this di—” Another bleep. “But I said no because I already have a woman.”

“That’s right, you do,” said Eileen. “And here she is, now.”

A woman came out, who I recognized as one of the members of Keanne’s entourage, the “shots girl” who would bring us different shots at whatever club we were at. She was almost unrecognizable, wearing minimal makeup and out of her usual cocktail dress, wearing a plain skirt and blouse with sandals.

“Th-that’s not her,” said Keanne with a laugh.

“Oh, is this her then?” asked Aaron, another women coming out behind him and standing next to the first woman. She was tall, Asian, and definitely not Lana.

“N-no, I mean –” stuttered Keanne.

As woman after woman came out, the set got very crowded.

“So, none of these women are your girlfriend?” asked Eileen innocently, with her signature smile.

“That’s right,” said Keanne.

“So, explain these pictures then?” asked Aaron, and the television on the set started up a slideshow of Keanne and evidence of his lecherous behavior, as he groped, kissed, and surreptitiously rubbed against the various women on set.

“It looks like you’ve got quite the
keen
game,” joked Eileen. “All these women were under your employ, and yet, you’ve been seen sexually harassing all of them and abusing the state of authority you were entrusted with.”

As I watched in disbelief as Keanne was called out for his behavior, my heart lifted. I wasn’t the only one he’d done this to? Any guilt I had, about having led Keanne on, or having somehow deserved what had happened, lifted. Keanne hired attractive women to provide him with eye candy and proceeded to sexually harass them, and so he was called out as a lecherous predator, and I was no longer the home wrecker I’d been accused of being.

Later that week, I read that Lana Minashain had broken up with Keanne, citing “irreconcilable differences”. The other employees were filing a sexual harassment lawsuit against Keanne, but that wasn’t what mattered to me: what mattered was the fact that Jason’s parents had gone to bat for me, had exposed Keanne in order to save my reputation.

And what had I done?

I’d pushed Jason away.

I
HAD BEEN HOME FOR FIVE DAYS, but I still missed Jason and missed parts of my old life. I missed Starbucks, Rodeo Drive, and clubbing, but I didn’t miss UCBH, Omega House, or Keanne. Unfortunately, it seemed like I couldn’t have any of those things without the others, and Jason was part of that world. I’d left disgraced, and although now, my reputation was fine, now that Keanne had been exposed, I still felt like I didn’t belong there. I neither wanted to go back to Beverly Hills nor felt like I was worthy enough to if I wanted.

I woke up to the smell of tea and the chattering of voices that I recognized I couldn’t quite place as I woke, still groggy. As I got changed and kept listening, I slowly recognized them. Mom, Dad...and Jason?

Wearing just my white dress, a headband, and sandals, I walked into the dining room and took a peek around the corner. My ears hadn’t deceived me. There they were: my mom, my dad, and the man I’d thought I’d never see again.

“Jason?” I said, all of a sudden too self-conscious about how I was standing.

“Hey, Becca. It’s been a while and I wanted to check up on you,” he said, getting up to give me a hug. My mom glared and my dad pushed her shoulder lightly. She was always the bad cop and he, the good cop. It was a lot like what I had with Jason.

“I’m doing okay, I guess. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you for what your parents did, with the interview,” I said, and I knew I didn’t have to explain any more.

“It’s fine, I wanted to see how you’re doing, though. If it’s okay with you, would you maybe be up for going out with me today?” He turned to my parents. “I’ll have her back by ten.”

My dad laughed. “She’s a grown woman, she can do what she wants. You two have fun.”

“But—” I started, but my dad stopped me.

“Rebekah, you’ve been holed up here too long. You need to go out and do stuff. I know what happened sucked, but this boy came out all this way to see you. He’s asking for a date, not for you to marry him. It’s not a tall order. Besides, if you don’t want to see your friend...why are you blushing?” Dad never used my full first name unless he was serious about something, because everyone had called me Becca, by my own insistence, ever since the seventh grade. My mom glared at my dad, and I held my hands up to my cheeks, even more self-conscious. “He’s a very nice young man. Easy on the eyes, too.” It was true: Jason had dressed up, the way he had when he saw me at Starbucks after what had happened at Keanne’s house, a stark contrast to my mom and dad, who were in comfortable weekend clothes.

“Dad!” I squealed as I went back to my room to get my stuff. My dad could always be counted on to embarrass me in front of people, but it was good natured and not like what Keanne had done in the least.

As I exited the house with Jason, the afternoon sunlight hit me for the first time since I’d come to Compton, to escape from the blinding flashes of the tabloid photographer’s cameras, and there wasn’t a reporter in sight. Just as my mom had predicted, the media had found a new target, and I was finally free. It was a new day and the first of the rest of my life.

In the cab, I got nervous and put on the pair of large sunglasses I was keeping stashed in my canvas tote, the pair I’d had since freshman year and that, ironically, I’d bought at the same place Jason was taking me: the Santa Monica boardwalk. Jason kept one arm wrapped around my waist, the other on my hand.

Jason kept his hold on me as we walked past the rides and the people trying to win prizes. We reached the shore and just started walking. It was ridiculous: I was in a white sundress and Jason was in a pair of khakis, a buttoned up shirt that I’d untucked from beneath his belt in the cab because he looked too stuffy, his tie in my tote bag, but still wearing a blazer and a pair of what I was sure were real tortoiseshell Ray Ban Wayfarers.

It was like we were from some weird fashion shoot for an obscure online fashion company, the kind of shoot that was meant to get reblogged by random users on the Internet and was meant to sell a lifestyle, but right now, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting my lifestyle. Anyone that was judging me and Jason based on the clothes we were wearing would be mistaken: this wasn’t a vacation for us, but an escape. Anyone that thought that the way that we held onto one another was a flashy way of showing off that we were in a relationship would have been wrong: Jason was both my anchor, keeping me grounded so that I didn’t run away by staying in place, and the lighthouse that had drawn me out of my self-imprisonment in Compton.

We might have looked good, but the fact I’d lost weight was because I hadn’t wanted to eat much during the last week, given the fact that I couldn’t get the fact that I’d be mobbed by a literal mob of paparazzi at my college, which I’d thought was a safe space. The only reason Jason was dressed up was because he didn’t want to risk offending my parents. I would have rather been with Jason in his apartment, drinking tea and listening to a lazy day audiobook as we lounged together on his couch in our pajamas, but after a week of basically doing that, sans Jason, I needed to get out, to get fresh air, to remember that the world was bigger than just Beverly Hills, the way I’d been forced to remember on the Ferris Wheel the last time we’d come to the pier.