Authors: Carmen Green

What a Fool Believes (7 page)

BOOK: What a Fool Believes

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The class went absolutely still.

Ginger threw her clueless hands into the air and sat down. “Crazy, huh?”

Nobody spoke for a full minute.

“Why aren't you locked up somewhere?” Pebbles asked.

“Because I'm not on drugs. And I haven't done anything wrong,” Ginger responded with an airy laugh.

“Nânânext?” Fred backed into the dry erase board and scared himself.

The big lady rolled to her feet. “Hey,” she drawled in her native Georgian tongue. “I'm Pebbles. I destroyed the master bathroom in my home after I learned my husband had another woman in there. See.” She showed her hands to Ginger. “No guns. You ever heard of a life sentence? Death penalty mean anything to you?”

“I've never fired a gun in my life,” Ginger stated matter-of-factly.

“All right.
The Three Faces of Eve
. Just remember none of us is your cheating man.”

“Don't worry, Pebbles. I won't hurt anyone,” Ginger said, but her sanguine smile made a few of the women shudder.

The other ladies admitted to various misdemeanors, but Byron stopped keeping track and made a mental note to update the beneficiaries in his will.

He finally stood. “I'm Byron, and I had a disagreement with my boss.”

Pebbles glared at him. “Did you hit him?”

“No.”

“But you wanted to, right?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

Tia didn't turn all the way around, but Byron knew he had her attention.

“Was he white or black?” Pebbles wanted to know.

“That doesn't matter,” screeched Fred, who was white. “Color has no bearing on anger. This class is racially mixed, but you share one common bond. You're here to learn how to control a very complex emotion. Anger is one of the most honest emotions we humans possess. Along with hunger and the desire to have our basic needs met, anger is an alert system to the body when something isn't right.

“We've all seen children have tantrums. They haven't learned reasoning skills, but they can and do get angry. Anger can be raw, powerful, and potentially harmful if a mechanism isn't put into place to control it. You're going to learn techniques to help you deal with your anger.”

Fred passed out textbooks and wire-bound notebooks. “For homework, read chapters one through five. Also, for the duration of the class, you'll be required to keep a journal.”

A collective groan moved through the group. “I'm not keeping a journal,” Debbie said, as she sat across from Ginger. “Anything you write can be used against you in a court of law.”

A chorus of dissenters agreed, and notebooks hit the tabletops in protest. “Forget it,” was the consensus.

“Ladies, you have to,” Fred squealed, failing to talk over them. “Listen to me. I'm the teacher.”

Byron dropped his head. This guy was a disgrace to men everywhere.

“It's time for a break.” Pebbles put her purse on her arm and waddled toward the door, women trailing her. “We might have to call it an early night if this is all you've got to say.”

Fred stood in front of the class, visibly shaking. “I've devised a set of rules, per se, things I've found have helped me when I feel myself getting angry. Anger is a healthy emotion, but it can also be a fool's worst enemy.” He grinned, although it came off looking like he'd been kicked in the spleen. “I call them Fred's Rules for Fools.”

Nobody in the room moved. Fred's leg shook as if he were a potty-training toddler. He laughed and it sounded like a whimper. “Okay.” He spoke in a voice much too high for a man with an Adam's apple. “They're pasted inside the front cover of your journals, but we'll review them weekly. The first rule is, when in a disagreement with a person, stick to the subject and never repeat yourself.”

Byron felt sorry for Fred. He was going to get beat up by a bunch of women because he was as lame as his rules. Rules for Fools.

Use “I feel,” rather than accuse. Walk away. Acknowledge when you're wrong. Don't make idle threats. Forgive those that have wronged you
.
Take responsibility for your anger. Don't instigate
.
Channel your anger by working out/exercising to the point of exhaustion. Focus on breathing techniquesâin through nose and out through nose. When you're really concentrating, nothing can make you angry. You are responsible for your emotions. Guard them intensely, and use them wisely.

Pebbles moved like a sumo wrestler to Fred's desk. “How are you ever going to get your point across if you can't reference what happened in the past? Especially if you know he's done something back then that you can use in your argument now.”

“Can you ever recall a time when, in an argument, you changed the other person's mind by saying something over and over again?” asked Fred.

“No, butâ”

“That's it then.” Fred nodded conclusively, as if he'd won the debate team trophy. “Let's move on to class expectations.”

“But I wasn't finished,” Pebbles said loudly.

“What new item do you want to bring to the discussion, Ms. Pebbles?” He sounded defeated. Emotionally, she was beating his ass with his trophy.

“New? We're still on the old. How is not repeating myself going to stop my husband from bringing other women in my house?”

“I don't know,” said Fred.

The class glared at Fred.

“What?” mumbled Roxy, who sat at the table ahead of Byron. “No, I didn't pay good money to hear you say you don't know something. I know I'd better get better answers than that. If you think I'm mad now, see me when you've wasted my time and my hard-earned cash.”

“You may have to accept that the infidelity happened and forgive him. Rule number six,” Fred told Pebbles. “Otherwise, I-I don't know.”

“You repeated yourself,” Ginger told him gently.

“I know.” Fred looked like he was getting fried on the sidewalk, under a magnifying glass.

“That's okay because it was another person asking the question. So technically, you're not repeating yourself to Ms. Pebbles if you answered someone else.” Then Ginger gave the class the smile of an angel.

Byron watched the byplay and wondered if this class was for the mentally ill or if he was just unlucky.

“I promise this works. If you use this technique, you will find disagreements shorter and less painful.”

“Not at my house,” Pebbles grunted. “We can go at it for hours.”

A chorus of agreement supported her. “Fred, I don't think you know what you're talking about.”

The dissenters grew louder.

“If you're not going to change that person's mind, why get yourself all worked up?” Fred asked the class.

“Because sometimes, you have to say it again to make yourself feel better.” Ginger, the redhead, spoke to the unseen husband who'd taken up with several wives in Utah. “Like you're not talking just to hear yourself speak.”

For a scared little man, Fred moved quickly to block the doorway. “You have to write in the journals and copy down today's rule, o-or you can't take a break.”

“Do you know what we could do to you?” Pebbles mashed her girth into Fred until he was barely visible above her mammoth breasts. He looked like an eraser.

“I'll tell on you,” Fred said, as he slowly turned crimson.

He'd suffocate if she didn't get off of him soon.

“I don't mind writing in mine.” Tia scrawled her name inside the front cover of her journal and laid it on the table at her seat.

Byron contained his surprise. He'd expected Tia to be the first person to line up behind Pebbles. From all he'd seen of her, especially at court, she was a straight hell-raiser. A rebel with a minor cause.

“I know I've got anger issues, especially against the cop that arrested me, my ex, and my boss,” Tia said.

Damn.
She did have issues, but Tia spoke a truth few wanted to acknowledge. Even him.

Reluctantly, slowly, a few women agreed.

Pebbles considered the words of her fellow women friends. “We'll think about it.”

Fred was quick to agree. “I think it's time to take a break.”

“Great idea.” Pebbles marched through the door.

With his back against the wall, Fred guarded the square below his belt with a three-ring notebook.

“Why are you letting her run all over you?” Byron asked him.

“I'm taking a course on becoming more assertive, and they suggested teaching. I have the credentials, the degrees.” Fred sighed and flopped into his chair behind the desk. “I suck, don't I?”

Byron didn't want the man to have a nervous breakdown. He gave Fred's shoulder a whack of encouragement. “You'll get better.”
I hope.
“You want something to drink?”

“No, I think I'll put my head down for a few minutes. Women make me tired.”

Byron blanched at the confession but left Fred to his rest period. At least the man knew when he was in over his head.

The murmurs of women getting to know one another caught up to Byron, and he entered the commons area and saw them huddled around two small tables, flashing wallet photos, lockets, and mothers' rings.

Women had an uncanny ability of getting to know one another. They only needed a single common thread, and the next thing you knew, they were thanking God for bringing them a lifelong friend, and next, talking about the fun they had on a cruise.

He shoved four quarters into the soda machine, got his soda, popped the lid, and swallowed the liquid in gulps.

Men were less complex.

Men didn't talk to men they didn't know.

Men didn't vacation together.

And men never, ever flashed pictures.

If they found themselves in a discussion with another man, the topic was always sex and included the expressions “hittin' it” and “waxin' that ass.”

Men were streamlined thinkers, and Byron appreciated that about his compatriots.

The rules shifted if men and women were in the same room.

Everything a man said from the moment he met a woman was designed with one purpose in mind: Was he going to get laid?

Am I going to get laid?

Byron adjusted his waistband but let go. He applied the theory of deductive reasoning and got an immediate answer.

No woman, no nooky.

Damn.

“I didn't know you had dimples,” Tia said.

Caught unaware, Byron sucked a little too hard on the can and scratched the inside of his upper lip. He waited a few seconds for the pain to subside. “It's a well-kept secret.”

“You'd appear more friendly if you let it out sometimes.”

He ignored the criticism. “You're welcome.”

“For what?”

“Court.”

She inserted four quarters and pressed the button for her soda. “Thanks. I hope you didn't expect me to fall at your feet.” When he didn't respond, Tia chuckled. “You're hilarious.”

The laughter stung more than the insult. “It was a gift.”

“Then you need to start over in the first grade and learn what a gift really is.”

Frustration worked through his nervous system. She was the reason he was here in the first place. “I shouldn't have expected gratitude from you. You fled custody. The judge should have thrown the book at you.”

“Who threw the book at you, Byron? What kept you from seeing me behind bars for six months?” Her chocolate brown eyes held him hostage. “You're in trouble because of me, aren't you?”

“No.”

Her smile said she didn't believe him. “You'd have testified against me if you'd made it in time. But you're here. Coincidence? I don't think so. We aren't so different.”

He harrumphed his disagreement.

“I wasn't angry until that night changed my life. Now I can't seem to shake it. So that means I have to go wherever it takes me. We're here for similar reasons. I'm almost sure of that.” She assessed him through eyes that smiled for her. “This class just got interesting.”

“If you have any ideas of retaliation against your ex, I'll get you, and I'll make it stick.”

Challenge sparkled in her eyes. “I'll keep checking my tail to see if you're on to me. See you around, Officer.”

BOOK: What a Fool Believes

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