Читать книгу Live And Learn - Niobia Bryant - Страница 16

“Welcome, ladies. I’m glad to see you all, but you know the deal,” I told my friends straight from the door at the door.

Alizé, Dom, and Moët all grumbled but removed their shoes before entering, just the way I wanted. I collected their winter coats and hung them up in the closet in the foyer.

My entire living room area was decorated in cream with pale gold accents, and I was not going to let them inadvertently track in dirt. If I could walk around barefoot, so could they.

“Is it a’ight if we sit down, or should we get butt naked first?” Dom asked mockingly, plopping down on the cream leather sectional. “Cristal, you know you full of shit.”

I ignored her. Is there anything wrong with wanting and getting, the finer things in life? I want things beyond designer clothes and a nice car to ride in. This is a lesson my friends have yet to learn.

Look at Dom. She made good money—even if it was from stripping—and still lived in those nasty projects. I know for a fact the shoes she was wearing cost $225.00, more than her rent for several months. Now, what was that all about?

I walked over to the small rolltop desk in the corner. In one brief glance my life was chronicled: my biweekly paycheck from Platinum Records for $700.00, lying next to my bills for the month totaling $3,000.00. Twelve hundred for my lease, four-hundred-dollar car note, high car and property insurance, even higher furniture note, credit card bills, utilities, food, and oh, Lord, clothing….

Aaahhh!

Gwen Guthrie’s hit “Ain’t Nothing Going on but the Rent” was my anthem. Destiny’s Child’s old jam “Bills, Bills, Bills” was my theme song. I was definitely looking for a brother to help ease my financial tension.

My male friends brought up whatever slack my paycheck left, and I could rob Peter to pay Paul with the best of them. If that did not work, I could do a lot of creative juggling with what bills got paid when, which was not always good for my credit, but oh, well.

I do not live beyond my means because I mean to live the way I live, and nothing is going to change that.

I scooped up my bills from my friends’ prying eyes. My eyes fell on Sahad Linx’s signature on my paycheck. The bold slashing spoke of his wealth, prominence, and power.

I let my perfectly manicured finger trace the letters of his name slowly with the same sensuality with which I would one day stroke his ebony penis. Stroke it. Taste it. Kiss it. Suck it. Ride it.

“Cristal! Bring your saddidy ass over here, girl.”

Dom’s voice broke into my erotic thoughts. I slid my bills and paycheck into the drawer, crossing the room to take a seat on the couch next to Alizé. “What are you all talking about over here?”

“We tryin’ to decide on a road trip for spring break next month,” Alizé answered me, looking too cute in a form-fitting hot pink top with NASTY GIRL blazed across the front in rhinestones and a pair of Apple Bottoms jeans that were killer on her slender figure. Hot pink high-heeled boots, belt, and oversized shades—definitely Gucci—completed her look.

I would bet my paycheck that she had on pink underwear as well.

We each had our own unique look and fashion style.

Alizé was a variation of hip-hop glitterati queen for her casual wear and tailored business for anything career oriented.

Dom was straight in-your-face sex appeal, especially with the deep V-neck shirt she was wearing with a pair of House of Dereon jeans cut so low on her hips that you could see the very split of her…eh, derriere.

I was more of the sophisticate with a Park Avenue socialite sense of fashion, preferring tailored slacks and classic dresses.

And Moët? Well, God bless her soul but the poor child was so confused by her double life that she did not have time to develop her own style. She was a mix of all three of us, depending on whomever she went shopping with that week.

I looked at each of my friends again. We were so different now. Our style. Our jobs. Our goals in life. Our dreams. But back in high school we were all four girls from Newark just trying to make it through high school. Our friendship helped the years pass by quickly. Thank God we found each other.

It was the first party of the school year. Monica and I were excited even before we hopped out of the back of her father’s car, threw him a quick wave as he pulled off, and made our way inside. The gym was already packed. The lights were dimmer than they were during school. “Can I Get A …” by Jay-Z was blaring, and the dance floor was full.

“What’s going on over there?” Monica asked as a crowd gathered to the left of the gym floor.

I just shrugged because we were heading our nosy behinds in that direction.

We wormed our way through the cheering people until we stood together near the edge of the inner circle. A slender dark-skinned girl was in the middle, dancing her behind off like she was working a 9 to 5.

University High was a small school, so no one was a complete stranger whether you ever spoke to them or not. I knew her name was Keesha Lands. I had to admit that she impressed me because she was always cracking jokes in class and her gear was almost top-notch. She had on a gold herringbone chain that had to be three inches wide. And her fingernails were long and brightly airbrushed.

I thought I was a pretty good dresser, but I could not compete with Monica or Keesha. I had to babysit after school just to make extra money to buy a few designer pieces to mix with the Wal-Mart clothes my latest foster parents bought for me.

“She keep shaking like that, she gone send that chain flying, and then I know all hell gone break loose in here,” Monica joked.

“I know that’s right.”

Eventually the crowd dispersed and the party carried on. Monica and I had fun at our first high school party, laughing it up with our friends, flirting with the boys (especially the upperclassmen), and dancing just enough to be cute but not wild enough to get funky.

“Girl, I have to pee,” Monica told me, grabbing my hand to pull me behind her out the gym and down the empty hall to the girl’s bathroom.

Monica scooted into the one near the door as I checked my hair in the mirror over the sink. I started to sing “My Life” by Mary J. Blige. As Monica came out the stall and washed her hands, she started to sing along with me.

We were off-key and not doing Ms. Mary any justice.

Suddenly a third voice chimed in. We stopped singing. Startled, we both looked up to find Keesha’s slim face over the side of the stall beside the sink. As she continued to sing the bridge worse than even we did, we looked at each other, shrugged, and started singing again.

We heard Keesha’s feet hit the ground just before she dramatically bust out the stall, her head flung back, her eyes closed as she sang into her fist. She had Mary’s movements down pat.

A senior cheerleader walked into the bathroom, gave us an odd look, and turned and walked back out.

We all stopped singing, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

The three us have been inseparable ever since.

“Why don’t we go to the shore,” I suggested, changing the direction of my thoughts to the beaches of South Jersey.

Dom immediately rolled her slanted mocha eyes heavenward as she reached in her Dolce & Gabbana bag for her always on-hand soft pack of Newport cigarettes. She lit one quickly, her peach-tinted lip gloss staining the butt. “This is my first weekend off in a month, and for one, I ain’t even trying to be around kids screaming and playing in that dirty-ass ocean all day. Secondly, if I’m gone to give up chillin’ with my man for y’all, it gots to be for more than South Jersey, ya heard me?”

A long and narrow tunnel of exhaled smoke followed her declaration.

I was used to Dom’s supposed tough-girl exterior, so I ignored her. “Moët, we already know you cannot go. So, Alizé, what do you think?”

“Let’s go to Myrtle Beach for Biker’s Week,” came a soft reply.

All our eyes darted to Moët in surprise.

“Big Mo,” Alizé teased, raising her hands to the roof with two quick pumps.

Dom watched Moët through eyes that she squinted against the silver sliver of smoke. “What the hell you gonna tell Reverend Ike and Sister Shirley Caesar?” she asked, her raspy voice condescending.

“Dom, I told you not to call my parents that,” Moët snapped, her round pretty face twisted with irritation.

Dom just shrugged a slender ebony shoulder, running her two-inch acrylic nails through her short-cropped hair before she exhaled more smoke from her nostrils.

I was wondering how long it would take for me to Febreze all the cigarette odors from my apartment. I glanced pointedly at the cigarette, and Dom pointedly ignored me. I rose, walked over to the large bay windows, and flung them open wide.

“An-y-way,” Moët said. “Y’all down or what?”

“Ain’t nothing but a thing. Let’s ride,” Alizé said, fingering her necklace. “Rah gave me some money to go shopping today. I only spent a hundred of it, so I still got plenty left.”

I studied the chain Rah gave Alizé just two weeks ago. Even though it was probably from one of those Chinese-owned jewelry stores downtown, it still was a nice piece. I preferred Cartier, Cassis, Tiffany & Co., or the custom pieces of that brother Chris Aire. I could not afford it, but I definitely preferred it.

“That man spends that money, huh?” I asked, tucking my bare feet under me on the couch.

Alizé gave me a look like “Say what!” “Shit, getting money out of him is easier than rain in April,” she bragged, with a little feeling good shimmy of her shoulders.

“That’s all well and good, but I still could not deal with thugs,” I told her as I reached for Dom’s steadily disappearing pack of cigarettes and put them on the end table by me.

“Rah’s out the game, Cristal.”

I looked at her and raised a perfectly arched brow. “Yes, but in or out of the game he still has the clothes, the mean face, and the attitude of a thug. But do you.”

“Oh, and you know this,” she answered, knocking her leg against my knee.

“Yeah, but is he still whack in the bedroom?” Dom asked, a sly smile on her lips.

Alizé laughed. “Girl, please. His thing looks like a damn gherkin.”

We all joined her in laughter.

I could not help but picture Rah standing with his hands on his hips, with all his business—what little there was—hanging out.

“Shit,” she said, drawing out the vowel. “I pray every time we do the do that his ass don’t give me a damn D & C.”

“I can’t stand an itty-bitty short-dick man for no amount of money,” Moët added.

“Are you getting any kind of dick, Mo?” Dom asked as she tapped her cigarette ashes into her hands.

I did not have ashtrays. Dom refused to get the hint.

“I got a man, thank you.”

“I’m just saying, you never talk about him.”

“Don’t worry. He got twelve inches and plenty of money, Dom,” Moët snapped, her eyes flashing.

“How about Atlanta?” I suggested, trying to change the subject before an argument ensued. Plus, I wanted to steer my girls to the high road, away from the upcoming freak central in Myrtle Beach. I mean please.

Biker’s Week, the largest rally for African-American motorcycle riders, was held at Atlantic Beach in Myrtle Beach, SC. It was more for a man’s enjoyment than a woman’s. Lots of bikes, loud music, wall-to-wall bodies—most half-naked females. Since I did not care for motorcycles, nor did I plan on shaking my derriere in front of anyone’s video camera, there really was no need for me to go there. Okay? All right.

“Ain’t Ludacris and Usher from ATL?” Dom asked with a wicked lick of her lips.

“I’ll take that as a yes for Atlanta from Dom,” I said, turning to Alizé. “Cool?”

“Cool,” she answered.

“Moët, you sure your ass can go?” Dom asked.

Good point. I looked at Moët, and I could see her embarrassment. Her parents were sickening.

“I’ll think of something,” was her reply.

Enough said.

“Ladies, now that we have chosen our destination, I have to get my hands on some money,” I admitted. Being in between “friends” had put a definite strain on my resources.

“Call Ezekial—” Alizé began, reaching in her purse and pulling out her compact and tube of IMAN lip gloss.

“Everett,” I corrected her on the name of my last companion.

“Yeah, whatever. Call him. He’s a big-time corporate lawyer,” she stated as she applied the gloss to her lips.

“But don’t tell him what you really want it for,” Moët added, her voice soft—almost fairylike. “Tell him you got a bill due or something.”

It was funny that little Moët was trying to school me on men. Inside I was asking the same question as Dom: just who was Moët’s mystery man? I asked once and I did not get an answer. I was not going to ask her again. I guessed she would tell us in her own time.

“Cristal, you gonna call him?” Alizé asked.

“I do not deal with him anymore.” I unfolded my slim frame to walk over to my desk, reaching for my black crocodile address book.

Dom used slender fingers to hold her cigarette. “You need to leave them damn corporate suits alone.”

I glanced over at her, pausing in my perusal. “What should I do, get a thug in my life?”

“Damn right,” Alizé and Dom said in unison, finishing that off with a round of pounds and high fives.

“Alizé, is this the same corporate world you are salivating to get into? I can sure see a man like Rah attending all those corporate functions with you.” Yes, I meant to sound sarcastic.

Alizé flipped me the bird. Humph, truth hurts.

“Look here, bougie,” Dom said, leaning forward on her slender knees to look at me with a devilish hint of a smile in her slanted ebony eyes.

“Put her d’, Dom,” Alizé added.

I started to tell Dom that someone should put her down, and that she needed to move her child out of the projects, but I refrained. Instead I closed my address book, using my finger to mark the page, and leaned my hip against the desk as I faced my more than outspoken friends.

“A brotha that works on a job every damn day ain’t feelin’ givin’ up that money like a thug. And you know why?”

“Do tell,” I said sarcastically.

“Because a thug don’t give a shit about that easy money. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Dom looked to Alizé and Moët for backup.

Moët reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“She’s right, Cristal,” Alizé chimed in like a sidekick, pulling a grape Blow-Pop from her purse to smack loudly upon.

“To Rah, or my baby Lex, it’s like a part of their street cred to lace they women with nice shit. They wanna give up that loot. But a brotha gettin’ up out of his bed every day, bustin’ his ass doing forty or sixty hours a week for a check, ain’t feelin’ it.”

Dom had a habit of hitting one slender fist into her open palm as she spoke, like she was trying to hit her point home. And although I understood fully what she was saying, I was not getting involved with a grown man whose main ambition in life was to develop his street credibility.

I wanted a man who was husband material and not jail material. I wanted someone who could offer what I lacked the first eighteen years of my life: stability. A man who played outside the law was not any more stable than someone walking a tight rope in the middle of a hurricane. I wanted more than a friend who would spend his money on me. I wanted a wealthy husband. Period. I was talking permanency and security, because if my future husband left me, there was always alimony. Okay? All right.

The girls kept on lauding their street warriors, and I politely tuned them out, turning my attention back to my address book with a “whatever” look on my face. Using a clear-painted nail, I traced down my list of names.

Each and every man I ever dated or slept with was listed with a brief bio, and a photo if I had one. I used dollar signs to rate how free giving they were with their money, and stars to rate how good they were in bed. Five dollar signs was a true spender, and five stars was a too-good-to-be-true lover. A combination of both and he was almost a true keeper. I had only one or two of those.

The man I chose to call had absolutely nothing to do with making me climax until I fainted. This call to Townsend Lakes was all about the Benjamins, baby.

I met the defensive tackle for the New York Giants about a year ago at one of the label’s release parties. I was not able to get any passes for the girls, and I definitely did not want to carry sand to the beach, so I went alone.

Looking ever so fine in a red silk Diane von Furstenberg strapless dress that originally retailed for $1,250.00 (I caught it on clearance for a mere $300.00), I stood out in the crowd of half-dressed groupies and overdressed industry elite. That dress drew Townsend straight to me.

Better known as The Enforcer, he rated two stars and five dollar signs. He was a wall of muscles except where it counted. Unfortunately for him, a four-star, five-dollar-sign man had beat him out; thus ending our five-month relationship.

It was only Tuesday. I had until Friday morning to get him eating out of the palm of my hand…again.

“Cristal, we’ll save money if you just drive your whip,” Dom offered.

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I am not putting all of those miles on my ride. Why not yours?”

“It’s a coupe.”

True, but I still was not driving, and my face showed that. Not even bothering to address the issue further, I turned my back on them and picked up my cordless phone.

I had not spoken to Townsend in a few months, but I knew he would remember me well. I made sure of that…if you know what I mean.

“Whaddup.”

“You as always, Huggie Bear,” I purred into the phone, quickly referring to my black book for the nickname I gave him.

He paused for only a brief second. “Long time no hear from, Cristal,” he said, pleasure obvious in his deep, Barry White like tone.

“I was so hurt when I heard you were getting married. I decided to help you be faithful to your future wife,” I lied, twirling a lock of my bone-straight auburn hair around my finger.

“Married?” Townsend balked. “Who told you that lie? Marriage ain’t nowhere in my vocab.”

Ahem, yet another reason why I dropped him. Even though he loved to spend the money, three hundred pounds with a short penis and no sight of legal commitment did not make me a happy woman.

“Just a little rumor I caught in the wind,” I told him, turning to wave my hand at the girls as one of them muttered something about me being a good liar. “As soon as I found out it was a lie, I knew I had to call you,” I said softly.

“You shouldn’t have ever stopped calling me.”

Okay, my big fish took the bait.

“I regret listening to that rumor now.”

“I regret it, too, baby.”

He was nice and hooked. Now it was time to reel him in. “I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“You damn right.”

I gave my girls a thumbs-up.