Love Me

by Gemma Weekes

  ‘Fine,’ he replies.

  ‘Had any gigs lately?’

  ‘Yeah, a few.’

  ‘You all are so talented. You really deserve all the breaks. I’ve made a scrapbook, you know! All of your press, and your reviews . . .’ She eyes him expectantly. ‘Corey now has it in his head that you’re angry or that you hate him.’

  ‘Then why,’ says Spanish, quietly, tapping out that rhythm faster and faster, ‘doesn’t he call me?’

  ‘Well . . . you know. There’s the new baby and I’m sure he’s tried. It’s just that he—’

  ‘Mom. Not today. I’m sick of getting these messages through you.’

  ‘You’re not that easy to get hold of.’

  ‘I’ve had the same cell number for five years!’

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t hurt if you got in touch, James.’

  ‘Five years, Mom! That’s not enough time for him to give me a call if he’s so friggin’ concerned?’

  ‘I know, I know! But they don’t know if you want to speak to them or not. All I’m saying is it might be nice if you opened the lines of communication and got in touch with your brother and sister once in a while, James. They miss you.’

  Spanish doesn’t answer. He quiets his fingers but remains standing, as though he’s waiting for her to leave.

  ‘We all miss you. You don’t even come round for the holidays.’

  More nothing.

  ‘James?’ She fidgets with her outfit.

  ‘Mom,’ he says tightly, ‘you always try this with me. I’m always the bad guy. They have my number. They have my address. You wanted to come see me and here you are. What the hell else do you want from me?’

  I’m starting to wish he had just left me outside, or that he really did just have another chick up here. I sip my wine and examine the dirt under my nails.

  ‘I’m only saying this because we all care about you, James, and you lock us out.’

  ‘Stop lying! You locked me out, Mom. You all locked me out! Just like Dad.’

  His mother’s face crumples. ‘You know that’s not true!’

  ‘What is this? The black sheep outreach service?’

  ‘Unfair, James.’ Fingers clutch around her cold glass. ‘Unfair. I’m your mother. I treat you all the same. You’re my firstborn!’ Her eyes fill with water and I’m panicking. Want to get out of here. ‘Don’t you ever forget that! I’ve always supported you! I’ve always been there.’ Her face grows more and more pink, and I realise how much she looks like Spanish after all. She arranges and rearranges the things on the crate-cum-coffee table. ‘You’re not a black sheep. You’re not a stranger. You’re my son, my family . . .’

  ‘Mom. Look . . . OK. Just forget I said that. I’m sorry.’ Then, with what seems a huge effort of will, Spanish peels himself from his position standing against the wall and goes to her, puts his arms around her. ‘Just stop it with the emotional blackmail, OK? I’m gonna do what feels right and that’s how it is. There’s no point in me coming around just to be fake.’

  ‘We want to see you because we love you.’

  ‘OK Mom.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, as he releases her. ‘There’s no pressure . . . We just miss you. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget.’

  He nods, but he’s looking at his toes and then at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Look, Mom,’ Spanish says gently, ‘do you need me to take you anywhere? ’Cause I’ve got band practice . . .’

  ‘Of course!’ she replies. ‘That’s no problem. That’s OK. My driver’s outside. It’s fine.’

  She hugs and kisses us both like we’re being shipped off for active military duty. ‘James, I know I keep telling you this, but you really should just save your money instead of paying rent on this place. It was a gift. We don’t need it. And we know you’re trying to build your music career right now . . .’

  ‘Mom,’ Spanish warns. I look at him. An apartment as a gift? He doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Alright. Alright. I love you. You look really well, son.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You make sure he comes to see his mom sometime soon,’ she says to me. ‘You’re welcome too. And if you guys wanna come by the hotel for dinner let me know. We’re gonna be in town for another couple of weeks . . .’

  I glance quickly between them, feeling more like a wife than a sort of unofficial girlfriend thing he’s not even sure he wants. My palms sweat. I just met him.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll . . . uh,’ I say. ‘I’ll try.’

  fragile machinery.

  A LIGHT TAP on the door nudges me out of sleep and I’m saying ‘Come in!’ before I’m fully awake, just to stop the noise. There are footfalls, and then Zed’s voice, catching me before I can fall back under the waves.

  ‘Eden. Come on. Wake up.’

  ‘Mrrrghh?’

  ‘I brought you an icicle. You want it?’ The voice, much too close, a hand brushing my hair back. That familiar paralysis. ‘Eden. You want it?’

  ‘What,’ I say thickly. Body damp, mouth furry, head a purple throb. ‘What you doing down here, Zed?’

  ‘Take it or it’s gonna melt,’ he says and puts it in my hand. The shock of the cold goes right through me. I put it in my mouth without taking it out of the wrapper. Bliss. He gets up. The bed creaks.

  ‘Wait.’ I clear my throat. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About twelve thirty.’

  ‘You woke me up at midnight to give me an icicle?’

  He stands there for a moment and I can barely see him but I can feel him. His presence is heavier than the heat or the darkness. ‘I was bored upstairs; I didn’t know you were already asleep. It’s like an oven up there. I figured down here must be even worse, and I was right. That old broken-down fan ain’t doing much.’

  I sit up and switch on the lamp. There he is. I bite a hole in the wrapper and the icicle is cola flavour, syrupy-cool. Perfect.

  ‘So what are you doing?’ he says, looking down at me.

  I suck my teeth. ‘Sleeping! What did you think I was doing?’

  Zed laughs. I laugh. ‘You wanna sit down?’

  He hesitates, sits lightly at the foot of the bed. ‘Thanks for this,’ I say, holding up his little frozen gift.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘So . . .’ I say quietly, but no coherent thought is forthcoming.

  He gives me a long look and then says, ‘You know, I think New York’s been good for you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You seem happier. I don’t know . . . more like yourself.’

  ‘You like the Brandy makeover then?’ I laugh.

  ‘Yeah, actually. Your hair suits you. I like the way you wear it natural like that. Looks good on you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘You still seeing that girl?’ I ask in a rush of bright confidence.

  ‘No.’ Silence. ‘The job’s keeping me pretty busy.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I think my mom is about to blow a fuse any minute though.’ He laughs awkwardly. ‘She like, “Boy! I did not put your ungrateful behind through college so you could serve drinks! You better use that education or I’m gonna get old school and slap it back outta your head!”’ He snakes his neck back and forth and I laugh and it’s so funny I almost pee, like when we were teenaged and he did impressions of the girl who served us at the local burger place. May I take your aw-dah? ‘She’s been convinced my whole life that I’m a genius, and right now she thinks I’m making a mockery of my God-given intelligence.’

  ‘But you’re using it,’ I tell him, ‘in your music.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he says, thinking. He looks at me. ‘She had bigger ideas when I got accepted into the academy. She threw a party,’ he leans across the bed. ‘But I’d been top of the class all my life and now, suddenly, I had to work damn hard just to avoid bein
g last.’

  He shakes his head. I flashback to teenager-hood and how impressed I was by him. All I’d ever known at that point was the local Catholic Girls’ Secondary back in Stoke Newington. Baggy opaque tights, big-mouthed girls, harassed teachers and home by four. I was moderately clever and moderately popular. I’d never tried hard at anything before in my life apart from maybe not trying and it seemed like most people I knew were exactly the same. Zed was different.

  ‘It was crazy,’ he says. ‘For the first time I was surrounded by rich people. I thought they wouldn’t have any problems, but in some ways the problems they had were worse, you know what I mean? Where I came from, circumstances fucked people up. These kids were all messed up on the inside. Empty, depressed and always looking for new ways to distract themselves. And I was one of those distractions. There were virtually no other black faces in or out of school. At best, I’d have kids come up and ask me what it’s like to get shot, or if my family was on welfare. At worst I’d be walking around off campus and have grown men call me a nigger.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I say, feeling claustrophobic, the way I always feel talking about racism, the smallness of it. ‘You were a child! Why would they do that?’

  ‘A lot of shit in the world is hard to understand. Hatred is never rational.’

  ‘What about Spanish? He says he went to your school.’

  ‘He did,’ Zed looks at me and away, ‘but he’s a little younger. He came in two years later. He wasn’t there for my worst years, when I was trying to figure it all out.’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe that shit happened to you in the nineties.’

  ‘Hell yeah,’ he laughs. ‘God bless America. I got to thinking about all of this meaning contained by my skin. People willing to love me or hate me, accept me or not ’cause of it, you know what I mean? Dudes who’d wanna beat me up on principle, or be like me. Girls – women even – who’d wanna fuck . . .’ another quick glance, ‘without knowing anything about me. It was crazy, man.’

  His skin is so flawless, so even and rich in tone, sometimes it’s hard to believe he contains all the fragile machinery of life, all those spitting, churning, pounding organs. He could be solid all the way through like a wood carving. I can’t imagine him ever getting old. Or dying. Maybe it’s not a strange thing that people feel so strongly about skin like his. They look at him and see a distorted likeness. They don’t see in. He’s too beautiful.

  ‘Did Spanish have to deal with all that racial abuse as well?’

  ‘Spanish.’ Zed smiles down at my bed sheet. ‘Well. I dunno . . . He fit in more. I mean, let’s be honest, his look is kind of ambiguous. He could be Latino, or Middle Eastern or even Mediterranean. It wasn’t the same for him,’ he shrugs. Gives me another long look that makes me nervous – or more nervous – and says, ‘Anyway. Somebody threw a brick in the window at my house in boarding school.’

  ‘Zed!’

  ‘It had a piece of paper tied around it that read: Go back to the projects, homie! Those motherfuckers. Yep, that shit happened in the nineties.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I say. Wishing I wasn’t sitting so close to him. Wishing I was closer. He takes a spliff out of his pocket and fiddles with it. Doesn’t light it. Puts it back.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ he asks me. ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell him.

  ‘I was shook when it happened, I can’t lie. I was chilling and then blam . . . glass everywhere. Didn’t know what the hell was going on. Then I ran to the window and saw your stupid ass. Just standing there. Not even running. Just looking confused and guilty as hell. I just wanna know what you were thinking!’

  ‘I dunno,’ I say, ‘I dunno.’

  He shakes his head, pinching and releasing my cotton bedspread. Pinch, release, pinch, release, between his long fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. The heat is thick.

  ‘It’s so ironic.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Back when I was in school, they threw that brick because they hated me, or at least thought they did. And you . . .’ he trails off.

  We sit there for a while. I take my twisted hair out of the hair band and then put it back in again. After a moment I tell him that I’m kind of tired and need to sleep and thanks again for the icicle and maybe we can carry on this conversation tomorrow or whenever. And he says, ‘Yeah . . . yeah, sure. I got to be up early for the studio anyway.’

  Pops up like toast. Gathers himself. ‘I like your T-shirt by the way,’ he says. ‘Looks familiar.’

  The one I stole from him! Crap.

  He smiles his crooked smile and leaves before I can apologise or explain.

  cigarette in the bowl.

  I WAKE UP mid-morning to the poke and tickle of the abandoned icicle wrapper, hiding twisted among the sheets. I fish it out and there’s still a tiny amount of sugary liquid left in the grooves of plastic. The taste of it still lingers in my mouth. Click. Yet another thing that will always remind me of Zed.

  I swing out of bed and it dawns on me that the house smells different. There’s a tang of cigarette smoke in the air. Disgusting. I haven’t seen Zed light up a cancer stick since he’s been in New York. Plus, he must be late for the studio. I step into my flip-flops and head up to quiz him on it. Up the basement steps and out into the hall.

  He’s not in his room. I walk toward the front of the house, thinking that he must be in a seriously funny mood to start in on the fags. But then . . .

  The jolt is terrible, like waking up with a cat on your chest. She’s wearing hot-pants and canvas boots and the only sound is one rubber heel bouncing on the wooden step.

  ‘Max! What the fuck . . .?’

  She starts, almost dropping her cigarette. ‘EDEN! You miserable bitch!’ she says, looking me up and down in my shortie pyjamas. ‘What are you bloody doing here?’

  ‘This,’ I tell her, ‘is my aunt’s house.’ And I just stand there.

  ‘Oh right!’ she says, visibly relaxing. ‘That explains it then. I didn’t even know you’d left London. I’ve been trying to call you, but it’s not like you usually answer my calls anyway.’

  ‘Bloody Max,’ I say.

  ‘So where is he, then?’ She takes a deep pull on her fag.

  I avoid the question. ‘How long you been in New York?’

  She sits down again and crosses her legs twice around each other. So complacent. She hasn’t even asked about my aunt or if the woman minds people turning up unannounced and making her house smell like a pub garden. And how is she doing that with her legs? I have to try that just to see if it’s a skinny thing.

  ‘I got in this morning. I’m over here for a couple of go-sees and castings and a shoot starting in a few days. Apparently I’ve got a good look for the US. I don’t know if it’s my bag though, personally. The Americans are a bit plastic, you know what I mean?’

  ‘I imagine that everyone in the fashion industry is a bit plastic.’

  ‘Yeah . . . well.’ Puff. ‘So, you got no idea where Zed is?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘Well I’m sure he’ll turn up soon, hey? I let him know I was coming.’

  ‘How did you get in the house?’

  ‘I checked under the mat.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve got a lot going for me, but I can’t bloody walk through walls. It’s over there on the table. Looks like it might have been there for decades. Maybe your aunt forgot it was even there.’ Puff. ‘So what’ve you been up to, Eden? You sort out your mental problems?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Dwayne says hello by the way.’

  ‘He alright, is he?’

  ‘Yep. Bit pissed he didn’t get a chance to see you before you quit your job, though. Some of the people at work have been asking about you. I told ’em you ran off to join the circus. Hey, you got a drink? I’m boiling.’

  I shake my head, looking at her. Are there hidden cameras or some
thing? The hell? And why is it she didn’t know I was here? I thought her and Zed were tight as batty and bench. I guess not, then.

  ‘Yeah. Come on.’

  In the kitchen I get us each a Coke and tip a desperately needed measure of rum in mine.

  ‘So . . .’ says Max with the most pathetically fake nonchalance I’ve ever seen. ‘Zed . . . How’s he been?’

  ‘I dunno. OK I suppose.’

  She nods, a fragile grin settling on her face. ‘So he’s been handling the medication OK?’

  ‘What medication?’

  ‘Well I know he’s gotta be on tranquillisers or anti-depressants or somefing just to manage being without moi!’

  That girl he fucked the other week. I don’t know. Maybe she counts as an anti-depressant. Max puts out her cigarette in the bowl I use for cereal and goes to light another one.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s disgusting how much you smoke.’

  ‘Alright, alright. I’ll give your baby pink lungs a break.’ She puts it back in the packet.

  ‘Yours must look like a couple of old, nasty teabags. Aren’t you scared you’re gonna die?’

  ‘Everyone’s gonna die, Eden. That’s the only thing we know. We’re born and then we die and that’s it. What difference does it make whether we die aged fifty or eighty-five?’

  ‘It’ll matter when you’re forty-nine,’ I tell her and she shrugs and lights up a new cigarette. I guess the break is over.

  The doorbell rings and her blue eyes go massive.

  ‘Zed has a key,’ I say, and walk out of the kitchen toward the mystery guest.

  ‘Oh.’

  I open the door and Spanish is on the other side of it. I smile reflexively, breathing properly for the first time since I discovered Max sitting in the front room.

  ‘Look at you,’ I say. His hair’s pulled back into a big, soft, Afro puff. The slicked-back waves all over his head make him look even more like a Latin boy, but I don’t say this. His clothes aren’t ripped, frayed or faded like usual.

  ‘I went to have breakfast with my mom and step-dad.’

  ‘Bundle of laughs, right?’