by C. L. Donley
He’s kind of a big deal now that he’s the CEO of Webster. It’s weird to see him gussied up on the cover of magazines as I’m in line at the grocery store. I watched a baby throw up on him, I think to myself. He’s a busy guy, so it’s even weirder to see him sitting down, not wearing his coat and enjoying a meal.
He acts kind of scattered and immature, a contrast to Grayson’s aloof and measured air, but I’m slowly finding out that he and Grayson are self-made for a reason. I have no idea what they’re talking about at dinner, but they more than know and the exchange is fascinating. Dale is matching Grayson idea for idea without the slightest hiccup. They’re in a mind meld.
“Anyone ever tell you that you talk waaay too much, Mya?” Dale addresses me suddenly.
He and Grayson talked business virtually the entire time until he throws me a bone.
I slowly shake my head. The corners of my mouth droop.
“Nope,” I reply, trying to be funny but not even Amara has my back. But she’s busy with the baby.
He’s doing that thing again. That weird uncle routine. I expect any moment he’ll pull a quarter out from behind my ear.
“You know, Mya,” Dale begins through sips of wine, “I took ballet when I was a kid.”
“You don’t say,” I feign ignorance. Grayson and Amara look at each other, roll their eyes and scoff.
On the now three occasions we’ve met, Dale has brought up this fact every time, as though he’s never brought it up before.
At first, I— an actual ballet dancer— was polite in pretending that he’s never mentioned it, but at some point, it became obvious that it was a running gag.
“Yes, my mother was a ballet teacher, and all three of my sisters were ballerinas,” he continues.
“Uh huh.”
“And eventually, I got tired of just sitting there watching them, and I started learning the stuff myself.”
“Wow,” I say wide-eyed, sounding stunned. That gets a laugh from Grayson. My heart flutters.
“Yes,” he says as if trying to convince me, “and I was the only boy in the class,” he goes on.
“It happens,” I reply.
“Grayson was there, he can attest,” he continues, slightly changing up his wording.
“Only because Leslie never wore a skirt,” Grayson smirks, as if reminiscing.
“Did your mom ever dance professionally?” I ask.
“She did, but she met my dad in her 20’s, so she never went further.”
“As in, she quit.”
Dale thinks for a moment then slowly nods his head.
“And did your sisters ever get their pointe shoes?”
“No,” Dale scoffs, as if the notion was impossible for some reason, “they had very little natural talent for it, unfortunately. They didn’t stick with it that long.”
“So your sisters were never, in any capacity, ballerinas then,” I say. I look Dale squarely in the eyes as I speak. My air is cool, my eyes devoid of malice, demanding merely an admission of the truth. Dale is just about to succumb when Amara breaks in.
“Mya’s hardcore about her profession.”
“Nope, not ‘hardcore.’ I’m just being ‘regular core’ right now,” I insist.
“Do you ever think about what you’ll do once it’s over?” Grayson asks.
Amara gives him a sharp look.
“Grayson…” she reprimands.
“No, it’s okay,” I assure her, bringing up one leg in my chair so that I’m hugging it. “My two goals in life were to be either a principal or the lead in Swan Lake and the Nutcracker Suite, and after this fall I’ll have done it. And I’ll probably hang it up after that.”
Amara frowns, “You never told me that.”
I slowly nod.
“So that’s it?” she laments.
“It has to be it,” I say, taking a drink of wine, “I’ve done more than I ever thought I would. And I love performing, I love pushing my body to the limit, but now I’m 27 and I know I can’t do this much longer.” I leave traces of lipstick on my goblet, the color of the wine.
“So what will you do after that? Teach?” Grayson asks.
“Maybe. Open up a little ballet school for black girls or something.”
“Just for black girls?” Dale inquires.
“Um…maybe other minorities too, but I know first hand how underrepresented black girls are.”
“You wouldn’t be open to teaching—”
“No,” I cut him off.
I silently pick at my plate until I settle on a bite and bring it to my mouth.
The subject isn’t closed, but if Dale wants to go, I’m ready.
I’m grateful to come from a family with both parents in the household, doing well enough to afford to support my passion for ballet from the time I was five years old.
In return for their investment, I worked hard, never missed a lesson, even if I was sick, and made a habit of learning others’ parts in the event I had to step in. These habits and more opened the door for my unique opportunities as an African American ballet dancer.
It was no easy feat, because I’ve been told over and over by very blunt, very Russian teachers that I would never be able to make it a career. That I was too dark, too shapely, too short, too muscular, too whatever else to see my dream realized. Meanwhile, my white counterparts only adequately trained, barely had finish in their technique if at all, and never suffered the challenge of having to prove wrong the very people that were supposed to be supporting them.
No wonder they never got better.
Yes, there were plenty of places for little white girls to line up and learn to be mediocre for the rest of their lives, and cry because they had to stand in line next to the one black girl in the class. I have no intention of adding to their numbers.
“Fair enough,” Dale says after a slightly awkward silence.
“Don’t say it if you don’t believe it,” I challenge.
“No, I believe it’s fair. I’m just sad that my son or daughter may not have the benefit of having you for a teacher,” he offers, subtly making his point.
“Get Kim pregnant this weekend and you just might,” I can’t help sneering.
Amara snickers and lowers her head to the table.
“I’m lost,” Dale says.
“Kim says she wants to get pregnant by one of you,” Amara clarifies.
“Oh,” Dale simply says. “The one who was suing you, right?”
“That’s the one,” Grayson says.
“What does she look like again?”
Amara gets up from her chair to swat Dale.
“What?” he innocently protests, not bothering to shield himself from her harmless taps.
“She’s tall, light-skinned and completely gorgeous,” I fill in for him.
“Really?” Dale sounds intrigued, and I kind of want to rip out his throat.
“Her mom’s a crackhead prostitute though, so. Buyer beware,” I add caustically.
Amara looks at me.
“What, did I tell a lie?” I ask innocently.
“You’ve been like, majorly cranky today,” Amara glares.
Majorly cranky.
I guess that’s one way to sum up my complete and utter discomfort with this entire situation, since the day I got that call in the middle of the night. Talkin’ ‘bout “he wants me to be his mistress and so do I.” While everyone smiles and laughs about it.
“You know, I think I’m just way out of my routine. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t practice for two days in a row.”
“You’re on hiatus for the summer, aren’t you?” Grayson remembers.
“Yeah but I still go to lessons in between. My yoga class starts when I get back.”
“You do yoga too?” Dale politely asks.
“I teach it, yeah. In the summer.”
“My goodness,” Dale marvels.
“She’s a hustler,” Amara adds about me. “And she does hair.”
“You’re li
ke wonder woman.” Dale compliments me.
I’m annoyed. I don’t why. I don’t know what I want from him— if anything— but his gratuitous compliments are not it.
“On that note, I think I’m gonna turn in early,” I say.
“Already??”
“Yeah, since I’m cranky and all, I think I’m going to fit some exercise in before bed.”
“Okey-doke!” Amara says, trying to ignore my shifting mood, which of course sounds much worse than it actually is. “Can I come wake you up?”
“Yeah, girl.” I say on my way up the stairs, trying to sound buoyant.
“Okay goodnight,” Amara projects up the stairs.
Dale
There’s silence at the table until we’re convinced Mya’s out of earshot.
“Yikes,” I say once she’s gone.
Amara gives me a glaring look.
“What?”
“Why are you grilling her about black ballet studios?”
“I wasn’t grilling her.”
“Do you know how much shit she got her entire life, even from her own family, for wanting to dance like a ‘white girl,’ for going to Julliard instead of Alvin Ailey?”
“I wasn’t grilling her!”
“Nina Simone went to Julliard,” Grayson interjects.
“Babe, don’t be sexy right now, I can’t,” she says, as if it’s irritating her.
“Sorry,” says Grayson.
“Honestly, I think no matter what we talked about tonight she would’ve bit my head off,” I say.
“She did not ‘bite your head off,’ Dale, get a grip. Just because she’s not on her knees in front of you after your stupid joke….”
“I could’ve been catching up at work, I really don’t need this,” I close my eyes and sigh.
“Why is everyone melting down three days before my wedding?” Amara whines, panicky.
“Because no one here is having sex.” Grayson points out.
“Damn,” I shake my head.
“Omigod, you’re right,” Amara realizes. “How come everyone’s melting down now except you?” she asks Grayson.
“Excessive masturbation,” Grayson deadpans. He makes sure I’m taking a drink when he says it. I nearly make it, but then I look up to see Grayson looking directly at me and I choke.
Amara is faintly amused when she says, “I’m going to go feed the baby, so if you two nerds will excuse me…”
“Good night Amara,” I send her way as she heads up the stairs with Sam.
“Excessive masturbation?” I smirk.
“Excessive,” Grayson repeats and I snicker against my will. Now that Amara’s gone, Grayson and I talk even more freely.
“Speaking of which… is Mya still a virgin?” I ask.
“How should I know?”
I tilt my head and give him a look.
“In your expert opinion,” I humor him.
“Oh. Yeah, pretty sure she is. What, you couldn’t tell?”
“No. She kind of seems like she had a bad one and now hates all men.”
“I think she’s just afraid that at any moment, a random penis is just going to come out of nowhere and fuck her, and then she’ll have waited this entire time for nothing,” Grayson flatly states.
I droop my head as he’s talking, my shoulders shaking with laughter.
“It’s a valid fear,” I say when I finally recover. Grayson smiles.
“And now she’s going on a trip to Spain with the likes of us,” Grayson muses.
His meaning is not lost on me. I’ve never considered myself a playboy, but add Grayson and Bel to the mix and my game becomes lethal, especially considering we’re worth almost 150 billion collectively. We’re like a Voltron super robot of sex. Or at least, we were. I’m sure Bel and I could do fine on our own.
“And Bryan,” I quip. Grayson laughs. We often joke that Bryan is quite possibly the latest model android passing himself off as human.
“Obviously you’ll have to take me out of the running,” he says. I grimace. Again, his meaning is not lost on me.
“Dude, there is no ‘running,’ because I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.”
Grayson shrugs, grinning.
“We’ll see,” he says.
“Uh, no we won’t,” I insist, slightly offended at his suggestion. That somehow he knows me better than I know me. Still, my pulse quickens as the blood pumps through my body anyway. The mental trigger has become all too routine.
Anytime the three of us were together, without fail it meant that someone was about to get fucked.
I didn’t know if Grayson the family man would change the dynamic, but Grayson was apparently of the opinion that it wouldn’t.
“Guarantee you she’s already thinking about it,” Grayson goads me. I pretend not to notice. “You’re really gonna let Bel sleep with her?” he asks.
“She would punch Bel in the face,” I say.
“Bel has the least amount of shame of all of us.”
“This conversation has turned very disturbing,” I squirm. I’m fighting off a barrage of naughty images as it is after Mya mentioning her affinity for pushing her fucking body to the limit. I don’t want to envision the inevitable fallout of Bel emotionally scarring one of Amara’s best friends.
“Hey, you brought it up. I’m just being practical.”
Damn, he’s right. I did bring it up. I’m such a horny bastard. I decide not to dwell on that fact.
“Anyway, I’m having enough trouble losing my own virginity to worry about someone else’s.”
“It’s been that long, huh,” Grayson says.
“It’s grown all the way back, bro.”
Grayson huffs a laugh. “Fuckin’ dry spells. Literally the worst thing about being single, I can’t believe I ever thought that life was better.”
Suddenly I’m feeling exhausted.
I only ever had one romantic objective in my life, and that was to find a woman I could adore.
I’m romantically obsessive compulsive. Sure, I run through a lot of duds, but I have a hard time leaving stones unturned. And when your best friends are playboy billionaires, well. There are a lot of stones.
I raise my wine glass to make a toast.
“To getting laid in Spain.”
Grayson raises his beer bottle.
“I will most definitely drink to that,” Grayson says as our chuckling mingles with the clink of meeting glass.
Mya
The next two days I’m alone at the house while the happy couple works, and in the evenings it’s just me and Amara— occasionally the baby too, but Grayson generally lets us be.
Their spacious living room is large enough to practice when I move the furniture, the same thin plank wood floors in their house as in the studio. I didn’t want to break in my only pair of pointe shoes so soon, but it’s worth it. I even have an audience in their live-in nanny Rosetta. Typically I don’t like being watched while I practice, but strictly speaking it’s just a way for me to center myself before the trip.
The night of the dinner with Dale I felt… outnumbered. Out of sorts. I suppose I don’t know how to connect with Amara in the company of strangers, and I’m certainly not used to Amara having to share the connection wealth. No doubt everyone felt my hostile vibes. I didn’t seem to be able to control it. They tried to make me feel comfortable, but I couldn’t hide my disdain for the whole black ballet school debate. Grayson can buy my best friend’s pussy, but I can’t have a black ballet studio? I expected some post-racial America nonsense this weekend, but I should’ve packed a bag to barf in.
Amara’s freakin’ fine ass husband and his… friend. That whole conversation about Dale’s kids not having me for a ballet teacher is still leaking acid into my veins like the time-release venom in a poisoned dart. And then when he showed an interest in our best friend Kim, I nearly came out of my skin. Did I really call her mom a crackhead prostitute? Granted it was the truth, one that Kim volunteers herself but… I can
’t stop replaying the sound of my own voice, throwing Kim under the bus at dinner.
What the hell’s going on with me? Should I make it more of a deal and apologize? Or should I just pretend like it never happened and risk looking like an unpredictable schizo for the extent of the trip?
Forget it. I refuse to kick myself about it anymore. I’m resolved to be the best damn maid of honor I can be, unless Grayson otherwise shows himself to be the abusive megalomaniac I fear. Then all bets are off.
Before the dinner, I was uncharacteristically optimistic that by the wedding we’d all be like old pals. Maybe I’d even have the courage to ask Grayson his opinion about Bryan.
Amara’s probably right about him, but in case she isn’t, the prospect gives me hope. Dale obviously plans on marrying white and having me teach ballet to his white daughter— or son— so screw him anyways. Or rather, don’t screw him. Wouldn’t want to ruin his future Aryan race plans by having him go black once and never go back. God, why is Amara so buddy-buddy with him again?
At least Bel’s a minority. Bel’s gorgeous, but Amara makes him sound like he’s kind of a dirtbag when it comes to women. I’ll have to decide whether or not it’s worth the potential trauma to hook up with him. Even if the billionaires are out, there’ll still be a lot of eligible bachelors in attendance— some of them celebrities, so I’ve been told.
I just have to find a freakin’ guy that wants it, and with very little of my “target market” at this wedding, my chances don’t seem to bode well.
The only guys that ever approach me are black, and I don’t get approached so much as I get looked at, stared at, whistled at, followed, and generally harassed.
The few guys that have approached me didn’t manage to get very far until they let it be known they were solely interested in sex. A few had the decency to bow out when they found out I was a virgin. At least, I assume it was decency.
At the time, I was focused on my career and grateful that there hadn’t been any suitors enchanting enough to deter it. Even in New York where I was sure to find a soul mate. A creative counterpart, a gorgeous black thinker to validate me— the urban bridge to my militant yet middle class sensibilities. But nothing happened, even when I willed it.