Deena shook her head, not bothering to look up. “Tak, you just don’t get it. I’m a kid to these people. A nobody.”
“So what?” Tak sighed. “Listen to me. You’re brilliant. Anyone who saw your design,” he reached for a roll of paper on the table, “who saw this, would want to work with you.”
Deena blinked.
“Call Mahmoud. And don’t take no for an answer.”
TWO HUNDRED PAGES bound and color-coded. Six graphs with corresponding appendices. Three flow charts, a budget, and one sleep-deprived architect. Deena’s moment of reckoning was less than ninety minutes away.
In those moments of near-neurotic nervousness, she flipped through her proposal in an effort to calm herself. Her work was good. But good wasn’t necessarily good enough.
It was an ode to organic architecture, and as such, a contradiction. Who’d ever heard of a skyscraper that mimicked nature? A jutting bolt of man-molded steel claiming to be a compliment to God’s natural order?
But life was contradiction.
Deena turned to the profiles in the rear of her proposal. Mahmoud was there, and other prominent names like Michael Hudson, Professor of Landscape Architecture at Yale and a consultant for the ‘96 Olympics. Steve Marshall, a civil engineer and professor at the University of Southern California, whose books on coastal engineering were architectural gospel. And there was Claudia Oppenheimer, a designer whose name was outside the sphere of their world, but akin to that of Armani and Vuitton.
Of the three, Oppenheimer had been added to the team in a stroke of madness, brought on by Tak’s contagiously naïve encouragement. Now, as Deena stared at the potential design team, a veritable rock group in the world of architecture, her naivety and presumptuousness, her recklessness even, stared back at her in horror.
She could practically hear Daichi as he flipped through the proposal. “Mahmoud, Hudson, Oppenheimer. Impressive. While we’re at it, we’ll have the Beatles in the lounge and Julia Child in the kitchen. Next on the agenda: digging up Walt Disney, so he can sprinkle the fairy dust necessary for all this to come true.”
Deena closed her proposal and stood. Her design was a good one. And she was a good architect. She would succeed. She repeated the mantra silently as she made the trek from her office to the conference room. And when she entered, she found Daichi already seated at the head of the table with four junior partners in tow, two on each side. Daichi glanced at his watch and nodded. The clock was ticking.
With shaky hands, Deena set up the PowerPoint presentation she’d spent half the night fussing over, her pulse reiterating the importance of the moment. She slid a copy of her proposal to each of the senior personnel present and waited. Deena stared at Daichi and Daichi stared back.
“Well?”
She closed her eyes and heaved a prayer towards the heavens. When she opened them, her heart raced. It was win or go home.
LIZZIE STOOD AT her locker, moments after the shrill of the five-minute warning bell and tried to remember her combination. The last time she’d opened it had been more than a month ago. With a grunt, she punched the aluminum slab and turned away. She didn’t even know why she was there, at that stupid school with those stupid teachers and their stupid students. She scowled at them as they milled by, girls in trendy tanks or swanky skirts, boys in baggy shirts and fitted hats with the tags still attached, all of them it seemed, in the newest and the latest. She glanced down at her own clothes, a white and cotton candy pink shirt that said, ‘Sweet and Sour’, a pair of glittering and faded blue jeans, and the perfect high-top Converses. Lizzie watched the girls as they passed, laughing and gossiping, and wondered, just briefly, if the things they wore were as hard to come by as the things she wore.
“Lizzie?”
She was startled by the sound of her name. Lizzie turned to the unfamiliar face, a short and dark boy with big black glasses, shiny, spit-filled braces, and an odor two stop lights past wrong.
“Go away,” Lizzie said, turning back to her locker.
He watched her as she fumbled with the padlock.
“I’m Harold. You’re in my sixth period English class.”
Lizzie shot him an exasperated look. “How the hell would you know that? I don’t even know what the hell I have for sixth period.”
Harold shifted his weight, his dark skin glistening with sweat despite standing in a cool corridor.
“I saw you in it, at the beginning of the school year. Back, you know, when you used to come.”
Lizzie tried to concentrate on remembering her combination. The numbers ran from 0 to 40, and there were five numbers in the sequence—or was it six? She frowned. If there were five and five times forty was two hundred (was that right?), then that meant that she would have to try two hundred different combinations before she found the one. Lizzie sighed. She wished she had her sister’s brain. She was always so good in Math and Science and English….and everything.
“I—I heard about Lucas’ party.”
Lizzie froze. “What the hell did you just say?”
“I—I just said that I heard about the party. Everyone has, really.”
Lizzie turned, and took a single menacing step towards him. “Do I look like I give a fuck what everyone has heard?”
“No—no, I—I only said that because, well—”
“Well, what?”
“Because I got a hundred dollars for my birthday and—and I thought that I could give it to you. If you—you know.”
Lizzie stopped. “A hundred dollars? Cash?” She eyed Harold with interest
He nodded.
“Is it with you now?”
Again, he nodded.
She thought of what she could do with a hundred dollars. She could get a cell phone or an iPod, maybe even some makeup—the expensive kind that they let you try on at the cosmetics counter.
“You want to do it now?” Lizzie asked.
“No.” Harold recoiled. “I—I’ve got class and—and anyway you can get suspended for that.”
“So you want to go to your house? After school?”
Harold shook his head. “I can’t. I live with my parents and I can’t just bring girls over.”
Like they’d want to come anyway, Lizzie thought.
She sighed. “Fine. Just meet me at my locker at the end of the day. I know a place.”
When Lizzie met Harold it was around three, and already the sun seemed to be hovering in preparation for a quick exit. When she led him out of the school, they walked for fifteen minutes—across a six-lane intersection, through an open field littered with trash, and across an old railroad track. Near a series of blackened warehouses was an old hatchback, its make, model and color singed from sight.
“In here,” Lizzie said, prying open the door. “We can do it in here if we hurry up.”
Harold stared at her as she evicted an old tire iron from the back seat, and pushed aside the old newspapers bums covered themselves with when they slept.
Lizzie turned back to him. “What? Are you scared?”
“A little,” Harold admitted.
She stared at him. “Well, either way you pay me, since you’re the one who’s reneging.”
Lizzie folded her arms and waited, thoughts of the Mac counter at Aventura Mall teasing her.
“No. I’ll—I’ll do it.” Harold nodded. “Just, get in.”
When Lizzie climbed in, Harold slid in next to her. The interior was pungent. It was hot and smelled of bum funk and Harold. Still, she wanted that makeup. She peeled off her shirt and shrugged off her jeans. And as she sat before Harold naked, he stared back in astonishment.
DEENA SHOVED OPEN the heavy double doors and spilled into the sanctuary just as Tak’s silver Ferrari peeled out of the church parking lot. She tugged on the hem of her ivory jacket, tucked her black leather bible under her arm and squeezed onto the front pew between her grandmother and her sister.
“You late,” Emma said, scowling as she watched Deena tuck wayward brown tendrils i
nto her bun. After a night of Tak’s fingers in her hair the coils were willful, unruly.
Deena wondered if she looked different. She certainly felt different. So much of her life had changed in the past two weeks. One presentation and a night in New York had changed everything.
“You need to be on time. Ain’t nowhere you needs to be more important than the Lord’s house.”
She met her grandmother’s stare. “Yes ma’am.”
Still, her thoughts were with the presentation. Had that been a hint of pride in Daichi’s eyes, or was that just wishful thinking? Had he actually said, ‘well done’? Certainly, she’d been mistaken.
Emma continued to glare, and, ordinarily, it would’ve been enough to upset her. But there wasn’t much that could deflate Deena these days. Not with her name attached to the most prestigious construction project in Florida, and not with Takumi Tanaka waiting at home for her. With the realization that she was smiling at her grandmother’s hardened expression Deena turned her attention to the pulpit.
“It ain’t like you missed something,” Lizzie said with a roll of eyes.
Deena frowned at her sister’s spaghetti straps. Her blouse was sculpted and her boobs, in full view with her diving neckline, seemed to move constantly. Deena scowled.
“Pull your shirt up before those things spill out.”
Lizzie sighed, but obliged.
Deena faced forward, shifting in the tight seat. Her mind was wandering already. Preliminary estimates for the Skylife project. Tak’s hands. Follow-up phone calls. Tak’s lips. The construction timeline. Tak inside of her. Deena sighed.
Deena turned to the choir as they filed onstage. Two dozen men and women in bright white robes, and not a single one with a distinguishable feature. Her vision blurred and melded together as she scolded herself for sinful thoughts in the house of the Lord.
They sprung to action, the pianist belting out a quick flurry of notes, the percussionist jumping in with a snare and the choir with a hand-clapping sway that was instantly contagious. Next to Deena, Grandma Emma rocked with the music, her wide-brimmed hat bobbing with the beat. The sound from the choir was full and rich, an instinctively foot-tapping number about leaning on the Lord in times of adversity. It was rousing but humble, exciting the way only black gospel can be. Deena clapped in time with them, her distractions forgotten. But when Cicily Williams stepped out for her solo, Deena knew what would follow.
“That should be you singing that song,” Emma shouted over the congregation’s enthusiasm.
Thirteen years ago, when Deena was twelve, she’d brought the church to frenzy with the voice of a timeworn woman and the aid of the very same song. She’d been a child, though, and not so much moved by the power of Christ, but rather by the necessity to show an equally young Cicily Williams who the better singer was. She’d peppered her song with a few well-placed ‘hallelujahs,’ and after that day, there’d been no disputing it. Even back then, she was competitive as hell.
Deena wondered what Tak was doing. She’d left him in the parking lot with the promise that she’d be gone for a few hours only, and that her departure was a reluctant one. She glanced at her watch. Reluctant was right and she couldn’t help but wish that she hadn’t left him at all.
After tapering off four or five times, only to dive back in with foot-stomping, hand-clapping gusto, Cicily concluded the song. Deena half expected the girl to roll on the floor, white robe and all, but of course, she didn’t. Next to Deena, Emma brought a handkerchief to her face and dabbed her sweat. Holy Ghost Fever was what Anthony used to call it, an ailment he was certain was three parts bullshit and one part hoopla.
Deacon Moore wanted them to pray, so Deena closed her eyes. He said something about tenderness and temptation and her thoughts turned to Tak. Deena bit her lip with the memory of his words the first time they made love—husky, breathless, provocative whispers of how he dreamed of her, craved her and loved her. She remembered the way he teased her to fruition, touching her, filling her, his hardness forcing its way into an opening that seemed not to exist. She’d clung to him as he bore into her, shooting pain and pleasure with his penetration. Eyes shut, Deena’s breath ran shallow with the memory, her very core pulsing and heating in the sanctuary.
“Girl, what in the world are you doing?”
Deena’s eyes flew open at the sound of Lizzie’s voice.
“What?” Deena blinked.
“What’s wrong with you? What are you doing?”
She looked around. Prayer was over, and if the sight of Deacon Moore resting in his seat was any indication, it had been for some time. Deena looked down at her hands, clutching the pew in a white-knuckled grip and blushed.
“I—I don’t know. I had something on my mind.”
“Well, whatever it was it looked pretty damned good.”
Deena looked away. “Shut up. And stop swearing.”
Reverend Lincoln was a short and slight figure, with a black beak of a nose and a voice that bellowed in the rafters. He’d been a friend of Grandpa Eddie’s and shared a platoon with him in Vietnam.
When the reverend found the pulpit, he cleared his throat, adjusted his reading glasses, and instructed the congregation to turn to I Corinthians 6:9-11. With a hand to her mouth, Deena stifled a giggle at the irony of him choosing one of Grandpa Eddie’s favorite passages.
“Do ye not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God?” He gave them a hard look. “Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals, nor sodomites, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God.” He looked up, his gaze falling on the front pew, the Hammond pew. “And such were some of you.”
At the end of the service, the congregation spilled out onto the sidewalk. With their exit, Emma turned a glare on Deena.
“Your mind wasn’t on the Lord’s word today.”
Deena shrunk back. “I—I have a lot going on right now. With work.”
“Mhm. Jus’ so longs as you keeping the Lord’s work on your mind too, namely this here Fellowship Hall. You wasn’t at the last two meetings we had to discuss it. Reckon cause you was in New York.”
Deena hesitated. “About that, Grandma. You guys are—are going to have to find someone else.”
“What you mean, someone else? You the only one in the church that knows—”
“I understand that, but I just started this new project at work and I have to devote all my effort to it. I can’t be distracted with this.”
She was drawing the reverend’s attention and a few others, including Cicily Williams and her mother Mabel. Already, her family, including Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rhonda, were by her side.
“Chile, what kinda crazy talk—”
Deena held up a hand to stop her. “I’d be more than happy to give the church a referral, but I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”
Her grandmother stared and her Aunt Caroline asked her who the hell she thought she was. Deena dug out her phone and sent Tak a message.
Don’t want 2 wait 2 see U.
The response was fast.
Be there in half.
She looked up again. “Oh, and I won’t be at dinner, either. I, uh, made other plans,” Deena said.
Lizzie grinned. “Me too. I’ve got other plans too.”
Deena shot her a look and waved good-bye to her family. She was off on her two-block hike to the Starbucks where Tak would meet her.
SHE COULD HEAR them at the water cooler talking as if she wasn’t there. Whispering and giggling as if she didn’t matter. There were two of them this time, but there had been others at other times. The ones who didn’t participate weren’t exactly casual spectators either, as they sat around their tables in the break room, laughing and beaming with pleasure.
Jennifer Swallows stood, arms folded over her massive bosom. She had a round and scowling face, pitted and lean-lipped, her nose a quick beak. She wore drab grays and d
ull darks over an otherwise dumpy frame. If her bullet-point breasts were any indication, Deena guessed the bra she wore was as old as her career.
“I’m telling you, it’s some huge housing development venture. It’s going to be a private subdivision in Brickell. And that’s after she disappeared for a month.”
Jennifer shot Deena a look of contempt and Deena froze, tuna rye halfway to her lips.
“It’s on Fisher Island, Jennifer. Only one of the wealthiest zip codes in the nation.”
That was Walter Smith, a bright-eyed and slight architect who prided himself on an unscrupulous sense of fashion.
“It’s not Fisher Island it’s Brickell. And at twenty-five years old.”
Walter fished in the pocket of his charcoal slacks and came away with loose change. Jennifer followed him to the vending machine and he made a selection.
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he said. “The sort of talents a girl has to have to land a gig like that. Architecture aside, of course.”
“Of course.”
A smattering of laughter echoed through the break room and Walter flashed an innocent, yet pleased smile. But when Daichi entered, they fell silent.
He made a beeline for Deena.
“Stop eating.”
Deena froze, sandwich in hand. They had the attention of the room.
“What’s wrong, Daichi?”
“I had no idea you took lunch so early.” He frowned at his watch. “In any case, I’ve made reservations at Del Mar so we can start—”
“Del Mar!” Walter cried.
Daichi turned on the man, a brow raised.
“You’ve an objection, Mr. Smith?”
Walter took a step back. “No, sir. It’s just—well, with all due respect—”
“Walter, please. I find such a statement to be contrived and insincere.”
“Well, I just wanted to say—well, everyone wants to say really—”
“Everyone?” Daichi scanned the break room, with better than twenty architects present, and found that not one would look at him. “Has there been an election Walter? Are you now an elected representative?”
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