Except, as he told it, it wasn’t just a hookup. It was a rape. Not even the kind that was on that murky line, where a man could claim there had been a misunderstanding, or miscommunication. It was the violent rape of a woman Eric did not know, who he spotted walking from her office building to her car in a near-deserted, poorly-lit parking lot just across the street.
Everyone in the room listened as Eric recounted the incident almost lovingly, his voice becoming more excitable the more he talked. It wasn’t clear, at least to Ibrahim, whether he even realized that what he was saying was not just criminal, but perverse.
Soon, he was giggling again, not even bothering to cover his yellow teeth as he habitually did. And the worst part—by far the worst part—was that Eric had gotten a visible erection, just by talking about what he had done.
Ibrahim remembered feeling a roiling, acidic sensation in his stomach. Eric wasn’t just telling a story, he was reliving the experience, and enjoying every moment of it. He kept talking, and the room remained hushed until one of the other guys, without a word or warning, got up, calmly walked over to Eric and began pounding his face in with his fists.
The sound of flesh on flesh, and the initial crack like the sound of a breaking chicken bone, was sickening. For sure the guy who jumped Eric had to have broken his hand in the process, but he didn’t stop pounding and no one tried to stop him. Even when the COs came rushing in, it took them almost ten seconds before they intervened.
Maybe they knew why Eric was in the joint.
Eric lost an eye from that beating, but no one cared. Ibrahim sure didn’t. He never found out what happened with Eric’s case, but either way, he thought that what had been meted out that day in the rec room was true justice.
Later, when he remembered the incident, Ibrahim didn’t think about the blood—there had been so much blood that the last few blows slipped across Eric’s ruined face because it was so slick—and he only occasionally dwelled on the self-satisfied way Eric told his story. Mostly, he remembered one small detail. Eric described how the woman, once he overpowered her, had gone into a trancelike stillness, and gotten a distant, detached look in her eyes, like she wasn’t even there.
Like her body was present, but her mind had taken flight.
Later, the thought of that look came back to Ibrahim when he was with Bree. He hadn’t forced her, he knew that. She willingly came to his house, willingly got undressed; sucked his dick even. But throughout it all, she had a look … a dreamlike, vacant look. The same look that he used to interpret as pleasure. And Ibrahim couldn’t help but remember the woman who had been raped.
The chance that there might be even the tiniest commonality between that woman’s surrender and what Breonna allowed him to do to her made him disgusted with himself. He thought, before he forced it away, of what it would be like for Jada to endure something like that—to have someone taking her body while she simply waited them out.
And in that moment, imagining Jada as Bree, Bree as Jada, he felt anger like he had never felt before, and a morass of something thick, dark and impenetrable like grief. He managed to shove the feeling away only by reminding himself that Jada was not Breonna.
But maybe, once, Breonna could have been a girl like Jada.
Until …
Seven niggas, dawg. Seven.
Ibrahim hadn’t touched Breonna since, and knew he never could again. He couldn’t take a chance that what he might do to her, she was simply enduring.
And now, every morning when he was in that van driving south to his crappy job as a cleaner, he daydreamed about Jada’s sweetness and stubbornness. And he thought about how he would willingly kill or be killed to protect her from anything even close to what Breonna had been through.
Having a job, even a low-paying one, drew him toward her in a way he couldn’t explain. The steady certainty of having a place to be every morning, and getting legally compensated for being there, made him feel like he was moving closer to her world, and farther away from that of his father and brothers.
None of them knew about his job. Nasim seemed to sense that he shouldn’t say anything about how he had hooked him up, and Ibrahim knew for sure he shouldn’t either. They would think he was stupid and would say so. And his father would find a way to put an end to it. Either by making empty promises of getting him something better, or by leaning on Nasim to stay out of his family’s business.
As it was, right now his brothers thought he had a girl across town he went to see, and that he wasn’t hustling with them because he needed to keep his nose clean being that he was fresh out the joint. The idea that he was spending his evenings and early mornings hauling trash, vacuuming, sweeping and even cleaning toilets would strike them as outlandish and wholly incomprehensible.
But it made sense to Ibrahim. The mindless, repetitive, low-stakes nature of the cleaning gig gave him space, and time to think. He tucked his CD player into the back of his jeans, listened to mellow-smooth music while he worked, and let his imagination roam. Most of his imaginings were that he was a different kind of person than he was, living a different kind of life than the one he lived.
The job itself wasn’t the point, and the pittance of a wage he earned was definitely not the point. His father wouldn’t understand. And his brothers wouldn’t either, but everything he was doing felt like part of a plan that had yet to reveal itself.
~~~
Ibrahim eased his foot off the gas pedal and looked out the window toward the intersection where he told Jada he would meet her. For a few seconds, when he didn’t spot her, his heart sank. Then he saw the slender arm, raised high above a head, waving, and there she was.
Wearing jeans shorts modestly cut to mid-thigh and a white tank top that could have been part of a swimsuit, she had a duffle slung over her shoulder. On her feet were white Keds, and her hair was in two braids resting on her shoulders.
Once he pulled over, all Ibrahim had time to do was shove open the car door for her instead of stopping, going around and opening it for her properly. But the intersection was a busy one and there were cars already honking at them.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said a when she spilled inside, tossing her bag onto the backseat.
She sounded breathless, excited, and smelled like Jean Naté, a scent that only girls much younger than her still wore.
For a second, she looked at him expectantly like she wanted to kiss him in greeting or wanted him to kiss her. Then the moment passed, and Ibrahim pulled away from the curb, a strain in his neck from the effort it took not to turn and stare at her. Her presence filled the entire car, her energy bouncing off the dashboard, and the glass of the tightly shut windows.
“I should warn you, I’m not a good swimmer,” she announced, still a little giddy. “I’m not even sure I should go in the water if it’s too rough.”
Ibrahim laughed, not because it was funny, but because he was feeling a little giddy himself and it wasn’t an emotion he could ever remember having had before about a girl.
“It’s okay. I’m a good swimmer,” he said. “I’ll save you.”
“Really? You’re a good swimmer?”
“Yeah. And surf too.” He glanced at her. “Why you look so surprised?”
And then she was laughing. “I’m not!”
Ibrahim turned to look at her again, this time allowing himself to linger a little longer. Her eyes were bright, she pulled in her lower lip and finally let herself smile.
“Okay, good,” she said. “I’ll get in. Just so long as you promise to save me.”
Or maybe, he thought. You’re the one who’s going to save me.
14
Then
“You just have to go ahead and stand up,” Ibrahim said. “Don’t think about it, just stand up …”
“I can’t! I keep falling off whenever I …”
“So you jus’ gon’ stop tryin’? ‘Cause you fall off?”
“Yes!”
Holding the mast, Jada shoved th
e windsurfer in Ibrahim’s direction, and turned to start toward the beach.
“Don’t be a quitter, Jada,” he called after her.
At that, she whipped around. “I am not a quitter! That thing almost popped me in the face a couple times. I’m not going home with a black eye and have to explain to my parents why I went to hang out with you and came back injured.”
Ibrahim paused. “Your parents know you’re hangin’ out with me?” he asked.
Now just calf-deep in the water, Jada stopped again and looked at him.
“Yes,” she said.
“What’d you tell them? About me, I mean.”
“That I met a boy at a party and he asked me out.”
“Met a boy. At a party.”
He emphasized the words ‘boy’ and ‘party’ and stared down at the water as he guided the windsurfer toward the shore.
After she sounded so doubtful about his surfing skills, Ibrahim thought it would be a good idea to demonstrate them, and maybe teach her a few things. But windsurfing had gone badly. Turned out Jada had poor balance, something he wouldn’t have expected in a basketball player, and a point guard at that.
Once back on the beach, he walked the equipment to the rental station and returned to the spot a few yards from the water’s edge where they’d set out their towels.
Sinking next to Jada, he watched as she dried her legs and arms, still pouting a little.
“You don’t like to not be good at things, huh?” he observed.
“Does anyone?”
“Sometimes it’s fun learning though,” he suggested.
Jada looked at him again.
Her already deep-brown skin was slightly darker from having been out on the water and exposed to the sun. It had an undertone now, the shade of red clay, especially on her cute button nose and on her cheeks.
“What?” she asked, misinterpreting his stare. “You don’t like to be good at things?”
“Of course. But I like learning new stuff, too.”
“Oh yeah?” She lifted her chin slightly, in a way Ibrahim was already beginning to learn meant she was digging in. “Like what’s the last new thing you learned?”
“I got a few, actually,” he said, reclining on his elbows.
Jada opened her eyes slightly wider, silently prompting him to go on.
“I’m learning not to cuss as much.”
She barked out a surprised laugh and then stopped herself with a hand over her mouth, nodding with faux solemnity.
“Oh. Impressive. And what else you got?”
“Hey. Not cussin’ is no joke,” Ibrahim said. “Especially when you think of where I live at.”
“Not everyone curses where you live, Ibrahim. I refuse to believe that.”
“Most do,” he said nodding, after thinking for a moment.
“Okay, so let’s give you five cool-points for not cursing as much. What else?” She had turned to face him now, pouting forgotten, her legs stretched out in front of her, perpendicular to his torso.
They were nice legs. Nicer than he’d expected even though his expectations had been pretty high. Her thighs were well-toned and slim, only slighter thicker than the calves. She had the lean, limber body of an athlete, firm and almost completely devoid of fat, except where fat was highly desirable.
“I’m learning to eat healthier …”
“Ten points. But I’m going to have to dock you three points for that Church’s Chicken slip-up.”
Ibrahim laughed. “That’s cool. I’ll take the three-point hit. ‘Cause the next lesson’s gotta be worth twenty points minimum. Nah, more like fifty.”
Jada twisted her lips and let her head fall to one side.
“Sure it is. Let’s hear it.”
He had been planning to tell her that he was learning to clean toilets without gagging. That the trick was to douse that sucker with the cleaner while looking away, and then walk off, still without looking. Move to the next commode and do the same, right down the line till you get to the end, then return to the first one where, by then, some of the filth would have dissolved under the force of the chemical cleaner.
He thought the toilet story could be a funny lead-up to telling her about his new gig as a cleaner. And it had to be funny, because he wasn’t sure how a girl like her would respond to hearing that the guy who was feeling her was a custodian. He both wanted to know her reaction and feared it.
Since he feared it, he knew he’d have to tell her, soon. Before the end of the day. Because if she reacted poorly, maybe he wouldn’t see her again. Maybe she wouldn’t want to see him again.
But instead of telling her about his job, something else came out, almost out of nowhere.
“I’m learning,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on hers, “that sometimes you gotta hold back getting what you want in the moment, to make sure you get what you need in the long run.”
At that, Jada’s expression transformed from amused to curious. A tiny smile teased the corners of her lips.
Ibrahim felt a funny little flip in the pit of his stomach, like the one he felt the night they met. Like she was someone he had known for a long time, and a long time ago. Maybe from a time before he had consciousness, and before memory meant anything.
“Now what does that mean?” Jada asked. “What’re you holding back from wanting in the moment?”
“Kissing you,” he said.
Jada’s smile widened. “Why would you hold back from wanting that?” she asked quietly, slowly, like someone trying to prevent a skittish animal from being spooked.
Ibrahim had only barely worked out what he was going to say, when they were interrupted.
“Hey, papi chulo. Whatchu doin’ here?”
He and Jada looked up simultaneously.
Standing above him, just a few feet away, was a girl with long, straight dark hair, wearing a bright orange bikini, a towel slung over her shoulder.
Probably seeing the confusion in Ibrahim’s eyes, she laughed.
“It’s me! Xiomara,” she said. “You know, from …” She rolled her eyes at him, exasperated.
“Oh! Damn!” Ibrahim leapt up and allowed himself to be hugged. “Didn’t recognize you.”
Xiomara was one of the girls from work who he thought of as The Mexican Girls. One of the pretty ones who, when he saw her every workday, had her hair pulled back and fastened securely into a bun at her nape. Then, her cheekbones, caramel skin and high, broad forehead took center-stage, but now, it was her silky, ebony hair that shone in the sunlight, and the eye-catching contrast between her skin-tone and the orange swimsuit.
“So you out here chillin’?” she asked, glancing down at Jada and giving her a brief, dismissive wave.
“You too, it looks like,” Ibrahim glanced over her shoulder where another girl was waiting a little way off, also carrying a towel.
“We need it,” Xiomara said, making a face. “To be out in the sun. All those early mornings and late nights.”
“Yeah,” Ibrahim said, nodding.
Behind him, still lying on the beach, he could feel Jada’s eyes on him and wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible before she got the wrong idea. Especially since they had been just about to get down to something real.
“I’m not too far away,” Xiomara said with a hint of suggestiveness. “Just over there. So … maybe I see you later?”
Ibrahim made a noncommittal motion with his head, and Xiomara and her friend sauntered away. He was careful not to watch them go, but when he sat next to her again, the smile Jada gave him was thin.
“So, where were we at?” he said.
“With what?”
“You asked me a question,” he reminded her, though he was sure she knew full well what he was talking about. “And I answered it.”
Jada looked past him and off into the distance.
“I’m kind of hungry,” she said. “Are you planning to go back in the water?”
“Only if you want to.”
Studying her
face, Ibrahim realized that for the first time ever, he couldn’t fully read it. She played with the loamy sand, letting it stream through her fingers and then scooping up handfuls more.
“I don’t if you don’t,” he added. “Especially since you ain’ into windsurfing.”
Jada looked at him then and offered another insincere smile. Then she was abruptly standing.
“I thought I saw a snack stand. Near the picnic area. Maybe we can grab something there.”
When Ibrahim played the afternoon out in his head, it involved a few hours at the beach, then him and Jada making their way back to Oakland, sun-drowsy and hungry. Once there he would take her to one of those Mexican joints where a whole plate with rice and beans, fried plantains and mole cost less than five dollars. Out here, because there was a captive audience, food was a lot more expensive, and he didn’t have money to be throwing around like that.
“How about we just go back to the city?” Ibrahim suggested.
Jada froze, then turned to look at him, something playing about her mouth.
“You want to go?” she asked. Her tone sounded almost accusatory.
“I mean …” Ibrahim shrugged, confused. “Yeah. I mean …”
“Fine,” Jada said.
She reached down and began gathering her things, starting with her towel which she folded, sloppily, and without a moment’s consideration for whether she might wind up with sand in her duffle bag.
~~~
The thing about acting like a brat with guys was that once you started, you kind of had to see it through.
Jada knew she’d overreacted when that girl came up and started talking to Ibrahim. After all, he didn’t even seem to recognize her at first. It was just that the girl was so pretty, and he may have been trying to control his reaction to her, but Jada knew Ibrahim noticed that as well. The way he had obviously been forcing himself not to look as the girl walked away; that was what got under her skin.
Just moments before that, he was saying he wanted to kiss her, and then the next new shiny thing that showed up, and he forgot all about her?
Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel Page 12