“Wow, I’ve never seen it at night.”
“Best time to see it is now. This is exactly how the slaves saw it when they were escaping. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a beautiful story. And I also think you made a lot of it up.”
“Actually, it’s mostly true. Uncle Al told me the story.” He lets me go from his embrace and sits down on the sand. I’m still staring at the lighthouse, feeling surreal. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“Omar, what are you doing?” I ask, turning around to look down at him. I don’t want to be hurt. “Please tell me you didn’t bring me out here, tell me all this stuff, just so you can sleep with me.”
“Look, you know I’m feeling you, and I can tell that even though you may not want to, you kinda feeling me.”
“Don’t play games with me, Omar.” He pulls my arm, and my butt lands next to him in the sand.
“About fifteen years ago,” he continues, “an organization called Save the Light bought the lighthouse from the state of South Carolina. They’re doing a lot to protect it, but it’s our responsibility as well, just like it was the farmer’s and his wife’s.”
“Protect it from what?”
“From beach erosion. It leans more and more each year. Before you know it, it’ll be underwater, and a part of our history will be lost,” he says passionately. “Claudia, this lighthouse is powerful, it’s really amazing. It has survived wars, hurricanes, even earthquakes. And it’s still standing. Save the Light has raised millions of dollars to restore it. To preserve it from being lost to the sea.”
“Hmmm, sounds a little suspect to me. With all the money they raised, how many homeless people could they have fed? It’s a little elitist, don’t you think?”
“What I think is everybody has their purpose, their mission. One person helps feed the homeless, and another protects a historic landmark from erosion. Somebody raises money to save chimpanzees, while another group of people rescues dogs. Whether you’re occupying Wall Street or starting a schoolwide protest at your high school, there are different ways to change the world, homegirl. We all walk our own path, right?” Yes, Omar, YES! Before I can agree, he turns me around. I open my mouth to protest.
“Shhhhhhhhh!” He puts his finger to my lips.
“The dude that stole the ship during the Civil War and freed like thirty slaves, that woadie was no joke. I might be the best football player in the country, but I ain’t got nothing on that joker. The Army made him a major general and even named a ship after him. The U.S.S. Robert Smalls.” I knew it sounded familiar. We’d read about Robert Smalls in history classes for the past four years. Pilot, captain, and politician, he was best known for . . . wait a minute. Wait one minute. Robert SMALLS!
“Omar, are you saying—”
“Yep, my great-great-great-grandfather was Robert Smalls.”
I don’t know how or when it happens, but both of my sweaty hands are clinched in his. He pulls me closer, so now my butt rests on his loglike thighs. My eyes are transfixed on his eyes. He is a few words away from owning me. Funny how what someone says and what you want them to say can sometimes get all crossed up.
What he actually says next is: “I ain’t perfect like this beach, and yeah, I might be a star football player, and the ladies love T-Diddy, but I ain’t dumb and I know a thing or two about changing the world too, homegirl. So why don’t you give me a chance, Claudia Clarke?”
What I hear, though, is: “This beach and me. We’re one, Claudia. I’ve been coming here for almost two years. Two years. But it never dawned on me that it was meaningful. That the lighthouse was significant. That it has a story, an important one. Until now. Until this very moment. Until you helped me understand that it does matter. That everything matters. Without the lighthouse, I wouldn’t be here. Literally. It gave my grandfather, and his father and his father, and his father, and me life. And you’ve given me a new one. Homegirl, you have been my lighthouse. I’ve followed you these past few weeks and found a power I didn’t know I possessed. What good is a voice if you don’t use it to speak up?”
In this moment, there is no more silent protest. There is no band or dance or newspaper. These things are on hold. There is no more “I only date college guys,” and certainly no more “I’m not interested in Omar Smalls.” Each of these things belongs to a different girl in a different time, before this moment.
In this moment, I am a new girl, unafraid, drowning in desire, and dashing to dive in.
“Slow down, homegirl,” he whispers.
But I can’t. This is where I want to be. Inside his arms. Beneath the silver moon.
I toss my jacket, which is his, behind us. He gently unbuttons my shirt, while I lift his above the concrete shoulders that have won championships. And the whole time, we don’t say a single word. Still, his unbroken gaze speaks volumes of unspoken words:
Give me a chance, Claudia.
Let me show you who I really am, Claudia.
I promise I won’t hurt you, Claudia.
For him, kissing seems as easy as throwing a pass. Or swimming. He takes his time, navigating the curve of my lips with his. Lips. Tongue. Oh my!
I am not so gentle. Like a frenzied shark, I quickly take the whole of him. Biting, bending, craving each and every kiss.
“Girl, just relax. I got you. Ain’t no army coming after you,” he says, and laughs.
I surrender. He runs his scorching fingers through my hair. I hold his breath in mine. His eyes take me in. And I no longer fear the wave coming.
It is here.
Omar
Tdiddy Smalls C’mon son, why is Willie Mack in here blasting Pink? Put that Meek Mill on. #PumpingIron
Like · Comment · Share · @DaRealTdiddy · Saturday at 7:30 am ·
Usually Fast Freddie works out with us, but this joker calls me coughing at five thirty this morning.
“IGotTheFluOrSomethingT.”
“You’re suspect, dawg.” He coughs in the phone, like I don’t know he and Belafonte just got in a few hours ago. Jokers always hiding and trying to be all secretive about their ish, and then they put it on Facebook. C’mon, son. “Same ol’ party and bullshit. Y’all need to get your priorities straight,” I tell him.
“TrueTrue. TDidYouSmash?”
Click.
Willie Mack and I are the only ones in the gym. We’ve been in here for about an hour.
“How come they never turn the heat on in this joint on weekends?” he asks, his sweat dripping on me while he spots my bench press. “Hurry up, dawg, I’m hungry.”
It’s hard to think about food or heat or anything else up in here. My mind is on one thing.
Last night, Claudia and I were sitting on Folly Beach at midnight. We walked. We kissed. It wasn’t anybody else on the beach but the two of us. She grabbed my hand and slid her fingers in between mine. The rest of the night was like a dream.
“What number is that?” I ask, grunting while struggling to lift the three-hundred-pound weights off my chest for the tenth time.
“Focus, T. Stop thinking about ol’ girl and focus.”
“Ain’t nobody thinking about her,” I grunt.
“Then why you didn’t hang out with us last night? Why you don’t eat lunch with us no more?”
WTF!
“You ain’t even watch the game with us on Sunday? You always on her FB?” he says, pressing the bar down.
“C’mon, Willie, stop pressing so hard.” He lets up a little. “You sound like a little bish. Stop tripping.” Truth was, he wasn’t really tripping. I hadn’t really thought about how much time I was spending with homegirl.
“I got your bish,” he says, gritting on me, pressing the bar down with all his might. It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep it off my neck. “It’s the last one. C’mon now, push.”
“Then let up, dayum!” When I finally get the barbell up, he takes it and places it on the stand.
“Willie Mack, I’m just having fun with ol�
�� girl. You know how T-Diddy does.”
“I hear ya talking, woadie,” he says sarcastically.
“C’mon son. T-Diddy is all about dropping the panties. Don’t get it twisted,” I say, not even believing myself.
“A’ight, dawg. I’m all about Panera. Let’s hit it.”
“I’m taking a shower first, and you should too.”
“I’m good. I’ll be out here, but I ain’t waiting forever. Hurry up, before they run out of soufflé. That spinach artichoke joint is the truth.”
I’m in the shower for almost fifteen minutes, just letting the water hit me before I even begin to clean off the funk. I can’t stop thinking about homegirl.
What I really want to do is see Claudia, tell her I think I love her. It sucks that she’s in Columbia. I’m not even in the mood for Panera. I just want to go home, make me an omelet, some turkey bacon, and watch college football. By myself. Maybe she’ll call.
I get out the shower and hear Rick Ross coming from the speakers.
“It’s about time you put on some real playa music, homeboy,” I scream out to Willie Mack as I check myself out in the mirror. Look at those muscles. T-Diddy’s arms are ripped. I wrap myself in the orange-and-green beach towel I got on my first recruiting trip to the U.
After drying myself off, I drape the towel over my locker and stare at the big UM logo. A few more months and I’m gonna be a Hurricane. I can’t wait for that ish. Can’t nobody stop T-Diddy. I hope there aren’t any hidden cameras in here, ’cause Nicki Minaj is blasting now and I’m dancing naked on the floor. At least until Willie Mack cuts it off.
“Mack, why you cut that jam off? C’mon son,” I shout at him from the locker room.
I’m feeling so good, I decide that I’m gonna text homegirl, maybe ask her something about the protest. Make it official, so she doesn’t think I’m pushing up on her too hard. I hear Willie Mack walking in from the weight room.
“Willie Mack, look at this.” I flex my arms. “I think I’m bigger than yesterday.”
“Yeah, definitely bigger,” a female voice says. I turn around, and standing a few lockers away, staring at me standing naked, is none other than Kym King. “Hey, T-Diddy, what you doing?”
“WHOA! I’m working out. Where’s Willie Mack?”
“Yeah, I can see you hard at work,” she says, smiling and walking toward me till I can smell her watermelon bubble gum. “He left, said something about Waffle House.”
“Panera.”
“Yeah, that too. I see you’re happy to see me,” she says, and slaps my ass. I pull her into me without even thinking. C’mon son, watchu doing?
“Me wanna ride.”
“Girl, somebody could come in.” Get it together, T-Diddy. I back away. An inch or so. “Kym, I’ll holla at you later.”
“Let me ride T-Diddy’s whip.”
“This ain’t cool.” Even though it does feel hella good. “How you even know I was here?”
“Uh, you’re here every Saturday, silly.” She was right about that. “Plus you put it on Facebook.”
“Look, Kym, I don’t—” and then she kisses me and reminds me why I started dating her in the first place. She got a supersize tongue, and she knows how to work that joint.
Before I know it, my hands are around her waist again, this time, grinding. She’s moaning, I’m groaning, and it’s about to go down. Game on!
T-Diddy drops back to his locker. Checks out the field. Kym rushes him. Drops down to her knees. He’s got the ball. Fumble. Now she’s got it. What will she do with it. OH MY!
“Ohhh, yes, uh, oh, bong bong, no, uh, protect—, oh, Claudia,” I say, my hand cradling her weave.
“What the hell?” Kym pushes away from me.
“Why you stopping, Kym?”
“What did you just say?”
“I said I didn’t have any protection, but it’s no big deal, I can run out to the 7-Eleven and grab some plastic.”
“No, what name did you call me, T-Diddy?”
What name did I call her? I didn’t know what she was talking about, but it was just like Kym to trip out on some inconsequential ish. I was kinda in the moment. Maybe I called her a B.
“You got me all vertical. Why you wildin’ out?”
“’Cause you called me that trick. Claudia.”
Claudia. I did not call her . . . oh, snap, I did. I called her Claudia.
“It was just jokes, Kym,” I say, trying to calm her down so we can get back to business.
“You dating her?”
“Uh, naw, not really, we’re just friends.” Which was the truth, we were still friends, according to Claudia. Maybe close friends.
“Not really is the best you can do?”
“We’re working on the silent protest together. It’s complicated,” I say, pulling the towel down and wrapping it around myself.
“I don’t even know why you’re wasting your time on her and that stupid protest. It ain’t gonna change ish.”
“It’s already changed something. Have you seen the way it’s been less fights in school, and everybody’s acting like we a community of students?”
“A community? Omar, what the hell are you talking about? Don’t nobody care about changing our school. Claudia got your head all blowed up thinking you Malcolm X or something.”
“Ain’t nobody got T-Diddy’s head blown up. I believe in what we’re doing. It may not change the world, but it’s gonna change the world right here at West Charleston. Believe that!”
“That’s funny,” she says, laughing. “T-Diddy Smalls trying to change the world, and I thought you was just trying to get in Claudia’s pants.”
“Whatever, Kym.”
“Yeah, everybody knows about your bet with Willie Mack and ’em. He told my girl Tisha, who told her sister Renee, who’s dating my brother, who told me. Why you even want that stuck-up B when you can have all this?” she says, inching closer to me. “Just don’t call me by her name again. That ish is foul,” she adds, kissing on my chest. “So is it gonna be me or her, Omar?”
You know how people say they know exactly where they were at the exact moment their life changed forever? My uncle Al says he was at the corner store buying pork rinds and sweet potatoes when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot. Our government teacher says he was at the Charleston Grill listening to jazz when President Obama got elected. Fast Freddie said he was watching Sesame Street when his momma came screaming in the house that Tupac was dead. Until last night and today, I never had one of those moments.
I’m standing here naked, staring at this dope-looking chick who is ready to give me what I want, and all I have to do is tell her what she wants to hear. To tell her what I’ve told every other girl who I wanted to get with: “You are the center of my galaxy.” But I can’t. Because there is another Venus in my orbit. And even though it feels like she is a universe away, I miss her. I can’t think of anything but her. Her smile. Her words. Her skin. Her kiss. Everything else is alien. What the fug am I talking about? Get it together, T-Diddy. Smash Kym.
“Her,” I answer, and back away. “We’re done here, Kym. Deuces.”
“I hope those Bayside boys beat your punk ass down,” she says, and storms away. All I can do is laugh at how random that is. “I got your laughter, T-Diddy. Believe that.”
I pull out my phone to see if I have any missed calls. Fast Freddie texts me twice to see if he can come over for omelets. Willie Mack texts to ask me where we’re watching the Miami game and to bring his iPod. Uncle Al wants me to drive all the way downtown to get him some potato soup from Five Loaves. Texts from them and everybody else. Everybody except Claudia.
Omar Smalls: Homegirl, thinking of you. Hope you’re safe. I miss you
A few minutes later, I’m putting on my sneaks when I hear the most beautiful sound in the world. The ringtone that lets me know I have a new text. I’ve never been so happy to hear a boing in my life, except when Coach texted me about Miami’s full athletic scholarship.
Claudia Clarke: Moi aussi, mon ami
After Google translates the first two words, my heart leaps out of my chest. When I read the last two, it hits the floor. Hard.
Friends?
Claudia
The protest isn’t working.
The bell rang ten minutes ago, and there was no silent protest. Everybody’s in here talking, like normal. We’re losing momentum. Maybe Omar’s mad at me because I didn’t call him when I got back last night. Maybe he’s pissed off because we haven’t talked since Folly Beach. Whatever.
We’re on day eleven, and the situation is no better than when we started. The spring play auditions usually happen this week, but since there’s no drama club, that’s been canceled too. Cruella probably thinks she can wait us out; that we’ll get complacent, give up on it. Not me. I’ll ride this fight until the wheels fall off. As long as she doesn’t follow up on that whole Harvard threat thing.
“Oh, snap, look at this,” Belafonte screams from his seat near the window. Everyone, including Mr. Washington, looks out to see what he’s gawking at.
There is a sea of white vans lined up in front of our school. Every TV station is represented. And not just the local ones. There’s a CNN and a Fox truck. I chuckle to myself when I see the BET van.
“Mr. Washington, we’re famous,” says Tami, who had to take out her tongue ring because of an infection. Now I can understand what the heck she’s saying, but I can’t look at her.
“BET is in the house. We’re gonna be on 106 & Park, y’all,” yells another student.
“What’s this?” asks Mr. Washington.
“They’re probably here for the protest,” Belafonte says.
“I just hope the principal and the school board are listening,” I say.
“Well, they’ll certainly hear us now,” Mr. Washington adds. I love the fact that he says “us.”
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