Role Play

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “Whose fucking idea was this?” Brooklyn said, looking from Joy to Meechie and back again.

  They didn’t respond.

  She continued, “When I let you two bully me into going out for my birthday, this was not what I had in mind. I’m ready to leave, now, and either you can take me home, or I’ll call an Uber.”

  Meechie leaned forward. “Uber? Leave? Sister, I wish you would leave after I spent my good coins buying these two-hundred-dollar tickets. Do you know how much overtime I had to work to pay for this?”

  Brooklyn pursed her lips. Her stare intensified as she studied her younger sister. Five foot six, deep chocolate, an easy two hundred and twenty pounds, and much like Brooklyn, Meechie carried most of her weight in her large breasts, hips, and thighs. Her aura exuded confidence and the celebration of being big, bold, and beautiful. She wore a medium-length Chinese bob, the tips of her hair dyed honey blond, and she wore a sleeveless, black, and fitted dress with four-inch heels.

  Brooklyn shook her head and said to her sister, “You should’ve asked me first. And I would have told you, ‘No, save your money,’ because Monty and his wife will be here. They are always fuckin’ here.” She stabbed her index finger into the table. “It’s his wife’s goddamn foundation! I can’t believe you would do this.”

  Meechie leaned in further. “Look, first of all, I don’t make it a habit of seeing who owns what foundation. And second of all, you knew that bastard was married the first day you fucked him, so don’t get in here, acting all sanctified, like seeing him with his wife is a violation of your side-bitch commandments. Furthermore, this was your girl’s idea.” She pointed to Joy. “Check her ass.”

  Brooklyn shot Joy a look.

  Joy gave a small eye roll and fanned her face. “I didn’t know she ran this shit.”

  “Riiiiight, sure, you didn’t,” Meechie said, then twisted her lips, giving an okay hand sign. “Make this seem as if it was all my idea.” Meechie turned to Brooklyn. “You already know this place is not even my speed. Had it been up to me, we would’ve been down at the Booty Lounge turned up with Big Creamy, Mister Moist, and Frankly-Delicious, lickin’ pubic-hair sprinkles off a chocolate-dick cake. Shit, I know how to party, bitch.” She paused, giving them a moment to take her words in. “But, noooooo, bad and bourgeoisie over there said you would like this much better. So, I said to my man, ‘Okay, bae, maybe I need a li’l more cultivation. Maybe these high-class hoes are on to something. You know what I’m saying?’ And bae was like, ‘Yup, so drink you a li’l Hennessy, put on your Sunday best, you know that sister of yours is a li’l different, so go on, it’s her birthday.”

  Brooklyn turned to Joy. “Why would you suggest this?”

  “Any other time you like fund-raisers,” Joy said.

  “Not for my damn birthday!” Brooklyn said snidely.

  “Well, we’re here,” Meechie said, “and we ain’t leavin’. We gon’ drink up they open-bar liquor, eat that ma’fuckin’ food over there”—she pointed to the buffet—“and when I get full and my buzz get right, I’ma dance the rest of the night, at this fund-raiser on your goddamn birthday. So, I advise you to buckle up and settle in, ’cause you gon’ be here for a while.”

  Chapter 21

  Elle

  Elle swayed her shoulders to the beat as the DJ played an uptempo jazz set. She swept her long dark ringlets over her right shoulder, giving Monty a mini-view of the crowd behind her.

  His eyes narrowed in on Brooklyn, and the veins in his neck created a road map into his lower jaw.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Elle turned her full body around and followed the path of Monty’s gaze. She gasped and turned back toward him. “It never fucking ends!” she said in a forceful whisper, shaking her head.

  Monty paused. He combed through the type of women Elle had a history of accusing him of, but he knew, without a doubt, a woman like Brooklyn would never make the cut. She was too short, too heavy, too low-key, reserved, and out of the political and celebrity spotlight. A high school history teacher who recently volunteered at a nonprofit after-school program for at-risk teen girls. An everyday woman whom Elle was too vain to ever consider his type.

  There had to be someone else, other than Brooklyn, whom Elle spotted and was ready to rest her insecure hunch on.

  Monty took a sip of his scotch and sighed. “What never ends?”

  Elle held her lips tight and leaned in toward the center of the table. “That freaking reporter from First Look Journal is here. I swear, ever since these fake news scandals have hit the press, that jackass is everywhere! We can’t even enjoy a community event and a nice meal without being stalked!”

  “Damn shame,” Dominic interjected.

  “It sure is,” Angelique agreed.

  Monty hesitated. “Right,” he said, their responses catching him off guard.

  Elle reached for his hand. “Ignore them. You know who you are. We know who you are. Most importantly, the people know who you are. You’re the best governor this state has ever seen. Now promise me, at least for tonight, you’ll enjoy the moment.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Promise.”

  She smiled and blew him an air-kiss.

  Monty blinked Elle out of view and reset his sights on Brooklyn. He thought of the conversation he’d held with her a few hours ago, where he gave her strict instructions to stay home. Yet, here she was, dressed in six-inch nude-colored heels; a soft black and flowing, mid-thigh, off-the-shoulder dress that showcased the pink lotus flower tattoo on her right shoulder; the teardrop diamond earrings he’d bought her; and her newly styled and cut asymmetrical bob, laid to perfection. She was beautiful, and not only did he know it, so did everyone else in there.

  Brooklyn

  To Brooklyn, Monty and Elle carried on with what seemed to be an amusing conversation, encapsulated with smiles, flirtatious winks, and air-kisses.

  Elle crossed her thin ankles, slipped off one of her heels, and eased her toes beneath the cuff of Monty’s pants leg.

  He gave her a soft and loving grin, picked up his glass of scotch, and clinked her flute.

  Knock! Knock! Meechie called for Brooklyn’s attention.

  Brooklyn shifted her eyes back to her table, where Meechie gawked at her like she was crazy and Joy shot her a forced smile.

  Thanks to Joy’s two glasses of merlot and Meechie’s three shots of Hennessy—chased with a Budweiser—these two bitches wasted no time getting twisted.

  Meechie pointed to a slice of pink and white birthday cake the waiter had placed on the table. She slurred, “Make-ah, make-ah whiss!”

  Brooklyn hesitated.

  “Just make the goddamn wish,” Joy demanded. “Stop it with the theatrics and get it together. Shit.”

  Reluctantly, Brooklyn closed her eyes and began.

  Dear Goddess, please give me strength. All I need is for my head and my heart to agree that we’re done with this shit, with his shit.

  I always knew who he was and that he was married.

  But.

  When I sorted through and weighed out the multitude of strife and struggle I’d been through in my life, against what he offered:

  A chance to give my daughter a better life than what I had. A chance to simply breathe and just be someone other than who I was.

  But now, I’m tired of being his penciled-in pussy, erased at a moment’s notice. I’ve had enough of empty holidays, lonely nights, disappointing birthdays, and lies.

  I’m done with the emotional merry-go-round, and all I want to do is get off, and live in peace—

  “Umm, helluuurrrr . . .” Meechie slurred, pounding on the table. “This is ice cream cake, what the fuck are you wishing for—tomorrow?”

  Brooklyn blinked her eyes open. Not only was the candle blown out, but Meechie had picked up Brooklyn’s spoon and taken a scoop.

  Joy shot Brooklyn an eye roll, and the look on her face clearly said, “That’s your sister, not mine.”

  Meechie had a mouth f
ull of vanilla ice cream as she said, “Hell, I wanted a piece. Plus, I needed to feed this liquor something. I think I’m a lissle drunk.”

  Joy sipped her glass of merlot, then said, “Try a lot. And since you’re mixing ice cream and whiskey, you’re also getting ready to be a lissle sick.”

  Meechie looked at Joy. While pointing a spoonful of melted cake at her, she arched a brow. “Bitch, you don’t need to be worried about me. You need to be worried about that speech impediment.” She turned to Brooklyn. “Where this heifer come from, an-nee-damn-way?”

  Joy was Brooklyn’s neighbor. She was the first one to introduce herself to Brooklyn when she moved into the neighborhood, two years ago. They’d been the best of friends ever since, and Meechie knew that. For the most part, when Joy and Meechie weren’t competing for Brooklyn’s attention, they liked each other.

  “I’m just going to ignore you, Demetria.” Joy looked over at Brooklyn. “I want to hear what you wished for.”

  Brooklyn tucked the long side of her bob behind her ear. She sorted through which lie would sell the best, then settled on, “I wished for health. Strength. The ability to center myself, balance my chakras, and you know, get more in tune with my spiritual side.”

  “Yesss!” Joy said, and snapped her fingers, impressed. “Yes, honey, yes. Now that’s that grown and sexy shit. Alignment. Accountability. Inner healing—”

  “Chakras? Did you say ‘chakras’?” Meechie laughed so hard she snorted. “Sisser, who you tryna be, Gandhi?” She downed the rest of her Hennessy and chased it with her beer. “Bitch, you from Low Bottoms. You’d better get your damn mind right and whiss for another man, a single one. ’Steada Mr. Community Dick.”

  “Would you stop it?” Brooklyn whispered through tight lips.

  “S-s-stop?” Meechie leaned in. “For what, sisser? ’Cause he’s the gov’ner? Well, fuck the gov’ner!”

  A few heads turned their way.

  Meechie carried on, “I didn’t vote for his mafuckin’ arse! And nobody else that I know did. We all wonderin’ how did he win!”

  The onlookers snickered.

  Brooklyn snapped, “I asked you to stop before somebody takes out their damn phone and we’re all over the internet for some unnecessary bullshit. He already has a lot going on!”

  Meechie clutched invisible pearls. “Smart as you were when we were kids, I never imagined that you would grow up to be dick dumb.”

  Brooklyn pursed her lips tighter than before and leaned in closer to Meechie. “It’s not about dick. It’s about being appropriate and you dogging him in public when he’s done nothing to you is not appropriate. Now I’m telling you to stop.”

  “You’re telling me? I know freakin’ well you’re not taking up for his ass! What kind of shit is that? Do you hear yourself? He’s over there feelin’ on that bitch. Whispering shit in her ear. And I know you saw them. Didn’t you see them, Joy?”

  “Yeah, I saw ’em. Foot all up his pants leg.”

  “Exactly. All hugged up and shit,” Meechie carried on.

  “I thought he had to get his thoughts together, myself,” Joy added.

  “Had a lot on his mind,” Meechie said.

  “Lies!”

  “All lies. I betchu when he gets home, he’ll be fuckin’ that plastic ho. And where you gon’ be, Miss Appropriate?”

  They both turned and looked at Brooklyn, whose face was beet red. She tapped her foot beneath the table. Before she could respond, Meechie looked over at Joy and said, “She gon’ be in bed, alone, crying and masturbating into a body pillow. What you need to do is stop sippin’ on that goddamn flat-ass Pepsi, get out your feelings, and say fuck him. ’Cause we all know he ain’t never gonna divorce his wife. He ain’t never gonna put a ring on it. You always gonna be the side chick. His ho.” Meechie shook her head. “You need to get back to living your life. You’re smart, successful, money in the bank, fine as hell, thick as shit, got an ass like bam. Titties that boom. Waistline like bitch-what. And you have a million other things going for yourself.”

  “Preach!” Joy clapped her hands, drawing a few eyes their way.

  “Enough,” Brooklyn snapped.

  “I’m not finished, though. And okay, maybe he helped you out. We had a hard life. Shit was fucked up for us. Mama in prison. Aunt Carrie raised us, but didn’t like us. Gave our sisters away. But still. None of that means you have to take his shit. And it’s not like that ma’fucker was giving you something for nothing. He was getting some pussy!”

  “Are. You. Done?” Brooklyn snapped.

  “No,” Meechie continued, “I’m just saying, sisser, you deserve better ’cause he ain’t about shit. Take it from me. I have had a husband and a live-in, and one thing I know is a shitty, slimy, low-down, bitch-ass ma’fucker.” She finished off her beer. “And that tailored suit–wearing bitch is the HBIC.” She batted her extended lashes. “And I mean that in the nicest way possible, but you do what you think is best.” She paused, then added, “But if it was me, he’d be black history.” She dusted her hands. “Now I’m finished.” Meechie turned toward the passing waiter. “Another double of Hennessy and a Budweiser, please.”

  “And two glasses of merlot,” Joy tossed in, then turned back to Brooklyn. “Simply put, he’s an asshole.”

  Brooklyn did her best not to yell. “Both of you hoes talk too much! You fuckin’ up my vibe, shut up. Just shut up! I swear, you two have worked each and every one of my fucking nerves.” She looked around and spotted a few folks staring their way. She lowered her voice and carried on, “Demetria, if you weren’t my little sister, I’d bust you dead in your mouth! It’s my birthday, and not only did you two pushy bitches bring me to the very place where my man is over there with his wife, but now you’re trying to rip me apart behind my goddamn birthday wish. Don’t I get to wish for what I want?”

  “Hell, it’s your birthday,” Meechie said snidely.

  Joy added, “Well, it’s past midnight, so technically—”

  “Both of you, kiss my ass.” Brooklyn snapped.

  “All that ass?” Meechie said as she leaned against Joy’s shoulder and they both died laughing.

  Brooklyn stood up and planted a hand up on her hip. “The goddamn audacity of you two giving out relationship advice.” She turned toward Meechie. “Especially when you take your sorry-sack-of-nothing back each and every goddamn time he fucks up, Ms. I-Know-a-Shitty-Ma’fucker-When-I-See-One. Meechie, I guess so, since you reached in the gutter and dragged one out. With his broke ass!”

  Brooklyn then turned to Joy. “I like Thomas and all, but you need to be worried what he’s up to at that day program for the blind. I thought he was hard of hearing, so why is he over on the visually impaired side, huh?”

  “Excuse you,” Joy said, pissed.

  “Sisser, you’re wrong for that. You know Thomas is old.” Meechie looked over at Joy. “But his old ass is a li’l nasty, Joy, and them hoes can’t see what the fuck he’s doing. I know y’all been married a million years, but I don’t trust him. Now, sisser, as far as bae. He may be a lot of things and his money is nowhere near as long as Monty’s, but I’ll tell you a few things he’s not, and that’s a lying, low-down, cruddy clown, married and crooked ma’fucker. I betchu he ain’t none of that. You right, though, he needs to make a li’l bit more money, a bitch is trying to buy a new house, oh, and get some red bottoms. But none of that has anything to do with that ma’fucker over there.” She pointed to Monty. “Now, if you want my opinion—”

  “I don’t,” Brooklyn said.

  “Well, I’ma give it to you,” Meechie continued. “You and his wife need to get together and throw that whole nigga away.” She and Joy high fived.

  Brooklyn couldn’t believe this was how her birthday had turned out. She could either flip and completely go off—and ruin this entire event—or she could head over to the bar. She looked Joy and Meechie over and said, “In an effort not to tear this nice place up, I’m going to be an adult, walk over to the bar
, and collect myself.”

  “Sisser—”

  “Fuck y’all!”

  “Oh shit!” Meechie said, as Brooklyn switched away. “Joy, is that bitch big mad or naw?”

  Their laughter echoed behind her.

  Chapter 22

  Brooklyn

  YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL. ABSOLUTELY STUNNING, AS ALWAYS. THE PRETTIEST WOMAN IN THE ROOM, AS I’M SURE YOU ARE AWARE. WITH THAT IN MIND, HERE ARE A FEW THINGS YOU NEED TO DO. 1) GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE BAR. TOO MANY MOTHERFUCKERS OVER THERE I DON’T LIKE. PLUS, IT’S NOT LADY LIKE. 2) TAKE YOUR FINE ASS HOME. 3) STAY THERE.

  I SAW YOU ARRIVE, SO I’M AWARE YOU DIDN’T DRIVE. THEREFORE, THERE IS A CAR WAITING FOR YOU OUTSIDE. GET IN IT. LEAVE. AND WAIT FOR ME AT THE HOME I BOUGHT FOR YOU. PREFERABLY IN BED—BLACK LACE CROTCHLESS BODYSUIT, GARTER, THIGH-HIGHS, HEELS, YOU KNOW WHAT I LIKE. IN THE MEANTIME, I’LL BE BRINGING THIS BUSINESS TO A CLOSE, WHILE TRYING TO FORGET YOUR OUTRIGHT INCONSIDERATION, DRAMA, AND DEFIANCE. APOLOGY ACCEPTED.

  Brooklyn sat at the all-glass bar, holding her iPhone in her hand. Her heart sat at the base of her stomach. She was humiliated as she stared at the text from Monty, reading it at least ten times as she stared off into space. She wondered at what exact moment she had given this motherfucker the impression—scratch that—the permission to be God.

  Had it been when she agreed to lie in wait and keep her existence a secret while he perfected his public life as a loving husband, doting father, and admirable politician? Or perhaps this was simply the way a man like Monty treated a woman like Brooklyn: the child of a junkie whore and a question mark. Like shit.

  “May I have everyone’s attention please?”

  Brooklyn blinked back into the moment.

  Monty stood at the front of the room, behind the glass podium. He spoke into the microphone, “On behalf of Each One Reach One, I’d like to thank everyone for coming.”

  The audience applauded.

  Brooklyn watched.

  “As you know, this is a cause that is dear to my wife’s heart. So when she came to me and said she wanted to start a foundation dedicated to improving the lives of single mothers and mothers who needed a second chance, I was all for it. And I thank you all for being all for it as well. To date, we have raised over five point seven million dollars.”