by Xenia Ruiz
“Hey,” she cried out as I was pulling the phone from my ear. “Are we meeting at Café Central after work?”
“Can’t. I have Youth Ministry tonight.”
“Oh, I forgot. Your nephews will be there.”
Youth Ministry Night took place on the first Thursday of each month. Because the church had accepted that kids younger than ever were engaging in sex, the class consisted of children as young as eleven. The group was supervised by the junior pastor, Allen, while Johnny and I took turns heading the curriculum. Both of us had signed a contract of celibacy in order to properly guide the young members in leading lives of abstinence. Johnny was more rigid in his teaching than I was because he didn’t like the kids to get out of control, something he claimed happened whenever it was my turn to run the class. I thought it was more important for the kids to be able to express themselves without the rigidity of a classroom setting, where they spent the majority of their day. My latest idea to have a debate was initially met with opposition by Johnny. But a poll taken by kids proved my proposal scored big points.
“What’s wrong with soul-kissing?” a boy named Chris asked. “Kissing is normal. Kissing is not a sin. If God hadn’t meant for us to kiss, he wouldn’t have given us lips. Or tongues.” Chris was sixteen, smart, charming as a snake, and very aware that all the teenage girls in church were crazy about him.
The kids were all sitting in the church gymnasium, on oversized pillows and cushions discussing the pros and cons of kissing. Most of the kids who were in favor of soul- or French-kissing were boys, including my nephews, Marcos and Lucas, but some girls favored it too, just as there were some boys on the con side. I saw Marcos and Lucas nudging each other and snickering, and I shook my head with disapproval. Maya had mentioned that they were already getting phone calls from girls and were becoming more secretive, asserting their right to privacy. I remembered how popular Eli had been with the girls at their age and I did not envy Maya.
“What’s wrong with it is that it stirs up the soul,” Cara Shakir, one of my favorite students, countered, in a slow deep voice that commanded attention. “The guy’s spirit enters a girl’s and vice-versa. It’s like drugs. You start with weed and soon you get bored so you move up to the next drug, and the next. Why do you think they call it soul-kissing? It’s not ’cause Blacks invented it. It’s ’cause of the power it incites in a person’s soul to go to the next level.”
Cara was the daughter I never had, a girl I had taken under my wing. With my guidance, she had been accepted to one of the city’s college prep schools. The product of an African Iranian father and a British Trinidadian mother, Cara was a collage of striking features with mesmerizing gray eyes, olive skin, and a head of thick, wavy red hair a lot of the girls admired. At fourteen, she already knew she wanted to work in the field of teenage pregnancy prevention. When she learned her high school was going to start dispensing birth control, she formed a club called “Students Against Sex.”
I caught a momentary unwavering glare pass between Cara and Chris that went beyond their competitiveness. Everyone knew they were seeing each other, “kicking it” as they put it. While dating between the younger church members was discouraged, the church leaders knew there was little they could do about it.
“Alright, people. We’re not talking about drugs,” Johnny interjected, “so let’s stick to the topic at hand. We’re talking about Corinthians 6:18. ‘Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. You are not your own, you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body.’” He shot a reprimanding glance in my direction, signifying that I was about to lose control again.
I surmised that he was still slightly chagrined that I had spurned his latest invitation to dinner. I shrugged innocently, refusing to feel guilty. Was I supposed to go out with him despite the lack of attraction? Or was it supposed to be like an arranged marriage where love came later?
“I was just making an analogy,” Cara defended herself.
Proud of her, I gave her an encouraging smile and she returned the gesture. She reminded me of myself at her age: outspoken, a nonconformist, the kind of girl who didn’t care if everyone else was wearing platform shoes, she was going to keep wearing gym shoes. I then looked at Pastor Allen for direction.
“Let’s see who was able to find a passage to back up their argument,” the junior pastor suggested.
“Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss on the cheek and look what it cost him,” Cara said proudly.
“Very good,” I praised her.
“The passage, please,” Johnny reiterated.
The enthusiastic rustle of turning pages filled the gym, silencing Johnny. I didn’t even need to shoot him a look of self-satisfaction. It would’ve been the wrong thing to do. Just knowing it was enough.
* * *
On the last Saturday of August, when thousands of college-bound kids were into their second week of classes, the college fair was teeming with prospective students and parents. Despite the number of fairs held every year, there always seemed to be too many students who had not been encouraged to attend college and were uninformed about the vast availability of financial aid and scholarships. If I weren’t educated, and prone to paranoid tendencies, I would agree with Rashid, an avid conspiracy theorist, who believes that the inequities in education are a deliberate plan by the powers that be to keep the country in its present condition. For this reason, I believe it is my calling to steer young Latinos toward higher education, particularly given the threat against affirmative action.
Adam showed up late in the afternoon with his two “little brothers.” If it weren’t for his distinctive hair color and style, I wouldn’t have recognized him. He wore a casual shirt, tie, and slacks, in varying hues of olive green. With his face freshly shaven, save for a thin mustache and goatee, and his dreadlocks gathered back in a ponytail, he looked less barbaric. Except for his dense eyebrows, which could have used a waxing, he actually looked normal.
“You clean up alright,” I complimented him, then I felt self-conscious because it sounded like something Simone would say.
He smoothed down his tie and smiled. “Thanks. I did look kind of raggedy the first couple of times we met, didn’t I?”
“You had sort of a slacker thang going on.”
“I call it chic-grunge.”
“Whatever,” I kidded, and we both laughed.
He then introduced me to his two protégés: Ricky, a hyperactive boy of nine, and Justin, a shy teenager who looked young for seventeen. Adam explained that he had been their Big Brother for a year, and had signed on to be their mentor until they graduated from high school. It was evident that they were very close to Adam, particularly Ricky, who hung on to his arm the entire time, bouncing up and down.
I told Adam that Justin would be eligible for both Black and Hispanic scholarships and gave him the brochure and information packet, which included my business card. Then I walked them over to Rashid, who was in a booth across from mine, and introduced them.
“Hey, did you bring my editorial?” I asked Adam, before walking away.
He cringed sheepishly. “I forgot. I’ll mail it to you.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“I’ll mail it, I promise.”
My booth was inundated with parents and students, keeping me, Dana, and the student advisor, Fátima Cruz, very busy. Rashid’s booth was just as crowded. The number of visitors didn’t dwindle until the very end. When five o’clock rolled around, I sent Dana and Fátima home, thanking them for a job well done. I decided to stay an extra half hour, along with a couple of the other recruiters from CU and other colleges, in case any latecomers showed up. I knew many parents used public transportation and came as far away as the South Side. As I was packing up the surplus brochures in boxes, Adam returned, Ricky still hanging on to his arm and Justin trailing behind, browsing through the material.
“How long are you going to be here?” Adam asked.
“I’m getting ready to leave n
ow.”
“You want to get some coffee?” he asked casually. “Or dinner?”
“You said we were going to McDonald’s,” Ricky whined as he jumped up and down.
“Burger King,” Justin interjected.
“McDonald’s!” Ricky shouted as he tried to kick his brother.
“Ricky, my eye is twitching,” Adam said, squinting down at him. “What does it mean when my eye twitches?”
“Um … you’re getting irritated?”
“Now, you said you were going to chill, right?”
“Right.” He stopped jumping.
I smiled down at the rambunctious boy who didn’t smile back. He looked at me like there was no way I was going to deter his Big Brother from taking him to McDonald’s, then he stuck out his tongue, which Adam missed. I bit my own tongue to stop myself from sticking it out at the little monster. Actually, I should have been grateful to him since his temper tantrum gave me a reprieve from having to answer Adam right away.
When I looked up, I saw a woman peeking from behind Adam, listening to our interaction with a very impatient look on her face. Next to her stood a surly teenaged girl who looked as if she had been brought against her will.
“What do you say?” Adam asked. “I’ll take these guys to McDonald’s—”
“Burger King,” Justin muttered.
“Justin,” Adam warned him, then turned to me. “I’ll drop them off, and swing back and pick you up? I’ll bring the editorial.”
Behind him, the mother cleared her throat loudly. “Jew eh-speak eh-Spanish?” she asked.
I nodded and waved her around Adam. “Si, señora.” I turned to Adam and said, “Let me take care of this lady.” He nodded and led Justin and Ricky to the side.
I turned my attention to the woman, grateful for a diversion. I half listened to her talk about how she couldn’t understand why her daughter wasn’t eligible for financial aid and demanded an explanation. I regretted sending Fátima home since the government financial aid forms were her area of expertise. As I attempted to translate the forms to the woman, I could feel Adam’s eyes on me periodically as he waited with the boys. I had to quickly think of a good excuse. Anything other than the truth—that I didn’t want to complicate my life with a man like him—would be a lie.
I offered the mother several options for her daughter: The girl could work for a year and save up, take out a loan, and/or apply for a work-study program. The mother curled her lip at the options, no doubt expecting me to perform some miracle and get her daughter some assistance. She then began explaining her personal situation with her ex-husband, how he had stopped paying child support as soon as the daughter turned eighteen, how he had two other children with his new wife, and how unfair it seemed that she had worked and paid taxes for twenty years and now that her daughter needed assistance, none was available. Nothing I offered seemed to appease her. Over the woman’s shoulder, Rashid was demonstrating in pantomime different methods of suicide and I had to look away to keep from laughing. I caught Adam looking at our interaction with a wrinkled brow. All around me, the other college recruiters were packing up their booths and leaving, glancing at me sympathetically, but grateful that it wasn’t them. In the end, the woman took the information before walking away, grumbling to her daughter in Spanish something about Latinos refusing to help out their own.
“Sorry,” I told Adam, as he came back to the table.
“Look, if you don’t want to go, it’s no problem. I just thought, you know, I haven’t had good company in a while, present company excluded, of course.”
My efforts to stall had not gone unnoticed. I felt guilty, desperate to come up with a good explanation.
“No. It’s … it’s just that my car … my car is down here. I’ll have to go home first.” I sounded like a stammering idiot. Okay, I convinced myself, it didn’t have to mean anything. Coffee, stimulating conversation, hopefully. I would make sure I paid for my own coffee so there were no expectations.
“I can pick you up at your house,” he offered.
“No … I don’t think …” I stammered. I didn’t want to sound like some frightened little woman. “How about if we meet at the coffee place?”
He smiled. “Okay, I get it. Just in case I turn out to be a psycho.”
I ignored his sarcasm. “How about Starbucks?”
“No. No fast-coffee chains. You know Coffee Will Make You Black on Milwaukee and Paulina?”
“Cool name.”
“It’s an old African American saying that means—”
“I know what it means. My mother used to say the same thing to me in Spanish ’cause I liked my coffee black.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you say it?”
“Café prieto te pone prieta.”
“Huh,” he said, watching my lips a little too hard. “Anyway, it’s a bookstore café. They sell self-published books and sometimes they have singers or an open-mike for poetry.”
“I’ll find it. How’s seven?”
“Seven’s good.”
He waved as Ricky pulled him away, anxious to get to McDonald’s, or Burger King.
As I loaded the boxes of leftover brochures into my luggage rack on wheels, Rashid walked up.
“So that was Adam? Love the uh …,” he said, then he gesticulated comically with his hands, “the hairdo.”
“They’re called locks.”
“Is he a Christian?”
“He’s not a Muslim,” I assured him in jest. “I met him at a party last week. My sister thought we should meet.”
“Ah, Adam and Eve-ah. Charming.”
“Shut up.”
“So you’re going on a date?”
“We’re going for coffee.”
“Good for you. I asked Dana out. We’re going to a play tomorrow.”
“Nice. Is she going to convert?” I didn’t realize my words sounded biting until I heard them out loud.
“Jealous?”
“Muslim, please!”
He laughed uproariously, and I joined in, ignoring how suave he looked in his skullcap and trimmed beard.
As soon as I got home, I called Maya to tell her about the editorial, but Alex answered, informing me that she had gone shopping. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was off meeting Luciano somewhere, then I decided not to speculate. Maybe she really was shopping. Browsing through the casual side of my closet, I picked a pair of stretch flare jeans and a cotton shirt with French cuffs that didn’t need ironing. I added more gel to my ponytail and, without bothering to look at myself in the mirror, set out again.
On my way to the café, I stopped by Simone’s to kill some time. I casually mentioned that I was meeting Adam for coffee. She was more excited than I was, embracing me and squealing in my ear, “Chica! I’m so proud of you.”
“Calmate,” I told her to calm down. “We’re just having coffee.”
“First comes coffee, then comes dinner, then comes sex … oops, I mean marriage. I’ll be your maid of honor, Maya will be the matron of honor …”
“My bridesmaids—if I were ever to marry again—are all going to be virgins.”
“Forget you, wench,” she hissed, then squealed again, “I’m so happy!” She critically scanned my outfit. “I know you’re not wearing that.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
She shook her head reproachfully and led me to her closet as I protested along the way. “This is not a date. It’s just coffee. I am not changing into one of your hoochie outfits.”
“I do not wear hoochie-wear.”
I glanced at her body-hugging tank dress skeptically, which clearly revealed she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
I didn’t like any of the outfits she pulled from her closet until she hung a silk tangerine blouse with long, wide bell sleeves under my chin. I remember when she wore it how heads had turned to look at her, men as well as women. Because she was taller and slimmer, I knew it wouldn’t look the same on me.
“The sleeves will be too
long on me,” I protested.
“Try it on.”
I changed into the blouse and looked into the full-length mirror and was pleasantly surprised at what I saw.
“Just don’t get any coffee on my blouse,” Simone warned, then she added, “Or any other fluids.”
I smacked her arm. “Pig.”
“Prig,” she countered.
Before I could stop her, she pulled the ponytail holder out of my hair.
“Let your hair breathe, girl.”
I snatched the elastic band from her and hastily secured my hair back into a ponytail. “It’s out of control. I need a touch-up.”
“You are crazy. You’ve got beautiful hair. I don’t know why you insist on damaging it with relaxers.”
“You used to damage your hair with relaxers,” I reminded her.
“Emphasis on ‘used to.’”
She began searching her drawers wildly, pulling out scarves and hats. “Here.” She pulled out an orange paisley-patterned scarf and wrapped it around my hair, rolling the long ends around my puffy tail and into a big knot at the nape of my neck.
We both stood in front of the mirror, admiring the transformation. For just one brief moment, I almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
CHAPTER 8
ADAM
QUITE BY ACCIDENT, after dodging a woman I had to cut loose, I discovered the Coffee Will Make You Black café one day. It had been an insignificant failed romance that had ended very badly. Half a block away, I saw my ex walking, more like charging, toward me with a homicidal look on her face, and for a moment I thought she saw me, but then I remembered that her permanent, mad-at-the-world look had been part of the problem in our relationship. I had ducked into the darkly lit café and stayed for the coffee, reading the selected poems of Haki Madhubuti and listening to a mediocre West Indian rapper. I kept going back because I liked the ambiance and the fact that I could write until closing time without getting kicked out. I liked it because it was owned by a fearless Black couple, Hassan and Caswanna, who despite the lure of attractive offers from greedy real estate moguls, refused to be bought out. I liked that the African American literature dominated the store and was considered mainstream and not a separate section like in the larger bookstore chains. But most of all, I liked the mixed crowds: the Black bohemians, the liberal White college students, and the different dialects and accents that wafted through the air.