by Nia Arthurs
I glanced at the clock and noted that it was 10:00. If I caught a 10:15 bus, I could get to school and make the last five minutes of Mrs. Peter’s office hours before it was time for my first class. I rushed to the bathroom and stuck my toothbrush under the water, squeezed the toothpaste over the bristles and then shoved it into my mouth. Between brush strokes, I tugged off my T-shirt and shorts and ran into my room, grabbing the first clean blouse and jeans that I could find. I sniffed the jeans and groaned, realizing that I’d worn it last week. The foamy concoction was starting to run down my chin. I hopped to the bathroom with one leg in my jeans and the other still as naked as the day I was born and spit in the sink. After washing out my mouth, I fitted both legs properly into my pants, grabbed my backpack and locked my apartment door.
A few minutes later, Juney pulled up to the lane. I’d learned that the bus moved in rotations. They circuited the city and then returned to their original locations at least twice. I was glad that Juney had been the one to stop by my bus stop this morning. The other guy was a bit too nice for my tastes.
“Good morning, Juney,”
“Mawning,” he intoned in Creole. Juney spoke proper English when he felt like it but for the most part, he spoke the native language of his country with ease. Sometimes, I asked him to repeat himself so that I could understand him, but Creole was so close to English that I rarely had to do that. “You gwen da school early,”
“I got a good grade and I wanted to talk to the teacher about it,” I explained, coming to sit in the seat directly behind him as he shut the automatic doors and drove off. There were a few other people on the bus along with me, but the crowds had already dispersed to their various places of employment so I had a whole seat to myself.
“Why do you want to talk to yuh teacha if yuh got a good grade? Did you cheat on the test?”
“No!” I laughed, “No, it’s not that. I just want to talk about it.”
Juney rolled his eyes and his muscles flexed as he wrestled with the huge steering wheel. “You make no sense. Just like my first wife, Deborah.”
“Why are you comparing me to Deborah?” I wondered. Whenever Juney got frustrated or upset, he’d insult you by drawing a relation to his first ex-wife. I got my initial ‘Deborah-dis’ one morning last week when Juney hit the brakes abruptly. I was standing in the middle of the bus holding on to the bars along with about fifteen other people and I had not been expecting the stop. My hand slipped from the rails and I barreled backward into the woman behind me. She fell backward into the man behind her and we all sort of threw ourselves down with the domino effect. Thankfully, a hefty Asian man who was standing in the middle of the rows at the back prepared himself for the weight of the man in front of him and so prevented the rest of the line from falling into a messy heap. Juney got so mad, he called us all ‘vessels of destruction like Deborah, his ex-wife’ and muttered to himself as he restarted the bus and continued along.
Ah, good times.
This morning, though, Juney was not as angry.
“Deborah, same way, couldn’t communicate. She said something and then expected something else.”
“You said Deborah’s your first ex-wife. Do you have a second?”
Juney nodded and slowed the bus down as we headed into the traffic by the stop light. “Denise. She said I drank too much and so she left me.”
“I’m sorry, Juney.”
“Yeah,” he nodded and allowed the bus to creep forward, “I felt bad when she gone. Denise made the best Johnny cakes.”
I withheld a snicker. “I’m sure she did. So do you have a wife right now or…”
“Common-law wife now.” Juney declared, turning the bus onto the street where my school was, “I learned not to mess around with that marriage business anymore. As soon as you get the paper, things get bad, so I just noh get the paper.”
“I guess that makes sense, Juney.” I nodded. “Thanks for the ride.” I got up and handed him a dollar.
“Remember, don’t be like Deborah. Learn fi communicate!” he waved at me as I disembarked and then drove off.
I loved Juney… even if his advice left much to be desired.
Still smiling from my encounter with the wordy bus driver, I did not feel the usual jitters that accompanied any potential rendezvous with Mrs. Peters. I still couldn’t quite believe that I was going through with querying the grade. In fact, if Mrs. Peters had failed me, I would not have ventured into her lair, I mean office. The fact that this grade was a millimeter of a step down from a 100% and especially given the way Mrs. Peters had not even commented on my presentation, prompted me to ask her what I’d done to deserve the score. You know, so I could do it again.
I walked to the back of the campus that housed the Faculty of Law building and stepped inside. The lounge was a welcome cool from the blistering heat outside. I’d learned to wear a tank top underneath any blouse that I wore or else my shirt would be soaked with sweat. The advisors each had their own office and it took a few minutes to find hers. At last, I located the door with the plaque proudly displaying “DARLENE PETERS, LLM”. I knocked timidly on the door.
“Come in,” Mrs. Peters intoned. I expected to walk into a dungeon-like cave with zero sunlight. I pictured Mrs. Peters, shrouded in a black leather jacket. I imagined her sitting in a huge chair ornamented with the skulls of students that had committed suicide from the ruthlessness of her censure. I expected to hear the purrs of the fluffy white cat that Peters would pet evilly.
What I actually saw when I pushed open the door and stepped into the her office was brown walls with cream trimmings, a picture frame of a jaguar in the jungle, and a very much non-Mob boss looking Mrs. Peters in a cute pink top and black pencil skirt. There were no felines in sight.
Mrs. Peters closed the book that she was reading and slid the glasses off of her nose, “Ms. Bevans,”
“Good morning, Mrs. Peters.” I took a seat, “How’s it going?”
“Ms. Bevans, we both know that you do not truly care to know how my day is going.” She meticulously grabbed a spray bottle, squirted a liquid onto her lenses and proceeded to rub them, “As I am equally and blissfully ignorant of your status and/or feelings about life in general. Did you come here to speak to me or just to ask me dumb questions?”
Ouch. The woman packed a punch of a mouth there, bless her heart.
I laughed awkwardly, “Ah, okay. I was just wondering about the grade that you gave me for the oral presentation.”
She looked up from her task of glasses-cleaning and pegged me with a stare. “I don’t give perfect scores. If you’ve come to argue then-”
“Actually,” I took a chance and interrupted her. I knew she resented the cutoff by her narrowed eyes, “I am very satisfied with the grade. I’d like to know what I did to earn it. You didn’t… make any comments on Monday so…”
Mrs. Peters held her glasses up to the sunlight streaming from her window. There was not a scratch on the surface. “Did you know that tapirs are the national animal of Belize,” she returned the glasses to the bridge of her nose.
I stared blankly at her. I had no idea where she was going with this.
“No ma’am. I did not.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “The national animal of my country, the symbol of our strength and value as a nation is embodied by a mammal that does nothing but scavenge the ground for food to eat. And even the trees that the tapir feasts on are spared because the animal does not reach higher than its snout can go.”
I blinked, still not getting it.
She smiled grimly, “Did you know that tapirs have not evolved much for tens of millions of years?”
“Mrs. Peters,” I began to protest but it was her turn to cut me off.
“In all those years, not once did the tapir evolve into something great.” Mrs. Peters sat back in her chair. The seat began to creak but stopped mid-whine as though it knew if it continued it would incur her wrath, “When I step into a classroom, I’m not looking for the s
tudents who want to learn the law so that they can practice it. That’s fine and good and tapir-ish.” She drilled me with her stare, “But I get excited when I see students with the potential to change things for the better.”
She returned to her book and I knew I was dismissed. Still dazed, I got up and walked slowly to the door. “I’m excited about you, Ms. Bevans,” Mrs. Peters called to me.
That sounded scarily like a compliment. As I exited her office, a smile bloomed. Mrs. Peters thought I could change things. The entire spiel had completely run around the point but I got her gist. As I walked to my 11:00 class, I found myself thinking that maybe Mrs. Peters wasn’t so bad. Oh, she was a dragon of a woman all right, but beneath all the fire and bluster burned a visionary and maybe I could take her abuse if it meant discovering the potential that she saw in me.
I always knew that I was never meant to be in a job where I had to deal with people expecting me to be charismatic and alluring 24/7. My personality usually associated with terms such as ‘bubbly’, ‘cheerful’ and ‘optimistic’ and those labels would be accurate. But after a few hours of being effervescent, I needed some alone time to recharge my batteries and rebuild the fizz. My instant attachment to Melody sprouted from a phase in my life where the world was a beautiful place and dreams came true. I’d grown up since then and sometimes, I wanted to smack the younger me for being so darn cheery. Unfortunately, my old self wasn’t the only girl that I wanted to smack today. This Tuesday afternoon, customers seemed to be gravitating to Mia’s Designs. I’d volunteered for the gig expecting to enjoy a leisurely Monday kind of work-day. I was so wrong.
“Ma’am,” I addressed a plus size woman who had tried on a skirt two sizes too small, ripped the zipper because she forced it on anyway and was now accusing me of selling second-rate goods, “I already told you that you don’t have to buy the skirt. Why are you yelling at me?”
The irate dark-skinned woman huffed. Her hair had been brushed back into a severe ponytail with a little bun topping the crown. She wore a white skin-fit mesh blouse over tight, highlighter pink skinny jeans. “You know you gave me this size to embarrass me!” She raged, causing a scene and I resisted the urge to tear my hair out.
“Miss, you asked for that size and I gave it to you even though I suggested that you might need a bigger one.”
“That’s racist!” The woman cried and I rolled my eyes. Did she even understand the term ‘racist’? I sighed and counted backwards from ten. I wished that Mia was here. My attractive and elegant boss would put Ms. Flamboyant in her place and still soothe the frazzled woman so that she left in peace. I’d seen Mia do it before. My friend was a customer service and entrepreneurial deity. She could probably sell decorative human teeth if she batted her eyelashes hard enough. I, on the other hand, felt myself getting red. My patience meter was quickly running out of chips and my backwards counting was barely keeping my sanity together. I saw two options before me as the woman began deep, butt-clenching crying right there in the middle of the store. I could either climb over the counter, launch myself at her chubby cheeks and slap the heck out of her or I could be the bigger woman and try to reason with her. Before I could choose any option for certain, one of the other customers browsing in the store stepped up and asked,
“What’s going on here?” The sweet older woman with wrinkled skin the color of a paper bag and an adorable gray puff of hair asked.
Ms. Flamboyant calmed her weeping now that she was getting the attention of someone else. Thank God too, because I’d been leaning toward the first option.
“She,” Ms. Flamboyant pointed to me, “gave me a skirt that was too small to embarrass me.”
The old lady allowed Ms. Flamboyant to cry into her arms, “Child, don’t you know that you are beautiful just the way you are. I saw everything. That nice girl only got you that size because you asked for it. Now I understand why you’re upset but you need to pay for that skirt and get on outta here. Okay?”
To my surprise, Ms. Flamboyant nodded, lumbered toward me to pay for the skirt and left with no further trouble.
“Thank you so much, miss.” I enthused, rounding the counter to shake the hand of my rescuer as the store returned to the peaceful chatter that it was used to.
“Oh, it was no problem,” she readjusted the glasses on her nose and transferred the hand basket she was holding to the other hand. “My grandson married a woman like that. All they want is some attention. The young people are growing up so damaged.”
“That’s going on in the whole world,” I added.
She nodded sagely, “My, pretty and smart. What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Susan.” I said, “and yours?”
“Devin, Devin Marshall.”
“It was nice to meet you, Ms. Devin. And for your efforts today, your purchases will be half-off.”
I’d pay the other half with my own money.
Ms. Devin chuckled, “That’s very generous of you. Thank you.” she brought her items to the counter and I halved her total, secretly adding the correct price to the till box when she’d left. People like Ms. Flamboyant made me wonder about the direction of the world. Were we becoming better neighbors, better friends, and better people when we were comfortable standing by as others were bullied? But good folks, strong and helpful people like Ms. Devin gave me hope. Maybe if we all worked together, we wouldn’t have to watch the world burn.
“What’s got you concentrating so hard?” I glanced up and smiled at Archie who stood directly beside me behind the counter. His presence warmed me and I turned my attention to teasing my bearded friend.
“I was trying to decode your tattoos.” I joked.
“Be careful. If you ever actually accomplish it I might have to kill you.”
I smirked at him, “Really? That was so cheesy, man.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He replied, coolly shrugging his shoulders.
“Are you ready to get out of here and get back to the hospital?”
“Yeah. Just give me a minute to deal with these other customers. You can start locking up the backroom.”
“Geez, bossy lady.”
I laughed, “Go.”
Grinning widely, Archie did as I asked.
Crazy man.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Melody looked a lot better today. Mrs. Reyes had combed her hair and fastened it into her favorite messy bun and the bags under her eyes had cleared. She was once again easily recognizable as my gorgeous, pregnant friend. Spencer sat in the chair next to her bed, typing furiously on his laptop.
“I heard someone was alive in here.” Archie yelled as we came through the door.
“Ooh, Archie! Susan!” she greeted us when we stepped into her former hospital room. It was presently a jungle of hibiscus bouquets, orchids, teddy bears, and helium balloons. I was surprised that she could actually see through the mess to her television.
Archie kissed her forehead, “How are you, babe?”
“I’m good.” She smiled.
“Spencer,” Archie and Spencer bumped fists.
I leaned down and gently kissed her forehead too. “What’s my L.A. best friend been up to?”
“Oh you know, I’m just chilling and watching soap operas and daytime talk shows all day.”
“Sounds like torture,” Archie mused.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Melody grinned, and then addressed her husband, “Spencer, would you mind getting me a bottle of water? I’m thirsty.”
“Of course,” he said sweetly, putting down his laptop. He bent over her bed and kissed her on the lips before going about his task. As soon as Spencer left, Melody turned widened eyes our way.
“Guys, I only have about five minutes until he comes back,” she peeked outside to ensure the way was clear before turning to us with her request, “you have to sneak me a plate of fried chicken. I swear this hospital food is killing me. Every meal comes with a bowl of jello. You know I hate jello! It’s so slimy and yucky.”<
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Mel made a face and Archie and I tried to hide our smiles, but this was just too hilarious.
“How are we supposed to slip anything past Spencer?” I played along.
Archie gave me a questioning look, “You can’t seriously be contemplating this.”
I ignored him, “We need a plan,” I said to Melody.
“I’ve been thinking of nothing else all day. Okay,” Melody beckoned me closer and I dragged Archie along, “This has to be quick because Spencer will be back any moment. For this to be successful I need Mia and Peyton on board too, got it?”
I nodded, “Got it.”
Melody shot a quick glance at the closed door before continuing, “Ya’ll can bring the fried chicken in here after five tonight. Spencer needs to shower and change and then come back to the hospital. While he’s away, you need to stuff the chicken into your purse and then leave it in here.”
“But what about the smell?” I asked, remembering that the distinct fried chicken scent was unmistakable.
Melody winked at me, “I thought of that too. I can either dab myself with perfume so that he doesn’t know.”
“Terrible idea,” I groused.
“Or,” Melody eyed me, “We can both eat the fried chicken and when Spencer asks we can honestly say that you ate it.”
Clapping my hands together, I cried, “I love it!”
“Hello,” Archie waved his hand in my face, “She’s not supposed to eat spicy foods so soon after the surgery.”
“Archie,” Melody held his hand in hers and looked up at him with her soulful, puppy dog brown eyes, “they fed me jello.”
Archie winced and we could tell that he’d caved, “You two are terrible.”