The COMPLETE Coventon Campus Series: Books I, II, & III

by Wright, Kenya

  “Yep.” He traced the brush along his canvas.

  I had no idea if he’d started or was just playing around. “Can I move, or you want me to just stand still?”

  “You can move for now. I’m just getting a sense of where you’ll be in the sky.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Why are you putting me in the sky?”

  “Because that’s where angels fly.”

  “And I’m an angel?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  In my mind, Malcolm nibbled at my collarbone.

  “Because sometimes I like to hear angels cry.”

  I blew out a long breath and concentrated on the area behind Kush. Trees swayed in the wind. Off in the distance, little kids giggled, and cars sped by. The sun bore down on me, but not in a bad way. Due to the heavy breeze, my skin remained cooled. It was just too bright. I felt exposed. My ugliness could find no hiding place out here for all eyes to see.

  Unease sat in my gut.

  What am I doing?

  “Stop frowning,” Kush said.

  “Do you ever say please?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t have to. I just get what I want.”

  “Me too.”

  I didn’t want to, but I smiled.

  Again, he moved the brush all over the canvas, squinting every few strokes. “Who cut you?”

  “Anyone ever told you to mind your own business?”

  “All the time.” Kush dipped his brush into this mixture of pale pink. “Is it a secret?”

  “It’s my business.”

  “I like to hear my muses’ stories.”

  “I’m not your muse.”

  “You already signed at the dotted line.”

  “When?”

  “You walked into my company.” He did something on the canvas and then gathered more of the pale pink paint. “I got a special voodoo spell on my studio. If I invite you in, and you come willingly, then you become my slave and have to complete whatever task I need done.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It is.” He stuck the end of his brush between those full lips and pulled out a thick blunt from his pocket.

  “So the spell is done, after this painting?”

  “No way.” He lit the blunt. “We’re just starting, Little Pipe.”

  “I’m no longer Little Pipe.”

  Smoke fled his lips in circles. Three of them floated in the air. He chopped at one like Pac-Man and then blew out a few more white rings.

  “Who are you now?” Kush asked. “Are you Big Pipe?”

  Something about the way he said the question. He might as well have asked me about the size of my dick.

  “I’m just Pipe.”

  “Just Pipe.” He walked over to me and handed the blunt my way. “And you’re a Michael Jackson fan?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “The Beat It shirt.”

  “I’m an enthusiast.”

  “I bet you could do his moves.”

  “I bet you’ve made a lot of money gambling.”

  His confident expression faltered. “I lost a lot too.”

  I inhaled and choked. “Jesus, what the hell’s in this?”

  “Best of the best, papí. Hindu Kush. Pure Indica strain. It’s named after the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan. The harsh climate conditions the leaves to make this thick coat, which is perfect for hash. Smell it.”

  I sniffed. “Reminds me of sandalwood.”

  “You’ve got a good nose.” He took the blunt back from me. “Who cut you?”

  I coughed into my hand again. “New topic.”

  “Should we go back down the sausage path?”

  “No.” I waved away his offering of the blunt.

  “Hold still for a minute.” And then he touched my face as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Never had I been off my game. I shocked others. I made people uneasy. I helped them question the norm, reevaluate their pleasures.

  No one fucked with my head unless I agreed to it.

  He touched my lips, just like that. With his index finger, he traced the curve of my mouth.

  His gaze never left me, and I shivered under his fingers.

  “You ever heard the story about the Mambo Woman and the snake?” He studied my mouth for one more uncomfortable minute and then marched off as if obsessed.

  “No. I don’t even know what a mambo woman is.”

  Kush returned to slipping his brush onto the canvas. “Mambo is the name for a female high priest in Vodou religion.”

  “So she’s big shit.”

  He did a bad Jamaican accent. “Yeah, mon. Big in Haiti. My father’s side is from there.”

  “So why did the mambo woman have the snake?”

  “She was a lonely woman. Thought no one could love her but the snakes. So she got the biggest snake she could find, an anaconda. She gave it her heart. She fed him the best—fat deer and pigs. During the day, she let him lounge by her garden pool. At night, her men towed him in and lay most of his body on her bed. She slept with him, smoothing her body against his cool scales.”

  “So this is a good story.”

  “It’s up to you. Because one day the snake’s doctor came to do a regular checkup, nothing special. The mambo woman cheered at the news that her anaconda was in top health. ‘Oh, mon. Me min so worried,’ she said. ‘Night after night, him do a ting. It so weird. Him line his whole snake body against mine and lif’ a little, stretching and pulling himself around.’ The doctor dropped his pen and appeared worried. ‘Mambo woman, he’s sizing you up. He’s seeing how large your body is, if you can fit inside of him when he swallows you. He’s preparing himself.”

  Chills ran through me. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

  “Yeah. But the mambo woman thought the doctor was lying. She continued to lay next to him.”

  “And?”

  “And the snake ate her. What else could’ve happened with a snake?”

  “Not all snakes are bad.”

  “Not all snakes are good, either.”

  Quiet moved between us. Well, not full silence. Shuffling sounded from the trees. Birds chirped above the typical sounds of a city on the move. And then his brush made many sounds. Paint slipping along white cloth. He grunted a few times and whispered something. Every now and then, he gazed at me with his mouth open, and then silently went back to creating.

  I liked it better when he was talking. This looking at me the way he does...I don’t know.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, he ended the silence. “Who cut you?”

  “Not that damn question again.”

  “You scared I’ll go after the guy?”

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “I’m scared, but not of you taking out revenge.” I laughed a little. “You don’t know me. I could’ve deserved it.”

  “Don’t ever say that.” He held the brush in mid-air. Blue paint dripped from the wet bristles. “Never put that energy into the universe. Promise me that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why won’t you tell me? What are you afraid of?”

  Purple.

  My stomach tightened and coiled.

  “Our conversations need a safe word,” I whispered.

  He chuckled. “Okay. What do you want to use as the safe word?”

  I swallowed in some of the rising anxiety. “Purple.”

  He held the brush in mid-air again. The end didn’t touch the canvas. Paint dripped onto his pants. “Naw. I don’t like that. I’m a big fan of purple. And you’re too attached to the word.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You looked like you were going to piss yourself after you said that word.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Then green.”

  “Naw. Let’s stay away from colors.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I got a thing for colors.” He went back to painting me. “How about cat?”

&nbs
p; “What?”

  “Cat is the safe word.”

  I pictured Cynthia’s mother’s dead, stuffed cats propped on a dusted bookshelf. “Cat works.”

  “Okay. Cat it is.” He wiped the sweat off of his paint and dipped his brush into the brown circle. “So who cut you?”

  “Cat.”

  “Who broke you?”

  My bottom lip quivered. “Cat.”

  “Who’s the last person you loved?”

  “Big fat, furry cat.”

  He smirked. “Who do you love most of all, right now? And this could be family or more.”

  A sour taste fell on my tongue. Several faces passed through my mind. “That’s a hard one. I love many.”

  “You got a big family?”

  “No, just a strong pair of friends.”

  “What’s their names?”

  “Jay and Evie.”

  He dipped more of the brown. “Tell me about them.”

  And so, I did.

  I went on for hours, describing the ignorance of my friends. Evie’s love of chocolate and Jay’s love of Evie. The crushes that they tried to hide from each other. The mania that they’d fallen into months ago. Cynthia and her craziness. I might’ve dedicated a whole hour to her. I kept out the specific details like the Heisman and stuff that would help Kush look them up.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying all of this,” I said. “I’m usually good with keeping my mouth closed.”

  “Sometimes we need to let it all out.”

  The sun lowered in the sky. I had no idea how much time had passed, just that several hours were gone, as well as three of Kush’s blunts smoked down by both of us. Layers of violet and dark blue hovered above us.

  City noises rose. I’d thought South Beach had a volume problem. I was no way prepared for the art district. Cars honked. Tires screeched. Chatter sounded from here and there. More kids played outside. A few curses carried in the air, whether from the children or the odd woman and man yelling at each other.

  Evie had a thing about oceans healing the soul. Evie was a water sign. I was all about earth. I could lay naked in soil for hours and let the cool, dirt smooth against my skin. At times, I walked around barefoot, hoping to let the swell of the planet breathe into me.

  Wynwood wasn’t a forest, but it did have an earthy vibe. I needed that right now. Perhaps, I needed it all.

  “I could do that for you.” Kush set the brush down on the plank of wood where most of the colors had disappeared and left faded circles of shades it used to be. “I could be that person for you.”

  I quirked my eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was just saying. Every now and then, life hits us hard. Sometimes we just need a person to sit in front of and cry around.”

  “So you’re not only an artist, you’re a guru too?”

  “I’m just Kush.”

  “And I’m just Pipe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pipe doesn’t cry.”

  He nodded. “No, he doesn’t. I bet Pipe just laughs.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re the clown?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Even clowns cry.”

  “Only when Smokey Robinson sings about them. Other than that, we chuckle and dance along our merry way.”

  “Nevertheless, we’ll return to that later.” He rubbed his hands together and motioned for me to come over. “Come look. This is an original Kush creation.”

  “You’re almost done?” I took a few steps, scared to see the image, not ready to witness the scars. It was still hard to look into the mirrors in my studio. A strange sensation always greeted me. Overnight, I had become a different person.

  But then that’s first world problems.

  Kush said everybody needed to cry, but I didn’t have a right to. Dad drilled that into my head long ago.

  “Rich people don’t complain. They suck it up and spend a little money.” Dad patted my back after Mom’s funeral. “No crying, son. We don’t wallow, not with so many people all over the world starving and dying and dealing with things that we could only imagine in our nightmares.”

  He wiped away my tears. “You’re sad that your mom left. I get it. You’re young. You’ll be a man soon.”

  “Where did she go?” I tried to stop sobbing.

  “To heaven.”

  “I wish I could go too.”

  “No.” He gripped my shoulder hard and then in a sad whisper he admitted, “I can’t lose you too.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  “Father,” he corrected.

  “Okay, Father.”

  “We don’t cry.” His smile appeared strained. “We count our blessings. We push on. Cancer is a thing of the devil. He won’t win. We’re blessed.”

  Like an obedient kid, I repeated what he said, “We’re blessed.”

  “There’s no time for tears. In other countries, women are being raped on darkened paths. Babies are born with HIV. Wars are rocking communities. And don’t get me started on the States, racism and prejudices and...”

  He must’ve seen the fresh set of tears threatening to spill over my eyelids. “Oh son, I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’m making you feel any better.”

  “I hate this world.”

  And then he did something unexpected. He embraced me. Encased my small frame into his arms and wouldn’t let me go for a long time.

  “I hate this world too,” he sniveled. “It took the most beautiful person that ever walked this planet. It took the only person that could’ve raised you the way you needed. Now, what am I going to do without her sunshine?”

  “Daddy?” I blinked through the tears. “Are you okay?”

  He sniffed and wiped his face with both hands. “Yes. Yes. Of course. This is just a first world problem. We knew...she would be leaving us...we were...p-prepared. We knew the cancer would win. We knew...”

  And then he shook his head, forced a difficult smile, and ran away. “I’ll be right back.”

  “F-father?”

  He sped off.

  Out of the shadows, Mrs. Elaine appeared. Maybe she’d witnessed it all. Perhaps, she just happened to walk up. It didn’t matter. She never said anything. Instead, she sat down right next to me on the couch and held me.

  People crowded our house. No one really knew what to say to a child who’d just lost his Mom. They sort of avoided me.

  Not Mrs. Elaine.

  I fell asleep in her embrace and woke up the next morning in her bed. Evie lay on the other side, holding me.

  And in silence, I cried some more.

  But it hadn’t been true tears of sadness. It was more relief.

  I still had love.

  In the end, I knew only two things could’ve guaranteed it—God and Mom. They made sure someone watched over me when my father couldn’t hold his position.

  Kush’s next words disturbed my thoughts. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” I took some more steps. “I just want to check out this painting and then head back to my castle. When will you be done?”

  “It’s done.”

  “That was kind of fast.”

  “I’m known for being quick.”

  “In and out of bed?”

  “Naw.” He licked his lips. “In bed, I take my time. But when it comes to paint, I get it all down before the image withers away.”

  I got closer to the painting but didn’t face the front yet. “I wish the scars would wither.”

  “That’s only because they’re fresh.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What do you know about them?”

  “I told you. I have a bunch on my legs.”

  “Boo hoo,” I muttered. “That’s first world problems.”

  “You’re right. And I’ve learned to love mine.”

  I got in front of the canvas. My body stiffened to stone. My eyes couldn’t leave the image in front of me.

  How much has he smoked? I don’t look like that.

  On the canvas,
a bruised angel floated in the sky. He had my same auburn hair, but these silky strands rippled with the breeze. White wings spread out from my muscled body. I only wore battered pants. The rest of me lay naked—barefoot and scarred flesh, hard lines of muscle amid discolored skin. A stormy sky thundered, and lightning crackled behind me.

  Beauty lay within the ugliness.

  “You’re a magician. This could only be done by magic,” I whispered. “I wish I looked like that in real life.”

  He sucked his teeth. “You trying to say I’m not a realist?”

  “No, I’m just saying I don’t look that good.”

  “Damaged goods never see the splendor in the cracks. All they witness is the breakdown.”

  “I’m not damaged goods.”

  “No, you’re even more raw and exquisite. Are you hungry?”

  I ignored the question. Hadn’t I already answered? “You’re a skilled painter.”

  “I’m Kush.”

  I reached out to touch my false image and then dropped my hands. “What are you going to do with this?”

  “What I’m thinking is that this will be the first in a series.”

  “What will it be about?”

  “Scars.”

  “Whose scars?” I turned to him.

  “Yours.”

  I flinched. “I didn’t sign up for that.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go to this hot spot that makes the dopest little hamburgers. They’re so tiny, but good and stacked with bacon and melted cheese.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I bet you haven’t really been around Wynwood.” He gestured to my discarded shirt and hat. “Those items probably cost over a thousand altogether. The Beat It shirt is made from linen, the print of MJ’s image probably hand-stitched. And someone signed the Heat hat in the back in gold. Who was it?”

  “Lebron.”

  “And you just wear it about?”

  “The asshole left Miami. It’s worth nothing to me now.”

  “So you’re a fan. Let’s talk more about it over tiny, tasty hamburgers.”

  “I could say no, but you would be persistent.” I shook my head. “I know this because that’s exactly my method. I just push and prod until everyone is doing exactly what I want. Now I think I should call up my friends and thank them for hanging around me.”

  “You could, but if they’re bitching about it, then they’re just getting upset over first-world problems.”