by Cydney Rax
I shouldn’t be the only woman who enjoys getting what she wants from men. And this is why I am going to do something for Veron that could absolutely revamp her life.
I head downstairs. “Okay, girlfriend. You wanna know my secret? You sure you’re up for it? ’Cause here it is,” I tell her and shove the book in her hand. I sit down and cross my legs.
“Ahhh, I think I’ve heard of this before.” Veron immediately opens the book and starts reading chapter titles: “Why Men Prefer Bitches,” “Nagging No More,” and “How to Renew the Mental Challenge.”
I watch Veron move her lips and flip several pages, hopefully letting some of the words sink in. I feel elated. For her, for me. I want to be able to share everything with my friend; I want to be equals or as close to the same page as possible. Maybe she can teach me something for a change. That would definitely be a twist.
“Okay, I’m in,” Veron declares. “I want to start reading this book ASAP.”
“Great. I’m getting you and me our own copies. I loaned my first copy to a trifling cousin who had the nerve to loan it to someone in Memphis, and I haven’t seen it since. Whatev. But I want to re-read it. I bet you will, too. You’ll see.” I smile and clap my hands. “I’m so pumped for you, Veron. Watch and see, this book is going to totally transform you. But the book is just a start,” I continue. “We’re going to work on other parts of your life, too.”
“Oh, yeah,” Veron says, gulping loud and sounding like a little kid. “What else needs to change?”
“First of all, I’m taking you shopping.” My eyes light up.
“You don’t have to do that, Demetria.”
“Oh, I know that, but I want to. You need to give your man the total package, to be someone he can’t ignore or resist. And you’re going to love it, too.”
Veron nods her head slowly, contemplating my advice. She stares at her long, slender fingernails with the chipped red nail polish. She gives me a sheepish look and quietly says, “Demetria, I want to know what it feels like for a man to make love to every part of my body, and I wanna be held in his arms while he kisses me head to toe.”
I nod and smile.
“I crave love so badly, and I want to give love, too.”
“You will, Vee. But you gotta make sure the measure of love you give out doesn’t exceed the love you’re getting back. The man should always give more than you. He should always be the one who’s more in love with you than you are with him. If nothing else you must remember that, Veron. I mean, every woman who loves a man more than he loves her is a hurt woman, she’s frustrated, and she cries so much she can barely function. Did you hear about the time when Diana Ross and Ryan O’Neal were dating? Diana was madly in love with his womanizing ass and wanted to marry him. Ryan O’Neal couldn’t care less about her. He dumped her and she’s Diana-freaking-Ross.”
“Well, Demetria, if she got dumped, what makes you think—”
“No, we’re not going to think negatively like that. You are way better than Diana Ross, you hear me? That’s the attitude you have to have. Stop comparing yourself to other women. You are ten times better than any woman in this store—except me, of course.” She laughs with me and stands up. I rise to my feet, too, and we hug tightly, then head over to stand in the checkout line.
“Demetria, girl, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I have nothing to lose, do I?”
“Not a damn thing,” I tell Vee. She pulls her orange Sony Ericsson swivel phone from her cell phone pouch.
“Ferris again,” she says wistfully, looking torn.
“Don’t answer,” I snap. “He’s history. You want to start new with some fresh meat.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Ferris isn’t worth a nickel,” she says and pushes the phone’s busy button. “I never want to be treated so low by a man again.”
“Good girl. That’s what I’m talking about. Keep up your new attitude, and you won’t ever be treated low again, by anybody.”
—3—
VERON
First thing Demetria wants to do with me is change me. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I know I shouldn’t resist—after all, doesn’t the Bible say desperate measures require desperate actions? Okay, maybe not, but I know someone famous said that.
So after Demetria and I leave Borders, I let her take me somewhere else—or at least, give me directions there. Although she begs and hounds, I am not comfortable enough to let her drive my new Chevy HHR. And I am capable of saying no, even if it’s not something I do all the time.
We end up at Wig World, her second home. A couple of years ago, Demetria decided to sport an expensive, wavy, black, shoulder-length hairweave (Jennifer Hudson–style), but she acts as if she was born with that hair. I will say this, though: it’s always on point, never looks raggedy, neglected, or clownish. But although she’s mad about her weave, she’s constantly messing around with various hair-care products, big plastic rollers, and hair decorations, and she says Wig World’s stock is way superior to Wal-Mart’s.
“You’ve gotta be joking, Demetria.”
“If I were joking you’d hear me laughing my ass off, now wouldn’t you, sweetie?”
“Demetria, I’m sorry, but I like my hair the way it is.”
“And maybe that’s why you’re having problems. You need to spice things up. Get yourself a hairstyle that forces men to stop driving their cars, a look that gives them whiplash ’cause they’re checking you that hard. You get the picture.”
“No man is going to stop what he’s doing just to—”
“Girl, are you kidding me? Didn’t I tell you what happened to me a long time ago, before I had my first car and I was taking Metro to my job? I was looking fierce waiting at the bus stop on West Tidwell. And this gray-haired dude was driving a white convertible down the street. Girl, dude took one look at me and peeled his eyes off the road and ended up crashing, you hear me? This fool ran dead into the car in front of him that had stopped at the red light. No lie. It was hella funny.”
“Okay, yeah, I do remember you telling me that. But Demetria, I don’t want men to get in accidents over me.”
“Say what? Yes, you do, Vee. You want men to get in all kinds of trouble trying to check you,” she insists, giving me a horrified look.
“Okay, fine. But what’s wrong with the way I wear my hair?” I ask and pat the neatly cut bangs that lay across my forehead.
“Ponytails are nice—if you’re a stallion that’s competing in the Kentucky Derby. You’re a twenty-something, single, attractive woman who wants to pull the best of the best. Allow the master to give you the hookup. You deserve it, and you’re going to fall in love with your new look.”
I hush up. For one thing, I know it’s too much trouble to try to argue with Demetria. Secondly, I admit it: I love for someone to fuss over me, to exhibit that much passion and concern about something that concerns me. I may not always agree with Demetria’s unorthodox viewpoints, but I realize she truly has my back; she’s like an older, much savvier sister. She’s my role model in some ways. And if I am honest, I would do anything to have some of what she has—men surrounding her and caring for her, and I wouldn’t say no to all those gifts Thad got her for Valentine’s Day, either. If I am honest. So that means I’ve gotta be committed to doing what she does, even if it makes me feel uncomfortable.
We walk in. “Hey, Ms. Sparks,” yells a middle-aged Korean woman who’s wearing a blue-jean cap and matching overalls.
“What’s happening, everybody? Y’all doing good in the hood?” Demetria yells back, waving at the staring customers.
“That’s Koko, the new owner. She’s cool as hell,” Demetria informs me. “Those previous store managers had to roll out. They’d eyeball every black person the second we walked in the door, acting like we’re about to run outta here with weaves on our heads and the price tags still attached. That prejudiced mess burns me up.”
“Mmm hmmm,” comments a petite, average-looking black woman carrying a baby girl on one hip and holdin
g hands with a squirming toddler boy. “I know what you mean, girl. I can’t stand stereotypes like we all chickenheads with gold teeth, you know what I’m saying?”
Demetria scrunches her nose and nods at the woman, and quickly scrambles to the right side of the store. Hundreds of weaves and hairpieces cover the wall from floor to ceiling. I now understand how Demetria feels. It appears that Wig World is a black woman’s dream: they stock every hair color, texture, and shape imaginable, plus combs, brushes, flat irons, do-rags, relaxer products, and more. And the price tags show that everything is pretty reasonable.
“Don’t have a stroke,” Demetria snaps when she notices my wide-eyed cow look.
“No, I ain’t scared,” I snap back. “Actually, I’m impressed. Excited. I feel like I’m on America’s Next Top Model, corny as it sounds.”
“Hey, a new hairstyle, foundation, blush, eye shadow, and lip gloss can make a woman feel like she’s been born again. And that’s our goal. I’m so happy for you I could scream as loud as Patti LaBelle.”
“Alright then, back off, Patti,” I teasingly command my friend when her hands begin to wrap tightly around me.
After examining six wigs, Demetria suggests I get a three-quarter headband piece that’s cut in beautiful layers. The dark brown wig perfectly matches my own straight, thin hair. I feel embarrassed at first when she aggressively pulls the hairpiece on top of my head. Several combs are attached to the synthetic hair, and she has to maneuver the piece on top of mine. She adjusts the piece tightly with a drawstring that she tucks underneath so my real hair doesn’t show. Then she brushes my own hair, blending it into the fake hair.
I take a deep, anxious breath. Do I look silly? Is everyone laughing at me? Mentally, I quickly rebound, embracing the feeling of the hair resting on the tip of my shoulders. I’ve always craved longer hair, but my real hair grows only so far before it decides that it’s had enough.
“Girl,” Demetria squeals. “You look sooo fine, if I didn’t have a man I’d snag your ass for myself.”
“Jeez, thanks, I think.” I blush.
I swirl around in front of a full-length mirror, checking out my new appearance from every angle.
“Okay, I’m game, Demetria. Let’s get this before I change my mind.” I laugh and start walking toward the cash register.
“Hey, now, sexy mama.”
I turn toward the exuberant male voice and my eyes pop.
“Michael West, where the heck have you been?” I screech, nearly jumping in his arms. Michael is not quite six feet tall, but his bulky body looks powerful enough to make a woman feel safe.
“Apparently, I haven’t been where I oughta be! Damn, baby, you working that hair like a mofo.”
“It’s good to see you, Mike,” I say.
Mike and I grab each other around the waist. I enjoy a sincere, tight squeeze that could’ve lasted longer, but an impatient cough ruins our embrace.
“Oh, snap. Uh, Veron, this here is my girl Francine. Me and Veron go back a ways,” he explains to her. This obvious-weave-wearing green-eyed plain-looking tall bony girl hovers over me without smiling or willing to shake my hand. “Michael,” she says pointedly. “I’ll be right over here.” She walks away a few feet but glues her eyes on us.
Oh great, I think. Girlfriend needs to know that Michael West is strictly parked in my “good friend” zone. I could never fall in love with a man whose full-time job is chasing skirts and collecting numbers. I don’t want to spend every waking moment worrying that my man is out there hugged up with another woman. And Mike hugs up all kinds of women without regard to age, race, money, size, class, or parenting abilities. My nickname for Michael West is “The Predator.”
“Hey man, what are you doing in Wig World?” I ask him, ignoring his woman’s hostile stare.
“I’m here to hook my baby up.”
“That’s nice, Mike. Uh, Michael,” I say hurriedly. Michael laughs quietly. “Jeez, Mike, your girl is grabbing on to you like you something special.”
“I am something special.”
“I wouldn’t know that.”
“Not that you couldn’t have known,” he complains. “But you never had eyes for a brotha like me.”
“You said it, I consider you a brother, not a lover. No offense, it’s just that, well, I’m glad to see you aren’t hurting in the romance department,” I sweetly tell him.
I discreetly check out his girl. She’s far too skinny to hold on to, and what’s with the superflat behind? Exactly what does he see in this chick? It’s as if Francine can hear my thoughts, because she flashes me another harsh expression and then resumes looking at bottles of shampoo.
Hmm, I’m assuming she’s not Mike’s number one. Why else would she be acting like a number two? I do not want to be like her, all paranoid and possessive. A true number one never worries if any other woman is in her man’s rotation, because she feels secure. All this is helping: the more I decide what I want in a relationship, the more confident I feel.
I turn to call to Demetria. “Hey, Demetria, look who’s honored us with his presence.”
Michael stands frozen and speechless as Demetria slowly walks directly to him and clasps both his hands. He advances his lips toward her cheek, but she smiles coyly and moves a step back. Frowning, he reaches for her again. She laughs and shifts her head to the side.
“C’mon,” he pleads and grabs Demetria by the shoulders. She blushes, lightly kisses his lips, and raises one of her legs against his.
“Girl, you crazy?” I frantically warn her.
“What you talking about?” she asks.
I point a finger at Francine. She’s standing with her back facing us, which is great, but I know that won’t last long. Mike walks over to her.
“Whatev.” Demetria shrugs and gives me a look as if she can’t believe I sliced her action with Michael.
I shake my head at her in amazement.
“We’re good friends,” she insists, looking at me as if I’m the one with the problem.
“Friends kiss?” I challenge her.
“Sometimes,” she says, squirming.
I walk up to her and whisper, “You’ve let Mike lay his pipe in you?”
“What? I-I don’t like to kiss and tell.”
“You’re a lying wench,” I say, laughing. “But that’s fine.” Demetria thinks she’s slick. I notice how she’ll give me the juice on some of her romances and flings, while others are under tight lock. But it’s not like I have the energy to try to keep an accurate account of her love life.
“He’s a cutie with a nice booty,” she says quietly in my ear. “So sorry, couldn’t resist. He and I have never hooked up, I swear to God,” she tells me. But she’s staring intently at Michael.
And he’s staring right back at her, though he’s talking to Francine. “Hey, boo, you found what you want? Take it to the register. Here’s some cash. And go wait for me in the car. I gotta handle something.” Mike hands Francine a few bills and removes one key from his key ring.
“Just hurry up, Michael.” Her heels click loudly against the floor as she storms over to the cash register. Mike looks back at us smiling confidently.
“My boo loves me.”
“Uh-huh,” Demetria says dryly. She grabs Mike by the hand and looks up in his eyes. “Why you with her?” she asks.
“Uh, what’s that supposed to mean?” he says, frowning.
“Don’t trip, Michael. I mean, look at her; she’s got that anorexic giraffe look, like all she eats is carrots; she has no ass whatsoever, and she’s a few inches taller than you…. I just imagine you with someone different than that.”
“Demetria, knock it off,” I cut in. “I don’t think Mike is obligated to tell you—”
“Naw, it’s cool, Veron,” he says. “I ain’t got anything to hide.” Suddenly I notice a huskiness in Mike’s voice that wasn’t there before. “Believe it or not, I see things in Francine that you can’t see, Demetria. But still, she ain’t got anything on
you.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” Demetria says with poise and releases his hand.
Outwardly there’s a frozen smile on my face. But inside I’m a house on fire. It’s like Demetria has zero respect for our friend’s relationship. Sure, she claims she’s never slept with Michael, but I don’t believe it, and now she’s seducing him right under the nose of his girl. My father always told me if you don’t want to be known as promiscuous, stop pulling down your panties.
“Demetria, girl, come on,” I say. “You’re being inappropriate.” I purposefully stare out the store’s window at Francine, who’s pacing next to Michael’s bronze BMW X5.
“Excuse us, Michael,” Demetria says, and grabs me by the arm and steers me a few feet away.
“Girl, do not tell me you’re defending some chick you just met over me, your so-called best friend? After all I do for you? Is she in here trying to hook you up, change your life? Has she ever loaned you money? Bought you expensive birthday presents? Personally trained you on how to suck dick the way a man needs it to be sucked? Huh, Veron?”
“Okay, don’t tell all my business. Lower your voice.”
“No, you lower that bad attitude you got. If you wanna be like me, get used to it. Real men aren’t blind, Vee. He ain’t gonna turn down a kiss or conversation from me, are you, Mike?” she asks, turning to look at him.
There’s no way Mike could have heard our conversation, but he rapidly shakes his head no and causes all of us to laugh. I am grateful for the break in the tension. Mike and Demetria move a little further into the store, and I watch him smile brightly at her and touch her hair.
My cell phone rings again. I pick up the line but don’t say anything.
“Hello? You’re finally answering my calls?”
“Ferris, you’re through. Lose my number.”
“But I was wrong, baby girl. I want to make things up with you—”
“Too late for making up, Ferris.”
“Say what? You always used to forgive me back in the day.”
“Well, it’s a new day. Listen carefully, Ferris, because I’m not going to say this twice. Don’t you ever call me again, you hear? If you so much as call me or come by my job, I’ll stick my foot so far up your ass, my toes will be hanging off your dick.”