“Well, I prefer if you enjoy the leisure that I’ve paved the way for you to have, in the same way you enjoy your Prada and … who is it, Mother?” he asks Mama.
“Kate Spade.”
He nods briskly, approving of her answer but not mine.
I have no recourse. Daddy pays my salary. Daddy pays for my car. Daddy gives me gifts. Daddy pays for the gifts Mama gives me. Everything in my life belongs to Daddy. I’m Daddy’s girl in ways I never realized.
I stand up. Miles stands up, ever the gentleman, looking confused. I fish in my handbag for my car keys and plunk them on the table. In fact, I toss that Kate Spade designer bag on the floor. He paid for that, too.
“Thanks for the use of your car, Daddy. Thanks for everything, but I think I’m going to choose on my own like I should have done instead of going to Spelman.”
He bolts up from his chair. “Zora Nella Johnson, just what do you think you’re doing?” I noticed he didn’t include my mother’s maiden name before Johnson.
I don’t answer him. I’m too busy leaving. He may not have noticed I walked out on him at church, but now I’ve made my statement. This time there’s no doubt he knows Princess Zora has voted herself off the island of abundance.
NICKY
I’m at Barnes and Noble with Pete, my best friend. Had a little church business to attend to in Ypsi and rewarded myself for being civil to my dad with a trip to the bookstore nearby. Pete and I have been buddies since the third grade. His dad has been a deacon in our church forever, and Pete and I were always getting into a world of trouble together. We’re not so much alike. We never were actually.
I’ve always loved to read. You have to make Pete read. I’m blonde. He’s dark haired. He tans. I wilt in the sun. I’ll admit it, I get the ladies’ attention. Pete’s the guy in the movie destined to be cast as “best friend.” Yeah. He’s got that vibe, but he works it. He charms the ladies, and in a while has them thinking he’s Tom freakin’ Cruise. Tonight he’s trying his game on the barista at the Starbucks inside of B&N. She’s grinning at him while I peruse the latest issue of Writer’s Digest. There’s an article about jumpstarting your novel, and I’m thinking I probably couldn’t jumpstart mine if I had the cables and the juice—or even the beginnings of a decent story.
And Dad wanting me to go to seminary is weighing on me. Maybe because he’s so freakin’ impressed at how good my undergraduate degree has been to me, the way I’ve racked up credit card debt buying writing books. He scoffs at any mention of an MFA program, especially since I’m so blocked I can hardly write my name, and he’s nuts about my stellar job supplying disgruntled workers like myself with potato chips and pretzels.
God, please let Pete slip some arsenic in my latte.
Then again, the way things happen for me, it’d probably only make me sick. Let him shoot me. I’ve already got the gun thanks to my NRA-loving grandfather. Better yet, I’ll just shoot myself. Pete won’t have to go to jail, and I won’t have to go to Southern Baptist seminary.
Pete returns with my poison-free latte and a venti mocha for himself. He’s got the newest Jay-Z CD under his arm.
“Nick, you think I should get this, man?”
“I thought you had it.”
“I did, yo. But I ended up giving it away.”
Pete says “yo” in just about every other sentence. I have no idea where he picked up the habit, but I wish he’d take it back.
“Pete, if you want it again, buy it.”
“I don’t wanna spend the money on it twice, yo.”
“Then don’t get it.”
“But I like it.”
I try not to strangle Pete. “Then get it!”
“What’s eating you, yo?”
I turn my head away to keep from unloading any more of my discontent on him, and that’s when I see her.
Zora, the Shulamite. Sitting at a table alone, shoulders rounded and looking as broken as she did at Bible study last night. I can’t believe how my heart pounds just looking at her. I grab my latte just to give myself something to do and take a long drag. It’s hot and burns my mouth. I end up spraying Pete by accident.
He leaps up, disgusted. “Nicky, what is up with you, man?”
I look over to see if she heard. And, sure enough, at the sound of my name Zora searches the café and finds me. Our eyes lock, and I can’t tell if that’s a smile or a grimace on her face.
She probably grimaced.
I stand. I can’t very well act like I don’t see her now. I force my feet to move, one in front of the other, until I make my way to her table. Once again, my eyes meet hers.
She’s been crying. Oh, Dreamy. What happened?
I don’t know if I should shake her hand or what, so I stick my hands in the pockets of my jeans.
I nod a greeting, and she pretends she doesn’t remember my name.
“Hey you, is it Nicky?”
“Yeah. And your name is …”
“Zora.”
“Zora! That’s right.”
And your mother’s name is Elizabeth, and your father’s Jack, and your first puppy, a Shar Pei, was called Diamond. I learned all that on MySpace. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” she lies.
And here comes Pete. “Hey there.” His grin can’t get any bigger.
He nudges me. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me?”
I say no with my eyes, but he ignores my signals. He thrusts his hand out at her, and she takes it. She leaves no trace of the sorrow I just saw. She’s a good politician.
“I’m Zora Johnson.”
“Pete Greene.”
“Nice to meet you, Pete.”
He turns her hand over and kisses it. Then the clown bows from the waist until he almost hits his head on the table. “The pleasure is all mine, lovely Zora.”
I lose all semblance of patience with him. “I’ll see you at the table in a minute, Pete.”
“I’d like to stay and chat with you and Zora.” Not a yo to be heard.
“We don’t want you, Pete.”
Zora snickers, but at least I made her smile. She’s all grace and kindness. “You’re both welcome to join me.”
“Pete doesn’t want to disturb you.” And to Pete: “Could you go keep an eye on our table? YO!”
I irritate him, but he doesn’t want to punch me in the face in front of Zora. He does another goofy bow for her. “Milaaaaaady,” he says, and saunters away.
Zora laughs. “That Pete is quite a character.”
“Quite.”
I sit down. Pete can wait. “Look. I won’t beat around the bush. I can see you were upset, though that was a good save. I don’t want to pry, but if you’d like to talk, I can be a good listener.”
She gives me a shy smile. “I don’t know, Nicky. The last time I cried you hightailed away from me at warp speed.”
I can’t stop the blush creeping to my cheeks. I stare at her like a deer in the headlights, and she calls me on it.
“Say something, Bambi.”
I’m totally flustered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How ’bout you don’t feel comfortable with black people being so”—she crooks her fingers into quote marks—“‘expressive.’”
My mouth opens. I can’t even respond at first. I sputter like an idiot until I finally get out, “Is that what you think?”
“Maybe. You’re the one who said your father is a racist. Like father like son, Nicky?”
Okay, she might look like the Queen of Sheba, but wait just a minute. “I’m nothing like my dad.”
“Why’d you run?”
What? I’m supposed to tell her? Another verbal seizure. “I can assure you that wasn’t the reason.”
“What was it?”
I hate this woman, but I don’t want to lie to her. Did I mention I hate her? Regardless of how I feel, I’m not gonna let her brand me a racist just because she’s in a mood.
“Maybe,” I lie, “I wish I could be that”—I imita
te her gesture—“‘expressive.’ Maybe I’ve been walking around like something from Night of the Living Dead and I see you wallowing on the floor with all that …”
Luscious, round …
She looks impatient. “With all that what?”
“All that, uh, feeling.” Real smooth, Nicky. “I’m … I just mean, you definitely stirred something in me.” Now that’s the truth.
Her eyes search mine. “For real?”
“For real. It was difficult for me to process all that was going on inside of me, and that’s God’s honest truth.” I drum the table with my fingertips while she stares at my hand. “Look, Zora, I’m a PK; you’re a PK. At birth we get a cross, a Bible, and a mountain of issues. Don’t let my issues concern you. All of us go to Linda’s Bible study because it’s safe. You can find God however you find Him there. It can look like however it looks, and if for you it looks like being on your face …” with your glory coming at me “so be it.”
A stray strand of hair sweeps across her cheek, and God help me, I can’t resist, I brush it back behind her ear. She recoils.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Nicky.
I bolt back away from her. Can’t even think of how to save face this time. I touched her face. Can I be any more intimate? I could! Which is why I need to stay as far away from her as possible.
“Nice to see you again, Zora. God bless. Feel better.”
I try to run again. Fast. But she calls my name, and I can’t help myself, I turn back around, and I just fess up. “Sorry about the hair thing, Zora. I don’t know what—”
“No problem.”
An endless pause, and then a miracle of an olive branch. “Nicky, I was wondering … can you give me a ride home? I’ve got, uh, car trouble.”
“Is your car outside? Maybe I can look at it for you. Do you have road service?”
“Never mind.”
“Wait. I’m sorry. I was just—”
Pete appears out of nowhere and rescues me. “We’d love to give you a ride.” He still hasn’t uttered a single yo, which annoys me even more, since obviously this verbal hiccup is reserved for me alone.
“Right this way,” I say.
Gonna be an interesting ride.
PETE DRIVES. IT’S his truck. I hate that Pete drives. He controls the CD player and blasts his new Jay-Z CD with no regard as to whether Zora is a fan or not. He prattles on and on about how much he loves “Hova” until he starts in on Beyoncé.
I know we’re treading dangerous waters. Pete watches BET. Loves BET. Pete thinks Jay-Z’s super sistah “B” is the pinnacle of womanhood—black, white, or otherwise. I’m praying as if my life depends on it that he won’t use the other “b” word, even though I know he’s easing up to it.
“Do you like Beyoncé, Zora?”
I try to distract him. “Do you like Wayne Newton, Pete?”
He disses me. “I’m talking to Zora, Nick.”
“Maybe Zora doesn’t want you to interrogate her all the way through your who’s who in hip-hop list, Pete.”
“I wanna know what kind of music she likes.”
“Then why don’t you ask her that, and you can stop name dropping every black artist you can think of whether or not you actually listen to them?”
Zora laughs. “Relax, Nicky. I think he’s kinda cute.”
I don’t even want to think about how jealous this makes me feel. And I’m never jealous of Pete. Pete, who is always jealous of me, laps up her words like a cat at a milk dish.
His voice goes about forty octaves lower in what must be an attempt at sexiness. “I think you’re cute, too, Z.”
He’s really starting to irritate me. “Did she say you could call her Z?” He ignores me, and horror of horror, he says it. The “b” word.
“I think you’re bootylicious, Zora.”
I think my heart stops. I’m gonna have to be resuscitated.
Zora’s voice turns into ice water and pours into both Pete and me, even though she only addresses him. “You don’t know me like that, Pete. Back up.”
I groan audibly. Words fail me. I wrestle with homicidal urges. I watch a lot of crime shows. I know how to kill Pete a number of ways. I reach all the way across Zora—saying excuse me, of course—and bop Pete in the head like I’m Little Bunny Foo Foo.
We reach Zora’s apartment, and Pete actually tries to get out of the truck with us.
I give him a stare so completely cold I can rethink my career options and go into cryogenics. Fortunately, this time he takes the hint. Zora’s kind enough to take my hand as I help her out of the truck.
I walk with her to the front door of the apartment building, a building much nicer than my own, surprised she has to use the buzzer.
“You do live here, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Don’t have your keys?”
“Don’t have my purse with me.”
“I see,” I say, not seeing. Don’t women have purses, no matter how small, surgically attached to them at all times?
Her gaze goes downward.
“Zora?”
She lifts her head, and her eyes meet mine.
“Are you okay?”
She shakes her lovely head. “I’ve got daddy trouble.”
“I know all about that.”
“Thanks for the ride, Nicky.”
“I’m so sorry about Pete. He’s … retarded.”
“He’s like a lot of white people I meet.”
My heart drops to my feet. I’m embarrassed. “I hope not all white people you meet strike you that way.”
“No, not all. But too many.”
“Maybe we can talk about that sometime.”
“No, thanks.”
I know I shouldn’t push, but I do. “Why not?”
“I’m not interested in rescuing you from your white guilt.”
Man! She’s not a tongue biter. “Are you always this—”
“Honest?”
“I was actually thinking rude.” Probably shouldn’t have said that.
“Only to bleeding heart liberals who think a conversation is going to change the world.”
“It’s a start.”
“Start with someone else.”
A tinny voice explodes through the speaker.
“Who is it?”
Zora pushes the intercom button and shouts, “It’s me.”
“Who?”
“It’s Zora, Mac. Let me in.”
“Where yo’ keys?”
Zora yells. “Let me in, MacKenzie.”
A buzzing sound pierces the air. Zora snatches the door open. I don’t want us to end our time together this way. It’s selfish of me, and maybe I do want to assuage my white guilt. Or maybe I just like her. Since I’m not the one whose people were slaves, I decide to make the peace offering.
“Daddy problems do get better.” I don’t know when, but it has to be true.
“I hope so.”
For a few moments, we’re silent. She’s still holding the door open.
Finally, she smiles at me. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re welcome. Again, I’m sorry about Pete. He’s in love with Beyoncé. He’ll never get close to a woman like you again, and he went nuts.”
“It’s no problem. You didn’t have to smack him, you know.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Jealous?”
Is it written on my forehead? I try to look cool and give some Clint Eastwood-like icy gesture, but end up jerking like I’ve got Parkinson’s. Oh, man. She spares me the humiliation of saying something about my unfortunate gesticulations.
I try to cover my ineptitude with a shot of meanness. “Why would I be jealous of who Pete is interested in? I’ve got a girlfriend.”
I know it’s a mistake before I even say it, but I feel like it’s my last defense. She’s won every battle tonight. I just want one win.
A tiny hint of disappointment flashes on her face. I know this. I am a master at reading women.
She’s attracted to me. And I just blew it. Never mind that I really do have a girlfriend. Before I can even deal with how disappointed I am, or what a jerk I’ve been to her, she recovers.
“Of course you do.”
“And I’m sure you have a boyfriend and were just humoring Pete to be sweet.”
She leans close to my face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She sweeps through the door like the diva she is and nearly bumps into a wide-eyed grinning spitfire, hands on her ample hips, who has to be MacKenzie.
And I have her approval.
MacKenzie’s, that is.
CHAPTER FIVE
NICKY
Why did I move to Detroit? It takes Pete forty-five minutes to drive me home and all he talks about is Zora, spending an inordinate amount of time on the subject of her butt.
I want to kill him.
I don’t engage him. And that’s difficult. We do this. We talk about breasts and booty and have done it since we were twelve. And never have I had a more magnificent rear end to wax eloquent about. Only I can’t. It’s not right. I feel dirty just listening to him, and that this feeling is new to me is what’s making me most uncomfortable of all! Not that Pete noticed.
He makes gestures indicating size. He rolls his eyes back. I have to elbow him in the ribs so he doesn’t wreck the truck.
“Okay, Pete. I get it. She’s amazing.”
“I’m not talking about her. Maybe she is amazing, but before I can get to that, man, oh, man—”
“Pete, if you say one more thing about Zora’s butt …”
He looks at me, confused. “What’s the matter with you anyway, yo? Usually you’d be leading the praise here.”
“Maybe I’m tired of disrespecting women.”
“Since when?”
“What do you mean since when? I’ve been celibate for three years.”
“And we’ve had many conversations about a good butt in that time, yo. It’s that weirdo lady you been going to Bible study with. She’s influencing you, isn’t she? Her and her skirts to the ankles. No makeup. Does she even comb her hair or use deodorant?”
“Yeah. She combs her hair and uses deodorant, Pete.”
“That your type now, Nick? Untouched for a reason, yo?”
“I don’t appreciate you talking about Zora or Linda. Okay? Say another thing about either one of them and I’m gonna bust you up. Say ‘yo’ again and I bust you up. I mean it, Pete.”
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