“Practice how the conversation would go with me. I’ll be you, you be him.”
When we get to the center section on the first floor, I look around for Cherise but don’t see her. “Alright, but just until Cherise gets here.”
“Hi, Daddy,” he says, in a really high-pitched voice.
“I don’t sound like that, stupid,” I say, and slap his arm.
“I know, I’m just messing with you. Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Martine. Come, let’s eat dinner.”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about—”
I signal time-out with my hands to stop him. “See, that just won’t happen. He’s not going to hear a word I’m saying if he doesn’t get to eat first.”
“Point taken. Okay, Dad, I’ll fix your plate for you.”
I perk up. “Hey, that’s not a bad idea.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all.”
I forgot I’m supposed to be in character. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“So how was your day today?”
I signal time-out again. “That’s risky. Once he starts talking, I’ll never get a word in.”
“So, Daddy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. It’s a study abroad opportunity called YSSAP. It’s a prestigious program that my school offers to only the top students. I’ve been accepted on a conditional basis but I—”
“How much does it cost?”
“There’s a scholarship—”
“How much does it cost?”
Garth shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry, Teenie. I’m not sure how to answer that one.”
“No worries. I gotta go anyway. There’s Cherise. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow.”
“Okay. Just tell him about all the things you’re going to be doing. I can’t see how it won’t work,” he says with a smile.
Garth walks with me toward her and raises his hand to say hello. Cherise makes him pay for his bravery when she points to the exit door and says, “Keep walkin’!!!”
Garth drops his head and sulks his way to the exit.
“Why’d you do that, Cherise?”
“Sometimes you gotta put people in their place before they get the wrong idea. Just because me and you is friends don’t mean I gotta socialize with nerds.”
“You don’t have to be so mean to him. He’s so nice. He probably just wanted to—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway … I’m meeting up with my friend at Penn Station tonight. He said he wants to make up for yesterday.”
“Why can’t you just keep your butt in the house?”
“Because I made plans and I don’t want to stay in the house. What’s wrong with me going out?”
“I don’t know. I kind of have a bad feeling. Maybe it’s like woman’s intuition or something.”
“Woman’s intuition? What the hell do you know about woman’s intuition? You’re fourteen, Teenie.”
“I don’t know. I’m just getting a weird feeling.”
“Yeah, it’s called jealousy.”
“Shut up.”
“And when did you start giving me advice about boys? Are you serious?”
“No … I just want you to be careful, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t worry, I will. Let’s hurry up and get to the gym before we can’t get in.”
Okay …
Chapter 9
The gymnasium is packed, standing-room-only on the sidelines. We had to sneak in through the boys’ locker room because there was a line halfway down the hallway from the gym door. On the way through the locker room, something dawned on me. “Cherise, how do you know your way around this place so well?” Cherise was zipping through there like she had a GPS. She giggled, saying, “Don’t ask.”
Even though I’ve been to plenty of Knicks and Liberty games, it still feels great to be so close to the action. This is Tech’s first play-off game in years, and a home game at that. Grady is a powerhouse every year but got off to a slow start this season because of injuries.
I see a few of my friends already in the stands. Tamara and Malika are on the other side of the gym near the door, while Crystal, Sohmi, and Sabrina are in the middle of the bleachers. It looks like they spent some time in front of the bathroom mirror fixing their hair and makeup. I’m about to laugh when I hear the Grady players make their loud entrance. A player on their team yells, “WHOSE HOUSE?” and his teammates respond, “OUR HOUSE!!!” The booing of the crowd drowns them out before they have a chance to repeat the chant. These guys are cocky. Cherise is grinning from ear to ear.
Everyone goes crazy when Greg leads the Engineers into the gym. Designer jeans do him no justice, because he looks even better in his shorts. His legs are muscular, especially his calves. He looks comfortable, confident, like he knows he’s the man. I try not to stare at him too hard, but I’m not having an easy time of it. God broke the mold after making him.
Both teams are doing their warm-ups before the game starts. Just from the nonchalant way he’s shooting his layups, (his “economy of motion,” as my dad would say), I can tell that number 21 is Grady’s best player. I try to point it out to Cherise, but she’s too busy looking at number 3, because “he’s cute and has on the new Jordans.”
I notice right away that Grady has a bigger team than we do. “Looks like Grady has more size up front than Tech.”
“I bet they do,” Cherise says, with a dirty grin on her face.
The game starts, and Grady jumps out to an early lead. Grady’s players are better than Tech’s, but Greg is keeping us in the game. He’s scoring from all over the place, and unlike most star players I’ve seen, he passes the ball to his teammates. Grady tries double-teaming him, to little effect. He is making all the right decisions, playing a great game.
At halftime, Grady is ahead by six.
“I hope we have enough time.”
I’m a little surprised to see that Cherise is actually showing some school spirit and taking an interest in the game. “Don’t worry. We’re only down six. There’s still a half to play.”
“What? Girl, what you talking about? I hope I have enough time to give number three my phone number when the game is over.”
“You’re the worst.”
When the second half starts, the game gets tighter and the intensity picks up. These are the kinds of games that my dad loves. There are hard fouls, shifts in momentum, everything that makes basketball so much fun to watch. Because of Greg’s great play, we only trail by one with the game on the line. We inbound the ball at half-court with nine seconds to go. Greg starts under the basket and springs out to the top of the key when the referee puts the ball in play. He catches the ball at the top of the circle and squares up to the basket. Greg shoos away his teammate who slides over to set a screen for him. He wants all the glory for himself, and he deserves it. There are seven seconds left on the clock. Greg stands still and holds the ball high above his right shoulder. The Grady defender is all over him, not giving him any room to get off one of his beautiful jump shots. Greg smiles at him with three seconds on the clock and takes a jab step left. The defender bites on the move, and Greg drives to his right. He takes two dribbles and pulls up. He pump-fakes, and the Grady defender goes flying past him. Greg elevates for the game winner and lets it go as the buzzer sounds. Everyone in the stands rushes the court after the shot hits nothing but net.
“Come on, Teenie, let’s go.”
“What? Wait, I want to talk to Greg.”
“Nope. Let’s go. I gotta be out. I told you I got things to do tonight.”
Cherise cuts me off before I can protest again.
“Look over there.” She’s pointing to the crowd of girls jumping up and down around Greg. “Do you wanna be one of those people we make fun of?” I guess she’s right. Those girls look like straight-up groupies, screaming their heads off and trying to touch Greg. “How the hell did Sabrina and Sohmi get over there so fast?”
Cherise read my mind. Sohmi and Sabrina somehow ma
naged to get from the top of the bleachers to within inches of Greg in the blink of an eye. “I guess you’re right. I’ll wait until later.”
“Yeah.” She’s looking at her watch. “You’ve already seen him twice today. Just chat with him later, and don’t be all pressed either. When he logs on, don’t say anything. Let him start the conversation. If he does, then you know he’s feeling you.”
I nod my head. This is good stuff. I’d better take notes.
“What’re you doing? Put that away.”
I put my pen and notepad back in my bag and catch Cherise looking at me like she’s ready to slap me. She mumbles something under her breath and waits for me to start walking out.
“That was such a nice shot, wasn’t it?” I say. Greg’s teammates carried him out of the gym on their shoulders.
“Yeah. It went right in like whoosh!”
Like whoosh? It’s no wonder Cherise and I don’t talk about sports. Now boys, that’s another matter altogether. Normally this would be the time where she would be talking about some of the cute guys on the other team or some lummox in the crowd whose underarms smelled like week-old cabbage water. She seems preoccupied. I’d bet my big toe I know exactly what she’s thinking about.
“So what’re … where’re you supposed to go later?” Cherise is staring out of the window of the train. The train wheels are screeching while it makes a turn, so she doesn’t hear me. “Cherise.” I nudge her.
“Huh?”
“I said where are you going later?” She must not have heard every word, because it takes a moment before she responds.
“We’re supposed to go to the movies and then he’s taking me to dinner.”
“Oh.”
We pretty much sit in silence for the rest of the train ride. When we get off, Cherise turns to me and says, “I told my mother that I’m staying by you, alright?”
Words aren’t needed, because my face spells out I A-M C-O-N-C-E-R-N-E-D.
“Don’t gimme that look, Teenie.”
“What look.”
“That look you always try to give me when you don’t want me to do something.”
“I just think you’re putting yourself in unnecessary danger.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
“But why do you have to meet him at night again? Don’t you think that’s kind of strange?”
“Don’t worry, Teenie. I said I’ll be fine, okay?”
Everything’s not, but I say okay anyway.
Chapter 10
I once read that the key to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Judging from the way my mother cooks, it’s no wonder that Beresford is wrapped around her little finger. My mother made a big pot of rice and peas and baked red snapper. Beresford must be drooling all over himself waiting for me to come home. I could smell the food before I even opened the door, and sure enough, once I push my way in, he leaps up from his chair.
“Why you home so late, young lady? I was worried about you.”
His growling stomach betrays why he was so worried. “Sorry, Daddy. I was at the basketball game. Gimme five minutes and we can start dinner.”
“Okay,” he says, holding on to his belly. “Who won the game?” he asks while I jog up the steps.
“We did. Buzzer-beater.”
“Nice!”
One thing that Beresford insists on is that we eat as a family. Since my brothers are away at school and my mother works nights, eating as a family is usually dinner for two. The rule about family meals is one of the few things he does that I think make sense. I love my father, but Lord have mercy is he weird. He is as old-fashioned as old-fashioned can be. That dang flattop has been on top of his head since the beginning of time, and he’s worn the same cologne (which he baths in) since he first started dating my mother. I don’t know if Brut for men was popular back in the day, but the fact that he buys it in CVS should say something. When I asked him about it, he said, “Your mother did like me back then and she still like me now, so I ain’t got to change nothing.”
I understand that people get set in their ways, but when it comes to some of his rules, they don’t make sense at all. I wish someone would explain to me why I have to finish the bottle of apple juice before I can open the carton of fruit punch. And forget taking a drink while I eat. I have to finish all of my food before I can drink any water or juice. I could be eating a sandwich made out of sand and sawdust and Beresford would say, “Eat all yah food first. You gonna fill up yah belly with drink and you ain’t gonna leave no room for dee food.”
My father’s strict rules make me love the times that I’ve eaten at Cherise’s house. Her mother leaves money and we get Chinese or pizza and sit in front of the TV. I make sure to drink some soda right after my first bite, and we crank the volume on the TV all the way up. The only time Beresford lets us eat in front of the television is during the Super Bowl or the NBA finals.
There is a downside to eating at Cherise’s house, though. I can count on one hand the times that I’ve eaten there and her mother ate with us. Cherise tries to play tough and all, like it doesn’t bother her. Every now and then she lets her true feelings show, saying I’m lucky. If she thinks I’m lucky, she can trade places and eat dinner with Sir Blabs-a-Lot any time she wants.
As usual, he does most of the talking during dinner, but tonight I have an agenda—that’s if I can get a word in. My dad reaches for a plate and moves over to the stove.
“Oh, let me get that for you, Daddy. You had such a long day at work.”
I don’t have to tell him twice. Garth was right on the money with that suggestion.
Beresford’s been going on and on about a new laptop computer his company gave him. He keeps pronouncing it “labtop,” no matter how many times I correct him. He’s already made me promise about fifty times to help him set it up. Once I promise for the fifty-first time, he goes back over to the table and jumps right into one of his long-winded stories. This one sounds familiar, so I set my responses to autopilot. “For real, Daddy? Wow, that’s crazy.” Now he’ll start talking about how somebody, probably Priscilla, did something wrong and how he had to pick up the slack. I wonder how this lady keeps her job, because according to my dad, she is a waste of brain matter. Here it comes.
“Martine, I tell you that woman is incompetent. She left out the entire section detailing the violations, the most important part of the document. And you know who had to fix she mess?”
Hmm, let me guess. “You had to do it?” My mouth is wide open with shock, to get him to think I actually care.
“That’s right. But as soon as you show me how to use that labtop, I’ll be able to review her mistakes on the subway.”
“Laptop, Daddy, laptop.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she was teefin’ and robbing the SEC blind.”
My dad has these sayings—I call them Beresisms—and “teefin’ ” is one that he uses most frequently. Teefin’, or stealing, is done by a teef (thief) or, when my dad’s really angry, a teefah. It’s no wonder that growing up I thought Queen Latifah was a criminal mastermind. Lord, this man is strange.
My parents have always made sure to include God in our house. We pray before we eat every meal and go to church every Sunday. My dad usually does the honors. “Lord God, we thank You for this food. Bless the hands that prepared it and make it nourishment to our bodies. In Jesus’s blessed name, amen.”
When I was four years old, Beresford let Kari say grace, and my brother said, “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.” My father sent him to his room, and I had to stuff my mouth full of broccoli to keep from laughing. Wazi got sent to his room too because he couldn’t stop smiling. I don’t realize I’m smiling about it until Beresford asks, “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the game-winner today.”
“Hmm,” my father grunts as he shovels a spoonful of rice into his mouth. “I read in the papers that Grady had a much stronger team.”
�
�Yeah. They’re usually really good, but our best player really played well.”
My dad nods his head. “Martine, all the plantain is gone?”
“There’s plantain? I didn’t see it.” He raises his hand to stop me from getting up and says, “I’ll get it.”
As he stands and walks to the stove, he bumps the edge of the table, and his spoon falls on the floor. To call that thing a spoon is a stretch because Beresford has made some serious alterations to it. When I watch him use it, I think about one of those cheesy infomercials that say, “It slices! It dices!” He calls it his spife—part spoon, part knife—and keeps it in a special box wrapped in an embroidered cloth with his initials on it. He used to just keep it in the cloth, but now he locks it in a box because Kari tried to eat with it when he was little and cut his lip.
It’s razor-sharp on one side, and Beresford uses it to cut chunks of steak, chop up vegetables, peel apples, and crack open chicken bones so he can suck out the marrow. Both of my parents suck the mess out of some bones, and I think it’s so gross. My dad managed to carve two hooks into the spife so he can eat spaghetti. I don’t know how he does it, but he flicks his wrist around and gets a bunch of noodles curled onto it.
My father picks up his prized possession, rinses it off at the sink, and sits back down to eat again. I get up from the table and walk to the stove. “How many do you want, Daddy?”
“What? Oh, the plantain. I forgot—sorry. I’ll take four pieces.”
I might as well get a little extra gravy while I’m up.
“So how was school today?”
Finally! I’ve been waiting for him to ask me that. This is probably my best shot to bring up YSSAP. While he was busy talking about Priscilla the Klutz, I’ve been trying to figure out exactly how to change the subject. “School was great, Daddy. I had a pop quiz in American studies.”
“How did you—?”
“A hundred,” I say, cutting him off. If I let him start talking again, I’ll never get to ask him. “Then later on, in math class, we started going over some new material. And after that, I found out that I’m on a waiting list for YSSAP—it’s a program to study abroad for a semester,” I say, handing him one of the pamphlets. “All I need to do is raise my average one point and I qualify for a scholarship,” I add, because there’s no way my dad would pay the regular tuition.
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