“Good. Because I’ve got something for you.”
“What’s that?”
“A wrapping—short, tight, and black, with the perfect gift underneath.”
Ray groaned, then tried to cover his tracks by coughing. I laughed.
“You ain’t right, Ma.”
“Get home soon. I’ll be waiting.” I hung up before he had a chance to answer.
I called up China House, Ray’s favorite restaurant, and ordered his favorite dish, Empress Chicken with steamed rice. I ordered chicken fried rice for myself. The woman taking the order told me in a curt and hurried tone that the food would be delivered to my door in about forty-five minutes.
I set the table, lit some scented candles, turned the CD player on and the sound of slow jams filled the room. After I was done, I looked everything over. It would be the perfect evening with the perfect man. We would have dinner, maybe watch a little TV, and then the best part, the activity in the bedroom. As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Dinner.
As I handed the delivery man his money and took the bag containing our dinner, the gleam of the mail slot caught my eye. The slot was next to the door. The slot led to a box inside of the house. Ray had told me he couldn’t risk someone trying to go through his mail. My eyes traveled to the box, which Ray normally kept locked. It was slightly agar.
“Thank you,” I heard a voice say. It was the delivery man. I knew he was waiting for a tip. I gave him a couple of dollars before shutting the door. I took the food into the kitchen put the containers in the stove to keep the food warm. Then, I returned to the foyer. The mailbox was calling me.
I stared at it for a moment. I moved closer to inspect it. I noticed pieces of mail inside. All I wanted to do was take a little peek. That wouldn’t hurt anything, right? I bent down to open the lid, half praying that I would hear the roar of Ray’s steel to make me back away. But I didn’t hear anything except for the saxophone in the background. I reached toward the box, then snatched my hand back. But then, curiosity got the better of me.
I reached for the lid and opened it cautiously, as if some gremlin would jump out and bite me. There were four envelopes inside. I bent down, to peek at the envelopes and got the surprise of my life. Three of the envelopes were from businesses, bills and such. American Electric Power wanted to get paid, as well as Sprint. The third envelope looked like junk mail. The fourth envelope was addressed to me: Crystal Marie Sells.
My eyes widened as I pulled the envelope out of the box and studied it. My name and Ray’s address were handwritten, but there was no return address. The postmark said that the letter was mailed from the post office with the zip code 43211. That was a north side zip code.
My heartbeat began to sound like a chant as it quickened . . . o-pen, o-pen, o-pen. I closed up the box and took my letter to the table in the dining room. My first thought was that Ray was playing a trick on me. Leaving the box open, knowing how nosey I am, just to see if I would invade his privacy. But then again, how would he have known that the letter would come that day? Then again, I know he didn’t expect me not to open an envelope addressed to me.
I pondered who would send a letter to me. Dymond and Lala didn’t even know Ray’s address. I loved them like sisters, but I didn’t want them over his house. They understood, so it wasn’t a big deal. Plus, they weren’t the type to write letters. Mom would have told me if she was sending a letter and she would have at least have put a return address on the envelope. O-pen, o-pen, o-pen, o-pen . . .
I went to the living room and took a shade off of one of the lamps before turning on the light. I held the envelope up to the light, hoping I could catch a glimpse of what was inside. My chest tightened as I flipped the envelope around. I squinted as the shape of letters seeped through the envelope. And then I got pissed.
I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I ripped open the envelope and yanked out the sheet of paper inside. My eyes were telling the truth. There, in bold black letters, was the word:
BITCH
My stomach turned as I stared at each letter because my mind wasn’t exactly comprehending the written word. “B-I-T-C-H,” I said each letter out loud. Yeah, girl, you see it right, my mind told me.
I felt my anger rise as I stomped through the kitchen to the dining room. I picked up my cell phone and called Ray. He might have been trying to be funny, but I didn’t play no Bitch games. So what if I was snooping a bit? He had some major explaining to do. Of course, his voice mail picked up. His phone didn’t even ring. That meant his phone was off.
“Your ass better be on the way home!” I yelled into the phone after that annoying computerized voice told me to leave a message.
I slammed the phone down on the table and then huffed my way into the den. I sat on the loveseat facing the garage door, waiting. Here I was trying to be a good woman to my man and some bitch is sending me letters? As I waited, I continued to stare at the letter. Each time I took in the curve of the B and the C, the straightness of the I, the T, and the H, I got angrier.
And I continued to wait.
And wait.
My anger simmered as the hours passed. The candles flickered. The food grew cold. After two hours, I turned on the TV to try and pass time. Not even BET’s Comic View could lighten my mood. I dialed Ray’s number a couple more times, but his voicemail immediately clicked on. I didn’t leave another message.
After three hours, I began to worry. But my intuition told me that Ray hadn’t been in an accident. I was being stood up in my own boyfriend’s house. That had to be a new one. Best believe, I wasn’t one to stick around where I wasn’t wanted. I went to the bedroom, took off the Prada, and put on my skinny jeans and a T-shirt. I put up my leather “Silver Fox” jacket, laced up my boots, and got ready to hit the road. I left the “bitch” letter on the bed. Ray would get the message.
My eyes didn’t start tearing up until I ran out of the garage after pressing the button inside to close the door. I left the house key Ray gave me on the dining room table. Even if I wanted to get back into the house, I wouldn’t be able to. I wiped my eyes before I put my helmet on. I refused to let a man break me down . . . at least, not until I didn’t have my ride.
The noise from Foxy Baby’s engine couldn’t drown out my thoughts. Even the air felt different that night. I didn’t feel like a bird, flying free as I navigated the road. Instead, I felt like road kill, heavy and unappealing.
I exited 670 East and headed toward Allegheny Avenue. I was headed toward the Meadows. Toward my friends. Even though it was almost midnight, I knew Dymond would still be up. I just hoped Shadow wasn’t with her. Chances were, Lala was with her. Greenland Meadows was a bustle of activity, even at that late hour. I could smell smoke from a barbecue. Hip-hop music was blaring from every building. I breathed in the familiarity of my former residence. It was like air, different scents, but still clear . . . always the same.
I parked in front of Dymond’s building. I looked up to the third floor and noticed that the light to Dymond’s bedroom was on. Great. I parked my steel. I didn’t have to worry about any fools in the Meadows trying to steal it.
Everyone knew where my steel came from, and no one would risk his life trying to make it his own.
I climbed up the three flights of stairs. I felt the tears coming on again, but I pushed them back. I didn’t want my girls to see me crying like a baby, especially over some man. In fact, I didn’t want to give up too many details about why I was over at Dymond’s place.
I only had to knock once. I heard footsteps and knew Dymond was looking through the peephole.
“Remember that movie The Professional when fools got shot looking through peepholes?” I asked, trying to sound playful. “Don’t act like you ain’t going to let the Tree to your Oh in.”
I heard muffled voices. Lala was there too. “Am I going to have to bust in or what?” I asked.
“It’s too late to be selling Girl Scout cookies. Come back tomorrow,” Dymond said through stifled l
aughter.
“Stop playing, Dymond. You got a crazy friend with issues out here. Open the door.”
“I don’t have any friends that live in burb-land.” There was more laughter.
“Now that’s messed up,” I said, knocking on the door again. “Don’t leave me hanging out here.”
“What’s the password?” Dymond asked.
“My foot in your ass.”
“Talking like that ain’t going to give you a pass.”
“How about ‘I love you like a step-sister?’”
“Maybe . . .” Dymond laughed again. It was a strong and hearty laugh. I heard Lala’s little chuckle too. Then I heard the locks turn as Dymond prepared to open the door.
When I saw my girls through the open doorway, I almost lost it. My face was so hot, it felt like I was too close to the sun. I felt the tears coming, so I rushed through the door and sped past them into the living room. I placed my helmet on Dymond’s tan leather couch before waving my hand in front of my face and taking off my jacket.
“Whew! It’s hot up in here,” I said with my back toward my friends. A couple of tears escaped and I was trying to dry them before I turned to face them.
“Girl, what you doing here this late at night? Ray kick you out?” Dymond asked.
“I just wanted to see my girls, okay?”
“Yeah, right,” Lala said sarcastically.
“Right,” Dymond agreed. “You’ve been up under Ray for almost two months and now you’ve got time for us?”
“Look, seriously though. I just need some time to myself.” I could finally turn around to face them. I knew my face probably looked a mess, but if my girls saw anything, they didn’t mention it.
Instead, Lala walked up to me and put a hand around my shoulder. “It’s all good. I’m glad you decided to hang with us. I was beginning to think we were a duet and not a trio.”
“Never that girl,” I said. “So, Dymond, you got something to drink in this place or what?”
“I got water, Crys,” Dymond said, rubbing her belly. “You know I’ve got a little Shadow and your future godchild growing inside of me.”
I felt Lala stiffen beside me. I looked down at her. “Something wrong?” I asked.
“Nada,” Lala said, smiling. “I just thought I’d at least get some Bud up in here.”
“There ain’t nothing in here except water. No more drinking for me. I’m going to be a mother, and I’ve got to start living right.”
There was a momentary silence as we all looked at each other. I was the first to burst out laughing. And as we continued to laugh, I knew I had made the right decision to go to see my girls. I would never let a man come between us again.
Chapter Seven
I knew that the clouds in my life could bring rain . . .
One of the best pieces of advice Mom gave me was, “When your relationship with a man ends, keep busy and look good.” I followed that advice. I spent the next couple of weeks actually going to school, handling my businesses, and planning another purse party. Of course, the Trio was back in action . . . well, sort of. Dymond did spend some time with Shadow, but at least it still felt like she put me and Lala first. She had a knack for making people feel special. I wish I had that gift.
I had told Dymond and Lala that I was taking a break from my man. I was too embarrassed to let them know about the Bitch letter. I didn’t want them to know all my business. But I did need them to help me get through the rough times. Lala told me that I was better off. Dymond agreed. “There’s a whole bunch of guys in Col-town. You’ll get another one,” Dymond had said to me. Thing is, I didn’t really want another man. I still had feelings for Ray, and I knew it would take a long time to get over him.
I attended Eastwood High, home of the mighty Warriors.
With only two weeks left, I figured I might as well spend my days doing something. As for Ray, he tried to call me a couple times. I ignored him. He also came over, but thankfully I wasn’t there. I listened to one message, he asked me what was up with the letter, as if he didn’t know. I didn’t call him back, but I thought he’d come through stronger for his girl. Oh well . . . I wasn’t one to dwell too much.
“I’ll be passing out your final papers today,” Mrs. Phillips told my English class on a Thursday. We all responded by groaning.
Mrs. Phillips smiled and said, “Now I know you’re all suffering from senioritis, but I must admit,” she paused and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “I’m disappointed in these grades.”
We all groaned again. The groans grew louder as she began passing out the papers.
Someone tapped on my right shoulder. I turned around. It was Jenna Logan, one of my regulars. “Hey, Crystal, when you doing the purse party? I need a new Louis.”
“Girl, hit me up next week. Even if I don’t do a big party, I’ll let you check out my selection.”
Jenna looked up and frowned. I felt a presence near my desk. I looked around and saw Mrs. Phillips staring down at me. She was of medium height, maybe two inches or so shorter than me, average build, and she dressed okay. She liked that Jones New York and Anne Taylor look. She was caramel colored and her hair was styled in a short bob. With those little square glasses she wore, she was the definition of teacher. And as she looked at me, I could tell she wasn’t happy.
“Crystal, I need to see you after class.”
The groaned changed to a collective of “wooo-osssss.” The expression in her tone said trouble. I almost wished I had cut her class. I nodded at Mrs. Phillips as she moved on. She didn’t put my paper on my desk. After she walked past my desk, I glared at Jenna. She silently mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Five minutes later, the bell rang. I stood up and walked to the front of the class, trying to ignore the “girl, you in trouble” glances coming from my classmates. I went to Mrs. Phillips’ desk.
“Is this going to take long?” I asked. “’Cause my girls will be waiting for me.”
Mrs. Phillips peered at me through her glasses. “It’ll take as long as it takes,” she said seriously.
“Can I at least tell them so they won’t leave me?” I pleaded.
“If I let you out of here, Crystal, I have a feeling you won’t be back. Just have a seat and I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I smacked my lips and headed for a desk so I wouldn’t see Mrs. Phillips reaction. After the last student left the room, she rose from her desk and closed the door. I slumped in my chair, ready to hear her chew me out for whatever reason.
“Well, it’s good to see you back, Crystal,” she said as she walked back to her desk.
I mustered up what little enthusiasm I had. “Thanks.”
“I was beginning to worry about you.”
“I’m cool.”
“I’m sure you are.” She picked up some papers from her desk and moved toward me. “Your mother tells me you’ve been quite busy.”
“Yeah, I’ve been doing this and that.”
Mrs. Phillips stood in front of me. “Well, you should really consider spending more time on your studies.”
Her face was so serious and firm, I just knew she was about to tell me I had a big, fat F on my final paper.
Damn.
Mrs. Phillips slid the paper on the desk face down. I didn’t want to wait for the bad news, so I flipped the paper around and gasped in shock. On the paper, in between my name and the first line of my story, was a . . .
“You really have talent, Crystal. I’d hate to see you waste it on the streets.”
No matter how many times I’d seen A’s, I’d never gotten used to them. But I was shocked to get the grade on a paper I finished during an all-nighter on a stomach full of Red Bull.
“Thanks, Mrs. Phillips.”
“Have you ever thought about majoring in English?” she asked me.
Hell, no. “Ummm. Not really. I’m more interested in business.”
“I see.” Mrs. Phillips looked toward the large windows on the opposite side of
the classroom. “Well, your story about Foxy Baby was very interesting. I’m assuming that’s the name of your bike?”
I cringed at the word “bike.”
“I ride a steel, not a bike.”
“It’s all just semantics really.”
English? Please!
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There’s nothing wrong with calling a motorcycle a bike, you know.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to argue with you. I just hope to see you next week. I know it’s the last week of class, but don’t miss out.”
“But I already got my grades, right?”
“If you don’t do it for yourself, then do it for your mother. You know how much your education means to her.
You’ll be the first one from your family to attend college.
Aren’t you proud of that?”
“Kind of . . . I guess I am. I’m just ready to graduate.”
“I understand completely,” Mrs. Phillips smiled. “I was a senior at one time.”
I shook my head. “I can’t see you up in no high school as a student.”
“How else would I be where I am today?”
Mrs. Phillips walked back to her desk. “Look, I know you’ve got to go, but I wanted to give you something.” She reached into her purse, which looked like a Kmart special, and pulled out a colorful postcard. She walked back to my desk and handed the postcard to me.
The postcard had pictures of a couple of steels. A KAW, a Honda, and a Ducati. The card was an announcement for the Summer Blast, a gathering of black motorcycle clubs from communities in Columbus and the surrounding Central Ohio area. The Summer Blast was planned for the week after my graduation.
“What’s this for?” I asked curiously.
“After speaking with your mother, I thought you would be interested in the Blast.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, obviously because you like steels.” She stressed the word steels. “I think you and Foxy Baby will have a good time.”
From what I heard, the Summer Blast was for the thirty and over crowd. It didn’t sound like my cup of tea. I didn’t tell Mrs. Phillips though, because I didn’t want her to convince me to go.
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