Dirty South

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  Kenya was her best friend, no doubt.

  And she was worried about her girl, true.

  But.

  She was growing up, getting ready to leave for college. Having these feelings. These desires. These wants. The man and woman in the Lincoln had just reminded her of what she already knew, of what she was already aware. She wanted to feel a man, experience a man, the way a woman did. There it was.

  Donovan was away.

  But there were more than a few boys that had been sniffing after her that weren’t away.

  Some of them lived in the vicinity.

  She contemplated making that bad move.

  But God works in mysterious ways.

  The loud honk of a horn startled her. A dusty Jeep Wrangler, looked like it hadn’t been washed since it was driven off the lot, had moved up next to her at the curb. She glanced at it, then looked straight ahead, kept moving. The sky was black, the street covered in shadows. Another light tap sounded on the horn. That time she didn’t glance in the Jeep’s direction. Picked up the pace of her walk.

  “Hey.”

  She picked up the pace some more. Not quite a run, but more than a walk.

  “Hey” again.

  She didn’t have Mace. Did have her house keys, though. Gouge an eye with the sharp, jagged keyhole end if need be.

  “Don’t be alarmed. Cool ya heels a moment.”

  Something in the masculine voice caught her attention. Something familiar. Lark knew better, but she still slowed. Looked over at the Jeep. Squinted her eyes. He’d brought the car to a complete stop, was leaning over, his head visible in the passenger-side window.

  Lark should have been startled.

  Red flags everywhere.

  But she wasn’t.

  “Did you…did you…follow me?” she asked.

  “No. No,” he said then shook the blond dreads from his eyes so she could see the sudden sincerity in them. “Well, yeah, I guess. Yeah, I did.”

  “Why?” The only question that came to mind. Later, she’d think of so many other things she should have said. So many other things she should have done.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.” In a few months.

  He groaned. “You’re beautiful. Never would have guessed it.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  Something Lark didn’t hear often. Even from Donovan. Despite the compliment, she managed to gather herself. “Why did you follow me?”

  “I didn’t. At first.”

  She just looked at him.

  “Look, my name’s Trent.”

  “Lark.”

  “Beautiful name, Lark.”

  “Uh-huh. Why did you follow me?”

  He sighed. “I got off shift after you and your folks left. Saw you all in the parking lot, twenty minutes after I’d cleared your table, trying to get your father in the car.”

  Lark closed her eyes briefly, relived that nightmare.

  “I shouldn’t have followed,” Trent said. “I know better. But something about you…”

  Lark heard it then. In his voice. Unmistakable. Lust. Highly inappropriate, she knew. “How old are you, Trent?”

  “Closer to forty than twenty.”

  Lark came to her senses. Remembered Kenya’s drama last year. Her friend’s thin escape. The tragedy that could have happened because Kenya got in a car she shouldn’t have. Kenya was her friend, no doubt. With her always, even now. So many unreturned text messages. Lark was worried, had to get over there. The feelings the Lincoln episode had stirred in her, gone. The older blond dread, as sexy and intriguing as he was, just couldn’t happen.

  “I’ve g-gotta go,” she stammered and started moving.

  “Wait, wait.”

  She didn’t. Let her legs move her up the block, where she hid in the cover of shadow.

  He didn’t press. Thank God. Didn’t follow.

  Only a couple blocks from Kenya’s, her heartbeat settled and she started to feel better. Some sisterhood laughter with her best friend was all the medicine she needed. On Kenya’s block her pace picked up. She couldn’t wait to tell Kenya about everything.

  And then…

  A sight she was familiar with around her way, around the projects. But Kenya’s neighborhood was quiet, uneventful, calm. Usually. The hood still, but a gentler variety of hood.

  A sight that didn’t cause Lark any pause at her project housing.

  The flashing strobe of a police car.

  In front of Kenya’s house.

  And the sound of Kenya’s mom, wailing.

  Chapter 13

  Eric

  I needed a Coke bottle cap of air. That’s all. I stepped outside of Benny’s house to get it, and left him in the den with Endia and Tanya. My nerves were jangled. Something inside of me didn’t feel quite right. A good day, what should have been one of my best ever, was shaping up otherwise. In the cool of the evening, I thought about my sister. There were tears in her eyes—such an unusual and unexpected memory. I thought about Fiasco, too. He was out on the road, alone, struggling with the one thing that had always been his refuge, struggling with his music. Lately he’d begun to question his relevance in the ever-changing taste of hip-hop music fans. I’d let Kenya and Fiasco down that day, and I couldn’t elbow my guilt out of the way. The guilt bullied me. It pressed up against me, chest to chest.

  It was winning.

  “I did something wrong.”

  It wasn’t a question. Endia’s voice was so soft it startled me. It was filled with sadness, too. In Mama’s darker moments she always talked about the burden women carried on their shoulders. She said women spent the better parts of their lives apologizing to men.

  I wanted no part of that.

  Living in a house of women had made me sensitive to their emotions.

  “No,” I told Endia. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  She smiled, moved farther into the garden.

  The area where I stood was centered with a coral fountain, a patio of rust-colored stones beneath my feet. Greenery everywhere. I didn’t know what the stuff was, didn’t watch enough Discovery Channel to be knowledgeable about it, but I gave everything names. Bougainvillea, roses, the erect stems of patchouli bushes. A strong whiff of peat was in the air, mulch spread everywhere.

  “Can I stand with you?” Endia asked.

  I hesitated long enough to turn her eyes even sadder. “Please, E?” she said.

  “You don’t have to call me that. Eric’s fine.”

  “Eric.” She pursed her lips, made her way over to me, took my hand. I resisted a little bit at first, but in a matter of seconds we were holding hands like longtime lovers. The sky was dark and filled with stars. A romantic night. Suddenly my nerves were rattled for a third reason other than Kenya and Fiasco. Endia. She was starting to feel like a girlfriend to me. I’d never had one. Didn’t know how that went.

  But I wanted one.

  I wanted her.

  “Going back to school in a few weeks,” I said. “I’m one of if not the most popular boys in my school.”

  “I bet.” Endia squeezed my hand, then laid her head on my shoulder.

  Crickets chirped. Mosquitoes buzzed by. Lightning bugs lit the darkness. A cool breeze blew. I kept my eyes on the stars. “Up until almost the end of the year, last year, I was the exact opposite,” I said. “I was as unpopular as a person could be. The butt of all the jokes. Didn’t fit in with the dudes. The girls only dealt with me if it was to their benefit. I tutored more stupid girls than any man should ever have to in one lifetime.”

  Endia chuckled.

  “My nickname was Poser, a play on my last name. Not a good one, either, as you can see. I can’t tell you how many days I came home, locked myself in my room and cried. Or how many nights I prayed to God to either make me popular or take me away.”

  I’d never told anyone that.

  Other than Mya, I didn’t share my private pain, my personal humiliation, with anyone
. I smiled through the insults. Kept my head high. Walked around as if it all just rolled off of my back.

  But it didn’t.

  It hurt.

  Hurt more than words could ever convey.

  Endia was silent, her head still on my shoulder. I peeked at her, saw her watching the stars, too. I went on. “You’d never know it if you judged my popularity by the number of MySpace friends I have. Or the number of dudes that will rush to give me dap the first day back. Or the girls that will giggle and whisper when I come around. But that’s all fake. I only got popular because I met Fiasco.”

  I’d spent months reveling in my newfound popularity. Walking around with my chest out. Swagger came naturally to me all of a sudden, just as it did with all the other cool boys. I didn’t have to practice my walk in front of my mirror anymore. I didn’t have to obsess over what I wore. My natural walk was as smooth as a Robin Thicke ballad, and whatever I rocked immediately became hot. Instead of following trends, I set them. Instead of copying the cool boys, I showed them how to move through life with swag.

  But it was all a lie.

  And suddenly I felt exposed.

  Naked.

  Shed from that protective skin.

  I wasn’t E. I was Poser. Poser, Poser, Poser.

  “You done?” Endia said.

  I nodded.

  “Can we sit in the gazebo, Eric?”

  I nodded. She led the way. Fingertips to fingertips, she pulled me into the gazebo. It was bananas. Strong wood. An architectural marvel with grooved spindles and Victorian-style corner braces. And a swing.

  We sat on the swing.

  I stopped looking at the stars.

  Looked at Endia’s eyes instead.

  For me, it was one and the same.

  “I did a Google search on your name,” Endia said. “Looked for you on MySpace. Couldn’t find anything.”

  “Should’ve just asked.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I mean last year, after I met you in the mall.”

  “What? Get out of here.”

  “I did, Eric.”

  “Why would you do that? I was such a lame when I met you.”

  “I didn’t think you were so lame.”

  I looked at her, hard. Searched for the truth. She held my gaze. It didn’t look like she was lying.

  “Why?” I whispered.

  “You don’t know how wonderful you are?”

  If I could have spoken I would have. But I couldn’t. I shook my head. I didn’t know how wonderful I was. Because I wasn’t wonderful. Not even close.

  “You were so easy to talk to,” Endia said. “And you weren’t all up on me like most of these boys. You were funny. Smart.” She paused, smiled. “Cute in a cornball way.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She playfully tapped my shoulder. “No. I really thought you were cute.”

  “I’ve thought about you every day since I met you,” I said. “Went over everything I did wrong a million times. Dreamed about getting another shot with you.”

  “And I stalked you on the Internet,” she said.

  I laughed. “I met Fiasco that same day I met you. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “No. Serious?”

  “Yup. In that same store at the mall. He saw me with you. He schooled me on all I did wrong.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Eric.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You gave me your phone, and I was too stupid to save my number in it.”

  Endia nodded. “There was that….”

  “I felt so badly after we met,” I said. “Felt like I really needed to do something to redeem myself. Vote, pray, donate some clothes to the Red Cross.”

  Endia laughed. “See what I’m talking about? You’re funny.”

  Silence settled between us.

  I didn’t have anything else to say.

  I was content just sitting there with her.

  “Went to a party last year,” Endia said after a while. “Mostly older kids but they let me and Tanya in. They were drinking. Smoking. Tanya wasn’t comfortable. She wanted to leave almost as soon as we got there. I was cool, though. I told her to go, that I was staying. And she did. She left. When she walked out, they were all calling her weak. I joined in that chorus. But really I was the weak one.”

  I listened.

  “I smoked weed for the first and last time that night, Eric. Had some drinks. This boy, Michael, offered to take me home. I went with him. He tried to get at me, but thankfully I was clearheaded enough to dead that. And he didn’t stress me, either. I was grateful for that. Until the next day.” Endia’s voice softened even more than usual. “All day I heard lies about what I’d done with Michael. He wouldn’t set ’em straight, either. Tanya wasn’t there, so she didn’t defend me. To this day I think she thinks it was all true. I had to change my MySpace page to private because of all the hateful, rude comments I was getting.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She nodded. “Thought all kinds of crazy stuff about not wanting to be here.” Tears. It was that kind of day, I guessed. I rubbed her shoulders for comfort.

  “I heard that J. Holiday song on the radio,” she said. “‘Bed.’ And I thought it was such a beautiful song. He was talking about taking the girl to bed, but it was still nice. How I’d want it to be. Respectful, special, not after a night of smoking weed and drinking. You know?” She looked at me, so I nodded. “I didn’t know the title or the artist,” she continued. “I caught the end of the song on the radio. So I went to the mall to try and find it.” She wiped her eyes, halted the tears. “And there you were.”

  “There I was.”

  “If you remember, Eric, I was alone.”

  “Ditto,” I said.

  She squeezed my hand. “We all have our problems. Part of growing up, I suppose. And then when you do grow up, you’ll have different problems.”

  “True.”

  “I lied to you the other day at the diner, Eric.”

  I knew this sunshine was really a cloud without a silver lining. I swallowed, steadied myself. If I were in a car I would’ve strapped on my seat belt at that point. I just knew a collision was about to happen. “Tell me.”

  “I knew who you were the second you walked up to our table. And I didn’t forget that J. Holiday song. Believe me. I was stunned to see you. So nervous about seeing you again. And you remembered me. That blew me away. Such a surprise.”

  I sighed, undid my imagined seat belt.

  “Can I be bold?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Her lack of hesitancy gave me courage. I took a deep breath. “Will you be my—?”

  “Yes,” Endia cut me off.

  “I didn’t even finish.”

  “Whatever you want me to be, Eric. I want to be it.”

  Wow!

  “My girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  My smile was the widest this world has ever known. My heart punched my chest. I had a girlfriend. And it was Endia. All the times I’d scribbled her name on notepads must have paid off for me.

  “This is unbelievable,” I said.

  “Truly.”

  All of my woe-is-me thoughts were gone. Just like that. Maybe I was wonderful after all. Maybe the swagger I thought was fake had always been with me. Fiasco had just helped me refine it. Endia did say she was feeling me. And that was before Fiasco’s counsel. Maybe the kids accepted me now for me, and not just because I was friends with Fiasco. That friendship just made them take their blinders off, give me a chance, and now they realized what Endia said she knew from gate. I was a wonderful dude.

  “Can I be bold, Eric?” Endia asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She reached over, took my face in her hands, framed it with her warm touch. Leaned in. Kissed me. I was lost in her warmth, with my eyes closed. We stayed like that for minutes. It was beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. We would have probably stayed like that for the rest of the evening.
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  But Benny’s voice broke us apart.

  Busted.

  He was standing by the edge of the garden. His pale white skin was chalkier than ever. Endia leaned away from me, fixed her clothes. I cleared my throat. “You didn’t answer your phone, E,” Benny said. “You didn’t hear it ringing?”

  “On vibrate,” I said and patted my pocket. It wasn’t there. I stood up, saw it had fallen out. It rested against the cushion of the swing. I picked it up.

  Six missed calls.

  Dayum.

  I was about to check and see who was blowing me up.

  “Your mom called the house, E,” Benny said.

  I said the typical thing, expecting the typical answer. “Everything okay?”

  Benny shook his head. “Kenya.”

  Chapter 14

  Kenya

  I must tell Je-sus all of my trials

  I can-not bear these burdens alone

  In my dis-tress He kindly will help me

  He ev-er loves me and cares for His own

  I must tell Je-sus, I must tell Je-sus

  The soft, red cushioning of the church pews absorbs the melodic voices of the choir, absorbs the wails of the mourners, absorbs the anguished heat coming off of those mourner’s bodies. Funerals always seem to be hot. It’s a heat that even air-conditioning can’t chase away. Flower arrangements are everywhere. The church is packed. I walk down the center aisle, toward the mother-of-pearl casket situated just below the pulpit in the middle of the church. I notice a few students from high school—girls I swore were jealous of me, dudes that tried to kick it to me constantly. I speak to ’em as I move past. They look right through me. Look right past me.

  Pastor Hubbs is in the pulpit, dressed in a regal black robe. Beads of sweat cover his forehead. He sweats a lot. He taps the microphone, clears his throat. His deep baritone fills the church. It commands attention. Not another sound can be heard. “It is with the greatest sympathy,” he says, “that I come before you, celebrating the life of one who left us too soon but now lies at peace in the arms of He that made us.”