The Ex Factor: A Novel

by Whitaker, Tu-Shonda

  “It wasn't what you thought.”

  “Fuck you,” she said under her breath.

  “Oh.” He laughed slightly as they continued down the aisle. “That means we're in good standing.”

  “I'm not fucking with you anymore.” She smiled as the photographer took their picture. “Remember I'm just your sister-inlaw. Let's hold true to the nasty-ass speech you gave me a few days ago.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “I can say what I wanna say!” She raised her voice a little but only loud enough for Sharief to hear.

  “Then smile.” He nodded toward the videographer. “You're on Candid Camera.”

  Monica almost shitted on herself praying that none of her conversation was caught on tape. Damn, that's the last thing I need. Instead of continuing to talk, Monica smiled as she walked the rest of the way down the aisle. Once she and Sharief arrived at the altar they went their separate ways.

  Although Monica smiled at her mother's soon-to-be husband, Red, she couldn't help but shake her head. What in the hell does he have on? Why does he have on that tight-ass metallic gold tuxedo with a white fishnet shirt? Is that why Mommy has on fishnet stockings? They can't be serious. Are they trying to match? I know they realize that this niggah is famous only in Vegas. Monica chuckled a little, but did her best to maintain her composure. She held her head down so she could get her face together; when she looked back up, Sharief was looking at her. He motioned his eyes toward Red and as bad as Monica didn't want to smile at Sharief she couldn't help it.

  Imani walked with an attitude slowly down the aisle. “These is some country-ass niggahs,” she huffed under her breath, looking at the guests. It's more sequins out this ma'fuckah than a li'l bit. Goddamn. And this niggah here. She looked at her escort, Red's brother Jimmy, who was also Buttah's ex-boyfriend. He about to pull my damn arm off. Imani had a hard time keeping up with Jimmy's pimp-daddy strut. She looked at him and rolled her eyes a couple of times. His ass know he look like Rick James reincarnated for Christmas. And I hope this long-ass jheri curl he got don't splash no juice on me and shit. Hold up…I know this ma'fucker don't stink…

  By the time Imani reached Monica all they could do was smile at each other.

  Celeste and Buttah were the matron and maid of honor, so each walked down the aisle alone. Celeste was trying her best not to cry but she couldn't help it; tears ran down her face as she thought about her situation. She hoped that everyone would think she was emotional because of the wedding.

  When Starr appeared behind the French doors, it was if Strongé had arrived on the helicopter with white horses and a chariot. Jamal rolled out the runner and opened the French doors. Kayla, Kai, and Kori came out and dropped white rose petals on the runner. Once the runner was completely covered, Starr made her grand entrance. Convinced that she was too old to be “given away,” she chose to escort herself down the aisle. Starr stepped onto the runner, one three-inch stiletto at a time. The summer wind blew the asymmetrical hem of her dress up a little, revealing her fishnet stockings. “Whoo-wee! Look at you girl!” Red yelled down the aisle. “Oh yeah, baby, there it is. That's what I'm talking about! Bring it on over here.”

  The preacher tapped Red on the shoulder. “Excuse me—but you need to save that for the reception.”

  “Hold ya roll, Bruh Pastah—hold ya roll. I got this.”

  Starr's wedding dress was an all-white sequined halter-top gown. She had a small white veil hanging from her hat that she'd styled with a white feather on the side. As far as Starr was concerned, she was absolutely beautiful. She felt as if she were walking on diamonds. Staring at Red every step of the way, she switched her hips as she came closer to him.

  “Now, that don't make no damn sense!” Mama Byrd smirked. “That ho knows she needs all black on.”

  “Hush,” Red's cousin Lula-Baby said. “Be nice.”

  By the time Starr reached the altar Red was in tears. “You look good, baby.” He sniffed.

  “And so do you, boo.” She smiled, wiping his tears.

  As the preacher began the ceremony Starr and Red held hands. Red's backup singer Slick sang Freddie Jackson's “Jam Tonight” as his solo, and Starr's niece Sharay did a Christian rap. Afterward Starr and Red gazed into each other's eyes and recited their vows. “You know you my boo,” Starr said to Red, “and you know that I'm feeling you like that. You are my light when it's a blackout and you are my ray of sun even when it's a thunderstorm. And I love you Red, I really do.”

  “All I can say”—Red sniffed—“is if loving you is wrong then I don't wanna be right.”

  “Man,” Jimmy said, “you gon' make a pimp cry.”

  “Awwl, big daddy,” Starr growled. “Plead guilty, baby.” All of the guests fell out laughing. Monica, Celeste, and Imani just stood there watching, embarrassed and anxious for the ceremony to be over. Shortly after Starr and Red exchanged rings, the preacher pronounced them husband and wife, and it was time for Red to kiss his bride.

  “Don't start nothin', daddy.” Starr laughed. “You know how easy I am with you.” She threw one leg in the air, meeting Red's waist. Red took one arm and supported Starr's leg; then he took his other arm and wrapped it around her waist. He pressed his lips against hers and they kissed long and hard.

  “Oh hell no,” Monica mumbled, mortified.

  “Do yo' thang!” Imani's friend Sabrena yelled. “This shit is cracked—for real, for real. Starr got class.”

  “Would you be quiet?” Quiana poked her in the arm.

  “My fault.”

  Monica made eye contact with Chauncey, who was sitting near the front. He winked and she smiled back.

  Once Starr and Red finished kissing they turned toward their guests and everybody clapped. “Let's get it on!” Starr yelled. “It's time to party!”

  (Imani)

  IMANI SAT WITH her back resting against the makeshift bar, her cell phone in one hand and an apple martini in the other. For over an hour she'd been blowing up Walik's extra cell phone; she hated that she smashed the main line to pieces. She'd called at least a hundred times and each time no answer. She was sick of listening to his dry-ass voice-mail message: “You know who this is and you know what to do.” Every time she heard it, she felt as if the pit of her stomach were oozing through the bottom of her feet. “Goddammit!” she yelled, exasperated, aggravated, and fed up with the bullshit of loving this son-of-a-bitch. “Something has got to give.” She'd tried calling him with her number blocked and with it unblocked, and she'd even text-messaged him; still nothing. She thought about calling from a number Walik didn't know but then she remembered that he didn't answer calls from unfamiliar numbers. So she sat not knowing whether to cry, scream, or shout. The only person she could really be pissed with was herself. She knew better than to leave Walik home alone, but hell, what else was she supposed to do? He didn't want to come to the wedding and he wasn't the type to be asked the same questions over and over again. So she took the chance of letting him drop her off, hoping, praying, wishing, and begging a Higher Being to please let this niggah behave and do exactly what he promised her he would do, which was take a shit and go to sleep.

  Imani hit redial again and received his voice mail once more. She wanted to go off but she knew if she flipped on Walik's phone, she wouldn't hear from him for a week, and she didn't want to take the chance. So she swallowed her attitude and did her best to leave a message that would entice him to call her back: “Walik, where you at? I'm worried about you. Just want to make sure you're okay. You know I love you, boo. Call me, please.” Imani hung up and as she went to press redial, a soft copper-toned hand slid her cell phone from her palm.

  “Let me save my number in this piece before you lose your mind trying to call me.”

  Imani looked up and instantly she smiled. “Ahhh, Kree?”

  “Ahhh, Imani?” He handed her back the phone with his number programmed.

  She snapped her fingers. “Where do I know you from…? Oh, I know,” she said, answ
ering her own question, “you was the niggah with the hard dick pressed into my ass the other night at the club. What? Are you stalking me?”

  “Stalking you?” Kree laughed. “Ma, don't even do it to yourself. You know you liked my hard Puerto Rican dick rubbing against that fat ass, otherwise ya li'l nasty dance would've been a no-haps. Furthermore, on the real, you straight played ole boy's ass. If you was my wife I would've yoked yo' ass up. But on some real shit, don't use me as a pawn no more. I just got out the game.”

  “Or what?” Imani asked. “You gon' shoot my man?” She frowned.

  “If need be.”

  “You don't even know me to be telling me that you'll shoot my man.” Imani was pissed. “You got a lot of nerve.”

  “It was your suggestion, ma.” He smirked.

  “Whatever.” Imani took a sip of her apple martini. “What the hell you doin' here anyway?”

  “Damn, it's okay for you to calm down. I already know you like me.” Kree smiled.

  “Oh here you go.”

  “Anyway since you must know, I'm the DJ.”

  “The DJ?”

  “Yeah, and had you stayed off the phone then you would've noticed me.”

  “You got a smart-ass mouth. Anyway, you're the one responsible for the soul-train line instead of the receiving line?”

  “Now, you know I'm Puerto Rican, I would've had a freak fest to the macarena,” Kree laughed. “But it's all good, the soul-train line was at the bride and groom's request.” Kree smiled and Imani couldn't help but laugh. “So,” Kree said, looking around, “where ya crazy-ass man at?”

  “Don't call him crazy,” Imani said defensively. “I shouldn't have been dancing with you like that in the club anyway.”

  “Oh you killing me,” Kree said. “You still on that club shit, when was that? Like last year? Come on, ma, you see me tryna kick it to you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Don't you feel my Mac Daddy vibe comin' through?”

  “Mac Daddy vibe?”

  “Yeah.” He cocked his neck to the side. “Tell me, girl, what your interests are, who you be with.”

  “Oh my God, are you serious?”

  “It's a classic.”

  “What?”

  “The line.”

  “It's not a classic.” Imani sucked her teeth. “It's tired.”

  “I'll have you to know that what I just shot you was a line from Biggie's ‘One More Chance,’ ai'ight, Ms. Tired?” Kree stood directly in front of Imani and pressed his forehead against hers. “Check it, let me know when you wanna get your grown and sexy on. I'll admit that my dick was hard the other night and it was so hard that it stayed on your mind. Don't fuck around and start wanting some of it, 'cause then I'ma have to give it to you. But for now I'll take your phone number or better yet I'll wait for you to call me.”

  “Excuse me, Papi.” Jamal tapped Kree on the side of his leg. “We got a problem here, son?”

  Kree turned his head, stood up, and looked down, “Oh, this you pot'nah?” He pointed to Imani.

  “All day.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Jamal.”

  “Ai'ight, man, I'm Kree.” He held his fist out for a pound.

  Jamal slid Kree a pound. “Ain't you the DJ?”

  “That's what they say.”

  “Oh.” Jamal's eyes lit up. “I like you. Look, me and my cousins Kayla and Kai wanna hear the cha-cha slide so we can get our dance on, and after that Kori said she can break down a new dance called the water sprinkler. So can you tell MC Old G,” he pointed to Red's singer Slick, “to get off the mike.”

  “Ai'ight, no problem.”

  “That's wassup.” Jamal looked at Imani. “Bye, Imani.” He ran off to his cousins screaming, “Hey y'all, I met the DJ.”

  “That's your little brother?” Kree asked.

  “No, my son.”

  Kree looked surprised. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Word? So you been fresh for a long time, huh?”

  “Wouldn't you like to know.”

  “Maybe—” he said. “Maybe not.”

  “Well, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Interesting,” Imani said.

  “Tell me, is ole boy your son's daddy?”

  “Yeah, why?” Imani raised her eyebrows.

  “ 'Cause you got some shit on your hands.” a“Why you all in mines? You act like I'ma really call you.”

  Kree laughed. “It's good, ma. If you feel to give me a call then hollah at me. If you don't—you're still sexy—so either way it's no problem.” Kree kissed Imani on the forehead and walked back to his DJ table.

  “Is that papi from the club?” Sabrena asked as she, Tasha, and Quiana walked over.

  “Yeah,” Imani said, staring at Kree.

  “You gon' get with him?” Quiana asked.

  “No, I have a man,” Imani snapped.

  “Good.” Sabrena cocked her neck to the side. “Well, let's run a train on him and turn that niggah out! You know they say Puerto Ricans are freaks.”

  “A train?” Quiana laughed. “Sabrena, you stupid!”

  Imani ignored the girls as they continued to go on about how sexy they thought Kree was. Instead she called Walik again, and still no answer. “Where is Walik at?” she huffed.

  “Who?” Quiana asked. “Walik?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yo, fuck that niggah. You know he up to no good. You know a stray dog don't have a home—so he gon' roam. So either you shoulda brought his ass with you, or you shoulda just psyched yourself up to accept the fact the lady and the tramp is a true story.”

  “Why would you say some shit like that to me?” Imani snapped. “Why?”

  “ 'Cause it's true,” Quiana said.

  “How do you know it's true?”

  “ 'Cause it's staring at you.” Quiana cracked up.

  “Fuck you!”

  Imani stormed off and went to sit next to Monica and Chauncey. As she sat down, they were getting up. “Where are you going?” Imani asked Monica. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Monica raised her eyebrows. “You know I shouldn't be speaking to your li'l lyin' self, but Chauncey wanted to dance, is that okay with you?” she asked sarcastically.

  “But I needed to talk to you.”

  “It'll have to wait. Period.”

  “I don't believe you!” Imani stormed away from Monica. As she went to find Starr, she spotted Red first. He seemed to be upset— he was stuttering and blinking. He was standing face-to-face with a woman who had finger waves in her hair and a spiked draw-string ponytail. She had red lipstick with black liner and red and blue eye shadow that covered both her eyelids and sprang from the sides like wings. She rocked back and forth. Her sequined baby-doll mini dress was hiked up on one side and low on the other. She kicked her shoes off and looked at Red. “I'll bust yo' shit, fat boy!”

  Imani had to do a double take because from the looks of it, this woman was serious and Starr was nowhere around. Once Imani was standing next to Red she noticed that this woman had arms that stopped just below her elbow and hands the size of a midget. What the fuck. And to make matters worse it didn't seem that she could control her arms very well because every time she moved they flapped around. Not to mention that one of the woman's legs was shorter than the other.

  “Now, hold up,” Red said to the woman, looking at how she was bouncing around. “What, you having a seizure? Why don't you go sit down? I'ma have to find Nadine to restrain you.”

  “Nadine!” the woman screamed.

  “Yes, Nadine.” Red stuck his chest out. “My sister, your counselor, Nadine, the one who brings y'all to every damn family function we have.” Red pointed to the group of mentally and physically challenged people Nadine was responsible for. All Nadine's life she swore that her calling was to take care of the disabled, so she dedicated herself to opening up her own group home, caring for five and sometimes six mentally retarded and p
hysically handicapped adults.

  For the most part the people Nadine cared for were nice and quiet and talked among themselves, but this bunch was straight ghetto. Ever since they came they'd been loud, cussing, drinking, and eating everything in sight. One time they were even on the dance floor and making shoutouts on the DJ's microphone, which neither Red nor Starr particularly appreciated.

  “Nadine!” Red yelled. “Come here, right now! Nadine!”

  “Nadine—Nadine can't do shit to me. I'll beat her ass!” the woman yelled, rocking back and forth.

  “Humph.” Red smirked. “All you can do is beat yo' own ass with the way them arms and hands flappin' around.”

  “I ain't got to kick yo' fat ass with my hands, I can handle you with my feet.”

  “Oh, you wanna fight? Arms and hands lookin' like chicken wings and you tryna fight somebody!” Red said, taken aback.

  “Chicken wings? Well, watch me cluck all over yo' tired ass! We can do this.” The woman started skipping in place, like a boxer. She threw a couple of punches in the air, but to Red she looked to be throwing her body around.

  “Oh yo' ass is crazy,” he said. “Why can't you go sit down with the rest of the slow group.” He pointed to a group of people on the other side of the backyard.

  “Red,” Imani said, still amazed. “What's going on here? Where's Mommy?”

  “Ya mama had a li'l gas. She got a li'l lactose problem. But don't you worry about me, 'cause I'ma get Nadine to come and give this one here a tranquilizer.”

  “A tranquilizer? Why?”

  “She asked for a beer.”

  Imani looked at the woman, who was still skipping in place. “You—can”—Imani spoke slowly—“not—have—any—al-co-hol— it—will—mess—with—your—medication.”

  “Medication! Oh hell naw!” the woman screamed, kicking at Red. “Jimmy!” she screamed, “Jimmy! Let me tell you somethin', you played-out fat ma'fucker!”

  “Oh hold up.” Red was getting upset. “You better hold ya roll, home girl.”

  “He ain't played,” Imani said, taking up for Red. “This niggah is retro.”

  “Jimmy!”