by Nia Arthurs
“You is smart. You is kind. You is important.” I heard Aibeline’s raspy voice chanting in my ears as I locked the apartment and caught a bus. When I neared the Cellulite Towers, I got off and headed inside. Simon, the burly guy whom I had kicked in the cahooney and who had tasered me, was on duty today.
“Good morning, Ms. Reyes.” He greeted me, unconsciously covering his male extremities.
“Morning, Simon.” I returned, gingerly eying the Taser strapped to his left leg. Simon and I had a healthy respect for one another. Miss Sunshine wasn’t behind the desk this morning, so I was spared another awkward encounter.
As I boarded the elevator, I focused on the upcoming appointment with Mr. Maladon. The meeting was set for 10:30 so I had two hours to burn, but as I’d quickly learned, things could change. Hopefully, I was more prepared than my dream predicted.
“Morning,” Susan greeted me when I strolled to my cubicle.
“Hey,” She was unusually subdued this morning as she handed me a cardboard cup filled with Green Tea.
“You ready for this?” she asked.
I sighed deeply, “As ready as I’ll ever be. By the way, nice outfit.”
My beautiful friend was wearing a gorgeous black jacket, turquoise blouse, and power pantsuit. Her hazel eyes were lightly dusted with eye shadow and liner. Susan cleaned up good! I couldn’t wait to see how my Legally Biracial sister would storm the world of law.
“Thanks,” she said drily.
Normally, I would have fawned over Susan’s outfit and her adorable black lace up heels. But we both knew that there were more important things to think about. The ramifications of this project for my country were astronomical. Socio-economic balance was the theme of my research and recommendations. I needed to convince Mr. Maladon that my solutions to the issues of poverty and unemployment were directly linked to the economic success of his business in Belize. Susan’s urgency and nerves had more to do with her need for a good recommendation, rather than an obsession for justice and social improvement. Despite our differing motivations when 10:30 rolled around Susan and I were prepared to do what we needed to convince Mr. Maladon to open his heart and his pocket book for the welfare of Belize.
The scene that greeted me when I walked into the conference room early reminded me of my nightmare. I sent up another prayer for favor. Except the blurry figures in my dream had grown some faces. Mr. Maladon wasn’t present yet, so Susan and I scrambled to set up our projector and assemble our folders before he arrived. As soon as he walked in the air changed and the buzzing hum of civil conversation dissipated. Everyone stood, minus Susan and I who were already standing. Mr. Maladon’s sharp silver eyes gunned down each individual in a collected surveying swoop, before he decided to come into the room fully and sit at the head of the table at the opposite end of the projector screen. He fingered the information packet that Susan and I had painstakingly put together. Everyone sat.
“Ms. Reyes, I hope you’re ready.” He addressed us.
“Yes sir. I am.” I answered too quickly. Mr. Maladon narrowed his eyes and I regretted the hastiness of my response.
“Well, then begin.” Mr. Maladon commanded with a lofty wave of his hand.
And so we did. Susan laid the foundation of our recommendation with the numbers that we had researched. Then we laid out our recommendations and showed new numbers based on our projected income and computer statistics. This part of the presentation was brief. If Mr. Maladon wanted a more in depth look at the numbers he could read it for himself in the booklet. When Susan concluded, I stepped up to deliver my speech.
Taking a deep breath, I began, “When I was younger, I’d drive with my mom to the grocery store. I would look out the car window and watch all the people that we’d pass. I’d wonder what their stories were. Where had they been? Why were they living in the broken houses with the dirty zinc fences? Why were they still walking to the community water pipe to get bathing and washing water for their children? I’ve been privileged enough to go to school, to get an education, to dream of doing great things. But I am only one person. Imagine what Belize would be if every man, woman, and child got the opportunity to pursue a dream. I’m not crazy enough to think that everyone wants to push toward the sun when they’re stuck in the swamp. I’m making no excuses for those who have been presented with privilege and squandered it.”
I paused, attempting to gauge Mr. Thomas’ reaction to my soap box speech. He looked kind of bored. Growing nervous, I decided to wrap things up.
“My people suffer from lack of knowledge. It was true back then, and it is true today. If any change is going to come in Belize, it will start by the destruction of our ignorance. Your support would be a grenade for this cause. Thank you.”
A hush descended after I finished speaking. I couldn’t decipher if it was a holy hush or a horrified one. Finally, Mr. Thomas shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. A part of me wondered if my nightmare would manifest now and Mr. Thomas would start whispering “failure, failure” like some kind of Reverse High School Musical 2 scene. I was extremely relieved when he didn’t. Instead, he stood, smoothed his tie and said, “You’ve got heart, little girl.”
He then addressed both Susan and I, “Deliver these recommendations to the CFO and get this thing in motion.” With that he walked out of the room. Susan and I shared glances and withheld squeals.
Yes!
I was ecstatic but tried my best to remain the proper, professional woman. As thanksgiving filled me, I realized that there was only one person I wanted to celebrate with. It was a good thing he worked in the building.
“I’m going to go find Spencer,” I mouthed to Susan, who was surrounded by a few congratulatory co-workers.
She gave me a thumbs-up and I slipped out of the room, my heart racing in anticipation and happiness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I spent fifteen minutes trying to get around the towers and find Spencer’s office. He’d mentioned where he worked before, but I hadn’t taken the time to listen. And even if I had, I was a naturally terrible navigator.
Two years ago, I decided to buy one of those fancy GPS things for my car. My parents weren’t too impressed at first. Belize is a small country and normally everyone can get around without the aid of a navigation system. But I knew the part of my brain that dealt with directions was broken. I was handicapped and needed a seeing eye dog or in this case a non-directionally challenged artificial intelligence dog. Because I’m not Donald Trump, I settled for a basic GPS. I installed it in my car and dubbed it the Belize Universal Trajectory Operative Course System or ‘B.U.T.O.C.S.’ for short. I got a kick out of telling friends that my buttocks would get me to their houses.
In any event, a few weeks after the purchase, B.U.T.O.C.S. malfunctioned. He told me to take a left turn, and I blindly followed. The next thing I knew my car rammed up the platform of a bungalow and I narrowly missed running over three Jehovah’s witnesses who were just about to knock on the door of a yellow cement house. I was horrified and apologized profusely as the evangelizers rushed out of the trajectory of my car. The homeowner then came outside with a big grin and thanked me for running them off.
“I’ve been hiding from those people for weeks!” he admitted, “I doubt they’re coming back here any time soon.”
Sad to say, my parents took away my driving privileges for quite a while after that.
Thankfully, I found a third floor information desk operator that was a lot more accurate than my B.U.T.O.C.S. and tons more cooperative than Miss Sunshine. She walked me to the elevator and punched in the correct floor so I wouldn’t have to traverse each one. When I was going up, I realized that I could have just texted Spencer for the directions, but shrugged. It was too late for that now. And I liked having the element of surprise. I stepped off on the floor that the Information Desk Lady had instructed. A bit lost, I sidled up to the receptionist sitting behind a wide round counter in the center of the room. The sign on her desk read “Forward Te
chnologies”. That sounded familiar. Hopefully, I was in the right place.
“Hello,” I greeted politely, recognizing her immediately from my first time in Spencer’s office after I’d been tasered. “I’m looking for Spencer-Mr. Braden.”
“Do you have an appointment,” she asked, though her tone did not change, I got the feeling that this woman did not like me. Not that I cared.
“No,” I admitted, wondering if Spencer was busy or if his boss didn’t allow visitors.
Had I wasted my time in coming here?
Dismissively the blonde haired, blue-eyed bombshell returned to her work, “I’m sorry. Come back when you have an appointment.”
I froze; mouth open in shock at how curt her attitude was.
I had never been in a real fight before. Even sibling squabbles were effectively squashed before they ballooned into more serious violence. But I’d been around Mia long enough to fake my way through. I remembered one time in my third year of high school, Mia got into a fight with a fourth former over a guy. I saw her aim for the girl’s hair and pull so hard, even I winced.
Have I mentioned that my best friend was a lot different before she became a Kingdom citizen?
That fight was a prime example of it. After the teachers broke it up, Mia was suspended from school for three days. She got leniency because she had been defending herself, but her mother was pretty upset and kicked Mia out of the house. She came to live with us for a while. I remember sitting in my bedroom nursing her black eye.
“Why do you fight, Mia?” I asked her. I’d never gotten passionate about anything enough to fight for it before. I wondered what demons drove Mia to be so self-destructing.
“Why do people fight, ah,” she winced as my ministrations hit a sensitive spot.
“Sorry,” I apologized, putting down the ice pack. Slowly I turned around, “Would you teach me?”
“What?” She asked.
“Teach me.” I repeated.
“To fight? Melody, you don’t need to learn how to fight. Everyone loves you.”
I had never understood what drove me to insist on that day. But I did. And Mia complied. She taught me how to aim for the hair. How to use fingernails to bring forth pain. It was a low down dirty way to fight, but simply knowing that I could protect myself if I needed to made the painful lesson worth it.
Today, as I stood before Tiffany, the annoyingly beautiful receptionist, I was recalling each and every one of those moves. Lucky for Tiffany, before I could let my inner Caribbean Creole fighter come out along with my silver hoop earrings, an auburn haired man emerged from an office. He cantered to the secretary desk and unleashed a charming smile on the model with attitude behind the desk. Though the grin was not directed at me, I too was affected by it. He was a truly good looking man. Think Chris Hensworth meets strawberry blonde hair. Gorgeous!
“Tiffany, be a dear and move my business lunch to 2. Spencer’s got a hot date with his mystery girl at 12. Again.”
Tiffany fairly wilted beneath the man’s oozing charisma. Huh, working with two amazingly good-looking men would turn anyone crazy. At that moment, I almost forgave Tiffany’s snootiness. Her blue eyed, silver tongued boss was very charismatic. But my attraction wilted quickly. Hunky, stoic, mystery men were more my vibe, though I quickly matched this man’s personality with Mia’s.
Mr. Charming noticed me and leaned into the desk to check me out.
“Well, hellooo there.” He flirted.
“Hi,” I returned, recognizing him immediately from Peyton’s accounts of his co-worker and best friend. “You must be Peyton.”
He placed a hand to his heart, “have we met before in my dreams?”
Tiffany frowned. I grinned at his harmless flirtation.
“No, but Spencer’s told me a lot about you.”
Peyton straightened; the effervescent charm was still firmly in place, but the flirting pedaled to the back burner.
“My business partner is a consummate liar, believe nothing he says.”
“That’s too bad. He only had the best things to say about you.”
“Then disregard my earlier statement.”
We shared an easy chuckle, and then I backtracked.
“Wait, did you say business partner?”
Tiffany piped in then, “Mr. Braden and Mr. Smith started this company from the ground up.” She said haughtily.
Your name isn’t in that duo so stop frontin, I thought.
I would have said it too, if my mind wasn’t so confused with the news. Spencer didn’t work in the company, he owned it. Before I could decide if I was mad about that, Peyton asked,
“What’s your name?”
“Melody,” I answered distractedly.
“Wait, Melody? You’re Melody Reyes?” Peyton surveyed me with new eyes. His appraisal snapped me back to attention.
Was Peyton surprised because I was black or was it altogether obvious that Spencer was completely out of my league? Peyton crushed those doubts when he exclaimed,
“What did Spencer do to snag a gorgeous woman like you?”
I laughed; this man was so much like my best friend back home.
“He literally ran into me.”
Peyton did the running man. In his suede leather shoes and white button-down shirt, it was quite amusing.
“Duly noted.” He joked.
Remaining quiet through our exchange, Tiffany finally spoke up.
“Mr. Braden’s not in right now. So you can leave.” She commented snarkily, giving me a smile that more resembled a grimace than anything else.
“I’m pretty sure he is,” Peyton argued with her.
“He’s not.” Tiffany said, looking smugger than she should.
Peyton shrugged.
“Well, he should be back soon. Here’s what I’ll do,” he turned to me, “I’ll text him to come in to the office immediately. You go wait in there.” He gestured to a corner office down the hall, “and surprise him. It’ll be real cool.”
Sounded like fun. I nodded, agreeing to the plan.
“Let me text him right now. That guy’s always on his phone,” he enthused, pulling out his Iphone and typing a quick message. Not a minute later, his phone beeped.
“He’s on his way.” Peyton shook his head, “you’re boyfriend’s a work-a-holic. Good luck curing him of that.”
My eyes widened. Did Peyton just call Spencer my boyfriend? Did everyone know this tiny fact except me? By the scowl on Tiffany’s face, I think she would have preferred to be kept out of the loop on that one. She obviously had a crush on her boss.
Been there, done that, I thought.
Life was complicated like that.
“Here let me show you the way.” Peyton offered his elbow. I took it, and couldn’t resist sending a sweet smile of satisfaction over my shoulder toward Tiffany as we strolled.
“Hey,” Peyton spoke, regaining my attention, “I just want you to know that it’s an honor to meet you.” He smiled down at me, “Spencer doesn’t date. Ever.”
I snorted. He looked down quizzically. “Spencer’s not necessarily a lonely bachelor, Peyton. I mean before me…”
“Before you,” Peyton interrupted, “he never smiled so much. He comes to work every day and he talks about this girl with the wild hair and the gorgeous smile and the witty tongue and he can’t stop grinning. It’s ridiculous! The man’s like a sick puppy over you.”
I laughed, refusing to believe that this was true because it was hard to take anything that Peyton said seriously.
“I’m not kidding.” Peyton nudged me with his shoulder, “Before you, Spencer kept himself locked up in this place,” he indicated the nice office, “working like crazy to prove some crazy notion to himself.”
“Peyton,” I interrupted, unable to listen to any more of this best friend’s observations lest I actually believed them.
“No, you need to hear this. I mean it. You’ve changed him, before you Spencer thought love was some kind of twisted game that pe
ople played to take advantage, to manipulate. I don’t know if he’s mentioned this at all, but his dad’s kind of a pain. It’s a wonder Spencer came out the way he did.”
“You’re saying he l-”
He cut me off. “I’m saying that before you, Spencer didn’t take any relationship seriously. I mean,” Peyton added conversationally, “I was really surprised when he mentioned you at all. Of course, as his best friend I tried to look you up. Couldn’t find you anywhere. No Facebook, no Tumblr, no Instagram? Haven’t you heard? It’s 2015.”
I had to smile. This guy definitely needed to meet Mia.
He moved on quickly, “What I’m trying to say is… if you screw with my friend, you’ll answer to me.”
I couldn’t tell if Peyton was seriously threatening me or not, but I got the message.
“I would never willingly hurt him.”
Peyton held my gaze, “I hope that’s true.”
Then the tension was broken when he grinned and prompted, “Do me a favor and try not to make out in here? I’m right next door and the walls are pretty thin.”
I giggled at Peyton’s frankness, “Got it. Hey, before you go, what’s the deal with the receptionist?”
“Who? Tiffany?” Peyton clarified.
I nodded. The kid needed a chill pill in the worst way.
“Ah, the girl is harmless.” Peyton said dismissively, “We all know she’s hot for Spencer, but trust me, even before you Spencer wasn’t into her.”
“Has she… done anything to get his attention in that way,” I asked curiously, hoping that Peyton didn’t hear how much I wanted to know the answer to this question.
He grinned, “If you’re asking me if she’s confessed her undying love to him or offered herself as a willing conquest, then no. She’s too professional for that.” he appeased, “However, I do recall one time-” He trailed off.
“What, what did they do?”
“I knew you were way too into this Tiffany-Spencer thing.” He laughed, “Don’t worry. She wouldn’t mess up her job here. And Spencer isn’t that kind of guy. He has this strange moral code about not abusing his authority as boss of this place.”