by A. J. Byrd
This is true. “You’re right. I was just grumpy this morning.”
“You’re grumpy every morning.” Anje laughs.
“True,” I admit, laughing along with her. Though I’m happy me and my girls are making up, I still have this one problem. I genuinely like Romeo. A lot.
I just don’t know how to show it.
It doesn’t matter. I’d ruined any chance with him by treating him like he was something stuck on the bottom of my shoe. In my defense, that’s how I’ve always treated boys. If I like them, I punch them. It’s weird, I know. It used to work back in elementary school. The rules changed when I wasn’t looking.
“Maybe we should make a new BFF rule,” I suggest.
“What new rule?”
“Well, how about if there’s a boy that all three of us likes then none of us can date him?”
They hesitate.
“Think about what just happened with us this morning. We were about to break up a fourteen-year friendship because we wanted one boy for ourselves. What if it happens again?”
“She has a point,” Kierra says, turning to Anje. “Besides, there are plenty of cute boys to go around.”
Anje nods. “All right, it’s officially a new BFF rule, which means none of us will ever date Romeo Blackwell.”
I hold out my hand and watch theirs fall on top of mine as we shout, “Deal!”
chapter 16
Leon Jamison—Single Father Blues
No matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to crawl out of bed. I’ve been working for forty-one straight days, trying to pocket as much dough as I can in these hard economic times, but I just can’t do it this morning. Every inch of my body aches, and my mind is more than a little hazy from the six-pack I polished off last night before passing out on this cheap-ass couch. I groan and manage to sit up. Even though I’m fairly certain I’m in my own house, it takes me a moment to recognize the place.
For a few long minutes, I just sit there scratching the side of my ass and try to think. Since I’m obviously taking the day off, I try to think about what I want to do. I glance around the living room and frown at the trash piled around the place. Jesus, doesn’t Tyler ever clean up around here?
Tyler. Humph. Maybe I should do something with her today. Lord knows I can’t remember the last time we actually spent time together. Hell, who am I kidding? Tyler is a teenager now, and it’s not exactly cool to spend the day with your old man.
Old man. Time is cruel.
Somehow I propel onto my feet, though I do teeter a bit, and then shuffle my way from the small, cramped living room and down the hall to knock on Tyler’s bedroom door.
I start to twist the knob but then remember the big blow up a few weeks ago about me not respecting her privacy. Despite my paying the bills, Tyler is growing up and filling out—a father’s worst nightmare. I guess she has a point about me just walking into her room unannounced. So I knock and wait.
After a minute, I try again.
No answer.
“Tyler, sweetie, are you up?”
No answer.
I draw a deep breath and decide to brave the possibility of a pillow being hurled in my direction for breaking the privacy rule. Instead I’m surprised to see Tyler’s bed empty. I frown and glance at my watch. Is it later than I thought?
Turns out, it is.
Great. I’m not about to win father of the year any time soon.
I stumble to my own room and kick my way through piles of dirty clothes to finally make my way to the bathroom and consequently to the shower. I turn on the hot water to full blast. The almost scorching sensation is the only way I can truly wake up—or rather sober up, nowadays. Plus, there’s something about the pain I enjoy.
Maybe it’s a form of self-punishment. Lord knows I deserve it for screwing up my marriage, my kid, my life. Despite knowing all this, I keep doing it.
Some father I am, huh?
I’ve been trying to convince myself that Tyler’s anger is just temporary—something that, in time, she’ll just get over. But I’m not too sure anymore. Her behavior has gone from bad to worse.
I sigh and scrub my skin raw. When I finally climb out the shower, I’m relatively refreshed but still feeling knee-deep in shame for falling off the wagon last night. One hundred eighty days sober shot to hell. No doubt Tyler saw all the beer bottles and me passed out this morning.
I gotta make it up to her.
I toss on some clean clothes and then head out to see if I can find Tyler. Maybe we can just grab some lunch somewhere. Even though a rejection is a high possibility, I still want to spend some time with my baby girl. Despite the fact that she looks so much like her mother, so much like the face of the woman who broke my heart.
I walk out of the brownstone building to see children playing in the streets, darting between cars while teenagers hang out at the half basketball court. I walk around, but I don’t see Tyler anywhere. After covering the whole complex and even the local convenience store, I head back toward the apartment to make sure I haven’t missed a note lying around somewhere. That’s our rule. One Tyler frequently forgets.
As I near our building, a black Celica whips into the lot, and I’m barely able to get out of the way before being road kill. I land flat on my ass and hear a few snickers from a few kids hanging out nearby.
“Oh, I’m sooo sorry.” A car door slams, and I hear a pair of heels clack against the parking lot’s pavement.
I look up and instantly recognize my neighbor, Deborah, sprinting toward me. Being a man, the first thing I notice is her long, curvy legs, her small, tight waist and, good Lord, her wonderful, trance-inducing large breasts.
“Are you all right?” she asks, hovering above me.
My gaze finally makes its way up to Deborah’s small, heart-shaped face and her soulful coffee-colored eyes. My smile is instant. “Yeah. I think I’ll survive.” I finally peel myself off the concrete and even laugh at the situation.
“Oh, shit. You’re bleeding.” She grabs my arm.
I frown and glance down at my scraped up arm. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll live.”
“C’mon. We better clean that up,” she says, ignoring my protest.
Before I know it, she turns and pulls me along.
“What were you doing just walking in the middle of the street?” she chastises me. “Do you think you have a bumper on your ass or something?”
“I was just—”
“Oh, never mind. Come on.” She continues to pull me along. She sure is bossy.
I’m puzzled how she started off by apologizing to me making me feel like I owe her the apology.
“McKenya, did you get that bag out the backseat?” She hollers out toward her nine-year-old sister who’s climbing out the car. It reminded me that Tyler could be with Deborah’s other sister, Kierra.
“Hey, Deb. Have you seen Tyler today?” Deborah suddenly nearly trips, and I catch her before she takes a hard tumble.
Instead of being thanked, she spats, “Goddamn these shoes.”
Again I glance down to her high black shoes, and I have to admit it’s a miracle the woman can walk in things that look more like stilts. Either way, she’s like a flurry of activity as she manages to grab her purse and bag from the car and usher me and her little sister toward the apartment building all the while mumbling about there not being enough time in the day to get everything done.
Once we enter into their apartment, I’m struck by the differences in our places. Their apartment is immaculate and smells like cinnamon and apples.
“McKenya, go into the bathroom and get me the alcohol and Band-Aids,” Deborah instructs.
Little McKenya doesn’t appear too happy but drops her plastic bag onto the table and marches off down the hall.
“With a little less attitude,” Deborah snaps.
The tension between the sisters suddenly is tense, and I feel like I’m in the way.
Deborah shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I sw
ear these girls are going to be the death of me.” She exhales and seems to remember me standing next to her. “I’m sure you know what I mean. I hear Tyler is a handful, too.”
The dig irritates me, and I finally manage to remove my arms from her firm grasp.
“Tyler and I get along just fine.”
Her laugh is instant, and her disbelieving eyes lock on to mine. “Is that why you don’t know where she is?”
Just who in the hell does this chick think she is? My silence is telling and she laughs again.
“You’re no better at this single parenting than I am,” she says.
McKenya stomps back into the living room, clinging to a doll. She plops down on the sofa and grabs the remote control.
“Where’s the alcohol and Band-Aids I asked you to get?” Deborah asks.
McKenya looks up like she has no idea what her sister is talking about.
“Damn it,” Deborah grumbles. “I’ll get it myself.”
“You know it’s not necessary,” I say, feeling like I’m seriously in the middle of World War III. “I’m sure I have something to take care of this at home.”
“Stay right there,” Deborah orders me and for some damn reason, I do exactly as I’m told.
Awkwardly, I glance over at the couch only to have McKenya roll her eyes and then turn up the volume on the television. Nice kid.
“Turn that down,” Deborah shouts, returning to the living room.
I blink in surprise because in the few minutes that she has been gone, she’s changed into a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt. Now I can see her bare feet with toes painted a vibrant red. I like this version of her better. She appears softer and approachable.
Something flutters in my gut. A feeling I hadn’t experienced since my wife walked out on me. I shift uncomfortably on my feet.
“Okay. Give me your arm.” She snatches it before I can comply, and I can’t help but laugh. “Be gentle with me now. I’m fragile.”
A smile refuses to crack her lips as she dabs a cotton ball soaked with alcohol onto my arm. I should’ve been expecting it, but the sudden burn takes me by surprise and I jump and suck in a startled breath.
“Wow. You are a big baby,” she says, shaking her head. “Should I kiss the boo-boo as well?”
“No, thank you. Something tells me that your kisses will sting about as much as that alcohol does.”
Finally. A smile.
The transformation is stunning.
“You should smile more,” I say.
“I will when I have more to smile about.” She removes two Band-Aids from the small tin can. “I work nights fifty hours a week where men paw at me and promise me the world while stuffing money in what little clothes I have on. Only for that money not being enough to stretch in this economy.”
There’s a beat of silence while she slaps on the Band-Aids. Everyone at Oak Hill knows Deborah is a stripper, and for a moment I feel ashamed of how I ogled her legs out in the parking lot. But I’m suddenly aware that I want her to like me.
“Well, I could never promise a woman the world. The most I can afford is a pizza.”
Her gaze shoots up. I feel my breath stall in my chest while I wait for the inevitable rejection, but to my surprise those coffee-colored eyes warm. She opens her mouth to respond, but the front door explodes behind me and Kierra and Tyler rush inside.
“I swear I can’t stand those bitches!”
I turn and see those foul words are rushing out of my daughter’s mouth.
Tyler jumps. “Dad?” She glances from Deborah to me. “What are you doing here?”
McKenya finally finds her voice. “Deb almost ran him down outside, and now he’s trying to ask her out on a date.”
My face turns red.
“Shut up, McKenya,” Deb snaps.
Before I can say anything, Tyler rolls her eyes, pivots and marches out the door.
Just great. I can’t win for losing.
BFF Rule #3
Never keep secrets.
chapter 17
Kierra—Rah, Rah, Rah
I don’t know a thing about cheerleading. It just seemed like a good idea at the time until I walked into the gym and peeped out the competition. Girls are bending and stretching in positions that should qualify them for the Olympics rather than a spot on the freshman cheerleading team.
Back out in the hallway, Anje whispers. “Don’t worry. You can do this.” She also flashes me a much welcomed smile. The beef over Romeo had been squashed after having to spend Saturday with the much hated Red Bones.
A nightmare.
Of course the BFFs have lost so many cool points for having crossed Phoenix and them. Every time I turn around it seems like one of the many mindless Red Bone followers are going out of their way to either poke fun or spread lies about us. We have no choice but to stick together.
“Kierra! Anjenai! Tyler!”
I look up in time to see Nicole, still our number one fan, racing toward us.
“Are you two here to try out, too?” she asks, coming to a stop next to us.
“I am,” I tell her. “Anje and Tyler are just here for support.”
“I’ll be a part of your support system, too, if you’ll be mine,” she says.
“You are trying out?” At her hurt expression, I realize how that sounded and try to backpedal. “I didn’t mean because you’re big or anything.” Okay, that was much worse. “I just meant…oh wow. You, too.” That was a lousy cover, and I’ll be surprised if she buys it.
“I think it’s great,” Anje says. “Of course we’ll be your support system. Isn’t that right, Tyler?”
“Sure. Why not?” Tyler says though she looks like she would rather be anywhere but here right now. “Rah. Rah. Rah.”
“But this means you have to come to our basketball tryouts,” Anjenai tells Nicole.
“Absolutely. Well, I tried out for cheerleading last spring. The instructor said I did really well but thought I should lose at least fifteen pounds. I lost ten. Maybe she won’t notice.”
“Oh. Good for you,” I say.
A few minutes later, the next group of twenty girls is called in (meaning me and Nicole). I take a deep breath and then march in a single-file line into the gym. My nervousness borders on having a mild heart attack when I see the cheerleading coach along with three varsity cheerleaders lined up at the table. Off to the side, another group of cheerleaders are practicing some moves and on the bleachers are more idle cheerleaders. Down in front is none other than the Red Bones.
“Just great,” I mumble under my breath. I look back at the gym’s door and try to transmit to my girls that I’ve changed my mind, but instead I get a thumbs-up from both Anje and Tyler.
When I look back toward the bleachers, I see Phoenix and her girls busy buzzing in each others’ ears and then start buzzing to the other girls. Tears sting the back of my eyes, and the coach takes her spot in front of the group.
“Okay, ladies, I’m Coach Kennedy, and I’m the head coach for the freshman, junior varsity and varsity cheerleading squads. Let me take a few minutes to just go over a few points about the eligibility requirements to become a Jackson Eagle cheerleader. We expect our girls not only to be good students but academic leaders…”
Oh, Lord. I hope that doesn’t mean I have to have straight A’s to be on the squad.
“You must have and maintain a 2.5 cumulative grade-point average to be on the team.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “If you fail a course you will be placed on a six-week suspension from cheering. Two failing grades will result in removal from the squad.” She lowered the piece of paper she was reading from. “Alexis and Felicia?”
A tall, perky chocolate girl and her polar opposite, a short, stocky blonde, jumps up from behind the table.
“Okay. Alexis and Felicia are going to demonstrate the routine you’ll be doing. They’ll go over it a couple of times, and then you’ll get to practice with the junior varsity team.” She indicated the girl
s on the bleachers. “After that you’ll run through the routine for me to judge and score you. Any questions?”
I have one: can I run out of here screaming without anyone noticing?
“All right. Let’s get started.” The coach nods to a girl by an old-fashioned boom box to hit Play. Immediately, Chris Brown booms from the speakers. As the girls get crunk, I watch their every move as though my very life depends on it.
When I’m finally able to calm my heart rate, I see that the moves are actually pretty simple. Nothing like the suggestive dance routines my sister practices from time to time at home. Slowly I can feel my confidence build as I watch the routine a second time.
I can do this, I realize while already working my hips. When the music stops, the junior varsity squad spills down from the bleachers.
Phoenix Wilder heads straight toward me.
“Great,” I mumble as my stomach twists into knots once again. I take a deep breath and count to ten, but it doesn’t work.
“Well, look who wants to be a cheerleader,” she taunts, walking around me. “Had I known you were thinking about trying out, I would have told you not to waste your time,” she sneers and flips her honey-blond hair over her shoulder.
“I don’t see why you even care,” I hiss. “It’s not like we’re going to be on the same squad.”
“But you’ll be on my turf,” she sneers.
The music cues, cutting her little speech short. To show that she’s a professional, she launches into the routine, making each move look graceful and natural.
I can do that, I coach myself.
At least, I hope.
My heart starts pounding, and I immediately start off on the wrong foot.
Phoenix laughs. “Just give up, and save us all some time.”
I glare at her with a silent warning to back off.
“Start on your right foot,” she orders. “You do know your left from your right, don’t you?”
I close my eyes and feel my burning tears, but by sheer willpower I keep them from falling and making an ass out of me.