Boyfriend Season (12 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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12
PATIENCE
C
ameras were everywhere. Everywhere. Patience stood next to Trill, unsure of what to do next. She didn't know whether to walk to the left or the right, to look up or away. She'd never before seen an awards show other than a religious one, let alone attend a nationally televised one, complete with red carpet, paparazzi, and a superstar for a date.
“You're a stunner, lil momma.” He bent over, wisped her curls from her face and breathed into her ear, “I'm mean you looking so fresh and so clean. Smelling even fresher. You just fresh to death in that yellow, huh? Looking sweet like flowers.”
“Trill! Trill! How does it feel to be nominated for so many awards? Do you think you're going to win them all? We're rooting for you.” A reporter thrust a mic in their faces.
“Yes,” a woman reporter said. “And who's your date, Trill? I don't think we've ever seen you as a duo.”
“What's your name, young lady? How does it feel to be around so much black star power?” another yelled.
Patience looked down at her flowing buttercup gown, then fidgeted with the yellow flower in her hair. She carefully moved her feet, hoping her toes wouldn't slide out the front of the gold open-toe strappy stilettos that she was afraid to walk in. She smiled, then set her gaze on Trill for guidance.
He looked at her and flashed that crooked smile. He licked his lips, and politely answered questions as fast at they were thrown at him; then he rocked her world, stunning her. “This”—he wrapped his arm around Patience and squeezed her a little—“beautiful young lady . . . she's my date—but I'm making her my girl. So get used to seeing her, fellas. She's a keeper. Ya heard!” He winked at them, then her, then laced his fingers through hers and led her into the theater. Inside they were escorted to the second row, where his name was taped to his seat.
In minutes, the place had filled with more celebrities than she'd ever seen. She knew they were famous by their names, the attention they drew, and their entourages. One person in particular caught her eye because her father wore his sweat suits and cologne, and had called him a mogul. The lights went down, and someone came to escort Trill to the back of the stage.
“In a minute, lil momma. I'll be back. Your man's godda perform.” He sent her an air kiss and left.
Patience watched him disappear, and giddiness claimed her. She was so happy and excited it was hard for her to sit still. Trill was wonderful and handsome and nothing like what she'd been taught to believe about the opposite sex. More than that, unlike the Bishop, he was available and was truly interested in her.
Just as she was settling, and had killed the want to turn around and stare at all the other stars in the room, someone thumped into Trill's seat. Patience looked to her right, and almost didn't see her because her coal-black skin nearly disappeared in the dark, but there she was. The mood switcher. Countess.
“Ooh,” she squealed. “This is so exciting. The Bishop's daughter and Trill. The magazines and radio are going to eat it up! I hope you're ready,” Countess cooed, flipping a legal pad on her lap. “Okay. I'm going to need all your stats. Age. Date of birth. Top faves. Peeves. Favorite designer. Last boyfriend—please don't let him be famous.”
Patience inhaled, wondering why the lady was all in her business. It didn't take a street or worldly education for her to know Countess was a piece of work, and would have to be taken in doses. She decided to answer the last question first.
“I've never had a boyfriend.”
“What? What do you mean by
never
?”
She looked at Countess in the dimness of the theater and repeated herself.
“So you're the
V
word?” she asked, almost salivating. “Fantastic. I can come up with a heck of an angle for that. ‘She's saving herself for marriage. Trill's new thrill is real—one-hundred-percent innocent. She's been saving herself for true love.' Isn't that great? True and Real, just like Trill—you know that's what his name means?”
Patience nodded. No, she didn't know, but she did now.
“Countess, call me Patience—not the Bishop's daughter. It's kind of weird and makes me uncomfortable.”
Countess clicked her pen, scribbled on the legal pad, and said, “Got it! Next question.”
Music filled the room, cutting their soon-to-be-one-sided conversation short. Patience had no plans on answering everything Countess asked. She didn't care who she was, Trill hadn't asked her to do it. Besides, Patience thought, Countess's nosiness was unheard of and downright rude.
“Okay. Got to go. Here. You're going to need this. He's been going crazy not being able to talk to you.” She handed Patience a cell phone. Not just any cell phone, but the new one people had waited in line just to buy. It had to be worth at least four hundred dollars.
“You've seen him on TV,” an announcer began. “In Hollywood on the big screen. He's earned more awards than any of us can count. This brother here showed us that even though they call his brother a king, he's also cut from royal cloth. Ladies and gentlemen, we're proud to present—the one, the only, true and real Southern gentleman, Trillllll!”
And he appeared, lifted on a device in a cloud of smoke. From where she sat, he looked heavenly. He was dressed in all white from his slightly baggy jeans, to his T-shirt, to his fresh-out-of-the-box Ones he'd bought while they were in the mall. His jewelry was platinum, except for his bejeweled rosary beads with a huge diamond cross. She knew if her father could see him, he'd freak, and say he was exploiting and mocking what was supposed to be a humble religion.
Bishop's not humble either,
she thought, justifying Trill's indulgence. His hands thrust in the air and spread until he looked like a cross himself, and Patience was in awe. She'd never have believed anyone could have more stage presence than her father, but Trill did. Trill was nothing short of electrifying.
“Wow,” she whispered, in awe of her date. She couldn't understand what he wanted with her. She was just an innocent little church girl who did her best with the skirts her father demanded she wear. Before tonight, she'd never worn makeup, not even for fashion shows, and her hair was bland. She'd wanted it cut in a style, but her parents didn't believe a woman should cut her locks. So she'd always resorted to a plain ponytail.
“Yeah, dats-what-um-talum'bout.” Trill ended one verse and began a next, rapping with country slang and a smooth voice. Patience's eyes stretched in disbelief at his content. He'd always been so polite with her, never saying a tenth of the things he rapped about now. She wondered if he'd done any of the things he was talking about now. Did he have all the ladies? Did he tote guns? He did have a big house, if the house she was at earlier belonged to him, but did he really have many mansions? She tilted her head to the side and wondered what was a doughboy, a trap house, teardrops tatted by someone's eyes? She shrugged, not caring and assuming all his words were just a part of his act. Trill was a good guy and no one could convince her otherwise, not even him or the words that he'd rhymed.
In minutes he was done and sitting back next to her. He smelled like fresh soap, like he hadn't just performed, and was still wearing his whites. “I did okay?”
Patience smiled and nodded. “You were good. Really, really good. I can't believe I've never seen you perform before, but I have heard people singing your song.”
He sat back, kicked out his long legs, and put his arm around her. He leaned in, then whispered in her ear. “I'm gonna have you, Patience. I ain't never wanted for much. My brother”—he nodded toward the stage where another rapper was performing—“made sure of that.”
Now Patience was really in awe. She knew who the guy on stage was—everybody did. “That's your brother?”
Trill nodded. “I thought you didn't listen to music or watch TV. . . .”
She shook her head no. “But I can see. He's been on billboards throughout the city, the newspaper had an article about his teen outreach, and one Sunday while we were watching Gospel Hour, he was on a wrap-it-up commercial. My sister's one of his biggest fans. She was sad when he went on vacation.”
Trill laughed. “Yeah a'ight.
Vacation
—guess that's another term to call the one-year bid he did. He's back though. Back and bigger than ever. You'll meet him later tonight at the private after-party.”
After-party?
Patience didn't know how she was going to pull off going to an after-party, but she'd find a way. She thought of the phone Countess had given her, and knew that was going to be her way out. She had a few calls to make. First, she'd phone Silky, and then her sister, Hope. If she couldn't reach them, she'd find her cousin Meka. Meka Blackman, the proverbial black sheep of the Blackmans, didn't pull rabbits out of hats—she gamed them out and made them think it was their idea. She was a hustler in every sense of the over used word.
 
More music blared, bottles of bubbly were popping, and half-naked women danced on stages and poles, some suspended from the ceiling. Mammoth glass sculptures, carefully placed throughout Club Opera, served as dividers, separating relaxing celebrities from the ones who were dancing on the floor. Patience smiled. She was in a club. A real grown-up place with the boy of her dreams. They sat in a section reserved just for Trill and his brother, who was known to the world by the initials T.O.P., or T. Without trying to look at him too hard, Patience saw the resemblance. Caramel skin, clean haircut, and a baby face.
“So, lil momma, my boy here tells me you a good girl. That right?”
Patience nodded, then shrugged. “I guess.”
Trill put his arm around her. “No need to be shy, lil momma. You amongst family.”
“So . . .” T began, pouring himself and his equally well-known fiancée, Teeny, a drink. “You rap, sing, design? What do you do?”
Patience looked at Trill, blushing. “I just . . . well, study, I guess. But I used to sing in church.”
Eyebrows shot up.
“Really? You didn't tell me that you sing,” Trill said, sounding something other than just surprised.
Teeny flung her long hair. She scooted closer. “They don't like their women to work—”
“Don't say that,” T said to her. “We just like to take care of ours 'cause we're men, and that's what men do. We just don't like our women in the spotlight. It's a grimy business.”
Patience laughed. “I don't want the spotlight. Not at all. That's why I stopped singing in the choir. It made me nervous to lead a song and have all those people watching me.”
Trill perked up, smiling. Relief crossed his face. He looked at his brother, and they both nodded. “I'm happy to hear that, Patience. Really happy.”
“But,” Teeny interjected, “she can sing. Has to be able to blow something serious if she was leading songs. I've been to their church, and they have one heck of a choir. Maybe we can use her in the studio. I write songs, Patience. And if you can write the way I think you can sing, we can be the background dynamic duo. Family's important to us, so we work together as a family.”
Patience sat there taking it all in. If only her real family could see her now.
Oh God.
She remembered she had to call her sister, and the panic must have registered in her eyes because Trill elbowed her.
“You a'ight?”
She hung her head. “I need to call my sister, see if she'll cover for me. And maybe my cousin Meka, because she'll make my sister do it.”
Trill laughed. “Oh . . . I like that. That's kinda raw. Your cousin be strong-arming people. Bet. But it's not necessary. Your sister will cover for you. Believe me. Watch this.” He tapped his brother. “'Ey, T, I need you to do me a favor, bruh. Can you call Patience's sister and tell her to cover for her, then her cousin—the muscle of the family. Patience's parents are real strict, and I don't want her to get in trouble. I want her to stay here with me.”
T nodded, setting his drink down. “I gotcha, shawty. What you need me to say?”
“My sister's your biggest fan, and I'm my cousin's favorite.”
“Say no more. Pass me the phone.”
Patience relaxed next to Trill and leaned her head on his shoulder. He bent down and kissed her forehead, telling her how pretty she was. She couldn't believe her luck, sitting there next to the guy of her dreams and across from his big brother who'd just sealed a deal with her sister to cover for Patience whenever she needed her to, all for the price of an autographed picture and some backstage passes. He'd solidified it all with Meka for the same price, plus a pair of Louboutin shoes.
“The night is ours, lil momma. You know that?”
Patience nodded. She did now.
13
SANTANA
H
er life was awful. Santana sat on the edge of her new bed, looking around her new room that was on the second floor of her new home, which was supposed to be a big deal because, as Gully would say, it “bespoke” her new life. She rolled her eyes and her breath caught in the back of her throat. Her life had turned into a Dr. Seuss book.
New this. New that. Newly invented mother. New Dad
. She could throw up in her own mouth, she was so disgusted.
“I hate it here!” she yelled, kicking her heels against the canopy frame, then grunting in pain. “What teenager has a canopy bed with all the frills and lace? What, do I look ten now that
she
wants to be a mom?” Craig had delivered his promises, punishment and all. But worse, he'd enrolled her in the exclusive Winchester Hills Prep, an all-girl, year-round school.
The phone rang and, instinctively, Santana jumped for it. Then she remembered her cell had been confiscated.
“Honey, you can come down for dinner,” her mother's newly pinched voice and newly acquired vocabulary that she'd adopted after the move blared through the intercom. Santana assumed her mom had probably purchased her newness along with the pleated draperies that lined the floor-to-ceiling windows and the “smart” Volvo SUV she had parked in the four-car garage.
“All right, Weezie!” Santana yelled, purposely not pressing the TALK button on the intercom so her mother wouldn't hear her. Since the move, she'd nicknamed her mother and Craig, George and Weezie because she felt as if they'd moved on up, but in reality, only her mom had. She'd finally struck gold, and Craig was her jackpot.
“I godda get out of here.” She pushed herself up, then off the high bed, and thumped down on the chilly floor. Again, she rolled her eyes. Central air was another newness she couldn't stand. Who'd want floors that feel like ice?
Craig
.
The carpeted hallway felt good to her feet as she made her way toward the massive staircase, then shuffled down the steps. Her nostrils flared, sniffing the air, trying to figure out what her mom had cooked. All she could detect was tomato sauce, so she knew they'd ordered out for pizza.
“Good evening, Santana,” Craig greeted her, walking into the house, setting his keys on a table in the foyer, which he'd stressed was pronounced foy-ay, and putting his briefcase down.
Another new this
. “S'up, Craig?” She smiled, anticipating his finding out whom her mother really was. Her mom wasn't a cook. It wasn't that she couldn't; she just didn't. Pizza. Chinese. Soul food from the Rib Shack. Rotisserie chickens from Publix—those “bespoke” her mother's culinary highlights, and Santana knew sooner than later, Craig would learn that his Weezie would need a Florence the housekeeper and cook to be everything he needed in a girlfriend.
Craig smiled back at her. “I'm glad to see you're finally in a good mood. I was worried that you wouldn't come around,” he said, then did something that made her cringe. He put his arm around her, pulled her to his side, then kissed her on top of her head. “I understand, though. I was young once.”
Santana froze. It wasn't that he'd violated her by being overly friendly like the predators that made the evening news. The problem was . . . there was no problem. He'd treated her like she was his own child, and she'd never had a physical father in her life.
Ill
. Now she knew she'd throw up in her mouth.
Her mother zipped out into the adjoining hall, waving a dish towel in one hand, beckoning Craig to come closer. As soon as he was in her mother's reach, her mom stood on tiptoe and embraced—not hugged—him. Her thin arms barely stretched around his football-player build, while she pecked him on the lips, then kissed him on both cheeks.
Sick
. Santana's eyes bulged. The whole scene looked like a made-for-TV-movie with an extra twist she hadn't expected. On her mother's other hand was an oven mitt. Now she knew someone had dropped her off in Lala Land of the Make Believes.
“Come. Come,” her mother waved after releasing Craig. “I made some ziti, and I can't wait for you guys to taste it. It's simply delish.”
You guys? Delish? This has to be someone else who just looks like my mother,
Santana thought.
Definitely Weezie
.
“Oh no, honey. It's just me and you tonight,” Craig announced, shocking both Santana and the woman who was parading around in her mother's body. Both of their eyebrows shot to the ceiling, and Craig smiled. “Santana's going to do some work for me with Gulliver. He's outside waiting.”
“Work?” both sang in unison.
“Sure. She's going to help him build the databases, and we'll all benefit from it—especially Santana. It'll give her a head start on her computer classes at the school . . . and”—he shrugged—“if all goes well, I may just put her on payroll.” He winked at Santana, then turned to her mother. “She's a smart girl, honey. We just have to trust her.”
Santana hiked up her low-rise jeans over her butt, then smiled. Yes, they'd just have to trust her, all right. Trust that as soon as she hit the front door she was headed for her old hood so she could find Pharaoh and see when Meka was due to be released from juvy. She felt bad then. Here she was hating all the newness and luxury she'd been surrounded in for a couple of weeks, and her best friend was sitting in a cold juvenile detention cell somewhere for shoplifting. If Meka were there, Santana knew she'd tell her to ride her wave of luck until the tires fell off.
“So?” Santana sang to her mom, pouting her lips and lowering her eyes. She tried to woo her mother with a baby face, hoping it'd make her agree with Craig.
Her mother put her hand on her right hip, poked out her lips too, then looked from Craig to Santana, then back to him again. “All right . . . I guess. But you better help Gulliver
and
listen to him. He's a good young man who's going to go very far. He's the one you need to follow behind, not—”
The front door closed behind Santana before her mother could finish. It was as if she'd grown wheels on the bottoms of her feet, she'd skated out of there so fast. The freshly cut grass crunched under the weight of her soles as she made her way to Gulliver, who was standing next to his car.
“Oh!” She snapped her fingers, then made a U-turn. She'd been in such a rush, she'd forgotten she was barefoot.
“I thought you'd need these,” Craig said, meeting her in the doorway with a pair of Js.
Santana snatched the sneakers from him with a quick “thanks,” then zoomed back to Gulliver's car. She jumped inside, slammed the door shut, then rushed him. “Hurry up before they realize what they've done!”
“Afternoon, Santana. You look great today. Well . . . every day. So where to?”
Santana stared at him as if he had an eye in the middle of his forehead.
“Home.”
The vibration of bass met her as soon as they parked on the block. A song by the hottest two Atlanta rappers, Trill and his brother T, banged, making everyone bob their heads to their funky, infectious lyrics. Santana looked to her left. Even Gully was nodding to the music. She hopped out of the car, looking up and down the street. She was looking for Pharaoh's Charger, but didn't see it anywhere.
“Gully, hand me your cell. I need to call Pharaoh, and I haven't gotten my phone back yet—it's still on punishment, I guess.”
Gully grabbed his cell from its holster on his khaki Bermuda shorts, eased out of the driver's side like an old man, and handed it to her. Santana laughed. Gully did everything slow. “Here. You can speed-dial him if you like. He's listed under
H
.”
“H? Why
H
, when his name begins with
P
?”
“Um. Um. Hustler?” His admittance came out more like a question than a statement. He shrugged. “Well, it's true. That's what he is, and that's what he wants to be known as.”
“Are you hating on my man, Gully? Or just looking down on him? He ain't no . . . well, he can be more than that. He's Pharaoh, he can do anything.”
Gully nodded, then shook his head no. “No. He said he's not going to do or be anything else. And he put his number in my contacts under
H
—for hustler—not me.”
Her heart sank a little. She knew Gully was right and wasn't lying. Hustling was Pharaoh's way, his bragging point that he loved to talk about and show off. It was one of the things that made her fall for him. Scrolling through Gully's contacts, she called Pharaoh but didn't get an answer. She dialed again.
“'Ey, Gully, what's poppin?” Pharaoh's smoky voice was music to her ears.
“ 'Ey baby, it's me.”
“Me who? Who dis?” His tone and words were distant, lost like he really didn't know who she was. Had he forgotten her already? It'd only been weeks—well, one week because she'd snuck and called him from home just the other day.
“What do you mean who? How many people call you ‘baby,' Pharaoh? It's Santana. Don't make me flip out here on this block.”
Pharaoh laughed from the other end. “I know who dis is. I was just playing. Where ya at, and why you on Gully's phone?”
A voice met Santana's ears from Pharaoh's end, and she pressed Gully's cell to her ear as hard as she could trying to make out who it belonged to, but someone, probably Pharaoh, was obviously covering it. She could tell by the muffle and the shuffling sound.
“Who's that, Pharaoh? I know I hear someone else.”
“Hold tight. I'll be there to scoop you in ten minutes. Ten. And I told you don't be asking me 'bout my bidness—some stuff you don't need to know. Ya heard?” He clicked off, but not before Santana realized the other voice belonged to a girl.
 
Santana wiggled in her seat and averted her eyes from Gully's stare. They'd waited ten minutes for Pharaoh just as he'd asked, but he hadn't shown. In fact, she huffed, he hadn't made an appearance, answered when she'd called him over and over again, or returned a call. Somehow the six-hundred seconds she'd been asked to wait had turned into almost two hours. A car zoomed down the block, and Santana almost broke her neck trying to see if it was Pharaoh's, but it wasn't. Just like all the others she'd hoped were his.
“Are you okay, Santana?” Gully asked, still sitting in the driver's seat. She couldn't believe for the life of her why he'd waited with her outside when his grandmother's house was steps away.
“Yes,” she lied. “But let's just go. I don't wait on dudes. I'm much too fly for that. He must've forgotten who I am. Let's roll, Gully. Take me somewhere. Anywhere but home.”
 
The campus was a huge stretch of sidewalks and buildings. A sea of college guys dressed in purple and gold and carrying
Q
paraphernalia demanded her attention. Then she saw the guys in red who held and twirled canes. There were also some men in blue, but she couldn't see them too well because they were too far away.
Wow
. She turned to her right, saw girls who were a bit older than her, and wondered who they were. Some had on red. Others wore pink and green, and made a unison call, letting people know who they were. Sisters in blue smiled at her, causing her to smile back—something she rarely did. Exchanging friendly gestures just wasn't something you did with strangers where she was from, especially people who got their Bobbsey twin on and dressed alike. That was frowned upon in the hood.
“You've been here before, right?” Gulliver asked, walking next to her like an old friend. “I thought you'd like to see the step show. It may help lift your spirits after . . .”
Santana nodded, but she hadn't been on a college campus before. She didn't know why she had such a hard time being honest with Gully about simple things like her once-dysfunctional family. She shrugged her shoulders. She could fool everyone else, but not herself. The truth was, she knew Gully was smart and college bound, and that made her feel a little less-than, something she wasn't used to. She was Santana Jackson, the flyest girl in her old neighborhood, so she couldn't feel inferior. She just couldn't.
“This is great,” she admitted, when they walked up on the crowd, and watched the show begin. There was a feeling of welcome, excellence, and greatness in the air, and Santana knew it was contagious because it made her wonder for the first time what college would be like.
Then reality began to crash around her. She wasn't built for this—she was barely a C student, and hated school. She'd always been too fly and too good to just sit in a classroom and pay attention—not when she could hang with Pharaoh, boost with Meka, and dress better than her wannabes. She watched the rest of the step show in silence, and felt her ego deflate a little more with each stepper. They were smarter than her, some prettier, and most of the guys didn't look twice at her. Santana looked down at her half shirt, too tight and too little, low-rise jeans that showed her thong, then to her high-heeled Js that she'd thought were too hot to handle, then compared herself to the college girls who were fully dressed. Their beauty must've been on the inside, she guessed. Smart didn't come off a clothes rack.

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