Boyfriend Season (9 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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“We'll be there, too,” Meka said. “You know Santana's boo is throwing it.”
8
SANTANA
S
antana's jaw hung to the floor. She stood in her bedroom doorway, or what she'd thought was her doorway—what used to be hers—and bit her tongue. She wanted to scream, curse, or slap someone, but she couldn't. She shook her head. Every single thing that had belonged to her was missing. Bed. Flat-screen TV. Dresser. Wardrobe large enough for two teenagers. Even the pretty, girly-pink paint that had once colored her walls—all gone. “What in the heh—”
“You betta not cuss in my house,” her mother said, walking around her into the room. She carried something large, black, and flat with a cord dangling.
“Mom—”
“Shhp.” Her mother hushed her. “What I tell you about that? We're only fifteen years apart.” She set down the computer monitor on an oversized desk that Santana had never seen. It still had bubble wrap on it, a telltale sign of it being new and just delivered. Fixing her hair, her mother stepped in front of the mirrored closet door and admired her youthful beauty. “Please. We look like sisters, so I can't be Mom, Momma, Mother, any M word. Do I look like one?”
Santana shook her head more in disgust than in answer. “What happened to my stuff? Where's my bedroom? Where am I supposed to sleep?” Her hands were on her hips and her upper lip was curled in a snarl. She knew she was being disrespectful, but her mother wanted to be treated like a sister, so Santana always did just that. She saved her respect for her grandmother.
“First, let's be clear.” She turned to Santana, her scowl matching that on the face of the younger version of her. “Your room, sister girl, is where I say it is. You don't pay rent so you don't get to choose. This here room now belongs to Craig. It's his office—my surprise to him. You think he'll like it?” A smile crept on her face.
Santana couldn't believe her mother. Here she had taken her room away, and was acting like it was no big deal. And it wasn't. Not to her mother, anyway. She'd always chosen men over Santana. “Why does he get my room?”
“Craig gets your room because
he
pays rent.” She busied herself, positioning the monitor, desk, and massive office chair. “Your new sleeping quarters is in the back.”
Santana thought for a second. They had two and a half bedrooms in the apartment. The half was a tiny out-of-the-way room, only large enough for a desk or a chair and TV. It had to be the size of a large walk-in closet or oversized bathroom. “You mean the storage room?” She shook her head, walking away in disbelief. She didn't want an answer or expect one.
This must be what Gully meant by rhetorical
. “Whatever,” she mumbled, grabbing her keys from the table and leaving. Her phone chirped before she made it down the apartment building steps. A text from Meka.
YO MANS HAVIN A BBQ @ THE PARK. BE READY IN 5M!
“So your Moms just moved old boy in two weeks ago, and now he has your room?” Pharaoh asked with a chip-tooth smile. He shook his head. “I need to meet him. Sounds like we cut from the same cloth, 'cause he definitely a G.”
Santana playfully punched his shoulder, and he leaned back against the car. She looked around at the crowd of people. It seemed like everyone had come out to the picnic, and she knew it was because of Pharaoh's name and reputation of paying for everything. It didn't matter that the whole neighborhood and a few strays showed up, he'd footed the bill and announced all ribs and drinks were on him. “And she bought all the furniture in the office—even the computer. And I've been asking for one—scratch that, I've been
needing
one forever. . . .”
Pharaoh just nodded again. “Don't worry about it. Wit yo mom's reputation, old boy will be out soon. You know that. She won't keep him long.”
“I dunno.” Santana shrugged. “It seems like he pays how he weighs, and he's a big man.”
“So that means he really forking over dat cash.” Pharaoh whistled. “I don't know then, shawty. Homeboy might be there to stay. We'll see. I'll put word out on the skreets, see what he really made of. He a skreet player or a pimp?”
She hunched her shoulders again. “He's not from the streets. I can tell. And he comes home every night. But you know my mom only keeps men with money, so you never know.”
“He ain't neither one then. Guess you gone havta ride it out.” Pharaoh pulled Santana close, then looked away into the crowd.
“Unless . . . I can always come stay with you.”
Commotion broke out behind them, and Pharaoh released her from his embrace. Santana turned her head, following his stare. A group of guys were brawling over what looked like a dice game.
Pharaoh stood up, hocked spit, and cursed. “Man, you can't take these fools nowhere. I swear. I'll be back, shawty. Let me go iron out some of these creases—I godda straighten these fools out.”
“Well . . .” she shouted to his back, needing an answer. “You think it's a good idea? Me coming to your house?”
Pharaoh straightened his fitted baseball cap, and slightly shook his head. “We'll talk 'bout it. I gotcha, though. But next week we goin' to the cabins for four days. You comin wit me,” he said over his shoulder. It wasn't a question.
Santana leaned against the car and felt the defeat sinking in. She could tell his answer was no even if he hadn't said it. It was cool though, that's what she told herself. She wasn't one to break. She was much too fly for that. Plus, now she had the getaway to look forward to.
“Meka!” she yelled toward the crowd, spotting her best friend. “Up here.”
“Good afternoon, Santana. It's nice seeing you here,” Gully's unmistakable voice greeted from behind.
She turned her head and smiled for the first time that day. Gulliver stood behind her with his hands in his checkered golfing-short pockets, and his color-coordinated shirt had a Harvard University emblem embroidered on the chest. He sported leather loafers and no socks. “Hi, Gully. I didn't know you'd be here. Didn't expect you to . . . not with all this mess,” she remarked, nodding toward the fight that Pharaoh was breaking up.
“Because of that?” He pointed. “Oh, I'm used to that. I've been around these people my whole life. They're my friends.”
Santana leaned against the car, and looked at him in amazement. “Them?
Please
. You way too nice, and—don't take this the wrong way—square, for all this.”
Gulliver laughed, long, hard, and genuine. “Don't judge a book.... I'm from the same neighborhood, Santana. I was just afforded the opportunity to do things they weren't.”
Santana rolled her eyes. “Like what?”
“Private school, summer camps, chess club.” He shrugged. “I came from a two-parent household—two parents who worked and were educated before they passed. Then my grandmother raised me, and kept me accustomed to the same lifestyle—well, except for the neighborhood, of course. But that's because she's owned her house since the neighborhood was safe and beautiful.” Santana looked at him as if she understood. “Enough of my talk. It's hot out here. Would you like for me to get you a bottled water? Of course you need one. Me too,” he said, answering for her and walking toward the lively picnic.
Something heavy hit the back of her head. Instinctively, her hand went to her skull. “Ow.” She brought her palm to her face, and bright red blood met her eyes. “What the . . . ?” She turned around and saw Nae and her friends walking her way. Nae had rocks in her hands, and was throwing them at Santana.
“Oh, act bad now!” Nae dared, throwing another one.
Santana didn't answer or hesitate. She dropped her purse, turned up her anger, and ran as fast as she could toward Nae and her flunkies. In seconds, she'd given Nae a speed knot in the middle of her forehead and slammed her on the concrete drive. It never crossed her mind that she could be jumped by the girls who were supposed to be Nae's friends, but had turned out to be spectators—except for one who thought she was a field-goal kicker, and was practicing on Santana's side. Santana held her breath, bracing against the blows the girl was footing into her ribs, and continued to pummel Nae like she was tenderizing a steak.
“Un-un,” she heard Meka yell, followed by a heavy thump.
Side by side, Santana and Meka were finishing off their opponents. Santana raised her fist, aiming for Nae's eye, but she missed. A pair of strong hands under her arms lifted her body off the ground and tossed her into someone's hold.
“Get off me!” Santana spat, kicking her feet, trying to get back to the whipping she was putting on Nae. “That scallywag hit me in the back of the head with a rock.”
Meka got up off the girl on the ground, leaving her balled up in fetal position, crying like a baby. “Yeah, and this . . . this—whatever, jumped in.”
Pharaoh stood between Santana and Nae. A calm rage covered his face.
“Get,” Santana hissed, wiggling. “Off. Me!”
“Okay, Santana,” Gulliver said, releasing her. “I was only trying to—”
“Nae!” Pharaoh boomed, quieting the thickening crowd who'd gathered. “What I tell you, shawty?” He reached into his pocket, took out his keys, and tossed them to Gully. He turned back to Nae. “Didn't I tell you,” he said through gritted teeth, “that I was gone slap yo daddy?” He turned to Santana. “Gully's gone take you home, shawty, and I'm gonna come scoop you later. Gully fill her in on the rest.”
“But Pharaoh . . .” Santana began.
He looked at her and shook his head. “Yo, I need somebody to give me a ride, and somebody else to give Nae a ride and follow behind me. I want her to be there so she can see me slap her daddy.”
Santana rode for miles in silence. She had no words, she was much too angry to speak. She didn't know how or why it all happened, and couldn't figure out why Nae and her flunkies felt welcome enough to attend Pharaoh's picnic. Gulliver cruised along at his usual thirty-five miles per hour, acting as if nothing had happened. Santana looked at him from the corner of her eye, and wondered when he became her official chauffer.
“Guess you think I was wrong?” she said, watching as he turned the corner and cruised up her block.
He shook his head. “I'm not here to judge you, Santana. But you are too pretty and smart to be fighting. But if she hit you in the head with a rock . . . the Constitution says we have a right.” He pulled in front of her apartment building, and put the car in park. He unfastened his seat belt, then got out of the car and walked to her door and opened it, extending his hand to her. “One sec,” he said, pressing the car remote, popping the trunk, and half jogging to it. “Here,” he called for her.
Santana met him behind the car with her brows raised.
He handed her a heavy shopping bag. “What's this?”
Gulliver took the bag from her. “I'll take this for you. It's too heavy.” He patted the bag. “It's your computer—the gift from Pharaoh.”
“Really!” Santana squealed and smiled again for the second time that day.
“ 'Ey you!” her mother's voice called from the balcony. “'Ey you! Cute, nerdy-looking boy. Come up here and do me a favor.”
“Sorry. That's my mother—she won't tell you that though. She's going to pretend to be my sister.”
The front door opened before they reached the apartment, and her mother stuck her head out. “Santana, close your eyes, honey. Craig and I have a surprise for you.”
Honey? Craig and I? When did she start talking like that? Oh my gawd, I can only imagine what it is.
Santana looked over her shoulder at Gulliver, and thought it best that she play along. She didn't want him to know how dysfunctional her family life was, not after he'd shared his stable two-parent-household story. She had no idea why she cared what he thought of her, but she did. Playing into her mother's game, she shut her lids and allowed her mother to guide her through the house.
“Surprise!” her mother yelled.
Santana opened her eyes and relief coursed through her. She was back in her old room, and everything was exactly where it had been before except for her girly-pink paint. But she could live with the new sueded shade of chocolate. In fact, it made her feel more grown up.
“I thought you'd like your room back. This is your home—our home, and I'd really like us to be a family,” Craig said, then offered his hand to Gulliver. “I'm Craig. What's your name, son? And what do you do . . . ?” His voice trailed off as he zeroed in on the collegiate emblem on Gully's shirt. “You're a Harvard man, too?” He looked at Santana's mother. “I don't know if you're right, sweetheart. I think Santana has pretty good taste in boys—a Harvard man like me, I like that!” He patted Gully on the back. “Yes, sir!”
Twenty-two
.
Pharaoh's never been here to meet my mother.
Santana watched as Gulliver and Craig talked about college and sports, then headed off to move the china cabinet for her mother, and set up her computer and work on a database for Craig. She wished that Pharaoh was more like Gully. Maybe that was why she didn't correct Craig for thinking that she and Gully were together. That's what she told herself.

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