Choose Me (12 page)

For the past week, I thought about the “Adam and Eve” thing, and Maya’s intuition that maybe it was fate, God. Especially
after seeing Adam in the grocery store. How many times had I been to the same grocery store and never run into him? But then,
maybe I just never noticed him since dreadlocked men in wrinkled clothing never turned my head, unless I was drunk, and I
had stopped drinking a long time ago. Maybe God
was
trying to tell me something. I kept remembering what I told him, that I would be a waste of time. Maybe he took it to heart.

I picked up the phone, dialed the prefix, but then stopped. I thought, what would I say?
How about that cup of coffee?
I knew coffee would only be the beginning—of what? Another relationship headed nowhere? After all, I wasn’t ready to get
married again. And if a relationship wasn’t headed for marriage, what sense was there in starting one?

Someone knocked on my office door, which was slightly ajar, and I quickly hung up the phone. I snapped myself out of the doubts
and possibilities with Adam and concentrated on the present, which was the final proofreading of the bilingual information
brochure on my desk for the upcoming college fair.

“Go away. I’m almost finished,” I said, knowing it was my assistant, Dana, coming to warn me about the print shop’s deadline.

“Bad time?”

I looked up and saw it was Rashid, not Dana. I waved him in. “No, no, I thought you were Dana.”

The intercom rang as he stepped in. I pressed the “hands-free” button while motioning Rashid to a seat. “Yes?”

“There’s an ‘Adam Black’ on 84,” Dana announced. “He says you know who he is.”

I paused, wondering how he had gotten my work number. I picked up the receiver.

“Should I put him through?” Dana asked.

“Uh, yeah …” I waited for the click as she connected the call. “Hello?”

“Eva? Eva Clemente?”

My stomach jumped. “Speaking.”

“This is Adam Black. I met you about a week ago. At Simone’s party? You tried to ignore me at the grocery store?” I smiled
as I recalled our encounter but didn’t comment. It wasn’t so much that I had tried to ignore him, but rather I hadn’t been
too thrilled about the way I looked, nor by his own disheveled appearance. I had merely been trying to spare us both an uncomfortable
moment. “Your sister gave me your number,” he continued. “I told her I’d take full responsibility if you went off.”

“Yeah. I remember. No, it’s okay.” Rashid signaled whether he should leave but I shook my head and indicated for him to remain
sitting.

“How you been?” he asked.

“I’m alright. Busy. You?”

“Great. Same-o, same-o.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say because as I said, I was no good at small talk. I looked at my nails; I really had
to stop biting them.

“Listen, the reason I’m calling … I have this kid I’m mentoring. I’m with Big Brothers. He just graduated from high school
but didn’t apply for college ’cause he had a rotten counselor who told him he wasn’t college material. But I think he is.
Maya said something about a college fair coming up?”

“It’s this weekend, the thirtieth, at McCormick Place. It’s for kids who missed the fall deadline or want to start college
late.”

“Hold on. Let me write that down.” I gave him the information. “You’ll be there?” he asked.

“Of course. But Rashid Ali is the director of African American recruitment.”

At the mention of his name, Rashid looked up inquisitively.

“How do you know my little brother is Black?” Adam asked.

“Oh. I just thought … I thought they usually paired kids with …” I stuttered, slightly embarrassed.

“Actually, he’s half African American. His father was Mexican.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I was just messing with you.” He chuckled and I relaxed.

I tried to think of something to say. Rashid was motioning comically for me to wrap up the call. “How did the
platanos
turn out?”

“Oh, you were right. They were sweet. Real good.”

“Good.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you. I read your editorial in last week’s
Tribune,
” he said.

“They published it? I picked up the
Times
by mistake.”

“I usually buy the
Times.
I don’t know why I got the
Trib.
I didn’t read the article but the other boy I mentor was one of those transferred kids. I liked what you had to say.”

“Thanks. Do you still have the paper? Can you cut it out for me?”

“For your scrapbook?”

I laughed. “Yeah, you got a problem with it?”

“No,” he said. “Now I know what you write about.”

I noticed Rashid getting antsy, rolling his eyes, so I said, “Listen, I have someone in my office. I got to go.”

“Okay. See you Saturday.”

I hung up absentmindedly, wondering what to make of the call. His request seemed genuinely business-related. I decided I wouldn’t
make any more out of it than I should.

“What’s up?” I asked Rashid.

“
Nada.
” Rashid stretched out in one of the chairs facing my desk. “Just thought you’d be interested to know that I just came from
Dean Vanover’s office. He said he received an anonymous e-mail that I was recruiting students to Islam. Can you believe that?”

The atmosphere on the university campus, as well as in the rest of the country, was very uneasy and leery since the events
of 9–11 the previous year and every foreign student and faculty member, especially those of the Islamic faith, were suspect.
“What did you say?” I asked curiously, knowing Rashid’s knack for being outspoken.

“I told him a couple of students
have
asked me some questions about Islam, but I never tried to
recruit
anyone. So he starts telling me how I need to be careful in ‘these volatile, sensitive times.’”

“And you said?”

“I said, ‘This is still the United States of America, isn’t it? First Amendment, freedom of speech, et cetera, et cetera?’”

I looked at him, shocked, open-mouthed.

“I didn’t care. I was highly upset to say the least. So he goes into this long speech about this being ‘wartime and how unwise
it is to share your religious views.’ I just wanted to let you know the FBI has probably opened up a file on me, so if I were
you, I’d be careful about associating with me.”

“They can’t be that paranoid, can they?”

“They can.” He paused and looked hard at me. “So, are we still on for lunch?”

“Of course,” I assured him. “I’m not afraid of Dean Vanover. Or the FBI.”

“I like your hair that way,” Rashid commented.

My hand flew to my hair. “Really? I didn’t do anything different.” My hair has a mind all its own, molding itself to the weather
or time of day. I never know what it is going to look like. Tomorrow it could look totally different. And then again, I was
in need of a touch-up. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if Rashid’s comments were innocent flirting or if he was just being genuinely
nice.

“Can we say ‘thanks’?”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“So, who’s Adam?”

“Oh, this probation officer. He’s got a protégé he wants to bring to the college fair Saturday.”

Someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for my answer, Dana opened it.

“The print shop said they need that brochure by one if we want the copies by Friday.”

I nodded. “I’m almost finished.”

Dana exited, but not before I saw her and Rashid exchange a look and a smile. I glanced curiously at Rashid, who looked meekly
back at me.

“I’m thinking of asking her out,” he confessed.

“Dana? Dana Duchamps?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Uh, hello? She’s half your age. Plus, she’s a student here.”

“First of all, she’s not my subordinate, she’s yours, no conflict of interest. And for your information, she’s thirty and
a
night
student. I’m forty-seven, hence she is not half my age.”

The intercom rang again. “It’s your sister.”

“Okay, I’m leaving. I see you’re busy with
work.
” Rashid got up and I shook a warning finger at him. He grinned.

“Hey,” Maya said. “I just wanted to warn you. Adam called for your—”

“He just called.”

“Sorry, I tried to call you first but I had this crazy parent burst into my office demanding an impromptu meeting.”

“How about asking me first before giving out my phone number?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“No big deal.”

“Why haven’t you called him?”

“I told you, I’m not good at calling men.”

“He really is a good person. He’s letting Luciano crash at his place since his wife put him out. And Luciano told me he hasn’t
been with a woman in, like, a year.”

“So, we’re supposed to be right for each other?”

“Well, you’re both left-handed. You both write. I mean it, girl, this is your man.
Adán y Eva.
It’s like fate—”

“Maya …”

“Then there’s my dream. Why would I dream about the two of you? My dreams don’t lie. C’mon, you yourself said you don’t believe
in coincidences.”

“There’s something about him, I don’t know. Like he’s got some secret.”

“We’ve all got secrets.”

I pondered the validity of her statement just as the intercom light started blinking again. “I got to go,” I said. “I have
to finish this brochure before lunch.”

“Hey,” she cried out as I was pulling the phone from my ear. “Are we meeting at Café Central after work?”

“Can’t. I have Youth Ministry tonight.”

“Oh, I forgot. Your nephews will be there.”

Youth Ministry Night took place on the first Thursday of each month. Because the church had accepted that kids younger than
ever were engaging in sex, the class consisted of children as young as eleven. The group was supervised by the junior pastor,
Allen, while Johnny and I took turns heading the curriculum. Both of us had signed a contract of celibacy in order to properly
guide the young members in leading lives of abstinence. Johnny was more rigid in his teaching than I was because he didn’t
like the kids to get out of control, something he claimed happened whenever it was my turn to run the class. I thought it
was more important for the kids to be able to express themselves without the rigidity of a classroom setting, where they spent
the majority of their day. My latest idea to have a debate was initially met with opposition by Johnny. But a poll taken by
kids proved my proposal scored big points.

“What’s wrong with soul-kissing?” a boy named Chris asked. “Kissing is normal. Kissing is not a sin. If God hadn’t meant for
us to kiss, he wouldn’t have given us lips. Or tongues.” Chris was sixteen, smart, charming as a snake, and very aware that
all the teenage girls in church were crazy about him.

The kids were all sitting in the church gymnasium, on oversized pillows and cushions discussing the pros and cons of kissing.
Most of the kids who were in favor of soul- or French-kissing were boys, including my nephews, Marcos and Lucas, but some
girls favored it too, just as there were some boys on the con side. I saw Marcos and Lucas nudging each other and snickering,
and I shook my head with disapproval. Maya had mentioned that they were already getting phone calls from girls and were becoming
more secretive, asserting their right to privacy. I remembered how popular Eli had been with the girls at their age and I
did not envy Maya.

“What’s wrong with it is that it stirs up the soul,” Cara Shakir, one of my favorite students, countered, in a slow deep voice
that commanded attention. “The guy’s spirit enters a girl’s and vice-versa. It’s like drugs. You start with weed and soon
you get bored so you move up to the next drug, and the next. Why do you think they call it
soul
-kissing? It’s not ’cause Blacks invented it. It’s ’cause of the power it incites in a person’s soul to go to the next level.”

Cara was the daughter I never had, a girl I had taken under my wing. With my guidance, she had been accepted to one of the
city’s college prep schools. The product of an African Iranian father and a British Trinidadian mother, Cara was a collage
of striking features with mesmerizing gray eyes, olive skin, and a head of thick, wavy red hair a lot of the girls admired.
At fourteen, she already knew she wanted to work in the field of teenage pregnancy prevention. When she learned her high school
was going to start dispensing birth control, she formed a club called “Students Against Sex.”

I caught a momentary unwavering glare pass between Cara and Chris that went beyond their competitiveness. Everyone knew they
were seeing each other, “kicking it” as they put it. While dating between the younger church members was discouraged, the
church leaders knew there was little they could do about it.

“Alright, people. We’re not talking about drugs,” Johnny interjected, “so let’s stick to the topic at hand. We’re talking
about Corinthians 6:18. ‘
Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. You are not your own, you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your
body
.’” He shot a reprimanding glance in my direction, signifying that I was about to lose control again.

I surmised that he was still slightly chagrined that I had spurned his latest invitation to dinner. I shrugged innocently,
refusing to feel guilty. Was I supposed to go out with him despite the lack of attraction? Or was it supposed to be like an
arranged marriage where love came later?

“I was just making an analogy,” Cara defended herself.

Proud of her, I gave her an encouraging smile and she returned the gesture. She reminded me of myself at her age: outspoken,
a nonconformist, the kind of girl who didn’t care if everyone else was wearing platform shoes, she was going to keep wearing
gym shoes. I then looked at Pastor Allen for direction.

“Let’s see who was able to find a passage to back up their argument,” the junior pastor suggested.

“Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss on the cheek and look what it cost him,” Cara said proudly.

“Very good,” I praised her.

“The passage, please,” Johnny reiterated.