Easier Said Than Done (15 page)

Bianca continued to flirt, asking Damon every dumb blonde question under the sun except maybe, “What's your shoe size?” Damon was cordial, but didn't seem to feed into it.

Everyone else concentrated on eating with the exception of Uncle Winston, who offered a few comments just to keep things interesting. And even though Queenie had outdone herself, I too was giving more attention to the food than necessary until Uncle Winston began once again to stir things up.

“I was telling Kingston that I thought you and Bianca should meet. Maybe go out sometime. I didn't expect introducing you two was going to be this easy.”

Bianca had the nerve to duck her head coyly. I rolled my eyes and smothered the urge to hit her.

Damon looked at Uncle Winston, his gaze then moving over Bianca before resting on me.

“Now that would be interesting,” he said pointedly.

Chapter 13

“Girl, this fine dude is heading your way and you look an absolute mess,” Essence squealed! “Come here, wipe your mouth, you got some stuff taking up residence in the corners.”

I stopped slurping on my chocolate shake, rolled my eyes, and lazily ran the back of my hand over one corner of my mouth and then the other. Essence sighed and re-wiped my mouth; the only thing missing was the spit.

“Kingston, you really are beautiful and I know that it's become trendy to do that whole natural-girl thing, but men don't like a woman who doesn't bother to put on a little lip gloss or something, you know comb your hair, for Christ's sake! Be a lady.”

My standard reply, “Men also like to know what they're getting without having to scrape through a ton of makeup.”

“You would buy into that theory,” she replied. “Trust me, you gotta get a man interested enough to want to look beneath the ton of makeup.” She no longer pushed the issue as vehemently as she once did. I had never been one to do something just for the sake of vanity and no amount of lecturing from Essence was going to change that.

“Yeah, Kingston,” Keela said. “He's so cute and has been asking questions about you all day. He's got Terrance all worked up, that's for sure, drilling all his boys for information.”

I'd been with Terrance for a while now only because I couldn't find anything wrong with him. He was intelligent, outgoing, sexy as hell, and brought no drama to my life.

Keela and Essence had money riding on this one. But I knew better, just like a Christmas toy in March, eventually he, too, would be thrown to the back of my closet, long forgotten as my focus zoned in on a new and improved model. Dating to me was more like a past-time, a hobby.

It was not the main event.

“Me?” I pointed to my chest, my finger grazing Howard University's logo emblazoned in yellow, green, red, and black stitching.

“Yes, you!” Essence replied as if she could hardly believe it herself, and plopped down in a chair, flipping her long tresses over her shoulder in one fluid movement.

Blackburn Center—the hub of student life on Howard's campus—was a scene of constant movement, a flurry of activity; studying, socializing, debating, making out, breaking up, making up, strategizing, politicking, recruiting, or just chillin' out. Howard was a sweet mixture of twelve thousand of the best and the brightest students from all over the world.

Just imagining the achievements of alumni such as Thurgood Marshall, Debbie Allen, Ralph Bunche, David Dinkins, Vernon Jordan, Toni Morrison, Jessye Norman, Phylicia Rashad, L. Douglas Wilder, and Andrew Young and what they meant to African Americans and the nation—put me in the mindset to conquer the world.

Amidst the melody of clanking silverware, banging trays, and groans from students used to a more edible selection of culinary delights, a fierce game of spades was underway in one corner of the cafeteria. In another, the student ambassadors were conducting a tour for potential high school students. Our usual table had been pushed against a wall far away, but close enough not to miss even the most minute bit of gossip always in the air.

We had been friends for three years now. Essence, the stereotypical glamour girl was born and raised in the good part of Los Angeles; her father, a prominent entertainment attorney, and her mother, a talent scout for a major movie company. Even with those connections, Essence didn't want anything to do with the business. She didn't aspire to be a model or actress even though she sure looked and acted like one. Waking up beautiful, her skin was a radiant tone of light copper that looked as though it had been kissed by the Goddess of Sun. With hair, long and straight, her ethnicity was hard to determine; guesses ran the gamut from Puerto Rican to Ethiopian. A bit on the thin side, the extra weight she did carry was settled nicely in her chest and butt. But her most redeeming quality was her straightforwardness. Essence shot it to you straight from the hip, no sugar coating and no chaser. “The truth is the truth,” she would say, “no matter how pretty you package it, bows, ribbons, and all that shit. When you unwrap it, it's still the truth.”

Keela was just as beautiful and just as oblivious to the effect her strong African features had on people. Her cheekbones sat so prominently on her perfectly round face even Grace Jones would have been jealous. Her skin looked as if it had been colored with the burnt end of an artist's charcoal stick, dusted softly with a glimmer only seen on African royalty. Her hair was
cut in the short, sassy style like Toni Braxton's, with spikes gently cupping her face. Keela's hairstyle was an accident though, the result of a relaxing job done in a dormitory room. When her soft, fine hair began to fall out, I thought we would have to admit her to a mental ward, or worse, jail for killing the “incompetent ho” as Keela so eloquently put it. It turned out well though; the haircut marked Keela's entry from her teen years to the legal status of twenty-one. Whereas Essence was long and lean, Keela was short, chunky, and proud of it. We called her the poster girl for “Big Girls Need Love, Too.” Her favorite saying: “Why would a dog want a bone when he can have prime rib?”

“That's why black men are dying at such an alarming rate of high cholesterol,” I shot back just as quickly.

Keela would laugh. “Yeah, but they die happy.”

Keela packaged all her extra stuff well. What I spent on books in a year, Keela paid out four times that in a month on clothes, not including the shoes. Her clothing allowance was financed by her on-again, off-again drug-slinging boyfriend in Detroit.

Essence had labeled her “relationship disabled.” Keela was brutally raped when she was sixteen and now had a hard time relating to and trusting men. She continually invited men into her life who walked all over her like a welcome mat, and raped her not physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I fit smack dab in the middle. Average height, average weight and in my opinion, average in appearance. Of course, this only fueled Essence's argument for cosmetic enhancement. I was not quite as down to earth as Keela, but I was more sensitive than Essence. I'd tell you the truth, but try not to hurt your feelings. Like Keela, I knew what it was like to be overweight, but had long since lost the baby fat and worked out like a maniac to keep it that way. Tragedy had also touched my life, but I was able to push the memories to a small corner of my mind. It was only at night when I could not fight back the darkness.

When I asked, “What does he want?” Essence slapped her palm to her forehead.

“Kingston, if I have to tell you, then there's something really wrong. That boy's been sniffing after you like a dog in heat.”

Keela nodded and pulled a notebook from her backpack. “He's from Jamaica and has those dread thingys everyone's starting to wear. I don't see why anyone wouldn't want to comb or wash their hair.”

“They wash their hair,” I said with a huff. “Wearing dreadlocks is a statement of cultural and religious beliefs. The dreadlocks on a Rasta's head symbolize the Rasta's roots, contrasting the straight, blond look of the white man and establishment.” My speech was practiced from delivering it to Keela alone.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Essence retorted, then added with a sniff, “It's still nasty. ‘Nuff respect to Bob.”

“I think he plays soccer,” Keela said.

“And you guys don't know his name?” I asked, searching my memory database. I'd attended all of the Caribbean Students, the West Indian Culture Club, and the H.U. Jamericans Association meetings faithfully since my freshman year. There weren't many West Indian students on campus that I didn't know.

“Isn't that what we've been saying?” Essence pushed her hair off her face with irritation. “ I checked him out, but he didn't do anything for me. So I'm passing him on to you.” The natural assumption with Essence was that every man wanted her. As her friends, we just let her arrogance ride. We understood that when she said, “He didn't do anything for me,” that really meant he didn't give her any play.

“He is sooooo cute,” Keela reiterated, giggling as she bit into a steaming polish, with onions, sauerkraut, and chili piled high on top.

“Shhhh. Shhhh. Here he comes.” Essence fluttered prettily then positioned herself on the edge of the round table. Keela checked for mustard. I held my breath.

He is cute,
was the first thought that popped into my mind. And he did look familiar, but I dismissed that thought. Of course the man looked familiar. We attended the same school. I must have seen him around campus, in the library or hanging out on the yard.

The stranger looked as though he had walked straight off the playing field, still dressed in his red, white, and blue Howard University soccer practice jersey—their nickname “Booters” tagged on the bottom—and torn black Umbro shorts. The rip in the shorts allowed an enticing game of peek-a-boo with each step. His legs bulged from his thighs all the way down to ankles, hidden by thick white sweat socks bunched artfully around the top of his cleated shoes. His short, neat dreads bounced as he came closer. As he stood before me, his succulent lips parted to display the most even, whitest set of teeth I had ever seen. But they were not as brilliant as his warm brown eyes. For a moment, we were suspended in time, like some weird Star Trek episode. He was the one to break the silence.

“It's been a long time, Bumble Bee, but I would have known you anywhere.” His speech was slow and his accent controlled, but leaving no doubt in my mind that he was Jamaican. “Ya' know, Star, you still look as pretty as you always did.”

Someone sighed and without looking, I knew it was Keela, the romantic. Then the stranger scooped me from my chair, wrapped long, sinewy arms around me, and pressed me hard against his chest. I'm not sure whose mouth hit the floor the fastest, but I was the first to recover and Keela, the first to smile.

But Essence was the first to speak. “Who in the hell is Bumble Bee?”

“That would be me,” I answered, gently pushing at his chest—anxious to reclaim my space. “What I can't figure out is how you know my nickname. I mean, I haven't been called Bumble Bee in years.” I turned to Keela and Essence. “My great-grandmother, Mammy, used to call me that.” I turned back to the stranger. “Come on, you gotta' give me something to work with here. How do we know each other?”

The man tossed his head back and laughed, deep in his belly before moving closer to my face. “You don't recognize me?” The grin slid from his face and he stuck out his hand. “Damon,” he said. “Damon Whitfield. Joanne's brother.” He took another step back and opened his arms as if to say ‘in the flesh.'

Then, all the memories flooded back, washing over me like a Mexican tidal wave, and knocking the breath out of me. Joanne, my best friend from the summer I spent in Kingston.

Damon. Joanne's brother. The little boy from Hope Bay who spent Independence Day weekend with my family in Swift River. Damon. Joanne. Damon.

“Does someone want to tell us what the hell is going on?” Essence forced us back to the here and now. Both she and Keela had their hands on their hips. Keela had even put her hot dog to the side. Drama took precedent over food.

“We're old friends,” Damon offered by way of explanation. “I met Kingston one summer in Jamaica. My sister, Joanne, and Kingston were playmates.” He was talking to Essence and Keela, but his gaze never left me.

The silence crackled between us. Under other circumstances, I would have inquired about an old friend. Ask what Joanne had been up to. But in this situation, I didn't. I couldn't. I couldn't because I already knew.

“Wow!” said Keela breaking the trance. “That's deep.”

“Damon, these are my best friends, Keela and Essence. Ladies, this is Damon.” Smiles floated all around.

“How long has it been?” Damon asked, his eyebrows pinched together.

I did a quick mental calculation. “Fifteen years.”

“Well, isn't that cute?” Essence made a production of grabbing her leather book bag and Gucci purse. She slipped on her tortoiseshell sunglasses. “I would really love to see how this little
Brady Bunch
episode turns out, but I have to get to class. Ciao.” With a fragrant burst of perfume trailing her, she was gone.

Keela polished off her hot dog, then started in on her fries, clueless to her third wheel status. Finally, I tapped her shoulder and she looked up. One glance at my face and she got it.

“Well, I gotta run, too. It was nice meeting you, Damon. Hopefully, we'll see you around more often.” She gathered her books in one hand, and balanced her tray in the other.

“Same here, Keela. Need some help?”

Keela practically swooned at Damon's chivalrous gesture. “Oh, no. I'm fine. Trust me, I've had to juggle more.” And then, she left after dumping her trash, and waving goodbye.

“You'll have to forgive me for not recognizing you, but it really has been a long time. It's a shock to see you. I didn't know you went to school here.”