I'm Your Girl (30 page)

D
on’t let her read that rainbow mess.

Why?

It’s too…girly. It’s not womanly enough.

I’m sure she’ll tell me.

And, definitely don’t let her read those background chapters about your family. They’ll scare her away because they’re too strange.

Well, I’m strange.

“Your lips are moving again,” Diane says, from the sofa downstairs in my house a few hours after we had showered and cleaned her kitchen.

“Just arguing with myself,” I say.

“You do that a lot.”

“I have a lot to say to myself.”

Especially during that shower
.

Shh. Diane’s waiting.

When you kept saying, “Oh, I’ve missed a spot. Here’s some more chocolate”—that was slick, Jack, and so was she
.

Yeah. Now leave me alone so I can connect this laptop to Noël’s printer.

You spent forever on her legs
.

Please, I need to concentrate.

“Hurry up,” she says. “Give me something to read quick, or I’ll have to turn on the TV and watch a football game.”

I finish the connection, print it out, hand her “that rainbow mess,” and kiss her on the lips. “Be cruel, be mean, be—”

“Be quiet,” she says. “Go write some more.”

I return to Noël’s desk, insert a new page on the screen, and stare at the flashing cursor in front of me. Okay, let’s write that scene at the library—

“How old is Diana supposed to be?” Diane asks. “She sounds so young and naïve.”

“I was hoping…twenty-five.”

“She sounds like a teenager, Jack.”

I swivel in Noël’s chair. Diane wouldn’t let me write down the hall in my office because she refused to make room on the guest room bed. “She doesn’t sound romantic to you?”

“She sounds sixteen, and is this a prologue? It’s reading like a prologue.”

She’s right. “That’s a good idea.”

“Is she going to be your only narrator?”

She should be. “I have been experimenting with third-person omniscient—”

“For a romance? How boring.”

You wanted her opinions.

Yes, I did.

She’s right, you know.

I know.

“And this green card idea has been overworked. If she is a black woman and she’s going to hook up with a white man, why would she even consider a foreigner?”

She is sharp!

I have an answer for this one.

“I’m just trying to show that she’s open to all colors.” I smile at Diane. “I got the idea from something Maya Angelou wrote.”

“Hmm,” Diane says. “Well, couldn’t this be a poem she writes instead of her thoughts? We’d have to edit out all the naïvete, of course.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “We could.”

“Do you have a character sketch of her handy?”

I walk over and sit next to her. “But you’re her.”

Diane rolls her eyes. “Like I said, do you have a character sketch of her?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

She shakes her head. “Well, you’re going to need one. Get some paper.”

J
ack the writer doesn’t take up for himself enough. This prologue isn’t bad, but I’m reading it as Nisi would. At least he’s open to new ideas and my suggestions.

He returns with one of his trusty memo pads. “Why do I need a character sketch when the character I’m sketching is you?”

“One of us has a job and won’t be around all the time.”

“True.” He rubs my leg. “I could call you…often.”

“I’d like that, but…”

He stops rubbing my leg.

“That doesn’t mean you have to stop rubbing my leg.”

“Oh.” He rubs my leg again, reminding me of the way he washed it in the shower and later as he rubbed in all that lotion.
Heaven
.

“Okay, let’s start with the physical features.” You know, just to see what he
really
thinks about my body.

He starts writing.

“Out loud, Jack.”

“What’s the paper for?”

Hmm. “You’ll see.” I have an idea.

“Okay…five-six—”

“Seven,” I correct.

“I was close.”

“Weight?” And he had better guess low or else.

“One-twenty.”

I smile inside. “You are correct.” If I cut off one of my legs. “Eyes?”

“Beautiful.” He starts nibbling on my ear.

“Stop.”

“I’m investigating your ears.”

It gives me chills, but we aren’t getting anything done. I push him back gently. “What color are my eyes?”

“Light brown with dark specks.”

He knows my eyes. “Complexion?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “Well, some parts of you are beige, others tan, others brown, others dark brown. You don’t, um, have any one color. To me, anyway. And, I’m sure there’s still some chocolate ice cream on you somewhere. We may have to take another shower.”

I like the way this man thinks, but…“You can’t put all that in a quick description, Jack.”

“So, it won’t be quick.” He smiles. “I’ll just have Arthur go really slow up and down her body while he explores all the sexy aspects of her color.” He kisses my neck. “Just as I did in the shower.”

Whoo! “You’d better write that one down.”

I give him time to make his notes, all in capital letters, for some reason. At least they’re legible.

“What’s my favorite song?” I ask when he’s done.

“You tell me,” he says.

“Guess.” I’m curious.

He looks me up and down, and I like it. “How about Stevie Wonder’s ‘Something about Your Love’?”

I blink. “That’s so old school, Jack. She’s supposed to be twenty-five. Why not something by India Arie or Alicia Keys or even Mary J. Blige?”

He writes it all down.

“What’s my favorite…meat?”

He hesitates. “Beef?”

I gasp. “You think I’m a heifer, Jack?”

“No, no. I was trying not to stereotype you with chicken or ham.”

“I like chicken and ham.”

He writes it down.

“And pork chops with pinto beans is my favorite meal.”

He writes that down, too.

“What’s my favorite vegetable?”

He sighs. “Potatoes?”

“Jack! Do I look like a beef and potatoes woman?”

“I’m trying not to offend.”

I do like potatoes most, but Diana will like…“Corn on the cob.”

He writes it down.

“What’s my favorite…fruit? And think out loud with your answer, okay?”

He leans back on the sofa. “An apple has some symbolic value, forbidden fruit, that kind of thing. And so does pineapple, since you have to cut off the surface to get to the sweetness.” He debates with himself for a few seconds. “Okay, pineapple.”

“I like peaches,” I say.

“Oh.”

Twenty minutes later without any “corrections” from me, Jack tells me that Diana is the all-American black woman who loves the fall, drinks Coke, snacks on Chex Mix and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, doesn’t watch TV, and thinks
Casablanca
is the greatest romantic movie of all time.

I am so glad I’m here to correct him.

“First, I love the spring. I love it when the world comes back to life. Second, I’m a Pepsi girl; Coke makes me burp. Third, I can eat sour cream and onion Lay’s potato chips all day, and those peanut butter cups give me gas. And, I don’t have a favorite movie, because I think they’re all so unbelievable.”

“I was way off.”

True, but how would he know? “Okay, I want you to list any pet peeves you think I have.”

He nods. “Funk in any form, long hair on a man, long or dirty fingernails on a man, rude people, men who don’t make eye contact, fake people, men who talk to themselves, men who hesitate too long before answering, unreal books…” He takes a breath. “Any of them wrong so far?”

Not a single one! “Why do you think I have so many pet peeves?”

He smiles. “I’m right, though,…right?”

I laugh. “Add one more: a man who thinks he knows everything about a woman he’s seeing. There is no way you will ever truly know me.”

“I’d like to try.”

“And I’ll keep you trying.” I get an idea. “As long as you…bring me lunch every day for the next, oh, four months.”

And if he has any sense, he’ll bring pork chops and pinto beans at least once a week.

S
o, in between a long day at the DMV with Jenny—
You know, Jenny’s pretty, but when you spend two hours at the DMV with anyone, that beauty fades in a hurry.

Having to show that death certificate was hard.

You managed.

And then later watching Noël’s car drive away—

It’s a good thing you’re having Jenny mail the checks.

And taking Diane Chinese food just once to know that she doesn’t like Chinese food at all—

She liked the fortune cookies, though. “You have tremendous charisma” was yours, and she added “in bed.”

And writing like I’ve never written before—

Don’t forget trading in your truck for a Honda Accord.

That, too.

Diane likes it.

So do I.

In between all that, I get to know Diane so much better. We go for rides in the Accord. We go to movies at The Grandin Theater, an old-time movie theater; sit in the back; eat popcorn; and make out like teenagers.

She even liked
Casablanca.

What I let her see of it.

Diane even “calls in sick” or “gets sick at work” so she can have more time to edit my book.

And give you more time to explore her body
.

I like exploring.

You’re so much like Dan Pace now
.

Just without all that imaginary sex.

Come on, Jack. Diane is all over you like brown on rice
.

It’s nice to be wanted like that.

It’s nice to want someone else like that.

As spring arrives in Roanoke, our relationship grows. I love working together with her. I love hitting every “ethnic” restaurant in town, though Bandini’s is still our favorite. I love when she cooks for me after a long day at the library. I love cooking grilled cheese and tomato soup for her. I love snuggling with her in front of the TV, which we never turn on. It’s all been so…intimate.

Our
book, though Diane insists she’s only the “first editor,” is titled
A Single Touch,
and so far, my editor loves it. I’ve sent Trina six chapters, none with a single sex scene or foul word in them, yet she says, “This is so cutting edge!” It isn’t—it’s just real, normal life—but that gives me incentive to keep writing more. Both Nina and Trina had me redo my professional photograph because I was still too skinny in January, and the final picture has me with a fuller face and gelled hair.

It makes you look younger.

Diane says it makes me look “cute.”

And you do.

Now everything is building up to the tour, which is only one week away. I’ve been interviewed in the
Roanoke Times
and on local radio, and the
Times
wrote a complimentary review of
Wishful Thinking
, focusing mainly on Roanoke’s more “colorful settings.” I’ve set up one signing downtown at Cantos Booksellers for the end of April—

The phone rings. It’s been ringing off the hook for the last few weeks, and not all the calls are from Diane.

“Hello?”

“Jackie, I have some good news!”

Nina. “Yes?”

“Wishful Thinking
is already out, and Amazon has already started shipping.”

“That’s great.” I think. “But if they’ve already started shipping, won’t that affect my New York sales?”

“So Amazon jumped the gun. They usually do. But sales via Amazon.com are a teeny, teeny,
teeny
portion of the pie. Not to worry.”

Who says “teeny” three times to make a point?

Shh.

“But won’t that give all sorts of crazy people time to post reviews on-line before New York?”

Nina and Trina had been unsuccessful in getting Nisi’s review removed, but Diane had written another—and under her own name—that gave the book four stars, to even it out some.

She was basing her review on the rough draft, though
.

Who’s going to know?

“Don’t worry, Jackie,” Nina says. “It’s selling, and that’s all that matters.”

It’s selling!

Yeah, it’s selling.

Nothing can harm me anymore.

I
t has been so nice to have a man, and I couldn’t have picked a better one. Jack is devoted to all phases of my life: my job, my meals, my house, and my body.

Especially my body.

It’s like I have an addiction for his hands on me. I used to consider that sort of thing perverted, but not anymore. It’s a necessary part of my life now. I feel so cold where he isn’t touching me…so I make him touch me all over a
lot
. I wish he had more hands.

My own hands seem…nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation of using them on him. I still play solitaire in my spare moments, looking always for red jacks, and I only review one book at a time now, turning the pages slowly and reading them all the way through. I have still found quite a few clunkers, but…I won’t give any book one star anymore, mainly because they’ve kept my mind and hands busy.

What do I like most about Jack? He makes me feel sexy. I’ve never felt sexy before, maybe because of my profession, maybe because of the way I was raised in the church. I’ve been called “cute,” but I’ve never been called “sexy.” He comments on my body as being “so soft,” “so firm,” “so tender.” He touches my skin and says, “Delicious.” As a result, I’m starting to give him more skin to touch, leaving a button undone, a leg uncovered, my neck exposed at all times. I’m even scenting myself in places I never used to scent and paying complete attention when I shave to get every tiny hair. I’m not wearing anything too low cut—yet—and I’m not wearing hip huggers (I have too much hip to hug), but I do have a full set of push-up bras that make my girls rise to the occasion.

And now I am
damn
sexy for a librarian.

Francine and Kim are warming up to the idea of “Jack and Diane,” though it hasn’t been easy. At first, they stared and shot each other those “knowing looks” white women are famous for: pursed lips, raised eyebrows, slight shake of the head. But once they saw a real, normal romance up close, they warmed up to the both of us. Oh, except for when Jack brought me Japanese food for lunch. That’s not my cup of tea. Uncooked fish is not in my culinary repertoire, and it sure stunk up the circulation desk. Maybe Jack likes sushi because sushi smells like…Hmm.

I like a man who likes sushi.

A
lot
.

Now, not everything is perfect. Jack is, well, tardy all the time, and he has this habit of “zoning out” for minutes at a time while I’m talking to him. It’s as if he gets lost without even moving. It’s hard to explain. He’s there one moment and gone the next several moments. His eyes don’t glaze over or anything as obvious as that. He just…disappears…though he’s sitting in front of me at a restaurant or lying next to me on the sofa or even talking to me on the phone. At first, I thought it was extremely rude, and I still sort of do. It’s not that he isn’t listening; it’s well, it’s annoying! I must say, “Earth to Jack” at least once a day. No wonder he made Dan Pace such a space cadet. I ask him to tell me where he’s been, and he shakes his head, blinks, and says, “What?”

I wonder if all writers are this spacey.

Because of his inattention, I doubt that Jack will ever pick up all the hints I’ve been dropping about selling my own house so I can move into his house when we get…

Yeah, it’s getting close to that. Whenever we go to the mall, I make him linger longer and longer at jewelry stores. He’s already gotten me a necklace and some earrings, “just because,” he says, and he blew me away at Valentine’s with
two
dozen long-stemmed roses, a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate, and a box of Russell Stover chocolates. He made the biggest deal out of those chocolates, for some reason. They were all right, nothing special. He just couldn’t understand why I didn’t eat any of the ones with nuts.

I couldn’t yet tell him that nuts, um, well, they sort of curl up in my intestines and constipate me. I am not a nice human being when I’m constipated. We’ve come a long way in our relationship, but that information is a little too delicate to tell him about right now.

I wish all this book mess wasn’t taking his attention away from me. I know the tour is only for one week, but…I’m afraid.

I’m afraid a whole bunch of Nisi’s are going to show up at one of his readings or signings and try to ruin him.

There are so many haters out there who have already posted mean-spirited, “white-men-can’t-write-about-black-folks” reviews at Amazon.com and at other sites on-line. One fusses that Ty is dark skinned, and “What about us fine light-skinned sistas?” And I’ll bet if Jack had made Ty light skinned, someone would be crying, “What about us dark-skinned sistas?” Another cries, “This is another example of the Man getting over on us and taking our money.” Yet another screams, “What about black writers who aren’t getting published because of this travesty?!!”

Yeah, my word “travesty” is coming back to haunt me. Fortunately, my review has moved down the Web page, so it isn’t the first one people read anymore.

But Jack takes it all in stride, shrugging his shoulders and letting all that hate roll off him. He’ll look at a review like, “Browning can write, just not about black people,” and he’ll take it as a compliment. “See,” he’ll say, “I
can
write.”

And what he’s writing now…Oooh, those haters are going to eat every single one of their words, and I can’t wait. He is writing about something that really happened—and
is
happening—between an average sister (neither too light nor too dark for those still hung up on color) and an average white man. They can’t possibly find fault with so much truth!

But in the back of my mind, I can’t help but worry that folks will have trouble even with the truth. And it’s scary, but if Jack were black, he probably would be getting as much if not more abuse from black male reviewers for having an “African queen mess with Uncle Cholly.”

Today, while Jack waits for the dealership to finish his car’s first checkup, I’m home waiting for him, preparing a field green salad with boiled eggs and bacon. I’ve become kind of domestic, I guess, and it isn’t so bad. Although we eat out a lot—and
he
eats a lot—we’re both minding our weights. I’ve lost ten pounds, and he’s gained twenty, so I have more of him to hold on to.

The phone rings. It must be my “Boo.”

“Hello, honey,” I say.

“Honey?”

Oops. It’s Mama. And the closest holiday was April Fools’ day last week. I hope nothing bad has happened. “Hi, Mama. Is everything okay?”

“No, everything is not okay.”

I swallow hard. “Is Daddy okay?”

“Yes, yes. What’s not okay is what’s sitting in my hands. I just bought your boyfriend’s book.”

My shoulders sag. Contrary to what I used to think, some phone calls
can
be life changing, and this is probably going to be one of them. It was bound to come out sooner or later, but why today? I was having such happy thoughts while making a simple salad for my Boo!

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you, Mama.”

“Dee-Dee, why didn’t you tell me he is white?”

Because I was afraid of
this
reaction. “You never asked.”

“I shouldn’t
have
to ask.”

True. “Well, it’s none of your business, Mama. I had my reasons.”

“And what were they?”

I don’t want to get into this, but…“I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

“So if you knew I wouldn’t approve, why did you ever get mixed up with this man?”

“I’m not ‘mixed up’ with this man, Mama. In fact, my life makes a whole lot more sense
because
of this man.”

A millisecond of silence, and then…“Well, I’ve been telling everybody, and I mean
everybody
, for the last three months that you were dating a fine
black
author, even Imogene Blakeney. Dancing with that white boy was one thing, but dating a white man…I may have to change my church membership now.”

“You’re overreacting, as usual, Mama.”

“Child, why did—”

“I’m a grown woman, Mama,” I interrupt. “I’m no child anymore.”

A whole second of silence. “I don’t understand you anymore, Dee-Dee,” she says finally.

Time for a little payback. “But you understand Reesie perfectly, huh?”

“What does Reesie have to do with any of this?”

Time for some brutal honesty. “Mama, Reesie has been nothing but a
ho
since she turned thirteen.”

A gasp. Good. Gasping is good for Mama’s circulation. “What did you say?”

“Reesie is a trifling ho, Mama. It’s true, and it’s about time you faced the truth.”

“But she’s your sister!”

“I know that, Mama, but she is
bad
, and she’s been bad since the day she was born. I am the good girl in our family, and yet you treat me like shit.”

Another gasp. “I have done no such thing!”

“Mama, Reesie slept around and got pregnant with three
different
boys, and the last boy was barely eighteen. She was robbing the damn cradle. She has three baby daddies for the Qwans, she sponges off you and Daddy, she’s never held a job for more than a week, and she and the Qwans treat
you
like shit. And you just sit back and take it.”

“I will not listen—”

“Yes, you will, Mama. I’ve been good. I graduated high school with honors while Reesie barely got her GED. I finished college with honors, and I doubt Reesie can even spell ‘college’ on a consistent basis. I’m not waiting on any
boy
for some diapers. I have a
man
. And, despite what you think, I’m still holy.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute.”

“Mama, believe it. I am still a virgin, something Reesie hasn’t been able to say since she was thirteen.”

Another gasp. Shoot. Everybody in the church knew about it, and I’m sure Mama knew, too. Mama has been living a life of denial for far too long.

And so have I, in a way. But, I have to hear “I do” first.

“Mama, I want to sleep with Jack in the worst way.” That didn’t sound right, but does “in the
best
way” make any more sense? “I want to, but he’s not ready.”

“What?”

“His wife and son died last July, he has been trying to get his life together, and I’m helping him. There have been times when I have been tempted”—just about every time we’re together!—“but I’ve resisted that temptation, I’ve been good, and all you can tell me about is the shame you feel for me dating a white man. It’s fucked up, Mama.”

The loudest gasp. Mama is getting a phone workout today. “I didn’t raise you to talk that way!”

“You’re not even listening. I don’t know if you’ve ever really listened to me.”

“I hear you just fine, you and that…guttural language.”

“Guttural? You say the word ‘titties’ all the time!”

“Well, that’s what they are!”

I sigh. “Mama, you hear me, but you’re not listening. You’re not
feeling
what I’m saying. I like Jack, and I may even love him. He’s a good man, a decent man, a kind man, a quiet man. He reminds me of Daddy in so many ways. He just happens to be white. There is no shame in any of this, Mama. None. You should be proud of me for keeping my virginity this long, proud of me for graduating college, proud of me for having a good job, for not sponging off you, for not filling your house with Qwans, for still keeping my faith.”

“Reesie still has her faith.”

“Oh, Mama, this isn’t about Reesie, and you know that girl cries ‘Oh, Jesus!’ to any black boy who will buy her kids Pampers or shoes. When are you going to be proud of me?”

Silence.

“Mama, answer the question.”

“You’re just dating him, though, nothing serious?”

“We are
getting
serious. We can go to the next level at any time.”

“Engagement?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Mama. We won’t put our engagement picture in any of the Indianapolis papers.” Or even any Roanoke papers, for that matter. It’s not that I wouldn’t want anyone to know. I just prefer our relationship to be low-key because I believe true love does not have to be advertised.

That thought was
such
a cliché! Maybe the words in those books I’ve been trashing have been telling me the truth, and I’ve not been listening.

After some static-filled silence, Mama yells, “But you barely know the man!”

This is kind of true. Hmm. I know next to nothing about his family, and Jack never talks about them. “Look, Mama, I know what I like, and you know how picky I am. I
want
this man. I want to have a little ring on my finger that says I
belong
to this man.”

Whoa. Did I just say that? I did. Do I want Jack that much? I do.

I do. Two little words I want to say in front of a church holding on to Jack’s hand.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Just…don’t say anything negative about him or me or
us
until you get to know him.”

Silence. “He’ll probably want to start up another family.”

“And that’s wrong?”

“I didn’t say it was wrong. I just said—”

“Mama,
I
want to start a family.
I
want a child. If he happens to be my husband and father of my child, that’s perfect.” Perfect…a bookworm and a writer hook up and have kids who are genetically predisposed
not
to watch TV! It would be so…old-fashioned. Hmm. But we wouldn’t have a cable bill.

And that would be so cool! “Cool” is one of Jack’s words, and though I don’t ever say it, I’m starting to think it more and more.

“He isn’t right for you, Dee-Dee.”

My turn to gasp. “How can you say that? You haven’t even met him!”

“I’m looking at him right now. What’s up with his hair?”

I take a deep breath. “Mama, why do you have to be so skin-deep about everything?”

“Skin what?”

“Skin-deep. You only look at the surface of people. You look at Reesie, and all you see is an angel, when Reesie is really the devil in a short dress with tattoos over both her titties. You even think that the Qwans are angels as long as they’ve had their baths.”