Just Too Good to Be True (16 page)

CHAPTER
14

Barrett and the AKAs

B
efore Barrett walked into the Student Union, she tried to reach her mother one more time.

“What do you want?” Lita asked in the groggy voice that sounded like she’d just woken up from a deep drunken sleep.

“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you,” Barrett said.

“Mind your own damn business. I don’t need you to keep up with me,” Lita said.

“Who’s watching Wade?”

“What in the hell do you want?”

“Why did you give that May-Jean woman my address? I told you not to talk about anything that concerns me. Do you know what could happen if Chris finds out where I am?”

“It would serve your ass right.”

“Okay, be that way, but you won’t get another penny from me if you give out my information again. Do I make myself clear?” Barrett said.

Lita didn’t answer, and a few seconds later Barrett heard a dial tone.

“That bitch makes me sick,” she said to herself as she walked into the food court.

After surveying her choices, Barrett picked up a chicken wrap and longed for the day when she could go back to eating caviar, roasted chicken, and a baked potato fully loaded. She hated this broke-down tired cafeteria food and the entire campus scene, but Nico told her she should put in an appearance on campus at least once or twice a week to make it look like she was a serious college student.

Sometimes Barrett tried to believe this was her life. She liked to imagine that she was a carefree college student, with rich parents paying her bills and putting unlimited funds into her checking account.

After paying for the wrap, Barrett spotted an empty table with only one chair. Then she heard Shante Willis call out her name.

“Barrett, why don’t you join us?” Shante said.

Even though she hated to admit it after that phone call with Lita, Barrett did feel like a little companionship—but very little. She wasn’t down for a female powwow, just some polite and quick conversation. Plus, she could always get up and go if they started working her nerves.

“Yeah, girl, come on over here,” Shante said.

Barrett sat down with great fanfare, and then eyed the other girls suspiciously.

“Barrett, these are my sorority sisters—Whitney, Beth, and Amber,” Shante said.

“Nice meeting you,” Amber said.

“I haven’t seen
you
on campus,” Whitney said.

“Oh, I’ve been around,” Barrett said as she took the plastic off her wrap.
This
Whitney obviously had herself confused with the one and only Miss Diva Whitney. Who did she think she was, questioning Barrett Elizabeth Manning?

“Where are you from?” Beth asked.

“Atlanta,” Barrett said as she took the first bite of the wrap and thought,
These chicks are nosy, nosy, nosy.

“What part?” Amber asked.

“What?” Barrett asked, raising her eyebrow.

“What part of Atlanta? I’m from Atlanta. Maybe we can share a ride the next time we go home,” Amber said.

“I’m from Buckhead,” Barrett lied proudly. The truth was that one day, she wouldn’t mind having a second home in Buckhead—the shopping was all that and then some.

“Fancy,” Whitney said.

“So who is teaching the Chi Os?” Shante asked.

“Hannah, I think,” Amber said.

“No, Hannah is teaching the A O Pis,” Whitney said.

“Who’s teaching the Kappas?” Amber asked.

“Sarah Beavers,” Shante said.

“I didn’t know Sarah was still in school. I thought she got married,” Amber said.

“She gets married this summer,” Shante said.

The incessant jabbering was making Barrett’s ass hurt. What language were they speaking? The whole situation was getting on Barrett’s nerves, and she wanted to finish her food and get the hell out of the Union.

“I bet the Pi Phis win again,” Whitney said.

But since Barrett was on a college campus and she remembered the ad that said a mind is a terrible thing to waste, she figured she could at least ask a question or two. “What kinda mess are you girls talking about, Shante?”

“We’re talking about the Unity Greek Show,” Shante said, and laughed.

“What’s that?” Barrett asked.

“It’s one of the biggest events on campus. Our sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha, throws the Unity Greek Step Show every year during homecoming. Our sorority and our brother fraternity, Alpha Phi Alpha, teach the white sororities and fraternities how to step. It’s a large-scale multicultural dance show. It’s a big deal. Everybody on campus comes out, but we usually have to turn people away,” Shante said.

“You mean to tell me that the black students share their moves with the white students?” Barrett asked. “You teach them your stuff? Why can’t they make up their own shit?” Barrett continued.

“That’s why it’s called Unity, silly,” Whitney said.

Barrett cut her eyes at Whitney, wondering who this bitch was calling silly.

“Whatever,” Barrett said, and sighed.

“You should come,” Shante said. “I can get you a ticket.”

“Don’t think so. I have some big tests coming up,” Barrett lied, then added, “Don’t let me hold you girls.” She’d had her fill of females for the day.

Shante, Whitney, Beth, and Amber stood up, grabbed their trays, and told Barrett it was nice meeting her and they hoped she would come to the show.

“Yeah, right,” Barrett mumbled as she finished her wrap, not even looking up as they left the table.

Dear Diary,

It’s taking me longer to get Brady in bed than I expected. I don’t know where he gets his self-control from, because if he knew what’s between my legs he wouldn’t be such a gentleman. The last job I did like this was with NBA wannabe Chris Johns at the University of Washington.

On a rainy Seattle evening, Chris Johns eased into my bed sure as sugar, and he came back day after day and couldn’t get enough of what I had between my legs. Almost two weeks later, he was proclaiming his love for me and telling me he wanted me to meet his mama. Every time he brought up meeting her I would whip some of my good stuff on him and he’d forget. Mamas don’t like me and I should have remembered that before meeting Brady’s mama.

Seattle was a cool place to live, but Nico insisted that I leave the minute Chris signed over his power of attorney to him and was locked in as one of Chris’s clients. One of the first things he did was “invest” a lot of Chris’s signing bonus with phony stocks he’d made himself on his printer. Chris with his dumb ass didn’t have a clue because he was whipped and saw some sheets of worthless paper. Besides I was telling Chris how brilliant I thought Nico was every chance I got. It also helped that Chris was dumber than dirt.

After we got Chris and I got my share, I did what I always did after I finished a job: I took a great vacation, sent some money to my mother for Wade, and then waited for my next assignment and name change. I put aside almost half of my earnings in a savings account I opened using Wade’s social security number. Nobody including Nico knows about my secret stash.

It seems that the stakes keep getting higher with each and every job, and I’ve been making Nico a lot of money, and when I finish with Brady it’ll be my turn to really cash in. Aside from money, Nico usually gets me little gifts—after Chris, I got a pair of diamond studs. After Brady I’m expecting a big payoff, a little something for my ring finger and the ultimate prize of becoming Mrs. Nico Benson.

CHAPTER
15

Carmyn’s Quiet Storm

K
ellis and I walked out of a stunningly beautiful Sunday-morning service through the doors of New Foundation Baptist Church. My heart was filled with joy because of the season my son was having during his senior year and because Kellis had agreed to join me for services. No small accomplishment. I knew the offer to take Kellis to brunch afterward at the Ritz-Carlton in Buckhead had a lot to do with why she agreed to go to church. I didn’t care, because I missed attending services during the football season.

The day before, Basil Henderson, one of the partners of XJI, had flown to Atlanta and taken me to lunch at Jermaine Dupri’s Café Dupri, off of Piedmont. It had been delightful, and not only was Basil one of the most handsome men I’d seen in a long time, but he was knowledgeable about what he would do for Brady and his professional career. I made up my mind that Brady would definitely visit his firm once the season was over.

We were waiting for the ushers to open the doors of the church when Sister Jolene approached us. She was wearing an incredibly unflattering yellow suit and an alarming shade of red lipstick.

“Good morning, Sister Carmyn. Praise the Lord,” she said.

“Good morning, Sister Jolene. Praise the Lord,” I said.

“I’m Sister Jolene,” she said as she extended her hand toward Kellis.

“I’m sorry. This is my good friend Kellis,” I said.

“Welcome to New Foundation,” Sister Jolene said.

“Thank you, and nice meeting you as well,” Kellis said.

Just as we were getting ready to go inside the church, Sister Jolene said, “So sorry to hear about our girl.”

I turned and asked, “What girl?”

“You didn’t hear? I thought you knew.”

“Thought I knew what?” I asked, hoping Sister Jolene wasn’t getting ready to deliver some mean-spirited gossip.

“Come over here, let me tell you,” Sister Jolene said, using her ring finger to beckon me to the corner.

I leaned over and heard, “Your girl Shelby got herself knocked up.” I felt the gust of her voice as she whispered and it felt like fire, and then I thought of a phone call and a few e-mails I’d gotten from Shelby that I hadn’t gotten around to answering.

“Who told you that?” I demanded. I hadn’t seen or heard from Shelby since I’d done her hair a few weeks ago. I had been worried about her the day I’d received that disturbing phone call and didn’t pay attention to her rumblings about her boyfriend, Torrian.

“Her mother. I was over there yesterday, so not only did I hear it, I saw it. Yeah, Little Miss Thing is knocked up. I think she’s going to give it up. Her mother is so upset. It was like a funeral over there, so I felt the need to take over one of my cobblers. That girl had so much potential,” Sister Jolene said.

I suddenly felt nauseated and empty. It was another reminder that no one emerges unscathed from youth, no matter how many groups they join. I thought about Brady and that girl Barrett and knew it was going to be hard for my son to resist her. And I thought about the last time I saw Shelby and how I brushed off her questions because I was worried about someone finding out my secrets. I no longer wanted to go into church; I wanted to go home, where I could crawl into bed and eat chocolate.

“How is Brady doing? We’ve been hearing folk talk about him and that trophy,” Sister Jolene said.

I didn’t answer her, because my eyes were misting up. I blinked the tears away.

“Did you hear me, Carmyn?”

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“How’s Brady?”

“Brady is doing well. Excuse me, Sister,” I said. I touched Kellis and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay, we can leave. But does this mean I don’t get brunch?” Kellis asked.

I didn’t answer and just headed toward the door.

CHAPTER
16

Brady’s Mailbag or Fan Mail

O
n a glorious Saturday afternoon designed by God for college football, several of my dreams came true. Running like I was possessed, I rushed for 323 yards and four touchdowns as we beat the defending national champs, the Texas Longhorns, 38–25 in front of a record crowd of 82,329 screaming fans. The win gave us the longest winning streak in the nation for the year.

After the game, several University of Texas players came up to congratulate me and wish me well in the Heisman race. One of the linebackers who had charged me for much of the day told me, “Man, they just need to mail you that trophy.”

While I was searching the sidelines for Barrett and the stands for my mom, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and a middle-aged white man, wearing a Texas polo jersey and a burnt-orange Texas hat, said, “Great game, Brady. You know, I don’t think I have ever seen a performance like what you did out there on that field today.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you to say,” I said, extending my hand toward the man.

“I’m Coach Dennis Watson. I’m the running backs coach and recruiting coordinator at the University of Texas. I have coached some great backs, including Cedric Benson and Rickey Williams, and you are every bit as great as they are.”

“Coach, I appreciate you saying that,” I said. “I used to follow you guys and I loved Rickey Williams, so I was upset when you didn’t even send me a recruiting letter.”

“Excuse me. Do I need to get the wax out of my ears? Did you say that we didn’t send you a recruiting letter?”

“Yes sir, that’s what I said. I never heard from you guys.”

Coach Watson took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair with a perplexed look on his face. He looked toward the warm, metallic sky like he was searching for an answer and then turned back toward me.

“Son, you were at the top of our recruiting board. I know this because it’s my job. We started sending you letters when you rushed for over 200 yards as a sophomore, but every letter we sent was sent back with “Return to Sender” written on it. I even reached out to your coaches in hopes of setting up a meeting with your parents, but I was told you were not interested in the University of Texas and we should cease our attempts to contact you. I just figured your family had some connection with the University of Arkansas Razorbacks or Oklahoma Sooners. That happens a lot in recruiting.”

“Are you sure it was me, Brady Bledsoe, you were talking about? Did you speak with my coach?”

“Son, I spoke with your coach on several occasions. I remember him telling me that your mother was specifically against you talking with Texas. Was your father involved in your recruiting process?”

“My father is dead,” I said. Just as I was going to ask more questions of Coach Watson, I felt a small, delicate hand touch me. I turned around and looked down into the blue eyes of a little boy with hair the color of straw. He was wearing a jersey with my name on it; it fit him like his grandmother’s nightgown. He had a pen and a program in his hand.

“Mr. Brady, will you sign my jersey and program?” he asked.

“Sure I will, little buddy. What’s your name?”

Coach Watson patted me on the back and wished me good luck for the rest of the season, and especially with the Heisman voting.

“Thanks, Coach,” I said as I got on my knees to become eye level with the boy and have my picture taken with him by his father.

After I finished taking the photo, I stood up and saw Barrett walking toward me with a huge smile on her face.

“There is my girl,” I said, smiling at her.

“Does the star of the century need a kiss?” Barrett asked.

“I always need a kiss,” I said as Barrett threw her arms around my neck, her pom-poms still in her hands, and gave me a moist kiss.

When we finished, I looked around the stands, where fans were still celebrating the victory.

“Brady, what’s the matter?” Barrett asked.

“Have you seen my mom?” I asked.

“I think I spotted her a couple of times from the sidelines,” Barrett said.

“I need to speak with her,” I said, squinting my eyes in hopes of seeing her. I knew she would meet me at my locker room door, but I also knew she would sometimes sit in the stands and savor my team’s victories.

“Is everything all right?” Barrett asked.

“Sure. Sure. I just need to talk with my mother about something. Can I get with you a little later?”

“Is it about that agent she met with?” Barrett asked.

“What? No, something else,” I said.

“Okay. You want to meet at my place?”

“Yeah, after I talk with my mom.”

“Okay, boo. I’ll see you later,” Barrett said as she gave me a peck on the lips and raced off the field.

After facing over fifty
reporters, all with the same “how does it feel?” questions, I headed for the shower. I still hadn’t seen my mom and figured she was at Lowell’s. It was quiet in the locker room, since all my teammates had showered and headed home. As I lathered my body with soap and shampoo, I thought back to my conversation with Coach Watson and wondered why he would lie about recruiting me. I thought back on all the times my mother and I had shared over the kitchen table talking about what college I would attend. We even framed the first letter I had received, from Grambling University and signed by Coach Doug Williams.

My mother had bought a file cabinet especially for the hundreds of letters that came addressed to Brady Bledsoe and would put them in folders with a list of pros and cons of the programs. I kept an online journal that was run in my school newspaper, and the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
even did a story on me when I narrowed my choices down to the five schools I would visit.

As I rinsed my body for a final time, I could picture that file cabinet and all the letters. I remembered the orange and white of the University of Tennessee and Clemson University, and the orange and blue of Auburn University and the Florida Gators, but I knew I had never seen the burnt orange and white from the University of Texas. If the letters really had been sent back, I wanted to know why.

“What are you two
talking about?” Lowell asked. He was carrying a silver platter with a pitcher of strawberry lemonade, chips, and salsa. He sat it on the table in front of the swing on his porch. Lowell had sent me a text after the game telling me to come over and that he had solved my Chloe problem. I didn’t ask how, but I was relieved. For days I had checked the Net scared to death I might see my erect penis staring me in the face.

“What Brady is going to wear to New York if he is invited to the Heisman ceremony,” Mom said.

“Don’t you mean when?” Lowell said.

“Come on, guys. I might not even get invited,” I said.

“Not get invited? That is not going to happen,” Mom said.

“How many players are invited?” Lowell asked.

“Five, I think. It depends on how close the vote is,” I said.

“Then you’re in for sure,” Lowell said.

“I was thinking a three-button black tux and a light green shirt, with a gold tie,” Mom said.

“Yeah, school colors. That sounds nice,” Lowell said.

While Mom and Lowell loaded chips and salsa on plates, I thought back to the game and my conversation afterward with Coach Watson. I thought about how the current process of picking an agent would be similar to my high school recruitment. Maybe Coach Watson had made a mistake, but I still wanted to know what had happened.

“Mom, do you remember ever getting any letters from the University of Texas when I was in high school?”

My mother looked at me, startled. She became so rattled that she dropped her plate to the porch floor and chips splattered everywhere.

“Oh crap,” Mom said as she bent down to pick up the chips. “I’m so sorry, Lowell.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean that up,” Lowell said as he went into the house.

“Mom, are you all right?” I asked. I reached down and took her hand and lifted her up. I looked at her face, and her expression had changed from one of calm to an anguished look I had never seen.

“I’m fine, Brady. I don’t know what came over me,” she said. There was an impatience in her voice I rarely heard.

“So do you remember getting anything from Texas?”

“Brady, why would you ask me that?”

I told her about my conversation with Coach Watson after the game and that he had told me their letters were sent back.

“Why would he tell you something like that? Texas never sent you anything,” Mom said.

“Are you sure?”

“Brady! What did I say?” My mother raised her voice at me for the first time in I don’t know how long. It was obvious my questions about Texas were making her angry, but I didn’t know why.

“I’m going in the house to see if I can help Lowell find that broom and dustpan,” Mom said as she rushed off.