Pushin' (13 page)

“Are you okay, baby?” I ask, sitting across from Jeremy at the only available table on the small outdoor patio. With the weather being warm, there are more people eating outside than in.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shook up, that's all. And hungry,” he says, taking one of the four large slices and folding it in half before stuffing the pizza into his mouth. I'm hungry, too. “Thanks for being so cool about everything, Jayd,” he says, adjusting his mouth to the hot food without taking a break in his eating.

“We all have shit, Jeremy.” We do, but I don't want to talk about it.

After a few moments of quiet eating, Jeremy finishes the last slice of his pepperoni while I'm still on my first piece. He eyes my barbeque chicken slice and smiles. I guess surfing really works up an appetite.

“'Bye, you two,” Tania says, with her followers leading the way into the busy parking lot, ruining our vibe. Laura's driving her new Mercedes-Benz, slightly inciting the hater in me. These broads around here know nothing about hard work.

The four girls pile into the cute ride with Tania carefully squeezing into the front seat. Her girls look at her, the two in the back holding the pizza and snickering at her large form. I can see the humiliation on Tania's face and it only makes me feel more sorry. But before I can get out the sympathy violin, Tania shoots me an evil glare, slamming the door.

“I should give her a one-finger wave, but I'm too much of a lady for that,” I say, picking up my root beer and taking a big gulp, which results in an even bigger belch. “Excuse me,” I say, making Jeremy laugh. He thinks my body functions are cute. Unfortunately I don't share the sentiment for his or anyone else's, but I'm glad he accepts me just like I am.

“Jayd, don't worry about her front. There's no replacing the real thing,” Jeremy says, reassuring me like the good boyfriend he is. We finish our food and decide it's time to catch the show. My phone vibrates with a text from Rah asking me to braid his hair tomorrow morning. I quickly text him back letting him know he's on my calendar.

“Tell Rah I said hey,” Jeremy says, throwing salt in my work game. And how did he know it was Rah?

“It's not like that,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself. “He wants me to do his hair, that's all.” And Rah's a paying client who always gives good tips. I have to keep business separate from pleasure. I hope Jeremy can learn to understand.

“I'm sure he doesn't see it that way.” I can see Jeremy's not giving this up anytime soon. I have to do something, and fast, to keep this afternoon from going completely sour.

“It's just like you said a minute ago, Jeremy,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “There's no substitute for the real thing. And we are the real thing, baby, no matter who's in our past,” I say, rising from my seat and walking around the table to sit on his lap. I kiss Jeremy on the forehead, the nose, and then his lips, gently attempting to melt away his frustration. Some tricks a girlfriend knows without having to use psychic powers to chill her man out.

I know Jeremy's torn about not being in his child's life. He's already set up a trust fund for the baby and has money sent to Tania automatically every month, whether she wants it or not. In Jeremy's eyes, he's doing the most responsible thing he can. But I know part of him wants more. There's no replacing being there on a regular basis. I already went through that with Rah, and he's spent every day since being back in his daughter's life attempting to make up for that lost time. That's the only hold Sandy's got over him, and Tania has the same thing on Jeremy.

“But this is different, Jayd, and you know it. Rah has this power over you that I don't get.” Jeremy shifts, trying to push me off his lap, but I'm not going anywhere.

“That's not entirely false, but it's not the truth, either.” I know that sounded wrong, but it's how I feel. “It's like Hamburger Helper,” I say, attempting to again bring some much-needed comic relief to the conversation. “Will it fill me up? Yes. Is it convenient? Most definitely. But is it the best thing for me? Not even close,” I say, kissing Jeremy and causing the people around us to talk.

“So you're saying that Rah's the equivalent of Hamburger Helper and I'm what—chopped liver?” Jeremy's so cute even when he's being a smart-ass.

“No. I'm saying that both Tania and Rah are bad for us, and that we, together, are all the healthy nourishment we need.” I think I'm starting to bring Jeremy back to the middle.

“So if we're all we need, then no more Rah, right?” Where is all of this possessiveness coming from? When Jeremy and I first met, he was one of the most secure dudes I'd ever met. Now this Rah thing has got him bugging out.

“I can't lie, Jeremy. He's a part of my life, but I'll never cheat on you. You're stuck with me whether you like it or not,” I say, kissing him on one cheek then the other, forcing a smile.

“Ditto, Lady J.” Jeremy touches the gold bangle he bought me months ago and then looks up at my birthday gift from Rah. Shit. Now we're going back down, and I can't have that.

“We are supposed to be enjoying your victory, not sulking in regret.” I bet now he's wishing he'd gone ahead and gotten as high as possible with his surfer buddies instead of choosing to celebrate with me. I'm bringing his victory high down, and running into Tania didn't help. “It's your night, baby, and I'm your girl, so stop tripping.” Jeremy kisses my nose, then my lips, softly at first and then it turns into one of the most passionate kisses he's ever given me, and I forget all about the fact that we're outside.

“Let's get out of here,” Jeremy says, expressing my sentiments exactly.

“I'm right behind you, baby.” We toss our trash into the bin, ready to leave the restaurant and its drama behind in exchange for a celebratory Saturday night. Being in a real relationship is hard work, but quite rewarding when we're on the same page. I hope Jeremy feels I'm worth the work because I know he is. I'd rather be with my man over Rah any day, and I intend to make sure Jeremy knows it.

W
hen Jeremy and I woke up this morning after a wonderful night celebrating yesterday's victory, he prepared a quick breakfast for us and then we went on with our separate days. Jeremy's going to catch up on his sleep and I'm working, as usual.

It's been a while since I've had the pleasure of braiding Rah's hair; he relaxes at my slightest touch. I take the black plastic comb and part his hair in half. Rah's hair is so thick I don't need to use clips to hold the loose parts in place or on the ends of his braids. The comb won't move as long as Rah stays still.

“Have you been using my coconut oil blend for your scalp?” I ask, doing a careful survey of the work ahead of me. Rah hasn't been taking the best care of his hair, and he knows he can't lie to me about it. Whatever novice he's had up in his hair has not done his crown justice and has just made my job that much more difficult. Now I have to undo whatever she's done before I can work my magic.

“Nah, I ran out. I meant to ask you for some more, but I forgot,” Rah says, resting his shoulders on my thighs. I need to start making him sit in a chair like all of my other clients, but I'm actually grateful to be sitting down while working, for a change.

“You can't forget to use the proper ingredients if you plan on keeping your head healthy, Rah,” I say, vigorously scratching the dandruff patches dominating his once flawless terrain. Even with our issues, as Rah's stylist I have an obligation to keep his hair healthy. Otherwise, how does that make me look? “You can take the rest of this container after I'm done with it. And when you run out, I know Simply Wholesome has something all natural you can use until I get you some more,” I say, reminding him the natural restaurant and grocery market is up the street from his house. Sometimes I miss working there, just for the employee discount. I haven't been back recently but should check on my former coworkers soon.

“I know, you're right. Good looking, Jayd.” Rah allows my comb to heal his head in more ways than one as I lull him into complete submission with my technique. I carefully work through his head, scratching and soothing the tender spots with my oil, eventually massaging his entire scalp before weaving in the cornrows to replace the afro he's been rocking for the last month. I hope he recognizes that my skills are irreplaceable, whether we're getting along or not. Money is the business and I'm a professional. If I can braid up the thugs on the block, I can take care of my boy, even if he's an ass sometimes.

As I finish up the last braid, ready to add the final touch of my new finishing lotion onto my masterpiece, I hear Sandy walking into the quiet house and ruining our peaceful vibe. Shit. I'd hoped I'd be done before the broad got back. I have two more clients this afternoon and no time for her drama.

“Rah, I know you can hear me,” Sandy yells through the front door. “I need help with these groceries and for you to come get your daughter. She's been working my goddamn nerves all day.” Rah shakes awake in my lap, jumping up at her last comment. I know toddlers are a lot to handle, but in my experience Rahima's always a pleasure to have around.

“Stop cussing around Rahima, Sandy. Damn,” he says, unconsciously doing the same thing, even if Rahima's in the other room. Rah wipes his eyes before walking to the wall mirror and checking out his immaculate do. His smile says it all. My job here is done.

“That'll be forty dollars, please,” I say, packing up my tools before Sandy can switch her way back here. The less I see of that broad, the better. Hopefully I'll get to hug baby girl before I go, but not if I have to go through her mama to do it.

“Since when?” Rah asks, taking two folded twenty-dollar bills from his back pocket and handing them to me. “I'm your boy, remember? I thought you couldn't charge me over twenty dollars?”

“Times are hard,” I say, leaving the remaining coconut oil blend on his desk next to his latest music projects. I miss kicking it in his studio, but ever since Sandy's arrival all of that has changed. Rah's house has become tainted by his baby-mama's energy, and our entire crew's feeling the repercussions. When we don't hang out at Nigel's place it's always at some public location.

“Well, in that case, here's an extra ten for the recession,” Rah says, handing me two more five-dollar bills with a smile, and I gladly take the tip.

“Didn't you hear me calling you?” Sandy says, entering the den through the open kitchen door. Speak of the devil in the tight blue dress, leaving very little to the imagination. Where did she go grocery shopping, Hos “R” Us? “Oh, it's you again,” Sandy says, almost snarling she's so pissed. I've learned to park up the block just in case the heffa wants to get creative with her keys on my car. Rahima runs past her evil mother and straight into my arms and I welcome the hug.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” I say, returning Sandy's evil glare.

“Whatever,” she says, refocusing her attention on Rah. “I need to get this food on for Rahima before I go to work, so you need to get the rest of the groceries out of the car,” Sandy says, waving a box of Hamburger Helper and a pound of ground beef in the air. I just had a conversation about that food product last night and I know Rah's not feeling giving his baby that.

Even with his father in prison for at least twenty years, Rah still abides by the strict Muslim diet he and his little brother, Kamal, grew up on. Too bad his ghost of a mother doesn't feel the same, leaving Rah and Kamal to fend for themselves. Luckily, Rah does most of the grocery shopping and cooking for the household since his mother's rarely home.

“That's not food, and you're not feeding that crap to my daughter,” Rah says, following Sandy into the kitchen. This is definitely my cue to leave. I wish I could take Rahima with me, but I have no claim to this little girl, no matter how much I love her. I kiss her on the forehead one more time be fore putting her down. I have a couple of hours before my next client and could use some lunch myself.

“Well, I need to fix her something quick because I've got to be at work in twenty minutes, so unless you have a better idea, this is it,” Sandy says, in full bitch stance. It's sad to say, but I hope Rahima grows up to be nothing like her mother.

“I'll feed her, Sandy. Don't worry about it,” Rah says, taking out all the makings for a healthy breakfast. “You go on to work. And tell my mama that she's got mail here, if she cares.” Looking satisfied but surprised, Sandy walks out of the kitchen, leaving us alone again. How Rah deals with his mother and Sandy both working at the same strip club and driving him crazy is beyond me.

“Fine. I'm out,” Sandy says, slamming the door without even saying good-bye to her daughter.

“I'm sorry about that, Jayd,” he says, picking up his daughter and hugging her tightly. He lets her down and she runs straight over to me. I pick her up, happy for more hugs and notice her hair is also in need of some desperate attention, much like her daddy's was before I hooked him up.

“You mind if I do her hair real quick? I've got a little time to kill,” I say, running my hand over the baby's tangled tresses. Mama would have a fit if she saw this child's neglected head.

“Be my guest,” Rah says, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl and getting it started in the kitchen. I know he'll feed me, too.

I can already see the cornrows I'd like to braid in Rahima's head. If all goes well, she'll be asleep in my lap before I finish the first braid. But that's a long way off. I need to give her hair a good washing and conditioning, and oil her scalp.

“I'm going to need the rest of that oil after all,” I say, heading back into the studio with Rahima. I can wash her hair in the tub back here and really give her hair the proper attention it deserves.

“Damn, I've got to make a run real quick after I finish cooking,” he says, checking his texts. “You mind if I leave y'all here? I'll be right back.” Rah's famous last words. Part of his weed hustling is being on-call like a doctor. I'll be so glad when he finds another hustle.

“Not a problem. As long as you leave the food,” I say, taking my hair tools back out of the bag and setting up shop again. I turn the television to PBS and one of my favorite kids' cartoons is on.

“
WordGirl!
” Rahima screams with a big smile on her face. The girl's got good taste. Next to
The Powerpuff Girls,
this is my favorite cartoon.

“I see y'all are set,” Rah says, placing two plates of biscuits, eggs, veggies, and turkey bacon on the table in front of us. He kisses Rahima on the cheek, wanting to show me the same affection, but he knows not to go there with me anymore. We hug and he's out.

“It's just you and me, kid,” I say to a smiling Rahima, who's already digging into her plate. The fork's almost bigger than her mouth, but that doesn't stop her from eating. She's my kind of girl. Before I know it she'll be cooking us breakfast. I hope her daddy grows up with her and leaves all this street shit behind—crazy baby-mamas, illegal employment and all. Rah can do so much better. I know it's going to hurt him financially for a while, but sacrifice is a large part of growing up, and it's time for us all to cut out the bull so we can thrive.

After finishing our lunch and Rahima's hair, I put Rahima down for a nap and lie on the futon, hoping to doze off for an hour before I have to get back to work. Before I can get too comfy, there's a knock at the door. I try to leave it be since this isn't my house, but whoever it is is persistent, and I have no choice but to answer, even if it's against my better judgment. I look through the peephole and then open the door. They really should consider getting a security screen.

“Hello. I'm looking for Sandy,” an uptight-looking white guy says. “I'm her parole officer, here to check on her.” If he didn't tell me who he was, I would've thought him to be a lost salesman of some sort. There aren't many white people on this side of LA.

“She's at work,” I say. Ain't this some shit? The one day I'm here and she's not, this dude decides to show up. What the hell?

“Well, can you give her this for me, please? She has to be in court on Monday. I've been trying to reach her, but she's not returning my calls and she hasn't come in for her weekly appointments all month,” he says, holding out an envelope. What kind of parole officer is he? With all of those offenses, shouldn't Sandy be back in jail by now?

“Why don't you give it to her yourself. I don't know Sandy like that,” I say, refusing to be a part of the trick's world any more than I have to be. And taking responsibility for her mail is more than I'm willing to do.

“Don't you live here?” he asks. I guess he thinks all black people live in houses with a lot of people. That's true for most of the folks I know in Compton, but he still shouldn't feel comfortable assuming.

“No. I'm just a friend of her daughter's father. This is his house, not hers,” I say, ready to close the door and resume my nap.

“Oh, I see,” he says, looking around, confused. “I thought she—and Raheem, is it?” he says, stumbling over Rah's full first name.

“Yes, it is.”

“I was under the impression that they were engaged, and that Sandy would be living here permanently.”

“Say what?” I ask as Rah pulls up in the driveway, just in time to set the record straight. Somebody's been lying big-time, and I have a feeling he knows nothing about this one, or at least I hope not. Noticing the white man on his porch, Rah jumps out of his Acura with a concerned look on his face. He probably thinks he's a cop.

“What's up, Jayd?” Rah asks, stepping onto the front porch in full defense mode.

“I'm Tucker Benton, Sandy's parole officer. You must be her fiancé, Raheem.” The shocked look on Rah's face says it all. He knew nothing about Sandy's latest stunt.

“Her what?” Rah looks from Tucker to me, dazed and confused. Even though she rarely wears much clothing, Sandy's always got something up her sleeve. “Look, man, we have a kid together and I'm letting her serve her parole out here, but that's it. Sandy and I haven't been together in years.”

“Well, I'm sorry for the confusion, but I am concerned. According to her ankle bracelet, she's been coming in past her approved curfew. Because of her chosen profession we've been lenient, but I can't continue to let her get away with this type of negligence.” Chosen profession? No one chooses to be a stripper as an occupation. They kind of just fall into it—literally.

Tucker hands Rah the envelope he tried to push off on me, officially serving Sandy through Rah.

“She needs to be in court with a good explanation Monday morning. Good day,” he says, walking back to his car parked across the street. Rah looks at the mail in his hand and up at me, embarrassed and pissed.

“Sorry about that, Jayd,” Rah says, following me back inside and closing the door behind us. “How's Rahima?”

“She's fine. Napping on a full stomach and fresh hairdo,” I say. “Where did Sandy get the idea that you two were tying the knot?” I ask. Even if she was way off base, I want to make sure Rah's telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him Jayd.

“Girl, I don't know,” he says, walking to the studio door and checking on his baby. I follow him through the kitchen, seeing the same thing he does: a contented little girl knocked out on the futon, where I should still be. He turns around, wrapping his arms around my waist like I'm still his girl. “You know if I was going to wife anyone up, it would be you,” he says, attempting to kiss my neck, but I'm not having it. I promised my man I wouldn't let Rah touch me, and here we are again.

“Look, Rah, you can't be all up on me like that. You know I have a boyfriend.”

“What the white boy doesn't know won't hurt him.” Rah holds me tighter, now trying to kiss me on the lips. I smack him hard on the chest and wiggle away from him.