The Girl of His Dreams (22 page)

A
t exactly six o'clock, I hear the doorbell ring. I'm standing in front of the full-length mirror checking myself out for the fifth time since I put on this outfit—a pair of black skinny jeans, a red blouse that crisscrosses in the front and ties in the back, and a pair of black six-inch wedge heels—ten minutes ago. It's my third time changing already. And I still can't get it right—my look, that is. Why going out with this boy has me so nervous is beyond me. It's not like he's the only fine boy I've ever gone out with. Still, there's something about him that has butterflies beating all through my stomach. Truth is, I've been half-nervous, half-excited about going out with him since he asked me out a few days ago. And it seems like the last two days just dragged by. But, still...I played it cute and acted like I wasn't beat for him, even when he tried to holla at me after class or if I saw him in the halls. I gave him minimal convo and kept it moving.

I turn sideways, stare at the way my jeans are hugging my butt, then smile. Boys love a girl with booty. And I know I have lots of it. I run my hands along the sides of my head, smoothing out my already perfect hair. I have it pulled back into a sleek ponytail.
Oh my god! I hate my forehead. I shoulda wore my bangs out.
My mom comes to my bedroom door just as I'm thinking about undoing my hair and letting my bangs sweep across this big forehead of mine.

“Miesha, there's a Tone here for you.”

I glance over at her. “Okay. I'll be out in a minute.”

“I didn't know you were going out with a boy tonight.”

I shoot her a look. “Uh, yes you did. I told you two days ago that I was going out.”

“I assumed you meant out with Mariah. Not out, like on a date.”

“It's
not
a date.”

She tilts her head. “Then what would you call it? You're standing in the mirror primping”—she glances around at all the clothes tossed around the room—“and changing clothes until you get the right look you want. That sounds like a date to me.”

I shrug. “Well, it's not.” She wants to know who Tone is. “Some boy from school. Why?”

“I'd just like to know whom my daughter's going out with, that's why.

“What grade is he in?”

I sigh. “Dang, Mom. He's a senior. And he's on the basketball team. Anything else you wanna know, go ask him yourself.”

She lets my attitude go over her head, like most times. “Well, date or not, from what little he's said, he seems like a nice enough young man.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I slide on a coat of cherry lip gloss, then pucker my lips, pleased with my finished look. My mom is still standing in the doorway, staring at me. “What?” I ask, peeling my eyes away from my reflection.

She smiles. “Nothing. I just can't get over how you're growing up. I can still remember the day I brought you home from the hospital like it was yesterday. You were the prettiest baby a mother could ever hope for.”

She walks over to me. Turns me to face her with her hands up on my shoulders, looking me dead in the eyes. “I know we don't always see eye to eye. And I know I'm your least favorite person at times. But I love you. And you are so very beautiful. Don't ever forget that.” She gives me a hug. And I hug her back. She takes a step back. Takes in my wears. “You look perfect. Don't change a thing.”

I smile. “Thank you.” I feel myself getting emotional. It's been a minute since she's said anything nice to me, or since we've gotten along. Lately, all we do is stay at each other's throats. I decide I had better enjoy it while it lasts.

“So where are the two of you going?” she asks, taking this lil powwow of ours to the left. I tell her I have no clue. “Well, wherever it is, I'm just glad to see you're getting out and finally making some friends here. I'll let you finish getting ready. Call it what you want, but I'll tell your
date
you'll be out in a minute.”

She heads toward the door, then stops and turns around. “By the way, he's real cute. There's something about him that reminds me of your father.” And with that, she's out the door, leaving me standing here with my mouth dropped open.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, sliding into the passenger seat of his Acura, then fastening my seat belt.

He grins, flipping through his CD collection. “You'll see when we get there. Tonight, I'm in charge. So sit back, relax 'n' let a man be a man. I got this.”

I laugh. “Boy, boom. You only in charge 'cause I'm letting you
think
you are.”

He turns his head in my direction. “Yeah, a'ight. Like I said, I'm in charge.” I turn my head, looking outta the window, acting like I'm not tryna hear him. “What, you gotta attitude now?” He backs outta the driveway and heads for the highway.

I glance over at him. “Trust. If I had an attitude, you'd know it. I'm chillin'.”

“Cool. That's what it is, baby. Daddy's got you.”

I frown. “I'm not
your
baby, number one. And, number two, I already have a
daddy
. Thank you and good day.”

He laughs, lickin' his lips all sexy-like. “You mad funny, yo. I dig that. But, yo, chill. Maybe I'm tryna make you my baby if you act right.”

“Hahahaha, picture that. Now who's the funny one? I told you before you can't make me nothing I'm not tryna be. So you might as well . . .” My voice drifts as Trey Songz starts playing through the speakers. He's singing “Playin' Hard.” I snap my fingers. “Oooh, this is my jam. Turn this up.” I lift both arms up, snapping my fingers with my eyes closed. I sing along. “Yesssss . . .” He allows me to do my thing for the next two tracks.

When “Pretty Girl's Lie” stops playing, he looks over at me and grins. “Do you know how to love a man?”

I raise a brow. Tilt my head. My father is the only man I love. Boys aren't worthy of my love. Well, I haven't met one who was. They've either lied or cheated or played games. So no. If a boy wants me to love
him
, then he had better
know
how to love me as well. But I don't tell him this. “I've never had any reason to.”

He looks over at me. “I feel you. So what kinda dudes you into?”

I frown. “Why, you putting in an application or something?”

He smirks. “Nah. I already got the position. I'm just waitin' on you to recognize I'm as good as it gets.”

“OMG, you are so full of yourself.”

“Nah, I'm confident,” he says quickly taking his eyes off the road. I stare at him. He's all dipped out in a black, long-sleeved Polo shirt, a pair of baggy jeans, and black and white Lebrons. A thick stainless steel chain with a single diamond in the center of a cross hangs from his neck. His black Brooklyn Nets fitted is cocked to the side, just right. Whew, his swag's on ten. He's too dang sexy for his own good.
But he's a dog
, I remind myself. I shake my head, igging his comment. He laughs. “What, cat got ya tongue?”

For the rest of the ride, we kinda let the music take us through it. I'm not sure where his mind is. And I don't care. But mine is up on the stage with Trey Songz being pulled into him, hip to hip. Another song finishes. I turn my head and stare outta the window, taking the ride in. He takes the Triboro to Bruckner Expressway and it's not until he gets off on exit 8-B that I realize where he's taking me—Sammy's Fish Box on City Island in the Bronx. My mouth waters.

“Umm, what you know about Sammy's, boy? This is my spot!” I say excitedly, remembering how me and my girls would catch the number six train, then transfer to the B-29 bus to come out here and chill. Every Saturday we'd be out here popping mad ish to the cuties and getting our grub on.

He grins. “C'mon now. Don't sleep on me, ma. There's mad ish I know. Stick 'round 'n' I might show you a thing or two.”

“Oh, puhleeeeze.” I say, waving him on. He parks, then gets out and opens my car door. I am surprised when he reaches for my hand and holds it as we walk up to the restaurant. And I'm even more surprised when I let him. He opens the door for me. I have to admit he's being a real gentleman, even though I know he's looking at my butt as I walk ahead of him. I know he can't help himself. It's part of who he is, doggish. Once we're seated, he tells me to order whatever I want. Boom, boo, boom! You don't have to tell me twice. I order the Maryland Lump Crab Cakes for my appetizer, then the Tender Jumbo Shrimp stuffed with King Crabmeat. “And can I have a lemonade, please?”

Antonio stares at me. I ask him if he's okay. He nods. Tells me he's good, then orders the spicy buffalo wings for his appetizer, the Chicken Parmigiana for his meal and a Sprite to drink. I frown.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Umm, how you gonna come to a seafood spot and not order seafood?” He tells me he's not big on seafood like that. I shrug. “Mmmph. You don't know what you're missing, boy. They have the best seafood around, boo-boo.”

He smiles. “Do you, ma. Eat up.” While we wait for the waiter to return with our drinks, we start talking about our plans after we graduate. I tell him I wanna be a fashion designer. That I'm applying to F.I.T., but really wanna go to Parsons. He smiles. “Yo, that's wassup. I can see you being the next
America's Top Model
, for real for real.”

I laugh. “Oh, nooo. I'm not tryna model on anybody's runway. I plan on making the clothes to be
worn
on the runway.”

“Oh, a'ight. That's wassup.”

“What about you? What are you gonna do when you graduate?” He grins. Tells me he's gonna be a professional playboy, or try out for the Chippendales and be one of their dancers. I laugh. “So typical. I can see you doing that, too.”

He laughs with me. “Right, right. But, nah. I'm only effen wit' you. I have a few schools looking at me for their basketball teams.”

“Oh, for real?” He nods. Tells me Rutgers, Syracuse, Penn State, and Duke really want him. “Oh, wow,” I say, impressed. “That's great!”

He nods. “Yeah. But I really wanna go to Morehouse in Atlanta.”

“Then why don't you?”

“Can't afford it. My pops told me from the rip if I wanna go away to school outta state I'd have to get either a full academic or athletic scholarship. Otherwise, I'd hafta stay in state. I have a three-point-three grade point, and I scored an eleven-hundred on the SATs, but I don't think it's gonna be enough for a full academic scholarship, so I'm hafta ride it out playin' ball.”

Oh my god. This boy's fine
and
smart. Who woulda thunk it?
“Wow. So you're not a dumb jock who sits in the back of the class and has his groupies doing his homework for him after all,” I tease.

He laughs. “Oh so that's what you thought I was? Some dumbo?”

I shrug, feeling kinda ashamed and silly for assuming. “Yes, I mean, no. I, uh . . .”

He keeps laughing, clearly amused at watching me fumble over my words. “Yeah, you all tongue-tied now. Admit it, yo. You
assumed
I was ridin' the short bus on four flats.”

I lower my head. Embarrassed. “Oops. My bad.”

He grins. “It's cool. Most peeps seem to think that 'cause I sit in back of the class 'n' goof off. But why you think all the teachers, especially Mrs. Sheldon, dig me?”

I shrug. “Let me guess. 'Cause you're conceited.”

He laughs. “Nah, yo. Because I'm talented on and off the court. And that's fact. Not conceit.”

I wave him on. “Whatever, boy.”

“So, why'd ya parents move to Jersey?”

“Long story,” I tell him, shifting in my seat. “But they split up.”

“Oh, damn . . .”

“Yeah, tell me about it. But, it's whatever. They'll be back together.” I say this, but the longer the clock ticks and the longer my mom stays away, the more I'm starting to think that this time she's not gonna go back to him. And I'm not really sure how I feel about it, yet. “So, what about your parents? They still together?” He shakes his head. Tells me it's just him and his dad. “Oh, wow. Where's your mom?”

“Dead.”

I gasp. As much as my mom works my nerves, I can't imagine not having her in my life. “Oh my god! I'm sorry to hear that. How old were you when she died?”

“Six.”

Without much thought, I reach over and place my hand over his. The gesture is innocent enough, but feels . . .I don't know. Weird. I pull my hand back. “I'm so sorry. I can't imagine not having my mom around. It must be real hard growing up without yours.”

He shrugs. “Nah. I'm good.” He says this without blinking, without showing any kinda emotion. The way his brown eyes darken makes me think he's not as good as he says. But I know enough to not press it. He ain't my man. It's not my problem. And I ain't interested in turning this into a teary-eyed Lifetime series. So moving on. My stomach growls as the waiter returns to our table with a basket of bread. Enough of the chitchat. Right now, all I wanna do is eat.

Y
o word is bond, Cease wasn't lyin' when he said shorty was gonna run a hole through my pockets. I mean. Damn. I know I told her to order what she wanted, but shit . . . I ain't mean order the most expensive dishes up in this piece. She's killin' me, yo! The whole time we talkin' 'n laughin', I'm startin' to get mad nervous as I hear the lil cash register in my head goin' off. Real rap, the only thing I see is me comin' up short and havin' to spend the rest of the night scrubbin' pots 'n' pans 'n' mad dishes to settle the bill. And at the rate we goin', if I'ma bag 'er, I'ma hafta get me a job after school 'cause my allowance definitely ain't gonna be enough to cover e'erything. I only have a hunnid and twenty-eight dollars left and so far—wit' her appetizer and meal, she done already ordered close to sixty-five bucks. But I'm tryna play it cool, front like I drop this kinda paper winin' 'n' dinin' it up all the time. I know I ain't 'bout to let her know that she's the first chick I've ever dropped this kinda paper on. But inside, I'm like,
Who the hell spends almost twenty-two dollars on two lil ol' crab cakes? I thought chicks s'posed to order salad and water and front like they ain't really hungry.
But, nah. Not Miesha, yo. She's tryna eat up e'erything in sight. But damn. She's sittin' 'cross from me lookin' mad sexy and I'm diggin' e'erything about her, so I'm just hopin' she leaves me at least enough paper for tolls to get us back home.

A few minutes later, the waiter brings us a dish of mixed olives and a fresh basket of bread, somethin' they call their famous white Crusty Mountain Bread, wit' some cornbread and a wedge of cheese. I ain't ever had cornbread served wit' cheese and I'm thinkin' I'm not 'bout to try it now. I'ma wait for my wings 'n' chicken parm to come through. So I sit back and watch Miesha grab some bread, then bite into it.

Real rap, I'm glad she's preoccupied wit' stuffin' her face instead of pressin' me 'bout my moms bein' dead. That's a subject I don't like to think, or even talk, about. She's gone, period. So there's nothin' sittin' 'round talkin' 'bout it can do to change that. And I ain't beat for thinkin' 'bout what-ifs either. Wonderin' 'bout what if she was still here ain't gonna do nothin' for me now. She ain't ever gonna come back and that's that.

I blink. Bring my attention back to this cutie in front of me. Her mouth is stuffed wit' bread. I stare as she chews, imaginin' what her mouth would feel like on my . . .

“So, is this s'posed to be a date or something?” she finally asks, stompin' out my freaky thoughts.

“Nah,” I say, smirkin', “it's a mad cool dude chillin' wit' a hella sexy dime-piece, gettin' our grub on 'n' gettin' to know one another. Why, you want it to be?”

She smirks back, slowly shakin' her head. “Nope, not at all.”

“Cool. Then we good,” I say, shiftin' in my seat. For some reason I feel mad nervous bein' 'round her. I feel like I gotta think before I open my mouth to speak in case I say some off-the-wall ish. This ain't me, yo. I always know how'ta flow wit' the ladies, but she got me feelin' like a straight-up square. I lick my lips watchin' her lick her fingers. I wanna tongue 'er down 'n' sex 'er up, but I know comin' at 'er all sideways 'n' crazy ain't gonna cut it. Real rap, shorty got me all off my game. I swallow. The waiter returns wit' our drinks, and appetizers, then bounces. “So what time's ya curfew?” I ask, hopin' we ain't gotta gobble up our food, then run up outta here all fast 'n' crazy. Truth is, I don't wanna rush the night.

“I don't have a curfew,” she tells me, placin' a crab cake on her plate. She cuts into it wit' her knife. “I can stay out as long as I want.”

“Oh, word?”

She places a forkful of her crab cake into her mouth, slowly chews, then says, “Yeah. I do what I want. I'm grown.”

“Yeah, a'ight. That's what ya mouth says.” I rip into my spicy wings. And they got the nerve to be good as hell. Word is bond! “You prolly still get beatin's.”

She laughs. “Ha! Never that. You the one probably still getting whooped up on.” I laugh. Tell 'er I've only been beat twice that I can remember. She tells me her moms stayed beatin' her butt 'til she turned ten.

“Oh, word? Why'd she stop?”

“ 'Cause she got tired of chasing me around the house and hurting herself in the process. I wasn't the type to just stand there and get whooped. If she wanted to get it in, she had to work for it.” She starts laughin'. “By the time she would catch me, she'd be all banged up from tripping and falling, and too tired to do anything but sit her butt down somewhere.”

I laugh, shakin' my head. “So you like bein' chased, huh?”

She takes me in. Damn, she's so effen sexy, yo. The way she's starin' at me got my thermostat on high. She's got me on fire. “I like not getting caught,” she says, runnin' her fingers through her hair, then tossin' her head.

We both just kinda stare at each other, then get mad quiet. We start eatin', smackin' our lips, 'n' lickin' our fingers. Not sayin' jack. E'ery so often she's eyein' me and I'm eyein' her back. I can tell she's feelin' me, too, by the way she's checkin' me. Even if she is frontin' like it ain't no biggie, I know she's diggin' me. All I gotta do is play it cool 'til I get her to fall, then it's game on. I lick my lips. I gotta go to the bathroom, but I can't get up 'til I can calm myself so I don't have her and e‘eryone else lookin' at me mad crazy when I stand up. But I know it's gonna be hard—uh, no pun intended—to be 'round her the rest of the night and
not
be excited.

“So why you ain't got a man?” I ask, shiftin' in my seat, tryna shake all the freaky images runnin' through my head. I take a sip of my soda.

“Uhhh, same reason why
you
don't have one. I don't want one.” She raises her brow, pointin' her fork at me. “Uhh, unless you already have one.”

She says this as I'm takin' another sip of my drink, causin' it to go down the wrong pipe. I start coughin' 'n' chokin'. Soda gushes outta my nose and burns my nostrils. She got me chokin' hard. My eyes start waterin' from all the coughin'. She starts laughin', then asks if I'm okay. When I nod that I am, she patiently waits for me to pull myself together, then asks, again, if I'm all right.

“Yeah, I'm good,” I say, wipin' my nose wit' a napkin. I grab two more napkins and wipe my eyes. “Damn, you tryna kill a mofo. But to answer ya question . . .”

“It wasn't a question. It was a statement.”

“Well, to comment on your statement.
Hell naw
, yo. I don't want no dude, or have one! That ain't my flavor. I don't knock anyone else's flow, but that ain't me.”

She smirks. “If you say so.”

I frown. “Yo, what's that s‘posed to mean? If I say so? That's what it is, yo. Don't clown me.”

She rolls her eyes up in her head. “Whatever. I was only playing with you. Loosen up.”

“Nah, don't play like that. If you wanna
play
with me, I can give you a
whole
lot more of somethin' to play wit' and can loosen
you
up and put a smile on both our faces.”

She balls up a napkin and hits me in the chest wit' it. “You're so disgusting. Is sex all you think about?”

Oh, boy. Here we go, again, wit' this question.
I don't know why chicks stay askin' me this when they should already know the answer. I'm a dude. Of course I always think about it! “Sometimes it is,” I say, grinnin'. “Other times, I only think 'bout it once or twice a day.”

She wants to know how many chicks I've smashed and if I use condoms.

“My numbers are up,” I tell 'er, not to go into specifics. “And, no doubt. I stay strapped.”

She raises her arched brow. “How many baby mamas you have?”

I frown. Shift in my seat. I tell her none. Tell her that I'm not beat for kids. Not now anyway. “So you've never gotten a girl pregnant or had an STD from all the sexing you do?”

Tiffany's voice plays in my head.
“I'm pregnant. And I'm keeping it.”

“Nope,” I push out, pickin' up the last wing on my plate and cleanin' it down to the bone. She eyes me like she half-believes me, but I don't say nothin' more since it's the truth. “No diseases, and no babies, yo. I told you, I stay wrapped. Well, except when I'm gettin' topped off. And she can't get pregnant doin' that.”

She frowns. “Umm, newsflash, boo-boo: She may not get pregnant, but
you
can
still
catch a disease from her doing
that
.”

I know this broad ain't tryna sit here 'n' hit me wit' no sex-ed crap, like I don't know that. But I ain't 'bout to wrap up for that. Brain 'n' condoms just don't mix for me. It's not the same. “Yeah, I know. But I don't mess wit' no dirty broads, yo. I'm mad selective.”

“Mmmph. Selective or not. She doesn't have to be
dirty
to have a disease, and give it to you. If you gonna play, then you need to stay safe. I'm just saying. But, hey, do you.”

“No doubt. What about you? You always play safe? Who you toppin' off?”

She sets her fork down on her plate. “First of all, I'm not toppin'
any
one. Second of all, not that it's any of your business, but
when
I play I
always
play safe.”

I grin. “Oh, a'ight. That's wassup. So I ain't gotta worry 'bout no crazy baby daddy tryna come at my neck then.”

“Not hardly,” she says, grabbin' another biscuit, then bitin' into it. She gotta few crumbs on her lips and I ain't gonna front. I wanna lean over and lick 'em off. I gotta pump the brakes before I start gettin' myself all worked up again. I ask her if she's ever been seeded up.

She frowns. “What in the world?
Seeded up
? Ugh! That sounds disgusting. Never that. For one, I'm not tryna have nobody's kids. And, two, I'm not tryna have my body all jacked up. Anything else you wanna know.”

“Yeah. When's the last time you had
some
?”

“Had some
what?
”

“You know, good lovin'?”

“Okay, I'm done.” She raises her hand up, flaggin' the waiter. “Check, please. It's time to go.”

I laugh. “Nah, nah. C'mon, chill. I'm just tryna get to know you, that's all.”

She narrows her eyes. “No, what you wanna know is if I'ma let
you
get
some
. That's what you fishing for. Keep it real.”

“Nah, I ain't on it like that, yo. I'm just askin'. . . .”

“Asking
what
, if I'm a slut-bucket?”

I laugh. “Nah. You mad funny, yo. I know you ain't doin' it like that.”

“Uh-huh. How you know?”

“I don't.”

“Exactly. You don't. But I'm not. Now,
chaaaaanging
the subject. What kinda TV shows you watch?”

I shake my head, laughin'. I dig 'er style. I ain't even gonna front.

“Well? I'm waiting.”

I tell 'er I'm big on shows like,
NCIS, Criminal Minds, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Nikita, Dexter, The Amazing Race
, and
Survivor
. She tells me she's big on them whack reality shows like
The Housewives of ATL
, that Keisha Cole joint, and
Basketball Wives.

“And I stay clicked on
Project Runway, America's Next Top Model
, and
Scandal
with Kerry Washington. That's my girl.”

“Yeah, she can get it,” I say.

“Annnyway. I looooove Kerry's character, Olivia Pope. She's strong, determined and knows how to handle her scandal.”

I smile.

“What?”

“You mad pretty, yo.” She blushes, smiles back. “Thanks. Now finish your food so I can order dessert.”

I blink, hopin' she's playin', but she isn't. And I hope like hell she don't order the most expensive thing on the menu. But when we finish our meal and the waiter finally comes through, she does just that. Almost eight dollars for a slice of red velvet cake! What kinda ish is that?!
Man, this chick's tryna drain me. And I ain't even gonna get to hit it. Broads!