Take Her Man Page 18
“Well, I have to get going,” Tasha said abruptly. She put three twenties on the table. “That should cover my portion.”
“What’s wrong?” Tamia asked, looking at me oddly.
“Nothing,” Tasha said, sounding even more distant. Her eyes looked like she was about to cry. “I just have a meeting.” She got up quickly and kissed both of us on the cheek. “Congrats again, girls,” she said and walked out.
“What the hell was that?” Tamia said, taking the check from our waitress.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “You know this baby stuff has her a bit sensitive.”
“But she isn’t even pregnant yet.”
“I know, but I think it’s something else. Something about her own mother. It must be hard to think about having a baby and your mother not being there to see it,” I said. “And when you brought up Los Angeles, she probably got a little upset thinking about Porsche being there.”
“But she hates her mother. She says it herself.” Tamia shrugged her shoulders.
“Mia, something tells me Porsche affects Tasha a bit more than she lets on,” I said, remembering the look on Tasha’s face when my mother had brought up Porsche.
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to do something. We can’t let our friend be unhappy and do nothing about it. She’s about to get pregnant. She can’t carry a baby and have all of this anger built up inside of her. Then she’ll have an ugly baby. You don’t want an ugly niece, do you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, laughing. “We can’t exactly make Tasha forgive her mother.”
“Well, maybe if they spoke to each other, they could begin to sort things out.”
Tamia had a point. Tasha refused to even speak to the woman. Porsche had called Tasha on her wedding day and Tasha just hung up the phone.
“You’re right. But how are we supposed to do that?” I asked. “How are we supposed to get Tasha to agree to speak to her mother for more than one second? If she even hears the woman’s voice on the phone, she’ll hang up. It’s impossible.”
Tamia played with her fingers on the table like she did in class when she was trying to figure something out.
“L.A.!” she said with her eyes widening. “We can set it up for them to meet in L.A.”
“Tasha would never agree to that,” I said. Tamia narrowed her eyes and eased toward the table.
“Who said she had to?”
3T Guy Lie List: Twenty-one Slick Signs of Shammery
Just as sure as the sun will rise in the east and cheap shoes will give you corns on your pinky toes (be careful, ladies), men will lie when caught in a tight situation—and often even if there’s no situation at all. The sad part is that grown men feel that they have to lie in the first place, and the sadder part is that women are put in the precarious predicament of trying to spot a lie. However, there is some good news. Not only are women smarter than men, but they’re also better liars than their masculine counterparts and, thus, more astute at recognizing a bald-faced lie when it rears its ugly head. Sharpen your skills by looking over the following twenty-one signs that your guy may be cooking up a lie.
(Note: Trust your instinct—your factual evidence of behavior mixed with internal suspicion. If you have sincere reason to believe that your guy is telling a lie, he probably is. But don’t spend the rest of your life collecting evidence that seldom leads to truthful confessions. Be prepared to make a change based on the new reality.)
1. If he begins the conversation with statements like “I could lie but…” “The truth is that…,” or the infamous “What happened was…”
2. Silence.
3. A sudden desire to go to the bathroom or leave abruptly.
4. A slight chuckle.
5. Unexplainable sweat on his forehead, underarms, or chest.
6. His story is too elaborate—includes lots of friends, twists, and ridiculous situations.
7. He gets defensive and tries to turn things around on you.
8. It takes him longer than three seconds to answer you.
9. He asks you to repeat your question—he’s really trying to buy time to work on his lie.
10. He keeps asking you what you know—he’s trying to figure out what all he actually needs to confess to.
11. He volunteers a phone number for you to call to confirm his innocence—he expects you to either back down from making the call if it is another woman or he has his lie straight with the woman or his boys.
12. Strong defensiveness and anger followed by statements like, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” or “You need to trust me more and stop listening to your friends.”
13. Walking away or pacing the floor.
14. Constant obliviousness to what is going on in the conversation.
15. He keeps making you repeat yourself in order to convince you that you’re crazy.
16. He can’t look you in the eye.
17. Stuttering.
18. He wants to talk about something else.
19. Giving up answers when you haven’t asked any—he’s come up with such a good/believable lie that he just couldn’t let it go to waste.
20. Crying.
21. He’s lied many times in the past—once a liar, always a liar.
Step Four: Fella’s There’s a Jealous Boy in This Town
“And one, and two, and three, and four, turn, turn, seven, and eight,” I counted, going over a dance routine with Shanika, one of the girls at Kids In Motion. An adorable eleven-year-old with big brown eyes, Shanika was what I would have to call a “challenged” dancer. I swear the girl didn’t know right from left, and that was probably because she had two left feet. Basically, Ms. Shanika had the grace of a chimpanzee in water. I’d had to move her to the back of the studio the first week of class for fear she’d harm someone or herself. Most days she had to stay after class to catch up to the other girls. And that was no problem for me, because while the other students made fun of Shanika, I really enjoyed having her in the class. She worked harder than anyone else did and she took two buses to get to the center from the housing project in the Bronx where she lived.
“No, it’s up with the right and down with the left on the next count,” I said, correcting Shanika’s flailing arms. “Up and down with your right arm on four and then turn.” Bewildered and praying Ms. Shanika would get the move sometime during this lifetime, I looked up at the clock to see that it was twenty minutes after class time.
“Like this, Ms. Smith?” Shanika asked, doing everything I’d said in reverse. She smiled sweetly and did it wrong again. Sometimes the child surprised me with how she could change and rearrange every single dance step I taught her within seconds of me teaching it. But she had determination—I couldn’t deny that.
“Relax, Shanika,” I said, stopping her. “You know it. I know you do. Just think about every step and then let it all out.”
“I just can’t get it. I’m stupid.” She looked at herself in the mirror.
“You’re not stupid and you can get it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You already got it,” she said, looking toward my reflection in the mirror behind her. “And you’re pretty. Not me.”
“What do you mean, Shanika? You don’t think you’re pretty? I think you’re pretty.”
“You ain’t gotta lie, Ms. Smith. I know I’m ugly. Everybody says it. I’m too dark, I got big lips, and I’m ugly. Even my mother says it.”
“What did she say?” I asked, surprised and angry with what I was hearing. It was hard for me to imagine any mother telling her child she was ugly. But really, it was closer to home than I wanted to admit, and I was sure Shanika’s mother was no match for the color whipping Grandma Lucy had put on my mother. “What did she say?” I asked again. Shanika was silent. She just shook her head. “Well, you don’t have to answer that, then,” I said, stooping next to her. She was wearing a pink leotard and matching jazz shoes she
’d had to sell God knows how many chocolate bars to buy last year at our fund-raiser. “But tell me, do you think moms can be wrong sometimes?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Then maybe your mommy is wrong this time. You know why I believe that?” Shanika shook her head no and looked at me with her eyes wide. “Because I think you’re beautiful and I don’t think you’re too dark either.” I turned her back toward the mirror so she could see herself. “I think you’re just right.” It was one of those moments at the settlement that made me understand why I was there and doing exactly what I was doing. I had to hold back my tears because I wanted Shanika to know that I was serious about what I was saying. I wanted her to know that and I wanted my mother to know it, too.
“Now, I need you to believe in yourself, Shanika. Not what anyone else says about you, but what you know you’re capable of. Right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Exactly. Just relax and let it flow. Breathe. I told you that’s what dance is all about—breathe and let it flow from within your center.” I pulled her to the middle of the floor. “Now take a deep breath and take it from one.” I turned on the music and stood behind Shanika in the mirror. “Watch yourself.” The music started and Shanika froze at first, but she caught on at the second count and did the rest of the dance as if she’d choreographed it herself. “Wonderful, Shanika,” I said, turning off the CD when she was done. I bent down and gave her one of the big old bear hugs my father always gave me when he picked me up from dance class. “You looked beautiful,” I whispered in her ear, just as he would have. “Beautiful.”
I heard clapping coming from the back of the room and turned to see Christian Kyle standing in the doorway.
“Wonderful,” Kyle said, still clapping. He stepped into the studio.
“Thank you.” Shanika smiled nervously.
“Shanika, this is my friend, Reverend Hall,” I said, trying to hide my confusion and wondering what in the heck he was doing at the studio. I was supposed to meet him in front of the park at 6 P.M. for the jazz concert. It was only 5:15 P.M. and the last time I checked, the park was over ten blocks away from settlement.
“Hi, Reverend Hall,” Shanika said, flirting with Kyle in her innocent eleven-year-old way. It wasn’t every day that handsome black men could be found walking around the settlement.
“And Reverend Hall, this is Shanika Lewis, one of my best dancers,” I said. Shanika looked at me like I was crazy as Kyle bowed to her. She was smiling from ear to ear and to my surprise, she crossed her legs and did a perfect curtsy for him. Now, I sure don’t remember seeing her do that before.
“God bless you.” Kyle smiled. “You’re indeed a great dancer.”
“Thank you,” Shanika said, running to the back of the room to get her things.
“Don’t run,” I called to her. She grabbed her things and raced back to the door. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Bye,” she said, waving past me at Kyle as she headed out the door.
“Cute,” Kyle said when she was gone.
“‘Cute’? What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting me at the park at six.”
“I wanted to see you.” Kyle looked almost as bad as Shanika with a grade-school crush. His face was sporting a permanent smile and he kept winking at me. The man’s nose was wide open and anyone passing by could see it. I was quite embarrassed for him, but it just the ego boost I needed. But I couldn’t just let it go on.
“Look, Kyle, we said we’re just going to be friends.” I stuffed my radio into a locker at the back of the studio. “I told you I was trying to work things out with someone.”
“Calm down, Troy,” Kyle said, taking my bag from me. “I know about Mr. Tight Suit from the play reception. I just had some extra time before the concert and I wanted to see you teach. So I came down here to try to catch your class.” He looked at me innocently. “That’s it. No strings. I just wanted to see your class.”
I looked Kyle up and down. He had on sneakers and a navy blue sweat suit. He looked so cute and so not like a pastor. I had to confess, if he was mine, I might’ve had to pull a Tamia Library Move in the basement of the settlement. But…then again, I guessed I wouldn’t be doing any of that with the pastor.
“You sure?” I asked, squinting my eyes jokingly.
“I’m sure, Detective Troy.”
“You’re good with her,” Kyle said, walking with me down the street toward the park. I’d told him to meet me at the park after I had a shower at the center, but he’d insisted on waiting for me in the lobby. I swear, it was like my father created this man with his own hands or something. He was every father’s dream. Now, whether he was the daughter’s dream was still up for grabs.
“You think I’m good?” I asked. I loved working with the children, but sometimes I wondered if I was making a difference. Many of the girls were living close to poverty. I knew for a fact that some of my students were in foster homes because their parents were drug addicts, and one girl said her mother used to make her steal food from the grocery store. The oldest girl in my class, Nala, was fifteen and she already had a two-year-old of her own. Some of the girls said they thought her father had gotten her pregnant. Knowing all this, I worried if my little dance class was doing anything for them. Even I knew learning a pirouette wasn’t going to save them from the crap that was waiting for them outside their doors.
“Yeah, you were really patient with her. You seemed to really be listening to what she had to say. That’s worth a million bucks to a kid.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, walking into the park beside Kyle. “I really just try to get them to work hard in the class so they can see what it’s like to work hard at something and finish it.” I pointed to a small canvas bag Kyle had on his other shoulder. “So what’s in the bag?”
“Just a small blanket, fruit and a bottle of grape juice,” he said. “I figured we could sit on the blanket during the concert. Is that okay with you, big head?”
“My head is not big,” I said, laughing although I’d heard that before from different people.
“Please, it’s bigger than all outside. I’m just trying not to get hit.” He ducked playfully.
“Whatever.” I grinned. I mean, my head was a bit larger than others but I liked to call it shapely—that’s how my mother put it when she used to get mad when I couldn’t fit any of the hats she’d bought for me as a kid.
“No, but really,” Kyle continued, “how did you get into the whole service thing? I mean, how does a lady as privileged as yourself get into working in the community?”
“I’m not privileged,” I said. Kyle looked at me like I was speaking French. “Okay, maybe I am a bit more privileged than your average girl in New York.” I laughed. “I can’t say when I started doing service work. I was always involved in little projects when I was in Jack and Jill growing up. In fact, one park clean-up initiative we did was even in Up the Hill.”
“Oh, that stupid newsletter Jack & Jill does?” Kyle grimaced.
“Yeah,” I said. “How do you know about that?”
“Oh, my parents made me do all that J&J stuff, too,” Kyle replied. “I hated it.”
“Well, I started doing service with them when I was young, but I didn’t really start working with kids until I went to Howard and pledged.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t even tell me,”—he backed up and looked me up and down—“Pink and Green all the way.”
“Stop playing, buster. You know I’m a Delta,” I laughed.
“Okay, yeah, I figured that much,” Kyle said, laughing. “I pledged Omega at Morehouse.”
“Really?” I was surprised. Kyle just didn’t strike me as the Greek type. He was just too solitary. “I should’ve known there was a reason you were hanging with my father…one of his fraternity brothers.”
“Yeah, it’s a tradition in my family. Three generations of Omega preachers.”
“It’s funny how that happens,” I said.
“Anyway, my Delta chapter volunteered at a community center in D.C. and one day the director said they needed someone to teach a dance class. I took up the reins since I had been in ballet classes for most of my life, and I’ve been volunteer teaching in different places ever since.”
“That’s great,” Kyle said. “I’ve always said it’s a true measure of a person’s heart when they give even when they do not have to…when no one expects it. That’s like Christ’s love.”
“You’re right,” I agreed with Kyle. It felt odd to have someone bring that up in a conversation on the way to a jazz concert, but he was right. That was one of the things I loved about the church. Free love. Unconditional love. All of us could use that sometimes. Even the fly girls.
Kyle led me toward the area in the park where they usually held the concerts. Even though we were thirty minutes early, people were already crowding around everywhere. Folks had blankets and lawn chairs set up like we were at the beach. There were almost no spaces left.
“So tell me, are you a spiritual person?” Kyle asked, padding through the crowd. “I mean, I know you go to church and that you were raised in the church, but would you consider yourself spiritual?”
“Hmm…” I took a deep breath. That was another odd topic for a jazz concert. No one had ever asked me that, not that I could remember. “You know, sometimes I wonder about that. Like, I do believe. I believe in God, but I don’t think I’m as holy as some of the people I know. I don’t carry my faith on my sleeve, so to speak. I pray every night before I fall asleep and I try my best to see the good in the world…to see the good in people. I truly believe that if more people did the same thing, if more people believed in God, and lived faith-filled lives, the world would be a better place.”
Kyle stopped walking and stepped back to look at me.
“Wow, that was really well put,” he said. “We’re going to have to get you a pulpit…Reverend Smith.”
“Whatever, silly.” I nudged him. “Since you’re such a smarty-pants, where do you propose we sit, Moses?” We’d been walking for a few minutes and I couldn’t see a clear space anywhere.