“I know. Nobody gives me a hard time with that. Doesn’t hurt that most of my friends in Detroit are older anyway.”
I looked up at him, my eyes narrowing. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen. Got held back in eighth grade. So I’m past wanting to get the hell out of high school.”
“I hear that. What about after you graduate?”
“I’ll sponge off my parents my whole life, being from a rich family and all.”
“Spare me.”
“Okay, my real answer is, I’m gonna be a chef. It’ll take years to make a name for myself in the industry, but once I do, I’ll get some investors and open my own restaurant. Most of the top chefs own or at least partly own their restaurants. That’s how you make the real money and how you get creative control.”
Wow. He’d really thought this through.
I could see it now: Valienté, the hottest restaurant in Manhattan, with a waiting list several weeks long and everyone dying to catch a glimpse of the gorgeous chef.
Oops, he was still talking. “. . . fusion, Caribbean, Japanese. I want to get good at everything before I specialize.”
“You can practice on me anytime.”
He answered with a grin, and I blushed. I hadn’t meant it that way, but I wasn’t sorry he took it that way either.
The waitress came back with the drinks. I took a long sip of mine. It was so good, it didn’t need alcohol.
“Try some,” I offered.
“Sure.” He pulled the straw toward him and sipped. I watched, mesmerized, as the strong muscles in his throat swallowed. He was using my straw, I thought dreamily. I wouldn’t share my straw with just anyone. It was sharing DNA after all.
Eric made a face. “That’s way too sweet. Tastes like Kool-Aid.”
“Sweet isn’t a bad thing.”
“Try my beer.” He slid it in front of me.
I took a tentative sip from the bottle. “It’s not bad, for beer.”
“I love it. In Mexico, they leave the worm in it. You hungry?” He looked at the menu.
“I think I’ll have mozzarella sticks.”
“I’ll have the nachos grande. We can share.”
He flagged down the waitress and ordered, then said, “What were we talking about? Oh yeah. You got a plan after graduation?”
“Lately I’ve been thinking about psychology.”
“I could see that. I’d drop some cash to lie on a couch and tell you my problems.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m here right now. You can tell me for free. You never told me what kind of trouble you got into in Detroit.”
“Damn, you don’t let up, do you? Okay, then. I’m here because I got into a few fights and got too many suspensions.”
“You don’t seem really aggressive or anything.”
“I mind my business. But when I see people going after my friends, I don’t walk away.”
I frowned. “Who can blame you for sticking up for your friends?”
“Everybody can. At my school, it didn’t matter who started the fight—if you’re involved, you get suspended. After three suspensions, they put me on academic probation. Mom had enough.”
“That’s horrid.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I was glad to come to Brooklyn. I couldn’t stand her being on my case.”
“How are things with your dad?”
“They’re cool. He knows I’m an adult, lets me do my thing. But it’s only temporary, living with my dad. As soon as I get the money, I’m moving out. You get along with your dad?”
“Yeah. He’s like yours, I guess—lets me do whatever I want. He trusts me.”
“My mom never trusted me. She thought I was always looking for trouble.”
“She’ll realize her mistake eventually.”
“I hope so.” He paused, then a smile touched his lips. “You know, if somebody’d told me I’d meet a girl as smart and cute as you in Brooklyn, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“I never expected a guy from Detroit would be so sweet.”
“A lot of things about me might surprise you, Divine.”
I stirred my daiquiri, not sure what that meant, but loving the mystery.
Eric:
i had a great time today
Julia:
not better than i did
Eric:
when can i see u again? friday night?
Julia:
i cant its a girls night at melishas
Eric:
girls night . . . thats wat girls do when they dont have boyfriends right? u dont have to go do u?
Julia:
im not gonna ditch my friends
Eric:
props 2 u. saturday night then?
Julia:
i think i can swing that. better check my schedule :)
Eric:
how about i come over n make u dinner?
Julia:
that would be great!!
Eric:
ur dad wont be home will he?
Julia:
he usually works saturdays and spends the night at his gf’s. wat u dont wanna chill wit my dad?
Eric:
at some point sure but right now i want u all 2 myself
Julia:
wat r u getting at?
Eric:
just wat it sounds like. would be cool to be alone . . . don’t u think?
Julia:
yeah but . . .
Eric:
im no dog . . . well ok every guy is . . . but u dont have to worry im not gonna pressure u to do anything u dont wanna do. thats not just talk its the truth.
Julia:
thanx eric. means a lot. anyway u wouldnt have much luck if u tried
Eric:
lol i got u divine
GIRLZ NIGHT
Crap, I left the chips at home.” I buzzed Melisha’s crib.
“I brought three bags of Doritos,” Q said. “They’ll be from both of us.”
“Thanks.”
Melisha buzzed us in. We caught the elevator as the door was closing. A couple of baggy-pants homies caught a glimpse of Q’s chest and looked at each other. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, Yeah, I know my friend’s a hottie. They smiled gold-toothed smiles as if to say, You ain’t bad yourself.
I wondered how Eric would feel if he saw me smiling at these guys. He didn’t seem like the jealous type. But I wouldn’t mind if he was a little bit jealous.
Melisha’s place smelled of spicy Caribbean cooking—today I guessed jerk chicken. Shared by Melisha and her mom, the crib was small but made cozy by brightly colored throws and cushions.
The girls’ night agenda was always the same:
Gossip.
Junk food.
Guy talk (also falls under gossip category).
TV watching.
And gross talk (sentences starting with: The most disgusting thing I ever . . .)
When we came in, the girls were watching Chapelle’s Show on DVD. Q squeezed in between Marie and Vicky on the couch, and I sat cross-legged on the carpet.
After laughing so hard we almost peed, the guy talk started.
Vicky started us off. “C’mon now, who’s the hottest guy in school?”
“Sean Avila,” Marie said. “It ain’t even a question.”
“Oh, right.” Vicky giggled.
There were nods all around. A junior at our school, Sean Avila was the kind of hot that made you look three times. You could dream about him but you could never have him. And it’s probably better you didn’t have him, because he was a big-time drug dealer.
“I got a new Sean story!” Melisha said.
Marie rolled her eyes. “We heard it a thousand times already. It ain’t even a story.”
I perked up. “I didn’t hear it.”
Melisha licked her glossy lips. “So it was Tuesday afternoon and I was late for class. And who do I run into the basement hallway?”
“Mr. Finklestein?” I teased.
“Don’
t be a wiseass. Sean, of course. Just strolling along like it’s a nice sunny day instead of a dark, stinking basement. And I’m not sure if I should look at him or not, because you know, we don’t really talk or anything. So I just give him a little smile, and then he says, ‘Hey, shorty.’ ”
I waited for the next part of the story until I realized there wasn’t one.
“Did you hear that? He called me ‘shorty’!”
I smiled. “That’s cool.”
“It’s because he don’t know your name,” Marie said. “Went to school with you for half your life and he don’t know your name. And now he’ll never know because . . .” She paused way longer than she had to. “He got kicked out!”
We gasped.
“It’s true,” Marie said. “Schmidt’s been trying to get him out for a long time. He finally got his way.”
We looked at one another, speechless.
Breaking our moment of silence, Melisha said, “It’s so unfair!” By unfair, I figured she meant the fact that she might never see him again—not the fact that he’d been kicked out.
“Okay, let’s get back to business,” Vicky said. “Who is the hottest guy at school now that Sean got kicked out?”
“I think Ben Rice’s the hottest senior,” Q said, “but not according to Julia.”
I smiled.
“Eric’s too skinny for me.” Marie grabbed a handful of chips. “I bet he don’t even have an ass.”
I almost spilled my soda. “He’s not skinny at all. And he does have an ass. You should look for yourself!”
The girls burst out laughing.
Okay, I’d overreacted.
“I’m playing!” Marie said. “But I’ll have a look next time I see him.”
“Go on and look,” I said, “as long as you don’t touch.”
“I’d never touch your man. Anyway, Black Chuck’s gotta be one of the hottest guys in school.”
“If you’re feenin’ for him, you should go for him,” Vicky said.
Marie snorted. “Yeah, right. A Blood Bitch with a Crip nigga? I’d get the shit kicked outta me. And I’d deserve it too.”
Their attention was grabbed by an episode of Cribs in which Lil Wayne gave the cameras a tour of his New Orleans mansion. As I sat back and munched on chips, I fantasized about living in such a beautiful house. I could afford it because I was an award-winning poet. Maybe I’d be married to world-famous chef and restaurateur, Eric Valienté. . . .
Melisha nudged me with her elbow. “Well?”
“Hunh?”
“Who is the last person you’d ever sleep with at South Bay?”
Apparently the gross talk had started. “Mr. McLennan,” I said. “His belly’s so huge I want to prick it with a pin and see if it pops.”
They enjoyed that.
“I’d say that cafeteria monitor.” Q twisted her mouth. “What’s his name? The one with the horrible teeth?”
“Ughhh!” came from everyone.
“I wouldn’t let that man touch me for a million dollars,” Marie said.
“I’d pay him a million dollars to stop him from touching me.” Vicky shuddered.
We’d had this conversation, or some variation of it, about a million times already. Most of the time I wouldn’t care, but I’d passed up a night with Eric for this.
I wondered what he was doing right now.
* * *
About twelve thirty, Q finally called her mom to pick us up. A good thing since I could have conked out any second on the fuzzy carpet.
Q’s mom didn’t like her riding the train or bus too late at night, so she usually came to get us. My dad didn’t like it either, so he gave me a cell phone. Unless the cell phone had a switchblade function I hadn’t discovered, I doubted it would be much help against an attacker. But I was glad to have the phone, and bought myself some pepper spray just in case I had an attacker who wouldn’t wait for me to dial 911.
As we waited for her mom to buzz, I texted Eric.
ON MY WAY HOME. MISS U. SLEEP TITE.
Q didn’t need to ask who I was texting. She just smiled a knowing smile.
When her mom showed up, we hopped in. I liked Louise Stairs. She was a hard-ass, but she could giggle like a little girl if you caught her in the right mood.
My phone vibrated against my hip. A text message from Eric!
MISS U MORE. MEET ME NOW UNION SQ/16 ST OUTSIDE COFFEE SHOP PLEEZ BOO!
Meet him now?
It was ridiculous. A no-brainer. It was way too late. I was already on my way home.
My fingers were poised to text him back.
He did call me boo.
Forget it. I wasn’t so hungry for an Eric fix that I needed to see him right now.Who was I kidding?
I wrote: U CRAZY OK IM COMIN W8T 4 ME. I fired off the message.
“Could you drop me off at the F train, please?” I asked Ms. Stairs.
“Why?” she and Q asked at the same time.
“I’m meeting Eric in the city.”
“You’re insane,” Q said.
“It’s almost one o’clock,” her mom added.
“Yeah, but I already said I would.”
“Text him back and tell him you changed your mind,” Q said.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ll be taking the train home in the middle of the night and it’s dangerous.”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“You know how much that’ll cost?”
“I got it covered.”
“Have you heard of those cabbies who drive girls to the wrong place and rape them?”
“Q.” We were getting close to the station. “You can drop me off just up here.”
For a second I thought Ms. Stairs might say no, but she stopped the car. “Just be careful, Julia.”
“I will. Thanks. ’Night!”
I shut the door. Swiping my MetroCard, I went to the underground platform to wait for the train. It was cool that Q cared so much, but sometimes she overdid it. She was the one who had to follow the strict rules, not me.
I tapped my foot waiting for the train to come. I wasn’t tired anymore. The thought of seeing Eric was like a shot of caffeine to my bloodstream.
SPOKEN WORD
I saw him first, standing with his hands in his pockets at the top of the stairs.
He saw me second, flashed me a smile.
When I got to the top of the steps, he wrapped his arms around me. “I been dying to see you, Divine. I couldn’t wait till tomorrow night.”
“Actually tomorrow night is tonight.”
“True that.” He grabbed my hand. “Where do you wanna go?”
“Anywhere.”
“Anywhere you can get in.” He laughed. “I know a place.”
And he did—a softly lit lounge with comfy couches and earthy tones, its walls spattered with local artwork. Call it a mix of bar and café, with a chill clientele and music low enough you didn’t have to shout. There were no doormen to ask for ID, but after we found seats Eric went up to the bar by himself, just in case they felt like carding.
I told him to surprise me, and he brought back glasses of red wine.
“Vino Italiano para Miss DiVino.”
“Thanks. I love this place. How’d you find out about it?”
“Dad used to take me here when I was visiting. In the daytime it’s more like a café. They’ve got great hot chocolate.”
I sipped the wine. It was damn good, not that I knew anything about wine. I couldn’t believe I was at a place like this, all arty and sophisticated. I should’ve probably felt weird with these elegant Manhattan twenty-somethings around, but with Eric by my side, I held my own.
I’d noticed girls eyeing him since the moment we got here. But then they figured it out: Eric’s with me.
“So what were you doing tonight?” I asked.
“Nothing much. Played some pool with Black Chuck and his homies, then got something to eat. How was your girls’ night thing?”
br /> “Same old. I was distracted, I guess.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Oh yeah? Why?”
I shrugged, trying to hold back a smile.
“Distracted in the same way I been distracted?”
“Maybe.”
Our eyes fused, and we both felt it. And it wasn’t a maybe.
My eyes drifted over the low-lit room, the stylish people talking, the paintings on the walls. I checked out a painting near my head that looked like blood splatters against a white background. Price tag: three hundred and fifty dollars.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Eric said, following my eyes. “I could do that blindfolded.”
“For sure.” I angled my head. “I’m sure the artist would say it’s got some deep meaning. All I see are blood splatters.”
“Do you? I thought it looked like juice that dripped on a white floor.”
“Are you saying I’ve got a sick mind? Look how red it is.”
He grinned. “You watch too many movies. Blood ain’t that red most of the time. It’s dark and thick like black cherry juice.”
“I guess I won’t ask how you know.”
“Yeah, no point.” He looked back at the painting. “So you write, huh? Poetry? How’s that going?”
“Good.” I almost mentioned the Writers’ Club contest, but decided not to. It would be embarrassing if I wasn’t one of the winners. “I like to play with words, put things in different ways.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I write sometimes too. Usually stories in verse. My English teacher thought I should enter this contest.” He shrugged.
“Well, did you?”
“Nah. She wanted to mess with my stuff, so why bother?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with letting somebody change a few small things. All writers and poets have people who do that.”
“That’s not the type of thing I mean. She said she wanted to make it better, but she really wanted to change the whole meaning of it.”
“How did she want to change it?” I asked.
“Well, I wrote this story called ‘Peep,’ about a guy walking the streets one day and everything he peeped.”