Any Man I Want (23 page)

At the door she turned. “To a b-ball court. Got invited to watch a game.” She opened my front door and stepped outside. “I'll call you 'round noon. Dress accordingly—the court's kinda up in the hood.” She shut the door and made tracks to her car.

I hopped forward, ran to the door, and whipped it open. I caught her fumbling for her keys, thereby foiling her smooth exit. “Excuse me, Miss Thing, did I hear you say we're going to the
hood?
And can you tell me why?”

“Jewellen Rose Capwell,” she scolded with one foot in her new Lexus SUV, “you can't be afraid of your own people.” She shut the door, turned on the ignition, and whipped out of the driveway.

“Oh, sure I can,” I said aloud before closing and locking the door. I walked to the back of my safe little house and turned on my safe little alarm.

As I cleaned away the debris from dinner, I shook my head repeatedly. The hood. Color me snobbish, but I was always scared as hell of the hood. Hey, color me wimpy too. I grew up in Far North Dallas. The farther north the better.

I went to private school with two other blacks in the entire school; that meant in grades K through 12, there was a total of three. After my parents' divorce, I went to public school in one of the richest, whitest suburbs in the city. I thought a fistfight by the bike racks after school was gang violence. Caught a couple kissing under the stairway and I thought that was indiscriminate premarital sex. What did I know? You grow up and realize that the news doesn't tell the whole story, that the Northside was not without crime of its own. I also realized that guns belonged to folks of all color. Nonetheless, I always felt more in my comfort zone north of downtown.

Probably stems from an experience I had when I was sixteen. Just hanging out at a football game on the Southside with some friends. Next thing we know, someone rolls up to do a drive-by and we're literally sprinting for our lives. Spent an hour and a half hiding between a Dumpster and a parked car before we got the all clear. For weeks afterward, I was terrified that one of the shooters had seen my face and was hunting me down. Melodramatic, yes, but also terrifying. Since then, it took a major event and arm-twisting to get me south of downtown.

Don't get me wrong, I hang with “my own people.” I like the music, can speak the lingo, rock the attitude, the whole nine. I can go to a Metallica concert Friday and a 50 Cent concert Saturday and never confuse the two. I watched reruns of
Friends
and
Girlfriends
. I had a lot of black friends but quite a few white ones too. I was equal opportunity.

Even dated one white boy for a little minute until I realized that my natural inclinations simply attracted me to tall Nubian princes, as Renee would say. So what if I met a great white guy and fell madly in love, I wouldn't be with him? Not sure, it would be a decision. Not that any of this matters; it had been so long since I met a male of any color that attracted me, I'd forgotten what it feels like. Apparently it was time I got out and saw what was out there . . . again.

I went upstairs, entered the bathroom, and began pulling out all the various paraphernalia I'd need to resurrect this hair and face before morning. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turned around to look for my intensive conditioner and almond-peppermint mask.

Pausing, I took stock of what I saw. Medium complexion, somewhere between butterscotch and caramel if I was forced to narrow down the color. Features set in an oval-shaped face that has too often been called “cute.” Large brown eyes with lashes that appreciated a volumizing mascara. Button nose and medium-lipped mouth that was a little wider than I would like. Shoulder-length chestnut brown hair parted sensibly on the side. It was currently in need of a trim and a conditioning rinse. Usually curled under and tucked practically behind my ears, which were pierced once and usually adorned with a simple hoop or a diamond stud.

I turned to the side and shifted my shoulders back to see how the silhouette was holding up—5'7” on a tall day. Size 8 from the waist down, 10 across the chest. I inherited my grandmother's body—small bones, top heavy, narrow waist, no hips or ass to speak of, thighs that required weekly aerobic maintenance atop admittedly great calves and size 7 feet. Speaking of feet, it couldn't hurt to touch up the toenail polish and do a quickie manicure.

It was entirely possible that I had let a few things slide during my dating hiatus. How did I let Renee sucker me into this mess? I had about ten hours to turn myself from Hilda the hausfrau to Fiona the fly girl. It ain't gonna be easy.