Ex-girl to the Next Girl (7 page)

I
got a card in the mail to take the exam. Me and Tae went to the test site, and it was a whole lot of people out there.
We ain't never going to get this job if all these people are our competition.
It was old and young, white, Hispanic, Asian, and black. Everybody was trying to get a new job. It was like I was back in school, taking a city or statewide test. I think I did really good; it was really easy. They gave us two hours and I took the test in forty-five minutes. After I finished, I checked my answers twice. Tae was still taking the test, so I whispered to her that I would call her later. I went home and spent some time with Bree.

I walked into the bathroom and I smelled my Paris Hilton perfume—it was strong. “Did you spray my perfume, Bree?”

“No.”

“Don't lie,” I said as I sniffed her clothing. “Yes, you did.”

“Andrea lets me spray her perfume.”

“Brianna, I don't care what Andrea lets you do. You keep telling me what they let you do over there. Daddy has his rules and Mommy has hers. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head down toward the floor.

“Now go get dressed so we can go to the hairdresser.”

I knew how to do Brianna's hair, but most times I left it up to the professionals. It was very thick and long. I didn't have the patience or time to deal with it.

I started going to a new salon not too far from our house. It wasn't the most stylish salon—the hair stylist of the moment didn't work there. I liked the shop because it wasn't a fashion show or car show outside the shop. No “such and such is balling. Look, she mess with the boaw and his car is outside.” Nobody cared what I was wearing, and most importantly, I didn't sit half of the day to be styled. My new stylist, Cece, was about my age and into church. She didn't gossip or ask me about my business, and she didn't mind tackling Bree's hair. Most importantly, my hair always looked great when I left her chair.

I sat in the waiting area and flipped through a
Glamour
magazine. Brianna's face was into her Cheetah Girls book.

“I'm ready for you, Shonda,” Cece yelled across the salon. She was wearing a black cape with her name embroidered on it. Her tattoo with a pair of scissors and barber clippers decorated her arm. Big Cece was in parentheses.

“How you been?” I asked.

“I'm good,” she replied as she pumped the bottom of my chair up with her foot. “Okay, girl, what have you been doing to your hair? When was the last time you had a perm?”

“I put one in myself, like, two days ago.”

“And before that, when did you put a perm in?” she asked.

“Like last month.”

“Shonda, your hair is overprocessed. You have to cut this mess.”

“But I don't like short hair on me.”

Cece was looking and acting like cutting my hair wasn't debatable. I was sure she could just curl it. I didn't want to cut my hair. It was just starting to grow and getting to a multipurpose length. I could get ponytails, wraps, rods. There was no way I was going to cut my hair.

“Cece, I'm not cutting my hair.”

“You have to!”

“How much?” I asked, seeing that no was not an option.

“This much,” she replied firmly with one hand on her hip and the other hand in the form of a large C.

Parting my hair, Cece snapped, “Your hair is overprocessed. You have been putting perms in your hair every month. Your hair doesn't need to be permed that often. And on top of that, you put a permanent black dye in. It is all damaged. It all has to go.”

“You can't save it?” I begged.

“No! It's only hair—it will grow back and this time it will be healthy.” Cece seemed like she was getting irritated by me. She did good hair, so I would have a cute short style. My hair would look like the singer Fantasia. Or maybe like Halle Berry when she wears her hair short. With that, she got to chopping. She said she was making my hair healthy, but I felt so ugly. When she was done she handed me a mirror. I took a look in the mirror and almost cried. I tried to hold back my tears. When she said she wanted to cut my hair I should have got up and left. She slapped some mousse in my two-inch spiked hair and said, “It even looks nice like this—just short and wild.” The other stylists were cosigning for her, agreeing with her that my hair looked good. To me it looked messed up.

“No, I think I'll get it curled,” I murmured as I viewed my hair at different angles in the mirror. Every which way, it looked a fucking mess.

After the hair salon I took Bree to get her nails polished while I got acrylic tips and a pedicure. I looked in the mirror in the nail salon, and my hair still looked ugly. I should have known better.
I don't understand; she does medium-length hair so good and short hair so bad.
But she hadn't mastered the art of short hair because my hair looked a hot-damn mess.

I couldn't let Malik see my hair looking like this. He would laugh at me, then leave me. On my way home I took a scarf and put it over my hair. At every light I glimpsed my hair in the rearview mirror. Luckily, Malik wasn't home yet. I had time to get in the bed and pretend to be asleep before he came in.

 

 

“I thought you went to the hairdresser,” Malik said as he entered the bedroom.

“I did.” I said, acting like I was too sleepy to talk.

“So why do you have a scarf on?”

“Because she messed my hair up,” I said, looking up from my fake sleep.

“You are exaggerating. You always don't like your hair, and then it grows on you. Let me see,” he said as he pulled at the scarf on my head.

“No,” I exclaimed.

“I won't laugh, let me see,” he said.

“No, I'm going to sleep—turn off the light.”

 

 

I awoke and my scarf was off of my hair. I felt around for the scarf and I tried to cover my hair before Malik came out of the bathroom.

“I already saw your hair. It is short. What made you cut it that short?” he asked as he brushed his teeth.

“It was breaking off and she said I had to.” Malik said just what I thought he'd say. Nothing. He didn't say it looked good. He said it will grow back.

 

 

I looked at my hair again on my way to work. I looked like a major butch. I wouldn't be surprised if girls started asking me what was up. I looked so ugly. I just didn't feel feminine or sexy enough. I tried to put some eye shadow on, and I bought some long, dangling earrings, but nothing was making this hair work.

 

 

I had just picked Bree up from Brian's when Malik called me. “Baby, you want to watch the fight at Jarrod's? Then later we can go get drinks?”

“No, Malik. I look a mess,” I said.

“Baby, you look good. It's not that bad—trust me.”

“Let me see if I can do something with my hair. I'll call you back.” I had to do something. I wanted to look good. When me and Malik were out, I liked to look dressed-up and sexy. I liked him to be proud to have me on his arm. I spotted Bree in the backseat, looking at my hair. Then she said, “Mom, won't you get a wig? Andrea—” she stopped before completing her sentence.

“That's a good idea, Bree.” I immediately went to a beauty-supply store in search of a wig. I walked inside and mannequin heads were evenly lined against the wall with expressionless smirks on their faces. Each had a wig set on top of it, ranging from Dolly Parton white-blond to short, curly Afros. I was greeted by a young woman with a long brown-and-auburn wig on. The girl said hello and asked me was I looking for a wig. I told her I was. Then she informed me that I had to buy a wig cap for a dollar if I wanted to try on a wig. I gave her a dollar and then tried on a bunch of ugly, wiggy-looking wigs. Most of them looked synthetic or were too thick. Then I found a basic, plain black wig that looked just like my hair before it was cut. After I left the wig store, I went to pick up a sweater and matching boots.

I dropped Bree back with Brian and headed to Jarrod's house. Malik should have come home so we could have driven in one car. I waited outside in the car until he got there.

“Your hair looks good,” he said as he kissed me. Jarrod had a girlfriend now. Her name was Heather, and she was older. She was a registered nurse dating his bum butt. He had just purchased a duplex. He was living on the second floor and renting out the storefront. He had cleaned up his act a little, but to me he was still a bum. We used to be cool, but now I don't really care for him. I caught him staring all the time. And it was not a lustful stare. It was like I stole his boy away from him. He was probably jealous of the relationship I had with Malik. I didn't know, but it was something up.

We sat and watched the fight. Javier knocked out Palmer in the third round. We drank and played cards for a little while. I wanted to ask Heather her age so bad. I knew she had to be at least thirty-eight. She could pass for about ten years younger. She was thin, but proportioned properly. Nothing was sagging and everything was sitting up. Actually, she made me feel bad, being twenty-seven and looking the way I did. I have never been fat; I am a comfortable size 12, but looking at her body made me want to work out. “I never thought I'd see you settle down, man,” Malik said.

“Hey, all you need is a good woman to lead you right. One day you will have that,” he said as he kissed Heather on the top of her head. I didn't like how he said that. He didn't think I had caught on to that.
Shut up—she's just old, and any man will do. I don't like you, Jarrod,
I thought as I gave him a fake smirk. We stayed for about two more hours, but I had been ready to go.

“I don't think you should drive home,” Heather said.

“We're cool—I do this all the time,” Malik answered. “I didn't drink that much.”

“Okay, be safe,” Jarrod said.

An ambulance was flying past us. Malik barely got out of the way. Maybe Malik had one too many beers. Now I saw what Heather was talking about.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he said. I continued to follow him until we reached the house.

I opened the door and began to undress. I was tired and just happy we made it home safely. I told Malik to bring me something to drink, but he never brought it to me because he was still on the sofa the next morning. In the place I left him the night before.

I
have been keeping in contact with my future prospects. Usually I meet five guys. One doesn't call. I don't like one's conversation, the other one has a girlfriend answer his phone, another has a disconnected number because he didn't pay his bill. And then I'll go out with the last one, but we won't be on the same page. I just won't like him.

I talked on the phone to Quentin once. He called me while I was at work, and I told him I would call him back. Demetrius wanted to take me to dinner today. And I had talked to Jermaine—he wanted to take me out.

Jermaine came and picked me up at my house. He beeped his horn, like, five times before I got to the door. I was a little irritated. His excessive beeping was unnecessary. He had a black Pontiac Grand Prix with silver rims on it. I got inside of it. He seemed a little juvenile. The car had a gray leather interior and smelled like vanilla.

“What's up, Miss Teacher?”

“Nothing, I'm okay,” I said.

“All right, all right. So you ready to have fun?”

“Fun? I guess. Where we going?” I asked.

“I wanted to stop past my man party. Then take you to get something to eat. You okay with that, Mami?” I told him okay and observed his erratic driving skills. He kept riding people's bumpers, then braking hard at every other light. I looked at him and smiled as I put my seat belt on at a red light. When the light turned green, nobody in front of us moved. So Jermaine went around the other cars and beeped his horn. There was a funeral procession riding past. Instead of stopping like a normal person, he began beeping his horn at them to tell them to hurry. Jermaine cut in front of the funeral and then made a wide left turn. I was at a loss for words. How ignorant can you get?

“Did you know that was a funeral line?” I asked.

“It was? No, I didn't know.”
How could he not have known—there were orange stickers on each car,
I thought. But hold up, it gets better.

We went into Erie Lanes, a crowded bowling alley. All you heard were balls rolling. Pins were being knocked over and people were guzzling pints of beer. They were having a beef and beer. Jermaine walked me in front of all these men and said, “Let me introduce y'all to my friend Nadine. She is a teacher. Go 'head, baby, tell them about how you a teacher.” They looked at him like, how did he pull me, and then they started asking me questions.

“What grade you teach?”

“Sixth grade.”

One said, “You know you out with a crazy man.”

Then the other said, “Jermaine can't read—you need to give him some private lessons.”

They all started laughing and drank some more beer. Jermaine came back with beer for both of us. I didn't even like the way beer smelled. I wasn't about to drink it. He then joined in with the jokes. I didn't find any of the jokes funny. The next thing I knew, he punched his brother, whose birthday it was, in the face. His brother walked away without doing anything. That meant to me that he was about to get a gun. I wanted to run and go hide under a table. He came back and I was ready to duck when his brother came back with a busted lip and a wet paper towel held up against his face and said, “Good one. Motherfucker.” Then they all started laughing again. But it stills gets better.

Jermaine was five minutes away from my house, but he insisted that he had to make a stop. He stopped in a 7-Eleven to get something to drink. I hope he wasn't wasting his time buying condoms. Jermaine got back in the car, smiling. I peered into the nearly sheer bag. Sure enough, there was a box of Magnum condoms. I guess he didn't know that our date was awful, and I couldn't wait to get on the other side of my door and be on safe territory so I would never have to see him again. I decided when we stopped past the bowling alley—this was our first and last date.

We pulled off so fast, my body jerked and I couldn't wait to get home. He stopped at the stop sign and I noticed the police behind us. I saw him glance in his side mirror. Then he glanced at his rearview mirror, and at the next light he made a right. He should have made a left.

“Where you going?” I asked.

“Nowhere. I just wanted to shake this cop.”

“What's wrong? Is everything okay?” I questioned him. He was making me really nervous. Was the car stolen? Was he wanted? Did his brother call the cops on him?

“Yeah, I'm good. All my paperwork is cool and legit. I just get nervous when cops get behind me.”

We rode a few more stop signs and I saw the red and blue lights flashing. He pulled over. The cops got out of the car. They flashed a bright light in our faces and said, “License and registration,” to him. I just sat there, being careful not to move too much, but also trying to shun the bright glare out of my face. The cop had one hand on his radio and the other on his gun. He looked around in the backseat with his light. He didn't say anything, he just kept looking. Meanwhile, the other cop took Jermaine's information and went back to the patrol car. The cop on the passenger side with me followed.

“Sorry this had to happen. Cops be tripping on any black man with a nice car. I get stopped all the time.” I wanted to tell him his Pontiac was not all that nice.

 

 

The cop on the driver side came back to the car. Jermaine reached out to grab his license and registration. The cop said, “I need you to step out of the car.”

“Why, man? What's going on?”

“Step out of the car now.”

“I didn't do anything,” he shouted.

“I'm going to ask you again. Step out of the car.” Jermaine looked at me, then got out of the car. They then pushed him up against the car and said he was wanted on warrants for child support and bank fraud. They put him in the back of the wagon. They came back to me and asked me how well I knew him. I told them I just met him. They said I was free to go and I left him, the car, and the cops in the middle of the street. I got out of the car and began walking toward my house. I guess my wish came true: I wouldn't have to worry about Jermaine calling me for a long while.

 

 

I called Toya and told her what happened and she was dying laughing. I then called Demetrius to set a date up for Saturday. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

“Hey, this is Nadine.”

“Hello, hey. I was waiting for you to get back with me. What's going on?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Nothing much.”

“Okay, well, I'm on the other line. I'm going to call you right back. Okay?”

“All right, then,” I said and hung up the phone.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Demetrius.

“I was trying to get off the phone with my pastor,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“Do you go to church?”

“No, not regularly,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I try to get there when I can.”

“When you can? Naw, sis, you got to do better than that. The night I met you, even though I was out in the streets, I still made it to church the next morning.”

“That's good.” I was thinking,
what does that have to do with anything?
but okay.

“Yeah, the Lord's great. Without Him I wouldn't have been able to get through my dark days.”
Dark days
? Now he was really getting interesting, so I had to ask, “What were your dark days?”

“My dark days were when I used to be in the life.”

“What life?” I asked.
He better not be talking about what I think he is,
I thought.

“I used to be gay.”

“Really,” I said as I took the phone away from my ear and shook my head in disbelief.

“Yeah, I believe in being honest with people in the beginning.”

“Well, you got to respect that.” I didn't let him say another word. I disconnected his call and deleted his number out of my phone.

 

 

Two down and one to go. A gay guy and a felon. How nice. I was down to Quentin. I put on a crinkled, sand-colored dress. I met Quentin at the Aston Restaurant on City Line Avenue. Quentin was better-looking than I remembered. No wonder I approached him.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said as he came and kissed me on my cheek. That was different. He greeted me like we were old friends. I smiled. We sat down and had an extensive conversation about his life working as a detective.

“How long have you been on the force?” I asked. He paused and asked the bartender to come over, ordered our drinks, and then he answered my question.

“I have been on the force six years.”

“So, I might feel safe with you?”

“You could.”

We sat and drank three rounds. I kept it light, since I had to get up and go to work the next day. I wasn't tipsy, but I felt very horny. I just wanted to take him home and fuck him, but he was the kind you have a relationship with: good job, intelligent, and so handsome. He could be my future husband. I should have called him first instead of those other two losers I wasted my weekend on. But I didn't know. Quentin was so, so cute. That wasn't the liquor talking, either. I wasn't drunk. I had a few drinks but I wasn't drunk. I wished I was. I needed some excuse as to why I was having thoughts of sticking Quentin's dick in my mouth and just loving him down.

“Look, we can get a room,” I said without thinking.

He seemed surprised. “I don't get paid until Friday and I'm tapped on cash.”

That should have been the moment I said,
Hell to the no
, but I didn't because he had a big dick—it was peeking out through his pants. Our sexual energy was so high. He kept massaging my fingers, the palm of my hand, and blowing in my ear. I wanted him bad. I wasn't paying for a room, so we went back to my house.

A man I just met was in my house about to sex me up and down. I could not wait. He was so gigantic. I could feel him through his pants.
Damn him
. He was playful, slamming his pelvis into mine, simulating a sex act. I wanted him just as much as he wanted me. I was about to explode off of that alone. He pulled my dress over my head and began rubbing my pussy. He licked it raw, but I stopped him. I wanted him to continue to let his fingers tap and massage the lining of my vagina. He played with my body until I reached the best moment of pleasure. No more foreplay, I told him, just stick it in.

He pulled me away from him and put on a ribbed condom. As soon as he put it on, I began kissing him. I wanted it—I needed it now. He placed his condom-wrapped, deliciously thick and firm body in me. I waited for the feeling of pleasure and pain to overwhelm me. I waited. Then I realized it wasn't working anymore. It had deflated. Was I anticipating too much? Because what was presently inside me was not the dick that was trying to escape his pants. This one was limp and weak. He pulled his body out of mine and said, “Um, I can't stay hard with the condom on.”

“Why not?”

“I don't like condoms. Plus, this one is too small. Do you have a bigger condom?”
You not that big
, I thought.

“You can't take it off. Make it work or nothing is going down tonight.”

He removed the condom. Well, that was it. We had to get together another time because this man was out of order and he was running out of time because I was sleepy. He dressed as I yawned, and I told him good night.

 

 

Friday we got together again. Okay, no games. We knew what we came for. We met at the Loews Hotel downtown. I liked this situation. No pressure. I didn't have to worry about him getting comfortable all in my house. We didn't have to rush anywhere, just sit back and unwind.

I met him in the lobby, and after three drinks we were on the elevator, kissing and hugging. He slid the credit-card-like key in the door. The light turned green and he opened the door. Everything was dark. He turned the light on.

I was ready. It was still built up from the last time. The first round. We went round for round. He won the first two rounds and the second I rode him so hard and fast he fell asleep instantly after I jumped off of him. When I awoke, Quentin was already showered and dressed. “You want to get some breakfast?”

“Sure, I'll be dressed in a little bit.”

I went in the bathroom, took a shower, and I felt a little funny. I didn't even think to bring a change of clothes. After I showered I just looked in the mirror and tried to make myself as presentable as possible. I walked out of the bathroom with the same clothes from the night before and he asked was I ready. I told him I was. He stood up and inspected the room. I opened the door and he cupped my butt. I laughed. It gave my body a little tingle.

The next day Quentin called me to tell me that he had a great time and that we had to get together again. We talked for a little while, then he asked me what I was doing.

“Sleep. I have to get ready for work tomorrow. Why?” I said.

“I wanted to stop by and see you.”

“No, it's too late. Just call me tomorrow,” I said. He said okay and that he would call me. That was the last time I talked to him.

 

 

Tuesday morning I was in class. I had assigned all my students two states to research. One student was already finished. They were supposed to draw the state and tell me population, agriculture, and economy. One student had his hand raised.

“Yes?” I said.

“I'm finished, Ms. Clark.”

“Let me see,” I said as I grabbed his project. “Okay, you can do something quietly,” I said. I looked to see if anyone else was done. They weren't. I walked all around the room. I noticed one student reading the dictionary.