Hoodie (9 page)

“I guess I could come over today, too,” she said. “I mean, that’s if you’re not busy. I know you’ve got that new job.”

“I don’t start ‘til next week,” he said.

A thought occurred to her. “How will you get to work? I mean, since you don’t have a car.”

Anton laughed. “Girl, you ever hear of public transportation? Man, what am I sayin’? ‘Course you haven’t. The bus line don’t go anywhere near yo’ house.”

“Whatever,” she replied, trying to brush him off. How could she ask such a stupid question?

“I’m just playin’ with you. You know that.”

“Do you want me to come over today or not?” she asked.

“Sure. I mean, whatever. If you want,” he said trying to sound casual.

Emma placed her hands on her hips and looked up at him. Her eyebrow was raised in a question, and he knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until she heard him say it.

“Yes, Emma, I want you to come over today,” he said.

She turned to leave and he followed after her.

“You gonna give me a ride home, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied, picking up her speed to beat the tardy bell.

Anton stopped following her and watched her disappear into a classroom at the end of the hall. Just then the bell rang, and he couldn’t remember what class he was supposed to be in.

***

They had been working for nearly an hour sharing childhood stories and trying to decide if anything was worth including in their paper when a knock sounded at the front door. Anton excused himself and left the room.

Emma went back to her work, hearing the low murmur of voices in the living room. Suddenly a head appeared in the bedroom doorway.

“Oh, you wasn’t jokin’,” a boy said. He wore a red bandana around his head and sported a small gold stud in his left nostril.

Anton pushed past him into the room.

“Emma, this is Nate,” he said, sitting back down on the floor. Nate remained in the doorway.

“Hi,” Emma said, placing the novel on the floor.

“Hey,” Nate replied disinterested. He looked over the papers and binders surrounding Anton and Emma. “So you ain’t comin’ then?” He directed the question to Anton.

“Man, I told you I can’t,” Anton replied. “And anyway, it’s a school night.”

Nate burst out laughing. “So when that make a difference?”

“Look, I ain’t even tryin’ to screw anything up right now. I’m about to graduate, man. And so are you, by the way,” Anton said.

“You so dumb, Anton. There gonna be college girls there!” Nate said. “And liquor. Free liquor. And if we lucky, maybe some weed.”

“I don’t care. I got work to do.”

“Man, fuck you. How you gonna be worryin’ about school so much? You turnin’ into a damn goody-goody,” Nate replied glancing at Emma.

 “Don’t give me shit, Nate. Nobody tellin’ you you can’t go. Go. You don’t need me there,” Anton said.

He picked up his book and started reading. It was a clear message that the conversation was over.

“Fine man. Whateva,” Nate said and trudged out of the room.

Anton waited for the front door to close before he spoke.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said shaking his head slightly.

“Do you want to wrap this up? I mean, if you want to go to the party or whatever it is,” Emma offered.

“Girl, you crazy. We just got started. And no, I don’t wanna go to some lame ass party. I know where this party is and I know who throwin’ it, and lemme tell you somethin’: there ain’t gonna be one college girl there or any weed neither. And the only liquor gonna be some cheap ass shit that make you sick after one swallow. I kept tryin’ to tell him that, but he don’t listen. Dumb nigga.”

Emma was taken aback. It was the only other time she heard him use that word. The first time he said it he was referring to himself and was terribly angry. Now he said it with nonchalance.

He looked at her. “What?”

“What? Nothing.”

There was a moment of silence in which they both pretended to read. Anton used the time to figure out how best to broach the touchy subject of the “n” word with Emma.

“Look, I’m black if you hadn’t noticed,” he said finally.

“Where did that come from?” Emma asked.

“You gotta stop makin’ them big eyes every time you hear me say things like ‘nigga.’ You be lookin’ like a deer in headlights all the time.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just hard to hear. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why? You ain’t the one bein’ called a nigga,” Anton pointed out.

Emma cringed.

“See! There you go again,” he said.

“I’m uncomfortable because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to it. I mean, I don’t get it. It was used as a derogatory remark. I don’t understand why you call each other something that racist white people used to call you,” she said, and then after a thought added, “Actually, some still call you that.”

Anton considered her remarks.

“Well, it’s like this. We could either keep lettin’ racist white people use it in a mean way, or we could take the word away from ‘em. So we took it and we turned it into somethin’ different. Now we use it to show solidarity.”

Emma’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, you think ‘cause I’m poor and black I don’t know words like ‘solidarity’?” Anton asked teasingly.

“I didn’t think that. I thought you as Anton wouldn’t know words like ‘solidarity’,” she replied. She smiled at her cleverness.

“Oh, you funny,” he said running his forefinger up the sole of her naked foot. She had taken her flip flops off at the front door when she arrived and was now sitting Indian style on his bedroom floor. She jerked her foot away.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned.

“Oh, you ticklish?” he asked, putting his novel down and moving towards her.

She drew her knees up to her chest planting her feet firmly on the floor.

“It won’t be my fault if you get hurt,” Emma said. “I’m serious. Don’t tickle me.”

He ignored her, wrapping his large hand around her right calf and tugging gently on her leg. She remained stiff, using all her might to keep her foot planted.

“So you like to joke,” Anton said. “But you don’t like when the joke’s on you.”

“That’s not true,” she argued.

He gave up pulling on her leg and instead put one arm under her knees and the other around her back picking her up swiftly and neatly depositing her on his bed. He trapped her feet in the crook of his arm and watched her squirm wildly. Her toenails were painted a bright cherry red, he observed, and her feet were soft and callus free.

“How you have such pretty feet? You not do nothin’ like exercise or run or play no sports?”

“I just got a pedicure,” she said, still trying to free herself from his grasp.

“Of course you did. Why didn’t I think of that,” he said amused.

He flashed her a devilish grin.

“Please, I’ll do anything. Do not tickle my feet. I’ll die. I will die,” she pleaded.

“You’ll do anything?” Anton asked, unable to hide the sexual excitement in his voice. He had her trapped on his bed, vulnerable to him, and he knew the game was becoming a little too dangerous.

“Anything,” she said, not noticing the lust in his tone. “Just please don’t.”

He ran his fingers softly over her sole and listened with delight as she screamed.

“I want you to say I’m fine,” he said. “That I’m the flyest brotha you ever seen.”

“I’m not saying that!” she said, and then squealed when he assaulted her foot once more. “Okay, okay! You’re the flyest guy I’ve ever seen!”

“See now, I don’t believe you,” he teased. “I want you to look at my face and tell me that.”

“Okay,” she said defeated. She looked him in the eyes. “Anton, you are the flyest guy I’ve ever seen.”

He smiled at her, feeling the rush of something warm and electric in his heart, and released her feet. She punched his stomach with one, and he doubled over.

“Shit, girl! That hurt!”

“Serves you right, you butthead,” she snapped, getting out of his bed and returning to the floor.

“You right, you right.”

He rubbed his stomach while watching her resume her work.

“Butthead,” he mumbled chuckling, and went to sit beside her.

They worked for several hours before she left. He never thought he could have so much fun doing a school assignment. He had given no thought to the time, his friends, what he would be doing had she not been there. It was as if the world outside of his bedroom disappeared. Nothing was important apart from sitting on the floor with her, talking about a novel, getting to know each other, teasing her.

He couldn’t believe with what ease he was beginning to open up to her, sharing everything about himself—everything from his favorite music to his spirituality. She found his beliefs surprisingly incongruous with the way he acted. He described his diet to her; most of the foods she’d never tasted. He couldn’t believe she’d never had fried okra. He would have to remedy that. She would stay for dinner one night, and he’d get his mama to make it. He was sure she’d never want to eat another thing in her life after tasting his mama’s fried okra.

The sun was setting, and he was reluctant to see her out. He wondered what kind of bedroom she went home to. He imagined that it was very large. He was sure she probably had her own T.V. and computer. That was a given. He wondered if she kept it organized, or if she just tossed her panties wherever. He shook his head to rid the thought, but once the image entered his mind, he could think of nothing else. He watched her pull out of the parking space thinking all the while of the panties she wore and where she would take them off and toss them when she got home. He went back to his bedroom and closed the door.

CHAPTER 6

THURSDAY, APRIL 22

Anton watched her during history. He had given up caring about that class months ago. She appeared to be listening. She wrote things in her notebook. Did she really care about this shit, he thought? His friend leaned over and whispered something to him. He stifled a laugh, and it drew her attention. She looked at him and then his friend. They both smiled at her—enormous grins—and she was uncertain if the joke was on her. She smoothed her hair and looked down to make sure none of her shirt buttons had come undone. She wiped at her face thinking that perhaps she had something on it.

They laughed again, and this time the teacher spoke.

“I had no idea that the judicial system was so funny, boys,” Mr. Cantinori said. “Do share. We all want to be in on the joke.”

“Sorry Mr. Cantinori. It ain’t about the class,” Anton’s friend replied. “We was reminiscin’ about the old days, you know? Being seniors and all, we just realize how much we gonna miss this place.”

Emma couldn’t help but think how full of shit he was.

“Well, Kareem, you haven’t graduated yet,” Mr. Cantinori pointed out.