Playing Hard To Get (24 page)

“Is he going to do anything else?” Tamia asked. “I wanted to meditate but I need help. Isn’t he supposed to be teaching us something? I could be doing this at home.”

“Excuse me,” a woman called from behind, rolling her eyes at the fact that they were talking.

“Peace, sister,” Malik said, bowing his head and turning back to Baba.

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be meditating on…the beach, the rain forest, the mountaintops…I need him to give me something,” Tamia whispered and then as if he’d heard her, Baba jumped up like a man a quarter his age.

“Children, Afrikans, Soul Trekkers, Free People,” he called, his voice more mellifluous, yet also stronger than she’d thought by looking at him. “Your body moves to the sound of the universe. The sound in space. In order to connect with your body, to create new matter, to expel illness and hatred and evil from your body, you have to be tuned in, to be plugged in to the universe. My Baba lived for 115 years because he could meditate to that sound. He cleared his body of illness and evil. Your Baba is eighty-seven and I have walked through the woods, climbed mountains, and brought more than six hundred children to their lightness.”

“Baba?” Tamia repeated, leaning over to Malik and thinking of how amazed she was that Baba was eighty-seven. He didn’t look two days over sixty-five. “Is that his name?”

“No. His name is Peter, but we call him Baba—Babatunde. It means ‘Father,’” Malik answered.

“What is inside of you that needs healing? That needs new matter? We die a little every day. We must replenish those dead cells. We must reconnect with the Creator of the universe. The Creator of all things. We do this by connecting our bodies to the rhythm of the universe.” While he was standing, Baba bent over and hit the gong.

“Ohhmmm,” everyone called out in unison. “Ohhhmmmmm.”

“What?” Tamia said.

“Ohm,” Malik answered her. “It’s the sound of the universe. The sound out in space.”

Tamia looked at him.

“It is!” he said.

“How do you—”

Tamia hadn’t realized it but Baba had walked around the circle and was kneeling behind her.

“Lean into my hand,” he said, cutting her off.

She was about to say no but her back just rolled toward Baba’s hand on its own.

“Ohhhhhhmmmmm,” the class called out. “Ohhhmmmmmmm.”

Not knowing what else to do, and to avoid the fact that she was now laying back on the hand of an elderly man she didn’t know who was wearing less fabric than she had on her bra, she hummed along.

“Ohhhhmmmmmm.”

“You have a broken heart,” Baba whispered into Tamia’s ear. “It has tried to kill you.”

Tamia’s heart flipped in the way it usually did when she’d heard bad news. But this wasn’t bad news. It was just a shock. The truth.

She turned to ask Baba something, but he was already gone—back up at the gong.

“Hey, king,” Ayodele said, gliding into the room as if only air carried her feet. A size two, she was wearing only a knitted bra and mudcloth harem pants—which Tamia called MC Hammer pants. Half of her body was exposed, and Tamia kept thinking she probably had on less clothing than the hookers in the street right outside, but no one said a thing. She sat in the empty space on Tamia’s other side.

“Greetings, Ayo,” Malik said, straightening his back and glancing toward Ayo. Although her breasts were hanging out for all the world to see, Tamia noticed that he looked her right in her eye.

“Ohhhmmmm,” everyone hummed with the gong. Yet Ayo leaned over Tamia and giggled with Malik about something that had happened in the kitchen earlier. And hahahahaha, wasn’t it funny how this and that happened.

Tamia turned and looked at the woman who had shushed her, but she wasn’t doing anything now.

“Why would they put soy sauce on it?” Ayo said, giggling with Malik. “Everyone knows you can’t do that! Right?” She looked at Tamia.

“Oh, Ayo, do you remember my attorney? Her name is Tamia.”

“Oh,” Ayo said. “I thought I recognized your beautiful eyes.” She kissed Tamia on the cheek and it was just enough sweetness to make Tamia know that she’d hate this woman for the rest of her life.

“Ohhhmmmmm,” Tamia droned on with the rest of the people in the room to drown Malik and Ayo out. “Ohhhhmmmm!” Somehow she’d become the loudest and fastest in the room, leading everyone into an unceremonious aria.

“Wait,” Baba shouted, hitting the gong like it was actually the gong show. “Someone is off-key. Someone is out of tune. Someone is not connected with the universe. Who is it?” Suddenly his voice went from African cool to Detroit ghetto.

Every head in the room turned to Tamia.



After thanking Malik for inviting her to the workshop and watching Ayo steal every stare the man had in his soul, Tamia waited around to talk to Baba about what he’d whispered in her ear.

“The sister with the broken heart,” Baba said.

“That’s not funny, you know,” Tamia responded.

“I didn’t laugh.” Baba looked at Tamia. “You have come to talk to me for a reason?”

“Why did you say it? Why did you say I have a broken heart?”

“Do you?”

Tamia closed her eyes as she spoke this time and went along with the conversation on the faith of what she was feeling in her heart.

“I think you know,” she said.

“I do. And I can save you. From yourself. From your death. From what killed your mother.”

“You can’t say that,” Tamia said, her eyes filling with tears as she looked back at Baba. She paused, feeling a need to explain her emotion. “I was born with heart irregularities. The same thing that killed my mother. It almost killed me once.” She wiped her tears. “So you can’t just say that to me. You know? Not if you don’t really know.”

“What do you want me to know, child?” Baba asked, touching Tamia’s heart. “What do you want me to say? You’re a part of the universe. If you want to live, you have to accept that. And if you accept that, you will have to change everything about your life. That’s the only way you will get free. And that’s the only way your heart will continue to beat.” He pressed his hand against her heart one time and released. Tamia felt an energy go through her body. It was arresting and freeing, all at once.

“What if I’m afraid,” Tamia started, “afraid of freedom?”

“That’s not the question you should be asking. The question is if you’re more afraid of freedom than slavery,” Baba said. “If you want to find that out, then join me. Join me on your next step to freedom.”

“I believe in the power of God,” Tamia said, “not man.”

“I don’t have a problem with God. We all come from the Creator. We all return to the Creator. It’s what happens in the middle that matters.”



“Mrs. LaRoche, I am sorry, but I simply can’t make an exception for you. You’re going to need to have someone here to pick you up after the surgery.”

Tasha was glaring at the nurse at Dr. Miller’s midtown office. One of the top plastic surgeons in the country, Miller was every New York woman’s nip/tuck ninja. Three weeks earlier, when Tasha decided she was getting full-body liposuction after doing 250 crunches and nearly putting her back out, she felt she needed a little boost to her Queen Bee plan and called Dr. Miller’s masseuse (a contact she’d gotten from another Knicks wife) to set up an appointment. While Miller’s schedule was full for the next year, Tasha had her consultation the very next day and set up her surgery a week after that. There was no need to wait or contemplate. She knew exactly what she wanted—her old body back. And after meeting with Lynn, she felt even more sure of her decision. Lynn was right; if she was going to work with young people, she needed to understand them—to be one of them. Not this outdated and oversized bag she was becoming. Miller had the pictures and it was time for him to get to sucking and plucking until twenty-year-old Tasha emerged.

“This is New York City, for crying out loud. I don’t need anyone to pick me up. There are fifty cabs waiting outside to take me wherever I want after my surgery,” Tasha responded, looking at the nurse as if she was grasshopper on her arm.

“I’m fully aware of what goes on outside of the office,” the nurse said sternly. “I know what goes on inside it, as well. And one thing that is going to go on is that you are going to need someone here to take you home after your surgery or there will be no surgery.” While Nurse Hopkins had been a sweet, tight-mouthed Catholic girl from Connecticut when she’d started working at Dr. Miller’s office six years ago, she’d been dealing with demanding Gotham girls for too long now to take Tasha’s crap. This was nothing. Ivana Trump once demanded to have a Papillion in the room as she had her lip injections. That woman had a mouth on her—and she wasn’t even speaking English. “Did you read the presurgical guidelines you were provided?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…and how many people does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” Tasha asked. “It’s a man with a freaking vacuum, sucking the fat out of my gut…and my butt…and my back and legs, and wherever else he finds it.” Tasha rolled her eyes and looked down at her purse, considering whom she could call with this. While her normal cellmate,
²²
Troy, wasn’t too far away in Harlem, she hadn’t told her about the surgery, for fear she’d try to talk her out of it. In fact, Tasha hadn’t told anyone about the surgery—Lionel included.

Tasha looked up and the nurse was looking back at her, clearly unamused with the exchange.

“Do we need to reschedule your surgery?” she asked with a voice so impersonal one would think she hadn’t handled a cup of Tasha’s urine just days before.

“No…I need this today,” Tasha said. “Damn…Look, now, what time do you get off? Maybe you could be my ride? Or you could take off and I could pay your salary for the day. I could pay you double.”

There was no crack of concern in the nurse’s face. Susan Lucci had tried that once.

“Do we need to reschedule your surgery, Mrs. Laroche?” the nurse repeated.

“No need to do that, Danielle,” someone said and Tasha watched as the nurse’s stern eyes went from her to someone behind Tasha and softened quickly. “I’ll handle it. I’ll have my driver come up and take her wherever she needs to go.”

Tasha turned and Charleston was standing there smiling.

“Charleston,” Tasha said. “What are you doing here?”

“Tasha, you know better than to ask such a thing at a doctor’s office.” Charleston’s voice was as confident as the green and black argyle sweater he was wearing. It was past ugly, but both he and Tasha knew it was Ralph Lauren Purple, so there was an exception.

“Well, you’re dating my girl, so I feel it’s best that I ignore being politically correct and get straight to the point.”

“Fiesty, Tasha.” Charleston chuckled. “I love it. You should tell
my
girl to pick up on that. I like a fighter.”

“No need for her to jack my style. If she needs a fighter, she has me.” Tasha’s grin was a full knockout.

“Touché.” Charleston smiled and looked at Tasha’s thighs. He’d always loved strong women, the ones who challenged and were bent on putting him in his place. It provided ambitious arguments and amazing sex. While it was hard to come by this with the women he dated and slept with now, as most were so busy vying for his love they were too afraid to challenge him, it kept him in his car, riding down to the projects to pluck-a-cluck.
²³

“So, what’s your poison?” Tasha asked again.

Charleston looked at Tasha dimly.

“Look, two sinners can’t meet in hell and not talk about the devil.”

“A little Botox up top.” Charleston pointed to his forehead.

“Botox? Your skin is perfect.”

“Isn’t it?” Charleston grinned. “My kind of black really don’t crack…but it sweats. And a sweaty man doesn’t cut it in my field. Something about an attorney sweating all over himself that puts people off.”

“Well, just because people know you’re lying doesn’t mean they want evidence,” Tasha said, laughing. “So, the shots stop the sweat?”

“A little poison and I’m as dry as an unsatisfied woman,” Charleston said. “Speaking of unsatisfied women, what’s up with your girl?”

“My girl?” Tasha looked confused but both she and Charleston knew he was talking about Tamia.

“Tamia,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, Tamia.” Tasha tried not to say anything to push the conversation about her friend forward. Answering any questions or telling any tales could lead to disaster. The 3Ts were good for gossip, but certainly not about one another…well, only in special cases…and only to another T.

“She’s been a little distant lately, avoiding me and…” Charleston admitted, looking at Tasha, but she didn’t budge…until he added: “and it’s a shame, because I was about to lock it down.”

“What?”

“I was about to ask her to marry me.”

“Marry you?”

“Yes, we’re in love and that’s what two people in love do.” While almost no one who knew Charleston would guess that he was telling the truth, he actually was being honest. If Tamia was correct about one thing during her rant about Nathaniel marrying Ava, it was that men like Charleston and Nathaniel marry in packs—once one got a ring, the others followed (reluctantly or otherwise). And as Charleston pondered Nathaniel’s upcoming nuptials during a warlike game of racquetball at the gym, he decided it might be time for him to get married. With his last single friend jumping the broom, soon folks would become nosy, rumors might start, or he might accidentally get the wrong woman pregnant and have to save face by marrying her. Point: Tamia was the most decent woman standing, he loved her, she was a team player, and she didn’t ask too many questions. It was time to buy a ring.

“Really?” Tasha asked, thinking about the new client Tamia had been all bug-eyed about. “Have you told her?”

“Of course not. It’s a surprise. I need a ring first.”

“A ring for Tamia? Oh, that’s easy—the Jean Schlumberger Bud Ring with the pavé setting,” Tasha blurted out as if she was recalling a grocery list. While she thought the Tiffany selection was cliché and dated, it was perfect for Tamia’s whimsical, classic taste. As the two had shopped for wedding gifts for Troy, Tamia picked out the ring and nearly cried when the jeweler insisted she give it back.