Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (6 page)

“OK,” I agreed, my heart pounding.

I felt scared and excited about the prospect of kissing Celeste. I was in the mood to be daring. What the fudge, I was twenty-one and graduating.

Celeste wasted no time in plunging her lips onto mine. I felt my body tingle as I tasted her tongue. I kissed back, and my heart suddenly felt open and full. Our lips finally parted. I gazed into her midnight-blue eyes. Wasn't it natural to have warm feelings for Celeste? She wasn't a lesbian, she was just my friend. And being high had just made me want to be closer to her.

Celeste interrupted my thoughts. “Let's push our beds together,” she suggested.

I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows. “Huh?” I asked, unsure of what Celeste had in mind.

“It's our last night together. I just want to be close to you, that's all.”

“OK,” I agreed, thinking about how much I'd miss Celeste after she returned to France and I went back to Chicago.

We were lying side by side in the dark in our nightshirts. I was wearing panties, unlike Celeste. She seldom wore panties; she didn't believe in them. I was barely breathing, even though we weren't touching.

“We should've pushed our beds together a long time ago,” Celeste giggled.

Suddenly, I felt her bare toes against mine. I froze as her flat, cold foot rubbed against my ankle. I was afraid that Celeste's foot might go too far. Don't be ridiculous, I told myself, she's not that way. The weed is just making you paranoid. I decided to breathe.

“Your foot is cold,” I complained, trying to hide the fact that Celeste's toes were beginning to make my body tingle.

Celeste withdrew her foot. “I'm sorry,” she apologized.

Now you made her feel bad, I told myself. Why are you pretending you didn't like having your foot touched? You're only human. You need affection just like anybody else. And what could be more innocent than playing footsies? So, just relax. Quit making everything sexual.

“Celeste”—I swallowed—“give me your foot, I'll warm it up.”

I bravely rubbed my toes against Celeste's foot until we both felt warm.

“We've got a big day tommorrow. We'd better get some sleep,” I said, turning over on my side. “Good night.”

“Thanks, Mademoiselle.”

“You're most welcome.”

“Sweet dreams,” Celeste mumbled.

Graduation itself had been rather boring. The best part was grinning with my parents, grandmother, and brothers afterward.

“I do declare,” Grandma exclaimed, after posing for a picture with me holding my diploma. “I dare you to mention a subject now that Jean doesn't know something about. I dare you,” she repeated while the rest of us laughed. I knew enough to know that I had a lot to learn about life that wasn't in a book.

My parents beamed when I introduced them to Sharlinda and Today in their black caps and gowns. I was also excited to see Celeste when she waved her cap with a peace symbol on it. But I decided not to subject her to Mama's scrutiny when I noticed the raggedy jeans sticking out from underneath her gown and her worn, Indian-style sandals. When Celeste starting walking toward us, I knew I had to head her off.

Celeste hugged me and groaned. “Graduation was so fucking boring! I wished I'd had a joint.” I was glad that my family wasn't within earshot. Celeste and I hugged each other goodbye with tears in our eyes. We'd already exchanged addresses and promised to keep in touch.

“Think of me when you're in San Francisco. Say ‘hello' to the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Think of me when you're back in Paris. Tell the Eiffel Tower I said ‘hello.'”

I'd been offered a job with a newspaper in Monmouth, Illinois, but I'd postponed my decision until after my trip. Who could think about Monmouth, Illinois, when they were planning a trip to San Francisco!

In the meantime, reality had set in within the walls of our caramel-colored bungalow back in Chicago. My bedroom had never looked smaller. And Mama, who was only pushing forty-five, looked tired. Her job as a bank loan representative had once been a source of pride. But now she dragged in from work like an old cleaning woman. My father had gone from being a janitor at the hospital to a clerk at the post office. He occasionally complained about the pressures of the job, but most nights he just sat in front of the TV and drank beer until he fell asleep.

I couldn't get over my little brother Kevin coming in at two in the morning, smelling like reefer with his cute, baby-faced self. Kevin had the nerve to call himself a player. He seemed only to want to party and have a funky good time. I could hardly use the phone to plan my trip because he was always on it, talking to one of his fast girlfriends. But if nothing else, Mama was proud because at least Kevin didn't go for white. All the pinups on his bedroom wall were black.

“Kevin doesn't even go for light,” Mama had marveled. “Every girl he's introduced me to has been brown-skinned, not a high-yellow one in the bunch. The only thing a white girl can do for Kevin is tell him which way a black one went,” she'd said proudly at the coffee hour after church this morning. Mama's words soothed every woman in earshot who worried that white women were taking all of the good black men.

After church I followed David into our dark, cool basement. He had to duck his head going down the stairs. It was a relief to be out of the blazing hot sun. David and Daddy had built him a room down here. It had a door and everything. David called it the cave. I thought that was an appropriate name for the hideout full of dirty clothes, record albums, and empty beer cans. I suppose it looked all right when David turned on his black light and you noticed every speck of dust glowing in the dark instead of the clutter.

I'd just finished telling David about Mama bragging on Kevin at coffee hour.

“It's easy for Kevin, he's not a basketball player surrounded by white girls smiling in his face like I am at Iowa State,” David said, sipping a beer.

I nodded as I looked for a place to sit down. I threw David's old funky sweatshirt on the bed and settled into the old bean-bag chair.

“Kevin's not under the kind of pressure I'm up against,” David continued.

“Poor baby. All those white girls grinning up in your face. It must be hard.” I pretended to play a violin. “What's a brother to do?”

“Come on, Jean,” David whined. “Cut me some slack.” He tossed me a can of beer.

“David, you know I'm not gonna really bring out the violins for you.” I popped open the cold can. “There are too many sistahs sitting home alone on Saturday nights.”

David pulled an album from the rack. “This is in your honor, Stevie.”

David played Santana's
Black Magic Woman
on the stereo.

“Whoopey do do,” I answered sarcastically, between sips.

David turned on his red lava lamp. “How's this for atmosphere?”

My eyes were drawn to the flow of the red mixture inside the lamp. A person could be hypnotized by it.

“Stevie, didn't you ever cross over in your four years at college?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I went on a few dates with a couple of white dudes.” I remembered Jeremy on the school newspaper. He was a stone hippie, love beads and the whole bit. We'd seen
Easy Rider
at the Student Union together. Afterward we'd hugged. I liked Jeremy, but he wasn't big on soap and water. He was overdrawn at the funk bank. So, I'd turned my attention toward a brother named Skylar.

“Did you ever kiss one?”

I remembered Daniel, this white dude I'd gone to dinner with while traveling with the debate team. Outside my hotel room, Daniel had pressed me against the wall and forced his tongue inside my mouth. I had to fight to get away from him. Daniel hadn't kissed me, he'd attacked me.

“No,” I answered. Then I remembered my French kiss with Celeste. But that didn't count because she wasn't a man.

“Would you ever be involved with a white dude?”

“I don't know, it would all depend on how I felt.”

“I heard that. Let's get high with my bong. I've got some dynamite weed, Jamaican.”

My eyebrows shot up. “David, you get high down here?”

He nodded, producing a wide glass tube.

“Mama and Daddy would kill you if they knew.”

“Look, Mama and Dad have their own problems. They're tired and worn out. All they want is a little peace these days. They don't look for things to get upset about. Hey, as long as I burn some incense and stuff some towels underneath the door, everything is cool.”

“You don't think they suspect?”

“Sometimes people see what they want to see.”

“Yeah, that's true,” I agreed. “You know, bro, I don't want to end up like them.”

“I don't want to end up miserable either.”

“I appreciate all the sacrifices they've made. But it's like I never remember them
ever
being happy,” I added.

David sighed as he went to fill the bong with water.

4

The night before our trip, I was almost too excited to fall asleep. Sharlinda, Today, and I had looked over the brochures and finally agreed on a small, romantic-looking hotel that was supposed to be a stone's throw away from Nob Hill. I was enchanted by the fog, cable cars, steep hills, and Victorian houses that I read about in my tour guide. I imagined San Francisco to be more like a foreign city than an American one.

Sharlinda, Today, and I cheered as our 747 took off under partly cloudy skies. I said a prayer as we rose high above Chicago. I was nervous. I'd only flown a few times with the debate team. And we'd encountered turbulence on our trip to D.C. last year. I didn't even mind that Sharlinda had talked us into letting her have the window. I was sitting on the aisle, but that was OK. I'd get to see plenty, once I got to San Francisco.

We'd already planned a deluxe bus tour tomorrow that would include Chinatown, Twin Peaks, Golden Gate Park, Fisherman's Wharf, you name it. Sharlinda wanted to go to Alcatraz Island and see the prison where Al Capone and the Bird Man of Alcatraz had served time. But Today and I thought it would be too depressing. I said I'd rather see the giant redwoods, and Today was more interested in walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. Too bad we weren't rich, 'cause then we could go down the coast to Monterey and Carmel. I'd wanted to go there ever since I'd seen the Clint Eastwood movie
Play Misty for Me
. I also wished we could afford to go wine tasting in the Napa Valley. I had champagne tastes; too bad I was on a beer budget.

“Honey, you need to put your seat in its upright position for landing.” The stewardess' soft, husky, southern accent interrupted my thoughts. I looked into the face of a sistah. It was nice to see a black stewardess in the friendly skies. Her rich color reminded me of the inside of a chocolate truffle. Celeste had given me one from her box of Valentine's candy last February.

“Sorry,” I said, “I forgot.” I felt embarrassed that I might have made this sistah's job more difficult. But I didn't regret the opportunity to look into her soft brown eyes.

“You don't have to be sorry.” She patted my shoulder reassuringly. “It's my job to keep you safe.” I moved my chair up, but I hated to see the stewardess go. In those few seconds, she really made me feel taken care of. I caught myself checking out her sleek figure as she moved gracefully down the aisle.

“Look at the sunset. It's beautiful,” Sharlinda exclaimed as our plane descended over the San Francisco Bay Area.

“Yeah, it's gorgeous,” I agreed, craning my neck to see the hills and water and sky tinged in shades of orange.

“Enjoy your stay in San Francisco.” A blonde stewardess smiled at the front of the plane as we exited. I thanked her, but I was disappointed not to be able to say good-bye to the sistah.

Suddenly, I heard her velvety voice. “Is the Bay Area your home, or are you visiting?”

“We're on vacation.”

“Well, have fun.”

“Thank you,” I smiled.

“Stevie, you haven't heard a thing I've said, have you?”

“Huh?” I asked Today.

“I was asking you what I should wear Saturday night. Remember, we're going out with my cousin Brian and two of his friends.”

I felt ashamed that I had been grinning up in the stewardess' face when Today was nice enough to have set up a hot date for me.

“I'll help you pick out something to wear when we get to the hotel,” I promised.

“What about you, Stevie?” Sharlinda asked as we walked through the terminal. “What are you going to wear?”

“I don't know,” I answered. But I realized that I hadn't even given it a minute's thought.

The hotel was a disappointment. It was old and plain. The creaky elevator took forever to get from the first floor to the third, and the hallways were a dingy yellow.

“It sho' ain't the Ritz,” Sharlinda said as we walked into a nondescript room with gold draperies and brown plaid bedspreads that looked straight out of the fifties. The canvas cot could've come from an army surplus store.

I plopped into a chair. “Well, how much time did you plan to spend in the hotel room anyway? I mean, I came to see San Francisco.”

Today and Sharlinda each sat on a bed. Surely they didn't think I was going to sleep on the cot for a week. I looked around the room at the small dresser and chest of drawers. I hoped there would be enough space for all of our stuff. It was suddenly important to me to stake out my territory.

“Let's see if we even have a view.” Today sighed, jumped up and peeked through the draperies.

“Well? So, do we?” Sharlinda asked while I counted the drawers in the dresser.

“Yeah,” Today answered. “We have a view of the side of a tall building.”

“I want a damn refund!” Sharlinda shouted. “Everybody is supposed to have a damn view in this town. Today, how did your aunt steer us to this dump?”