Chasing Butterflies (27 page)

N
either Miss Peaches or Omar is here. No surprise in that. They’re never here. Well, Omar, more specifically, isn’t. Miss Peaches pops in and out randomly. And when she
is
in, all she wants to do is talk about Omar. She says he’s just a friend. However, she acts like she wants more from him.

All I keep thinking when I look at her is,
Good luck with that.

He is in no position to give her anything.

Heck. He’s not in any position to be anything to anyone.

I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

But she’s a nice lady; and, seemingly, a good friend to Omar. And I can tell she really cares about him. And the fact that she’s taken me in, too, means a lot.

Speaking of Omar, he sent me a text stamped at six forty-three this morning saying he had to make a run, but would be back sometime this afternoon.

Ha!

It’s already close to five o’clock.

And he’s still not back.

Luckily for me, I’ve learned quickly not to hold my breath, or I’d end up suffocating in disappointment. The last several days, Shawn has made it his mission to keep me company, like now.

Every so often words are exchanged between us. However, even in the quietness, it feels nice to not be alone, physically.

Shawn has offered me his kindness.

Shown me compassion.

Something no one else here has offered me.

Not once.

And I take it willingly, and with great appreciation.

“So you definitely outta here in another week, huh?” Shawn wants to know.

I nod. “Yes.”

He stretches out his long legs again. “I feel you. You should stay, though.”

I shake my head. “I don’t belong here. There’s nothing here for me.”

He stretches out his arms. “Yo, what am I? I’m here.”

Nice. But still not one of my besties. I lower my gaze, then apologize. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just miss my life back in California. I want my daddy. I know he’s gone. But I just need to be closer to him.”

“Nah, you good, ma. I know what you meant. I’m only effen wit’ you. I know ish is mad hard for you bein’ way out here. So I definitely feel you. But on some real ish, yo. Until you ready to bounce, you got me, a’ight?”

I half smile. “Thanks. That’s really, really sweet of you.”

“It’s all love. I know you gotta do you. But I’m sayin’, yo. I might have ta come out ’n’ check for you one of these days.”

That makes me smile wider. “You should. It’s really nice. You’ll love the weather.”

“Oh, word? Is that all I’ma love?”

I shift in my seat. A nervous energy sweeps through me again. Everything about this boy screams all kinds of trouble.

Good trouble.

Bad trouble.

Double trouble.

I’m not—um, how did Sha’Quita put it?

I’m not about this life.

No, no.
That
life.

Yeah, that’s it. And I’m not.

Shawn glances at his watch. “Aww. Damn. Yo, come take a ride wit’ me.”

I eye him as he stands.

I blink.

Stare at his outstretched hand.

“Umm, ride?”

“Yeah, real quick.”

I shake my head. “Uh-uh. I’m
not
getting on”—I point over at his shiny motorcycle—“that thing.”

He laughs. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“No. I don’t
trust
being on that bike.”

“But you can trust
me
.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t know you.”

“Oh, word? It’s like that? After all we’ve been through together in the last”—he glances at his watch—“three days, thirteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds. The snot ’n’ tears, the laughter, the—”

I put my hand up to stop him. “Okay, okay. Point made. Still . . .”

He shakes his head. “You really think I’ma let sumthin’ happen to you?”

I shrug. “Maybe not intentionally.”

He places a hand over his heart. “I’m crushed, yo.” He pokes his lips out, feigning a pout. “But it’s all good, yo. I see how you move. Get all emotional, lean on my shoulder, blow snot on my sleeve—”

I laugh. “Ohmygod. Stop. That’s emotional blackmail, you know.”

He grins, shrugging. “Nah. It’s me remindin’ you of all the snot you got on me. I’m still plucking boogers off me.”

Now I’m laughing through my embarrassment. “
Ill
. Gross. I did no such thing.”

“Yeah, a’ight. Maybe not snot, but you coulda ’n’ I woulda been cool wit’ it.”

He extends his hand out again. “You owe me.”

I groan. “Oh, God. You’re still going to hold my moment of weakness over my head, aren’t you?”

He grins. “Yup.” He motions his hand in a come-here motion.

Hesitantly, I acquiesce.

He takes my hand and lightly tugs to pull me up.

I stand.

I grab my bag and shoulder it, then give him a puzzled look. “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says, pulling me along.

I snatch my hand back. “No, thanks.” I sit back on the step. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Trust me, ma. You’ll like this one.”

There goes that word, again.

How can I trust him, when I’m not sure if I can
trust
myself being somewhere alone with him?

He glances at his watch again. “C’mon, yo. You makin’ us late.”

I glance back at the house, fidgeting. Fighting the urge to throw caution to the wind.

But what do I have here?

Nothing.

What reason do I have to sit around doing nothing?

None.

Omar is off doing whatever it is he does when he’s gone for hours,
days
, at a time.

Miss Peaches is working her shift at the bar.

And I’m here.

Alone.

Shawn eases his helmet on over his head, then mounts his bike.

He looks so, so . . . rugged.

And, and . . .
sexy
.

What is it about this boy?

He turns the ignition, and the Harley roars to life. “You comin’, or
nah
?” He extends a hand.

“This is against my better judgment,” I say over the engine’s low-pitched rumbling as I nervously climb up on the back of his bike.

“Live a li’l, mama,” he says, before shutting the visor of his helmet.

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his waist. Mold myself to his back.

And hold on for dear life.

Breathe, Nia. Breathe . . .

T
hirty minutes later, we’re pulling up in front of a two-story redbrick building. Shawn turns off the engine, shifts the bike backward, and the kickstand engages. He waits for me to climb off.

I’m so, so . . . breathless.

I shudder.

That was so much fun.

I felt like I was flying.

“Ohmygod, that was . . .” I shake my head, shifting my bag from one shoulder to the other. “So exhilarating.”

Shawn removes his helmet and grins. “You like that, huh?”

I nod.

“Stick wit’ me, ma. I’ll have you ridin’ it like a pro.”

Something about the way he says that, the double entendre lingering, causes me to blush.

“C’mon.” He reaches for my hand and leads me toward the door. My hand gets lost in his, but I don’t mind. “You ready for your surprise?”

I nod, allowing him to lead the way.

The minute we step over the threshold of the storied bohemian space, there’s a welcoming vibe that makes me feel connected. Instrumental music greets us. Coltrane. Immediately, I melt into a zone of excitement and high anticipation, followed by nostalgia. My heart skips a beat when a Roy Ayers song starts streaming through the large speakers on either side of the stage.

I practically gasp.

“Everyone Loves the Sunshine” is one of Daddy’s favorite songs.

Without thought, I sway a little and hum along, remembering how Daddy would sing this, and I’d laugh at how horrible he sounded. But that never stopped him from tearing up every note.

Shawn glances at me and grins. “Yo, what you know ’bout that?” he asks, leaning into my ear. “That joint’s before ya time.”

“I’m an old soul,” I say sheepishly.

“Yo, me too. I grew up listenin’ to this kinda music. But I’m sayin’ . . . I know you a poet ’n’ all, but do you dig open mics?”

Open mics?

My face lights up. “Ohmygod! Is this where you’ve brought me, to an open mic? I love open mics!”

He grins, wrapping an arm around me. “Cool, cool. I figured you needed some poetry in ya life.”

That word
poetry
is like music to my ears.

Beautiful, sweet, soothing music; something I’ve longed for.

Something I so desperately need.

“Ohmygod, you have no idea how bad,” I say as he holds my hand tighter and leads the way toward the tables. We settle in our seats to the left of the stage just as the emcee—a mocha-colored guy with oval-framed glasses wearing a white T-shirt with a huge black fist in the center of his chest and a pair of army fatigues and black Timberland boots—steps up to the mic and welcomes everyone.

Bright lights bathe the stage.

“Check. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Poets’ Corner. Tonight we have twenty poets who are about to grace the stage. Remember the house rules: Be respectful of time. Each poet has three minutes to do his or her thing. There’s a five-dollar penalty for anyone who goes over. Got it?”

“Got it,” the crowd says in unison.

“A’ight. Give it up for Sunshine, from Brooklyn, New York.”

The crowd claps.

I lean forward.

She’s breathtaking.

Her burnt-orange–colored hair is worn in a wild, woolly afro. Large hoop earrings adorn her ears. She’s wearing a white ruffled midriff top, showing off her pierced navel, and a pair of hip-hugging low-rider jeans.

She steps up to the mic and says, “I’m eighteen and I’ve been through a lot . . .”

An astonished hush falls over the crowd.

“I’ve seen a lot. And I’m done licking self-inflicted wounds. I’m done settling for less than what I’m worthy and deserving of. I’m done making excuses for my own self-imposed misery, and everyone else’s. I’m no longer slashing tires, or balling up my fists to take it to another chick’s face. She can have him. You see, I’m taking on a new fight. Not with my fists. Not with my heart. But with my intellect. I’m letting go of people who are not worthy of me. Letting go of no-good boyfriends. Letting go of jealous friends. Letting go of family members who silently hate me . . .”

“Speak!” someone cries out.

“So tonight’s piece,” she says, swaying ever so slightly from side to side, “is a celebration of my ever-changing self. It’s called ‘Here I Am.’ I hope you like it.”

She’s already captivated the audience long before she starts to read. When she finishes her piece, the room erupts into thunderous applause filled with lots of whistling.

Even I stand, clapping and stomping and finger snapping.

“Yo, she killed that ish; word is bond,” Shawn says when I finally sit back down in my seat.

“Yes, she did,” I say, feeling every nerve ending in my body coming alive. I’m almost feeling like myself again.

Almost.

I thank Shawn for bringing me here, for freeing me, if only for a short while, from my own painful reality.

“No doubt, ma. It’s all good.” He wants to know if I’m enjoying myself. I tell him I am.

“I knew you’d dig this spot,” he says assuredly.

The whole time we’re out, he only checks his phone once. Then he shuts it off.

I check mine as well.

But twice.

For voice messages and texts. In the hope that Aunt Terri has finally called or texted me back.

She hasn’t.

And because of that, I almost allow it to drag me into a dark place. Almost. But the energy around me is too powerful to let go of, so I stay in the moment, enjoying the pieces of six other poets before a twelve-year-old girl from Jamaica, Queens—I
think
that’s where the emcee says she’s from—steps onto the stage carrying a set of mini conga drums and blows us all away with her piece, “Little Black Girl.” The palms of her hands slap the skins of her drums in a rhythmic cadence that matches the tempo of her piece. The drum thuds repeatedly as she drones out, “I woke up . . . and . . . discovered. . . I do not exist. I am . . . a little black girl . . . lost in the texture of my hair . . . burdened by the color of my skin... I am. A little black girl . . .”

By the time she finishes, half the room is in tears.

And I have melted into the energy.

The emcee calls up the next act. An eighty-eight-year-old man who goes by the name Black Knight. Everyone claps for him. I smile as he hobbles up the stage. He’s wearing a New York Yankees fitted hat with a white button-up shirt and a pair of dark-colored khaki pants.

Aww. He looks adorable.

He steps up to the microphone and tells us his piece is titled “Lick It and Stick It.”

“Yaaassss, yaaaaasssss, granddaddy!” someone calls out.

The crowd laughs.

He opens his mouth and delivers the piece in a raw, silky voice, each line filled with lots of double-entendres that make me blush. The room is still as he begs to “lick it, stick it, and lay it all up on it” to only find out that the whole time he’s really talking about licking a stamp to put on an envelope.

Shawn and I laugh.

“Yo, Pops did his thing,” Shawn says. “He got me with that.”

“Ohmygod. Yes. That was real good,” I agree.

“Pops still nasty, though,” Shawn says, laughing again. “Yo, I bet he be still gettin’ it in. Lickin’ it ’n’ stickin’ it.”

“Oh, God,” I groan shamefacedly. “That’s an image I don’t need to see. Ever.”

Shawn bumps his shoulder into me. “Yo, I think you need’a do ya thing tonight.”

My eyes widen. “What, perform?”

“Yeah, I wanna see how you put it down.”

My pulse starts to race.

I haven’t been on stage since before Daddy’s death.

I’m not ready.

Am I?

I don’t know. “I’m not prepared,” I say, glancing around the room. This is a whole other type of world. Nothing like the laid-back ease of the west coast. It’s so much more fast-paced. I don’t think I’m ready for it.

Shawn raises his brow. “Whatchu mean, you ain’t prepared, yo? You a poet,
right
?”

“Well, yeah. But—”

“But nothin’, yo. Do what a poet does. Get up there ’n’ drop some of that west coast love on us, mama.”

My heart starts to beat harder. “It’s too late, isn’t it? All the names have already been—”

“It’s never too late, shorty.” A sly grin eases over his face. “Just say the word. And I can make it happen. Hol’ up.” He pushes back from the table and rises to his feet.

Oh no! “Wait,” I say, anxiously grabbing his arm. “Where are you going?”

He grins. “Relax, ma. I got this.”

And then he’s off.

I cover my face in my hands and groan. Then I look up at him across the room talking to the emcee. Shawn points over toward our table, and I slowly feel myself shrinking in my seat. The emcee nods. Then the two of them are embracing in a brother hug and handshake.

Several moments later, Shawn is back in his seat, grinning. “It’s on now, shorty.”

“Ohmygod,” I say frantically. “What did you say to him?”

His arm stretches out over the back of my chair as he leans into me. “I tol’ him you were my peoples wit’ that hot fire to spit . . .”

I blink.

Is he serious?

I don’t have any
hot
fire to spit!

Heck, I don’t even like to spit.