Ex-girl to the Next Girl (3 page)

I
stood over him.
Him
being Erick, my boyfriend of two years. When he was asleep, he was so funny-looking. His ears looked extra big. His cashew-brown skin appeared oily. He is just okay in the looks department—some days he looks better than others. Sometimes he catches me looking at him. He will look up at me and ask me,
Why are you staring?
I'll say something like,
I'm not staring.
I was asleep with my eyes open. But I was staring because I want to know if he is the right man for me. I know staring wouldn't answer my question, but it might help. I don't want to throw my life away if he is not the one. We are not engaged or anything yet, but we talk about marriage and kids all the time. Erick always said, “Baby, are we having a big or small wedding? Baby, how many kids are we going to have? What are we going to name our kids?” He has our whole life planned out, and I'm still figuring out if I like him or love him. We have been around each other for two years. He knows my family and I know his. We have been on vacations to Jamaica, Cancun, and Japan to visit my parents—they are in the military. If I'm not sure about him, then I'm not wasting any more time. I need to be one hundred percent sure that he is what I want. He works as a lab tech at Graduate Hospital. He makes a very nice living. We would have a joint income of over a hundred thousand, but does that even matter if he doesn't make me happy? I guess it doesn't. I looked over at him again. His nose hairs were blowing in and out every time he took a breath. I was about to break up with him. But I'm going to let him think he broke up with me. At least, that was the plan. I have been scheming for months, telling my Aunt Connie and my cousin that I can't wait to be single. Aunt Connie said,
Don't let that good man go
, but I can't keep pulling him along if I'm not sure. He caught me staring again.

“Are you staring at me?”

“No, I was just thinking,” I said as he went to kiss me. I moved away from his kiss and out of the bed.

“Erick, I have to talk to you.” He sat right up—he knew it was serious.

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘If you let a bird go and it flys away, if it's yours it will return—if it never was yours, it won't'?”

“What are you talking about? You are not making any sense,” he said, rubbing the cold out of his eyes.

“Okay, I think I love you, but I think . . . I want to make sure we are right for one another. I think we need space.”

“I don't want to break up, Nadine,” he said as his eyes began to water.
Don't do this, please
, I thought. I hate to see men cry. He was making this really hard. I had to be firm with him.

“We need time off,” I said as I looked him straight in the eyes and grabbed his hands.

“So you want to see other people?” he asked as he snatched his hands away from me, put on his underwear, and searched around the room for his faded blue jeans.

“No, I don't want to see other people,” I lied.

“So why break up if we aren't going to see other people?”

“I just think we need space, Erick. Just a little time off.”

“I'm not with this. I don't want to be with any other woman. You're all the woman I need, Nadine. But if this is what you want.”

“I do. Let's give each other a little time and space.”

Erick, trying to be hard, said, “Okay, if you want it this way.” He put on his shoes and gave me a kiss. He took a look around the room to be sure that he was not forgetting anything. He pulled his brush out of his back pocket and brushed his hair in place. He walked to the bathroom and washed his face and brushed his teeth. Then he proceeded down the steps. I stood at the top of the steps with my robe on and my arms folded. He walked out, and I began a dance of freedom. I am free.

 

 

Growing up, I lived all over the world. My parents are in the military. We were in Virginia Beach most of my life, but we also lived in Hawaii, Germany, Colorado, California, and Japan. My dad and mom separated right before I got to eighth grade. My mom remarried instantly to this man named Mr. Richard. Me and him didn't click. My mom, being so in love, didn't see that this man was mistreating me. He tried to make me do everything around the house and have a curfew and get off the phone by 9:00 P.M. and go to the library every Saturday. He was a real military dude. I moved in with my dad and his new instant wife, Cynthia. At first, me and Cynthia were cool, until she started thinking she was my mom. I moved back in with my mom.

 

 

Whatever Mommy wouldn't buy, Daddy would. People worry about children of divorce, but I think we turn out just fine, actually. We might come out a little better, if you ask me. You have two parents that overcompensate and try to buy your love. Tragically, my situation came to an end when my father and mother remarried each other my last year of high school. As soon as I got adjusted to them being apart, they got back together. Most people would be happy about that—I wasn't. They were better apart; that's when I could get away with everything. I was tired of both of them, and I begged my mom to let me stay with Aunt Connie and she did. Aunt Connie and her husband, Chuck, let me move in with them my senior year of high school for stability. My Aunt Connie is my mom's sister. My mother, Faye, is the oldest, and she has one brother named Scott. We call him Uncle Scotty. He is a drunk.

My mom is tough; she doesn't care about makeup and shopping. Years of the military have destroyed her femininity. She doesn't wear her hair short or look like a butch, but she doesn't play dress-up very often. I tried to give her a makeover, but that was short-lived. She loves sports and I got F's in gym because I'm a girly girl. By ninth grade I was already cutting gym class to go to the nail salon. Gym didn't make sense to me. Get undressed, get sweaty, then put your same funky clothes back on without a shower and walk around school all day. I wasn't having it. I hate working out. I'd rather just watch what I eat and that's what I do to maintain my size 9/10. I like it. Not too big, not too skinny.

I thought if I didn't answer the phone after the fourth ring, the caller would get the hint. Not my persistent Aunt Connie. I answered the phone and she asked from the other end of the telephone, “You want to go shopping with me?”

“Where you going?” I questioned.

“Well, I want to go everywhere. I got my income tax back.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, I just cashed it. Just hurry up and get dressed and meet me at my house.”

“What time is it?” I asked, still not fully awake.

“Eleven-thirty.”

“I'll be right there,” I said as I stretched. I went in my closet.
Just what I needed to do: go shopping,
I thought. I looked at all my clothes in and around my cluttered closet. Belts, bags, shoes, boxes. I had gold, big hats, and purple bags and clothes that I never wore. I have a compulsive spending habit. My paycheck is always gone before I get it. I get paid on Friday and I would start shopping by check on Wednesday. Well, I used to be able to start my shopping early until they came out with that Check 21 thing. They started taking the money out of my account the same day. Well, I didn't know about the check law change, and let's just say I had to pay for five bounced check fees at thirty dollars a pop. I learned my lesson real fast. So now I wait to payday and shop 'til I drop.

I always buy shoes, bags, and jewelry, things I don't need. But I still feel like I don't have enough. Last month I bought two pairs of shoes that I couldn't fit into. One was stiletto heels that my foot slid down into. The other pair made a corn on the side of my toe grow back because they were so damn tight. Sometimes if they don't have a medium in something I want, I'll buy a small or extra-small, knowing that it looks young on me. I just buy anything. Kids selling M&Ms or bottled water at the light, kids raising money for their drill team—they always get my dollar.

I buy people gifts, doing a lot of shopping, and spending credit cards like I didn't have to pay them back. Now I'm twenty-five and I make okay money and have nothing to show for it but clothes and a house. I feel like I should have more—I don't know why, but I do. If I'm not shopping for myself; I'm always giving my money away to someone for some reason. I always have to give the best present at a shower, wedding, or birthday parties. Even Mrs. Pierce, another teacher, who wasn't my friend—I didn't even like her that much. I had to bring the best, biggest gift to the shower they gave her at school. Like I'm always treating my aunt and cousin to dinner. I like nice places. One time I got a thousand-dollar bonus check for perfect attendance at my school. So I put up another sixteen hundred and I took me and my cousin, Toya, to the Virgin Islands. Besides my house, I have a new car. But I feel like I deserve all of it and much more. I got seventeen thousand dollars in credit-card debt and about sixty thousand in student loans. I'm going to pick up a second job to pay all of my bills one day.

 

 

I took my jeans off the hanger and then separated the other hangers. Erick's shirts were still in my closet, his porn collection, belts, hats, and a couple pairs of boots. I pushed his stuff to the side. I located a blazer with a little flower on the lapel. I was going to wear a white shirt underneath. I laid my clothes out on the bed and jumped in the shower.

On the weekends I try to sleep as long as I can. I have to be up and in the classroom every morning by eight. I'm a seventh-grade Social Studies/English teacher. I hated English growing up. I hated the red marker with a bunch of squiggly lines everywhere. Now I'm the one writing squiggly lines. I kind of fell into teaching. When I was in high school—and even college—you could not have told me one day I would be a teacher. I love my students but sometimes they get on my nerves and I wonder why I am a teacher.

 

 

I graduated from the University of Maryland with a degree in business, late or early—it was a nontraditional graduation in January. I needed a job badly. I didn't want to be one of those people still working at the mall with a college degree. Nobody was hiring. A classmate told me that the district was hiring, and you didn't need a degree in education to be a substitute teacher. I started as a substitute. The next day, when I came back for round two, the principal was so happy I returned he asked me if I could stay until June. It was on-the-job training. I didn't know the first thing about teaching, lesson plans, or any of that, but other teachers helped me out.

And now that I am a seasoned teacher, I'm getting paid back on a daily basis for every class I cut, every book I threw at a teacher, and every lie I told about an assignment I didn't complete. At least back when I was in school, students cared if you called their mom or threatened to send them to the office. My students test me. They want to see if you play or if they can play you. I don't play with them—I'd give a detention in a minute.

I
walked into my office Monday morning. It was an office in a strip mall storefront. Some days I just looked at all the other people going about their day and wished I was them and not me because I had too much responsibility.

“Your baby father called,” Nicole said as I walked in the office.

“What did you tell him?” I asked as I sat at my desk with a grande latte in my hand. I placed my change purse in my drawer.

“I told him that you weren't here, like you said to do.”

“Good,” I said as I sat down and began checking my e-mails.

“But then he said he wanted the baby for a couple of hours, and if you didn't call him back he would be up here.”

“Forget him—he is not coming anywhere. He can leave me and my son alone,” I said. Nicole was cool; she had been working with me for two years and she knew everything about me. She was like a little sister. We did things outside of the job together like have drinks and go to shows. It was good to have someone in my office that I could trust. I hired another woman, Jacqueline Stevens, but she went out on maternity leave four months after I hired her. If she doesn't return soon, her and her baby are going to be in the unemployment line. I needed somebody else in the office to help us make calls. We are inundated with all this work. I'm a manager, which is basically a nice way to say customer-calmer. Every day there is something different and difficult going on. Do you ever see those signs that read “zero percent interest”? Well, that's us. The furniture companies go through our company to get the people financed. We also do plenty of refinancing. People need money to remodel their homes and send their kids to college. But they don't always tell the truth about their credit. I love when people say their credit is great, and I see that they have a Capital One credit card that they stopped paying on. When people are not lying about the condition of their credit, they are lying about how much money they make. I had a customer that said she made fifty-five thousand, and when she gave me her W-2 form it showed she made thirty thousand. As I speak, I have to call a customer, Mrs. Saunders, now about a check mix-up. We accidentally sent a three-thousand-dollar payoff check to Wal-Mart and a ten-thousand-dollar check to Home Depot. She didn't even owe Home Depot ten thousand, but they cashed the check. Anyway I wasted my day going back and forth, debating with their reps about the confusion, and still didn't get the problem solved.

“Kim, pick up line one,” Nicole screamed.

“Kimberly Robinson speaking,” I said as I held back a yawn.

“Yeah, listen, I'm in the parking lot. I'm tired of playing the games with my son.” I automatically caught the voice. It was Malik.

“What games, Malik? I don't know what you are talking about. When Kayden is ready to see you, I will call you. Until then, leave us alone.”

“Listen, I just want to see my son—that's all, Kim.”

“Well, when do you want to see him?” I asked.

“Today!” he yelled into the telephone.

“Well, he is busy today, tomorrow, and any day you call, Malik. You're not going to have my son around your trashy-ass ghetto girlfriend. If you don't like it, take me to court.”

“I will take you to court. She is not trashy or ghetto. Grow up, please,” he said, irritated.

“I don't give a fuck about that bitch—she doesn't have anything on me.”

“You have let me see my son three times in a year, and I'm tired. Shonda already told me to take you to court. I'm trying to be nice to you, Kim. But I need to see my son.”

“Really? Well, do what you got to do, my brother,” I said as I grew increasingly angry.

“I will do what I have to do because Malik needs his dad,” he shouted.

“You are not a good example of a man for my son, and his name is not Malik anymore, it is Kayden—and he doesn't need you in his life.”

“Don't tell me what kind of man I am, Kim. Go 'head with the foolishness. How you going to change the boy's name at three months?”

“It was really easy. Um, when I'm ready to let you see him, I'll call you. Bye.” I had to laugh when I hung up the phone. I looked up to Nicole staring at me.

“What?” I asked as Nicole looked at me accusingly. I looked at my computer screen and tried to regain my composure.

“You know you bein' petty, right?” I looked over at her and told her to mind her business. A few moments later, the phone rang again. This call was from my mother.

“Kimberly, I just got off the phone with Malik. Why aren't you letting Malik see Kayden?”

“Because I don't feel like it.”

“Are you going to be bitter your whole life? It is so very unattractive. What's done is done.”

“Mom, please, I don't have time. You are supposed to be on my side, not his,” I said, trying to block her words out. I wasn't going to let her upset me.

Then she shouted, “Kim are you listening to me? Don't you get it? There aren't any sides. You are handling this situation all wrong. I think you should see Dr. Burrows.”

“For what? There is nothing wrong with me. I'm not going to see anyone. I don't want to talk any more. Good-bye, Mother. I have work to do.”

Nicole flipped to the horoscope section and asked me my sign.

“I got to read yours to see what's going on with you. You're a Cancer, right? Y'all is some overacting, drama-filled people. I'm going to read your horoscope to you.
You will be put in an adult situation
. Will you be able to handle it?”

“Let me see—it doesn't say that,” I said as I grabbed the newspaper. It did say I would be put in a very difficult situation and asked what steps would I take to right a wrong.

“I don't care what it says—I don't believe in that, anyway.”

 

 

When Nicole wasn't giving me advice, she was busy reading a self-help book. Every week there is some new method or way we should eat or live our life.

I instructed Nicole to take messages the rest of the day. I had to look at a few résumés and set up interviews. Mrs. Jacqueline “Maternity” Stevens better come back to work, and soon. My boss was on me about firing her and hiring someone else. She claims she is suffering from postpartum, but I doubt it. There was so much that needed to be done. I wanted to bring her back, plus hire someone new.

After a long, exhausting day at work, I went home and started dinner. I was cooking my specialty spaghetti again. It was easy, the boys liked it, and it took under thirty minutes. Kayden was in the living room chasing Kevin. He just learned to walk, so he was still wobbling away. Kayden just kept screaming every time Kevin got too close to him.

We ate dinner and I began to do the dishes. I don't know what came over me, but I felt so hopeless and tired. Then a pain came over my eye; it was so sharp, and it kept hitting me like a punch. Everything was too loud and bright. I went into the bedroom and put my head down under the covers. I found some Tylenol and took a few. It wasn't working. I felt nauseous, then I started throwing up and my body went into an involuntary jerking motion. All my spaghetti was all over the floor. I hadn't eaten anything else, so nothing was coming up. But my body refused to stop stripping the lining of my stomach. I didn't know what to do. I just lay there, hoping it would stop, and it did. I just wanted to sleep and stop thinking about everything that was going on.

The next day after work, almost the same thing happened again. I started feeling really sleepy and my head felt tight like it was going to explode. I placed Kayden in his room—he had fallen asleep on the way home. I told Kevin not to bother me. I opened up the Oreo cookies and gave him a few.

“Eat those and drink some milk and start your homework. I'm going to lie down.”

“Okay,” he said as he reached in the cabinet for a cup.

I got in my satin, soft, raspberry-colored bed, popped another Tylenol, and just closed my eyes. I was awakened several hours later by Kevin announcing, “Mommy, we hungry.”

“Kevin, here I come.” I looked up at the clock and it was 10:00 P.M. I had slept for the last four hours. I went down the steps and saw that my curtains were pulled apart and you could see right into my house. The light was burning my eyes and I could barely see. But I opened my eyes wide enough to see that there was popcorn and cereal all over my tan carpet. Juice spills and an open applesauce jar were strewn across the dining room table. They had all the lights on in the entire house. I pulled a chair up to the window, stood on it, and put the curtains back in place.

“Kevin, why didn't you wake me?”

“You told me not to wake you. Because your head was hurting. I didn't want to bother you, Mom.”

“What did you eat?” I said, looking around at the mess.

“I gave Kayden applesauce. I ate cookies and popcorn.”

“Are you still hungry?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“I'll fix you some Spaghetti-O's.” I grabbed some out of the cabinet and warmed them in the microwave. I tried to feed Kayden, but he was full from junk. I washed him and got him ready for bed. His eyes were bright and he was still bouncing around. I tried to force myself to eat, but I still wasn't hungry. I then checked my messages. I had a reminder call from Kayden's pediatrician's office that he had to have his one-year-old shots. I had totally forgotten about it. I had about another year of these shots. I didn't want to risk my son's health, but I hated taking the day off to go sit in the doctor's office. They triple-book appointments and you sit and sit. I had to reschedule.

 

 

My district manager, Elizabeth Reddy, was already in my office when I arrived. She had a nasty disposition. She was short with gray roots and red-colored hair. Her skin was damaged by the sun, with little brown spots on it. She was the kind of person when you asked her a question, she said,
What?
instead of
Excuse me,
like you interrupted her entire day. She was all in my office, searching through my files. “What's going on with that Saunders account?” she asked.

“I have been in contact with the stores involved. There was a little confusion. Someone sent the wrong checks out.”

“That's not a little confusion. You need to get a grasp on this situation, because your customer contacted corporate. And corporate asked me what was going on, and I had no idea. So get to the bottom of this,” she said as she gathered paperwork folders and headed toward the door.