I Almost Forgot About You (32 page)

“I hear you,” is all I can say, because I agree with what he's just said and it's also so very refreshing. But I don't want to gush.

“So what road are you ready to travel down?”

“I'm not sure.”

“You have to have some idea.”

“It's too soon to know,” I say. I'm not about to tell Stan here that as soon as I learn how much of my investment I'm able to recover, it's what's going to determine how long I can afford to play designer in my garage or my not-yet studio.

“Well, give me a hint about what you like doing.”

“Painting and redesigning and decorating cheap furniture. At least that's what I've been doing in my spare time. I like to sew, but not clothing. I'm just playing it all by ear until I see what happens with my practice.”

“I like using my hands, too. I just got burned out working for NASA and had enough stints being in space. I like it down here. So how close are we to where you live?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Look, Georgia. To be honest, I can't believe I got on a plane to come see you, but it feels like I didn't have a choice. Do you know what that feels like?”

“I do, but I just didn't know you felt this way about me back when.”

“What it felt like was unfinished business. We never had an ending because we barely had a beginning. Which was your fault.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm not kidding. You liked me, and it scared the hell out of you.”

“That's so not true.”

“Then what was it?”

“I just wanted to see if you were good in bed.”

“And?”

“You were okay.”

“I'm still good in bed,” he says, and starts laughing. “But I had other qualities I thought you found appealing.”

“I can't remember. I didn't know you that long.”

“You know what, Georgia? We're too old to play these kinds of games. If you didn't feel anything at all or were appalled at seeing me tonight, why am I driving you home?”

“Because I didn't want to be rude.”

“Well, you're being rude now by lying about it.”

I almost choke, because he's just busted me, and how is that possible?

“Okay. I will admit I was both shocked and surprised to see you at my party, okay? But this is also kind of freaking me out, because like I said to you before, this kind of thing doesn't happen in real life, where a blast from your past just shows up and you're supposed to fall madly in love with him on the spot again.”

“Hold on, now, little lady. Let's back up. Did I just hear you say ‘fall madly in love with him on the spot
again
'?”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“And is that what I am? A blast from the past?”

“Well, it's also a figure of speech.”

“They can't both be figures of speech. Which one is true and which one isn't?”

“Both,” I say, and start laughing. “But you're coming on a little strong, like we just broke up a month ago and now you're back trying to woo me. I have to admit I'm flattered by it all.”

“Woo?”

“Yes, woo.”

“Look. I'm not trying to be pushy, so don't think it for a minute. I'm still a gentleman.”

“You weren't a gentleman back in the day. You were a flirt and a very convincing one.”

“I know how to imitate my old ways, but hopefully, if you discover you still like me a little bit, we'll have plenty of time for everything.”

“This is all kind of otherworldly. Maybe you were in space too long, Stanley.”

“It's Stan. Now, point me in the right direction.”

And up the hill we go.

What I do know is I am not taking off my clothes.

At least not in front of him.

He drives slowly. As if he's doing it deliberately. I'm feeling nervous and suddenly scared, because men don't just appear from your past, sweep you off your feet—especially a white one you slept with twice and pretended to forget.

But I didn't forget.

“May I be in your study group?”

“It's not my study group,” I said to the fine white guy who'd been sitting next to me two weeks in a row in my Afro-American history class.

“Well, you seem to be the one organizing it.”

“So why do you want to be in
my
study group?” I asked.

“Because I like the way you think.”

“Everybody in this class thinks,” I said.

“Some quieter than others,” he said.

This was a three-unit course entitled The Afro-American Experience: From Slavery to Selma 1965. That was a lot to cover in ten weeks, and on the first day of class we were advised that midterms were in five weeks. The seminar met twice a week. We were to write an essay on one of the lecture topics up to that point. Of the ninety students, six were white. It looked as if one of them had chosen me to be his go-to person for ten weeks. Lucky me.

“What's your name?”

“Stanley. Stanley DiStasio. Which makes me Italian. But you knew that.”

“No. I didn't.”

“And you're Georgia Young.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because it's right there on your notebook.”

“Why are you taking a class in Afro-American history, if you don't mind my asking?”

“What if I did mind?”

“Then I would just assume it's out of guilt.”

“And you would assume wrong, because I have no reason to feel guilty, because I haven't done anything to feel guilty about. Except forgetting my sister's birthday.”

“Are you avoiding my question?”

“Because I want to understand how Afro-Americans suffered during slavery and managed to survive it.”

“You could read that in a book.”

“We've
got
books for the class, if you haven't noticed. I really want to hear how— Would you mind if I said ‘black'?”

“I prefer it.”

“Okay. I want to hear how younger black people feel about it now, including the passage of the Voting Rights Act, which I think is just one more slap in the face.”

“How so?”

“It's going to sound naïve. But after all the hell black people went through, why should they have had to risk their lives just to have the right to vote? And why did they have to have legislation passed to grant them that right when they were already United States citizens?”

“Well, we'll be up to the Voting Rights Act before week nine, and you can write your essay about it.”

“It pisses me off, to be honest.”

“Well, that would make two of us. My mother couldn't vote until she was thirty-six, and my father was forty.”

“This is why I like the Black Panthers, if you want to know the truth. They get it.”

“They're not the only ones.”

“Want to know what I don't get?”

“Not really, but I'm listening.”

“Why do black people call each other niggers?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because it just seems like a contradiction. I thought black people were trying to show their pride.”

“Not everybody. Some people are ignorant, but that word is meant to be demeaning, which it is.”

“So why doesn't it make them angry? But when a white person calls them one, they're fighting words.”

“Because it's racist when they say it. Any more questions?”

“Yes, can I be in your study group?”

“I suppose we could use someone with a different perspective.”

“You mean white.”

“You said it. Not me.”

“Wow. And I was hoping we could be friends.”

And then he smiled at me sideways. I had never been this close to a white guy, and when his elbow actually touched mine, he didn't move it.

By the beginning of week three, our study group, which was made up of four other black students besides me, met once a week in an empty room on campus. Afterward we always went for pizza. Two members couldn't understand what a white boy was doing in the class, but they weren't up to asking Stanley. The other student just said she thought it was cool that he even cared.

By week four I finally said, “You are making me uncomfortable.”

“How?”

“Why do you always have to sit next to me?”

“Because I like the way you smell.”

I just looked at him. “You're weird.”

“I'm not weird. I like you.”

I turned my head like Linda Blair in
The
Exorcist
and said, “What do you mean, you like me?”

“I like your vibe. You're a beautiful, intelligent black or Afro-American young woman, and I hope we can get to know each other better.”

“You are serious, aren't you?”

“Did I say something to offend you?”

I grabbed his hand and put it next to mine.

“What do you see?”

“Two hands.”

“What's different about them?”

“Mine is bigger.”

“And what else, Stanley?”

“Yours is the color of cinnamon, and mine is light beige. So what is your point?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Although he didn't act like it was an issue, I couldn't help but notice. In all honesty, it was what I had already started to like about him, which is what was making me nervous.

“I would really appreciate it if you would read my paper,” he said.

“I've got a lot of things to do. Like studying. And finishing my own essay.”

“Could you and I just confer with each other?”

“Confer?”

“Yeah. Skip study group, and would you come over?”

“You mean to your apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What's wrong with that? Or I can come over to yours if that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“First of all, I don't know if either one of them is such a good idea.”

“What are you afraid of, Georgia? Not me, I hope.”

“No, I'm not afraid of you.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“We're classmates.”

“You said you thought I was a nice guy.”

“You are, but you're pushy.”

“I'm assertive.”

“Same thing.”

“So can I count on you or not? I'll treat you to pizza and a Coke afterward.”

“Okay. But only for an hour.”

“It'll take fifteen minutes to read it.”

When he opened the door, I immediately knew this was not a good idea. He was burning incense! Would we need that to read? I did tell Wanda and Violet I was coming over here and that if they didn't hear from me before they fell asleep, to come find me.

“I'm glad you made it,” he said. “And thank you for coming.” He then politely put those long Italian arms around me and gave me a quick hug! What was I really doing here is all I was thinking, but the truth of the matter was I was curious about what he really wanted. I read his last essay, and it was good.

“I can't stay long,” I said.

His apartment was one big room, but it was too small for him. It was orderly. And clean. I sat on the chair in front of his narrow desk.

“Where's your essay?” I asked.

He pointed to the desk. I started reading, even though I suddenly felt illiterate.

“May I have a glass of water, please?”

“Absolutely. Anything else? I've got chips.”

I shook my head no.

He filled a glass of water from the faucet. Set it down next to my hand, stood behind me, and bent down so his face was over my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. Don't get so close! And I'm in a hurry.”

“You're not in a hurry,” he said.

“Will you let me read, please?”

“Sure,” he said, and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. And what beautiful legs they were.

I read his paper, and to this day I do not remember what it said, but I gave him enough criticism and compliments to make him feel grateful.

“So how about that pizza?” I asked.

“Really? Right now?”

“What else did I come here for?”

“This,” he said, and he leaned down and kissed me on the lips. My hands were thinking about pushing him away, but my brain refused to cooperate.

But then I stood up.

And he turned off the bright lights and turned on a black light, and the ceiling became a galaxy of stars and planets. He undressed me without touching me.

“I don't know what we're doing, Stanley.”

But something made me unzip his jeans and slide them down to the floor while he pulled his T-shirt up over his head and walked up against me. His chest brushed my breasts, and he wrapped those long arms around me, and oh, what a man, what a man.

“You're sure.” He sighed. “And I'm sure.”

And like a magician, he made my fears evaporate.

But then he just stopped.

“Don't,” I said.

“Don't what?”

And then he kissed my eyelashes and my eyebrows and my ears and my cheekbones.

“Don't what?” he asked again.

“Stop.”

And he didn't. And I couldn't.

Afterward he held me like I was a newborn, and then he said, “Don't leave. I don't want you to leave.”

“I couldn't if I wanted to.”

And for three days I didn't.

I dreamed Stanley was black.

Then I woke up.

And I went back to sleep.

I dreamed about him again. But this time he was white. And I knew this was the one I had fallen in love with. I didn't dare tell him this, but I did tell Wanda what I'd done.

“So how was it?”

“It?”

“Don't play dumb with me, Georgia.”

“He was amazing, and it was astounding, and he's brilliant, and we talked about everything, but I have to leave him alone.”

“Why?”

I just rolled my eyes at her.

“You mean just because he's white?”

“Just? Are you serious? Never mind.”

The last two weeks of class, I deliberately walked to the front and sat between two other black students. I didn't turn around until the last class was almost over, and when I did, Stanley was looking at me. He looked hurt, and I couldn't believe it. He left class early, and after it was over, he was waiting out in the hallway with a pizza box.

“I promised you a slice, but you can have the whole pie.”

“I'm sorry, Stanley.”

He walked right up to me. “I didn't know you were a racist.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If I were black, would you be acting like this?”

“No, Stanley. I probably wouldn't.”

“You didn't strike me as being a coward.”

“I'm not.”

“Oh, I think you are. Otherwise why are you avoiding me?”

“Is that what you think I'm doing?”

“Hell yeah. You won't answer the phone when I call. You changed where you sit. What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Like I said. I didn't know you were such a coward.”

“I'm sorry, Stanley.”

“So am I. Have a good life, Georgia. And be careful who you tell you love.”

He handed me the pizza, which I took so as not to cause a scene. He flung his backpack over his shoulder, and off he went. And that was the last time I saw him, until my birthday party.

I point to my house, and when he pulls into the driveway, he says, “You mean to tell me you drive a Prius?”

“I do.”

He holds his hand out for me to give him a fist bump.

“Cool home. Been here long?”

“Thirteen years.”

“You plan to stay?”

“Well, I tried selling, but with the economy being what it is, I just took it off the market.”

“Where were you thinking of moving?”

He opens his door, and I open mine, even though he was coming around to open it for me.

“I had no idea.”