Life Is Funny (16 page)

“I'll be damned if it's going to hurt.”

“Me, too.”

“I'm not ready yet.” Dick ducks down.

“But I want it to be you.”

Oh, Lord, Jesus, God, Allah, Buddha, Whoever, thank you thank you thank you.

*  *  *

Keisha and Tory eat dinner over lots of times, and their aunt Eva lets them so she can eat over and play cards at her friend's, and my mama and daddy and everybody gets along good.

“You believe in God?” Keisha asks my mama at dessert tonight.

“Keisha, you not supposed to ask that,” Tory hisses at her.

“It's okay, Tory,” my mama says. “God questions are fine with me.”

“You going to burn in hell,” Tory whispers.

And Keisha fixes, “You
are
going to burn in hell. Now shush.”

And Tory goes, “Shush you back.”

And I'm waiting for my mama's answer, and she says, “I'm more interested in understanding why God is so important to people in the first place before I can figure out if God exists.”

And Tory thinks awhile about that, and then she goes, “Gingerbread doesn't believe in God.”

“I never said that,” I tell them all.

“You really going to burn in hell.” Tory nods.

And my daddy goes, “You don't believe in God, 'Bread?”

“God isn't any person,” I say. “God isn't any old white man watching down over us.”

“True enough,” my mama mutters.

“He's got all these crazy ideas,” Keisha tells on me, but like she's proud, and now they're all looking my way, seeing what am I going to say, and I ping my spoon on a glass and make ringing zings all over the room.

“God's everything all in us and out of us and before us and after us, like blood and air and smells and time and steam off pavement on a rainy hot day and little kids telling stupid jokes, and fire drills, and the sound of a basketball swishing the net, and car alarms and haircuts and locking your keys inside the house,” I tumble out, my mouth ding pinging rat-a-tatting nonstop out of nowhere, and I'm feeling dumber than dumb, and Keisha goes,

“See?” and my daddy does the truly craziest thing, just grabs my Gingerbread head and kisses it all up. When my mama starts to giggle, Tory loud whispers, “These people crazy,” and Keisha makes her eyes go wide, and she's about to let Tory swallow some hell, but then my mama's joying all out, turns into a belly snort roar, and then there goes my daddy, hee-heeing himself near out of his seat, and Keisha and Tory stare at my white black yellow gingerbread family like we're more mysterious than God, or Whoever.

*  *  *

My mama and daddy make up excuses for Tory to stay inside before good-bye so me and Keisha can kiss and feel on the stoop. I stopped being scared when my dick gets hard every time because Keisha doesn't think I'm a pervert, she just pushes up to grind, and then sometimes we go soft, and it's not all crazy but hugging touching nice like we get to be little babies again, and Lord—DeShawn, forgive me—but Keisha's my best friend.

Sometimes Mr. Screaming Mean Neighbor man waves and says hi, and while Keisha waves back, I pretend I have dust in my eye, but when it's the wife who calls over, I'm more polite, and Keisha doesn't understand because she's never heard them fight, and I don't tell her because her eyes are filled with too much sad already.

Sometimes Tory gets past my mama and daddy's excuses quick, and she gets her little self outside to nag and nerve and pick.

“Why you like her so much?” Tory asks me out here after dinner number nine.

And Keisha goes, “Why
do
you like her?”

And pretends to tie her shoe on that stoop and I go, “Because she's cool, smart, beautiful, doesn't take anything off anybody, and she's mad, whack, stupid sexy fine,” and Tory giggle-skips off the steps.

And Keisha hugs me and makes my ear wet when she whispers, “Let's do it soon.” And my trusty crazy dick goes zoom, bang, bam, boom.

*  *  *

Keisha and me find a store that's got the hats in the aisle, not behind the counter, and we roll dice to see who's got to buy them, and it's her, and she starts blushing and giggling, and shoving and whining, and then we decide, we'll both buy them. So Keisha adds a toothbrush and a paperback and cough medicine and a bathmat, and all kinds of shit we don't need to hide the hats, and the lady at the counter's like some sort of zombie, and we run out of there, no sweat, no problem, jittery knees, hard dick already, giggly, silly, scared, love.

My mama and daddy are gone to dinner and a show and a party, and it's just me and Keisha in my Gingerbread room with the mess on the desk and the bed all made up nice with 'Bread-washed sheets. I lock the door, and Keisha puts the hats down, and we get all shy and try to hide, but my room's too small, and we end up in a huddle on the floor.

“You sure?” I go.

And she goes, “Yeah. You sure?”

And I go, “Feel this,” and put her hand on my jeans over my hard dick.

She laughs and goes, “Well, damn. That's nothing new,” and I look at her deep eyes and her big old feet, and then we're kissing, watery tongues, springy lips, tugging, pulling, and we lie down, and she peels off my shirt, and I unbutton her short, pretty mini, and soon we're all skin to skin, warm, sexy, mouth and hands brushing, stroking over tits and ass and stomach, lost, mush brain, heat, curves, sucking, rocking, slipping, swollen, wet, shiny pussy, pushing, pulsing, breathing, moaning, straining thick dick, hat smells like salt balloons, sticky, rolling over aching stiff thing, shy sly fingers, oh, Lord, its tip kissing her melting slit, slide glides in, deep, swallowed, sucked, rocking, aching, bucking, pumping, fucking, oh, Lord, Jesus, God, Allah, Buddha, Keisha, thank you.

Eb,

Back in Rome from Venice. Still doing mostly runway stuff, but I got some inside pages in
Italian Vogue,
too. All you see is my lips. Marty knows the three guys on this postcard, but I haven't met them. Marty says their faces aren't half as hot as their butts. Figures
.

Peace,

Grace

If this was awhile ago, I'd find China in about half a minute to show her my mail, but it's not a while ago, and China more than likely gets whole pages from Grace anyway, so instead I pushpin those sandy asses onto my little sisters' bedroom door. Then I take another pin and dig it under my fingernail until blood wells up and drips in a line down to the web of my dark brown thumb.

Bitch, don't do that,
I can hear China saying in my head, and I run water over my finger until the juice washes away.

*  *  *

I have to march behind a white boy I blew last fall. Carl. I can't remember what his dick was like because they all run together after a while, but I do remember he was the only one who ever said he loved me right in the middle of it, and I laughed so hard I bit him, and he never even finished. He knows I'm right here behind him because we've had classes together before, and my last name always comes after his, and because the back of his neck turns blotchy the minute I take my place.

I watch China chilling with this Sonia girl behind her, on the other side of the gym. This Sonia girl is one of those brown skin, long skirt, long sleeve types. You never see her whole damn self. China knows her. They ended up with all the same schedule this year, because they're both real smart, but China says this girl's not going to college because females aren't allowed to in her family. Instead she's going to work in her parents' store on Fourth Street until they make her marry some brown skin robe man. China says the girl doesn't mind, but China minds a lot. She thinks it's worse than murder to have a brain and not go to college. She also thinks it's worse than murder to cut yourself sometimes and to suck off anybody who asks. That's why China and I aren't all that tight anymore.

*  *  *

The thing is, I don't do that shit so much these days anyway. For one, it doesn't rush me the way it used to. Not the dicks or the blood, and for another, it gets boring. I found something better a couple of months ago after me and the guy who owns the dance club on Flatbush messed around in his office. He'd gotten all aggravated because I wouldn't do what he wanted, and I'd gotten all aggravated because I used to at least get wet messing around, and that day I didn't even break a temperature. On the way out I saw this number on the wall.
1900 THE CHAT (FREE FOR FEMALES)
. I dialed it as soon as I got home, and now talking on the phone is about all I do.

*  *  *

“Hey, little girl,” Mike says. “'S up?”

“Hey,” I go.

“You clubbing with me Friday, or is your leg broke again?”

“My leg's broken,” I tell him. “Where are you going?”

“Trips,” he says. “Not too late, though. I got to get the baby from her mother for the weekend.”

“Stop calling her a baby,” I tell him. “She's almost five.”

“That's always going to be my baby,” he tells me.

*  *  *

“Talk to me, sweet thing,” Punch says.

“How's work?” I go.

“Busted an old lady looked just exactly like my grandmama with thirteen pairs of size forty-eight men's shorts in her bag.”

“You're making that up.”

“Wish I was.”

“Is Smitty still messing with you?”

“Smitty messing with everybody.”

“Are you going out Saturday?”

“You taking me out?”

“You know I'm not. I've got to watch my little brother.” I don't even have a little brother.

“When we going to meet, sweet thing? I want to know what you look like.”

“I'm fine,” I tell him. “That's all you need to know.”

*  *  *

“What do young ladies your age like to eat?” Wesley asks me.

“Food,” I tell him. “Why? I'm not going out with you.”

“I am aware,” Wesley says. “My daughter's coming to town, and I'd like your advice on where to take her for dinner.”

“Where's she from, again?” I ask.

“North Carolina,” he tells me.

“Can you cook?” I go.

“Barely.”

“That's too bad,” I say. “She'd like it if you cooked.”

*  *  *

Mike and Punch and Wesley call me every day. Jones calls less than that, but he's young like me anyway, so I hang up on him a lot. They all have my real number now.

I like older men. They can be the nastiest, if you don't watch yourself, but if you're not talking dirty, you find out quick who's truly just looking for friends. They tell everything. I hear about money problems and mothers-in-law and supervisors and dreams—the real kind that happen when you sleep, not the other kind. I hear about girlfriends and wives and back pain and the time they got a free CD for being the hundredth caller and how they won some spelling bee when they were small and the route they have to take home when the subways are running funny. I help them settle up their disputes and pick gifts and movies and decide whether or not they ought to stick with this friend or that one. My specialty is advice about their kids.

“You ought to tell Amber where babies really come from,” I might say. “You don't want her coming up stupid like that.”

Or I'll go, “Well, if you stop talking shit about his mother, maybe he'll stop talking shit about you.”

They like to flirt with me sometimes, but they keep it clean, and mostly they act real decent.

“What am I going to do when you go off to Harvard?” Wesley complains all the time.

And Punch always says, “You are something else, sweet thing. Your mama and daddy must be puffed up bigger than a marshmallow in the microwave.”

Mike sometimes goes, “You know what, little girl. I just really do love you.”

*  *  *

“When are you going to tell Mom the truth?” Mattie asks me on the way to school. She means the truth about me and colleges. My mother always planned for me to go to Howard with China, but I didn't even apply. I told her I wanted to stay in New York. I told her I got into NYU, and I did, on probation. That means I'm supposed to get at least all Bs this last semester but I'm barely passing, and I mean truly by the skin of my ass. I thought I'd be in some serious shit when my teachers started calling home, but none of them did. I guess by your last high school year nobody cares that much anymore.

“She's going to bug when she hears,” Elaine says.

“Why don't y'all tell her?” I go.

“Are you serious?” Elaine asks.

“Rather her bug on you than on me,” I say.

They're twelve and they get straight As. They used to be cute as anything, and now they're coming up pretty. My mom always says they look like our daddy. He never calls them, but they don't care. They don't remember him because he left us a couple of months before they were born. His hands smelled like Slim Jims, and his shoulders under my butt felt like rocks. He flashed silver when he smiled, and he used to do my hair.

“Your daddy's one of the few men who knows hair,” my mother would say, and I would be real proud.

*  *  *

I bump into China in the girls' room the last Monday of school. “You hear from Grace?” she asks. We're both trying to wash our hands, but the sinks don't give up much.

“Got a postcard the other day,” I tell her, checking me out in the mirror.

“Me, too,” China says. “Here.” She hands me Mocha Cocoa. It's my favorite shade. It shouldn't look good on both of us, because our skin's way different, but we always did wear the same lipsticks.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I leave in August,” China goes.

“It's only June,” I say.

“I'll miss you,” she tells me.