Saint And Sinners (35 page)

“Why?”

“He didn’t have the fashion sense of Saint, he needed my help.” They both burst out
laughing.

“Valerie, sometimes I have to push Saint out of my way. He is too diva-like about
his suits and how he looks in the morning for work. Sometimes he will ask my opinion
about shoes or what not, but it isn’t often. I think he lives for it.” They shared
another round of chuckles. “…Tell me more about James.” For some reason, Xenia was
compelled to delve deeper into this love story. Her heart told her Valerie
needed
to talk about it, not just relive the moments inside her head.

“…The clothes? Hmmm.” The smile returned to her words. “It was just another way for
us to touch one another. ’Cause, I touched his clothing, and he wore them all day
and sometimes he’d say he could smell my perfume a bit on the collar or the sleeve…and
I liked that. And here is something else about James, Xenia. If he heard this conversation,
he’d encourage you. James would want you to do it,
I
want you to do it, Saint wants you to do it, the Queens and Empresses
need
you to do it, so here, take this baton—you take over. I insist!”

Xenia smiled into her lap as she cradled the phone a bit tighter. She looked back
at Isis to see her likeness staring into her eyes…and oh how they glowed, almost brighter
than her pretty smile. Isis nodded in her mother’s direction, as if seeming to know
what she needed. A soft and mellow nod, a nod that felt like a tangible permission
slip being guided into her palm. One of encouragement, love and gratitude.

I’m going to do this. Yes, I’m going to do it and I need to find a special time to
tell Saint…

“Sit on the throne, Queen Xenia. If you need me just call, but something tells me
you will have this under control. Let’s get ready to Rainbeau rumble!” she said with
a laugh.

“Valerie, I don’t have a glass, but…” Xenia looked around and plucked a doll that
lay helplessly on the ground. She looked at the brown plastic woman in her little
blue business suit and held her up, as if she were some coveted trophy, an empress
needing a kind word, then burst out in laughter before belting, “I’ll toast to that!”
The sun glistened in the doll’s curly, dark brown hair. Streams of light filtered
through the thin, synthetic mass and though she was a doll, she at that moment, represented
a great need. The Queens weren’t toys, they were real women with beating hearts. She
had a story to tell, and nothing would stop her from delivering the essential message…

*

Saint rotated the
knob on the radio, turning it towards the left to lower the volume on the clean version
of French Montana’s, ‘Pop That.’ He looked in the leaned back passenger’s seat of
his silver Lamborghini and peered at his son with a discerning eye. Hassani sat far
back, like a proverbial lump on a log, his dark green sweatshirt slightly rumpled
from his navy blue backpack, filled with the fresh, unused odds and ends of a new
beginning.

“Well, look at you.” Saint snatched his dark sunglasses from his face and tossed them
into his cup holder. “Sittin’ over there looking like some wannabe star,” Saint teased,
causing Hassani to turn away, trying to play it cool, though a half-smile had clearly
formed on the little boy’s handsome face.

“The teachers aren’t going to let you wear that snapback, so you may as well hand
it to me.” Saint reached over and snapped his fingers. “Come on now, I don’t have
all day.”

After a few seconds, Hassani reluctantly grasped his L.A. Lakers hat and placed it
in his father’s palm.

“Alright, good. Now listen up.” He cleared his throat as he cast a lazy glance at
the school building. Children moseyed about, an evident roughness about them, something
he caught even in that daunting second of an assessment. “Like I told you, little
man, every place is different. All places on this earth have their own heartbeat,
their own vibe. You have to be observant, son. This isn’t like L.A.”

Hassani rolled his big, dark brown eyes and ran his small hand over the waves of his
low-cut hair. “I know, Dad.”

“Okay, shrug me off if you want to. I’m trying to tell you something, knucklehead.”

“Things change, Dad. You grew up here a long time ago!”

“Oh
really
?” Saint raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “There’s nothing new under the sun, Hassani.
My father, your grandfather, used to say that to me, and now I understand what it
truly means. I know what your school was like back home. Just because this place caters
to children who are artistically and intellectually inclined doesn’t mean they won’t
come hard for you. Just ’cause someone waves a paintbrush or is a spelling bee champion,
it doesn’t make them a punk. Some of the most talented people I’ve ever come across
were from the hood and had to physically fight, morning, noon and night just to walk
back and forth to school. Matter of fact, children that are gifted like you—and I’m
not talking about psychically but about your drawing, dancing, all of that—tend to
see the world a bit differently. They are creative, and just may say whatever because
they live by their own rules.”

“Dad,” Hassani droned. “I’m going to be late for school! I get it, I get it!” The
boy reached for the door handle, eager to make his grand escape into the big unknown.

“You’re eight and a half years old going on nineteen.” Saint sluggishly turned back
around and placed his sunglasses back on his face. “Don’t let someone talk you into
some shi…some
stuff
you don’t want to do.”

“Dad! Alright! Okaaaay!”

“You remember how to get to your classroom? The room number ’nd everything?”

“Yes, Dad!” Hassani rolled his eyes, opened the door and burst free, as if he’d been
let out of prison. Saint sat there for a long while, watching his first child, the
eldest, the one that was the most like him, saunter away, soon enveloped by the crowd.
He’d wanted to walk Hassani inside, preferably by the hand, but his son made it clear
he’d be beyond embarrassed and didn’t need a paternal escort. Still, Saint almost
gave in to the urge to pull over and park, jump out the damned thing and burst through
the doors to warn everyone within earshot that if they fucked with his son, they’d
be answering to him within the blink of an eye.

Silly notion, though. These were a bunch of children from third grade up to the eighth.
It didn’t help that the high school was right across the street, luring the young
ones with promises to be grown up, big and bold and more obnoxious than ever. Saint
sighed and started the car up. He looked in his side view mirror before merging into
traffic.

Mama, watch over my son, please…

*

Hassani stood in
the middle of the vast school hallway lined with walls of metal lockers, trying as
hard as he could muster to tamp down his shock. He was overwhelmed by the sights and
sounds and the white, glossy floors with squeaking sneakers moving about. Eyes, all
different shades and sizes, darted his way, but the owners of the peepers never stopped
to say hello or offer him assistance. Additionally, the children looked different
than from back home…

They had the same faces, but their clothes hung more loosely, their hair was different
and their eyes appeared void, as if they’d been uprooted from something dark and lonely
and cast out into an alley of Hell, swearing to do their best to survive. This was
supposed to be the school where the smart kids went, the gifted, the bright, the ones
who had a pot to piss in, as Grandma would say. Some cradled large sketchbooks close
to their chest; others sauntered about in the hallways, talking loudly and screaming
curse words while rapping lyrics to dirty songs. He now harbored a tinge of regret.

I wish my Daddy were in here with me… Nah, that’s okay. I’m a man. I can handle this
on my own.

He held his chin a bit higher as he tried to make himself believe the thoughts inside
of his head. Nevertheless, he pushed his way forward, staying the course. Hassani
jetted his chest out as he breathed confidence into himself, pumping himself up like
a blowfish, lest he burst with fear. He looked back and forth, just as he had during
orientation, and saw his classroom. Relief enveloped him, holding him near as he drew
closer. Through the slightly ajar door, he heard the low roar of children getting
situated. The noise of chairs scooting this way and that, and a few morning laughs
shared most likely between friends. As he made his way towards it, two sets of arms
reached in front of him, blocking him like a railroad crossing. He bumped into the
sleeves, confusion spreading through his form. Looking up, he took notice of a willowy
fella, his beige skin covered with a birthmark shaped like Nevada above his left eyebrow.
A slick grin spread across the boy’s long face, causing his Jay Leno type chin to
jet out even further.

He looks like a crescent moon…

“You gotta pay to get in, my man…” The boy scratched the bridge of his pig-like nose
as if simply waiting for something ordinary and expected.

“Yeah, you gotta pay. How much money you got on you?” the other boy, who’d joined
him in his interrogation, asked. He, too, had a willowy frame, but his face was a
roasted almond color, round and fat, like a darn fudge cookie. Hassani felt himself
becoming unhinged. It became more than apparent, even his naïve world—this was something
he wanted no part of.

“I aint gotta pay you nuthin’, now
move
.” Hassani stood a bit straighter, refusing to back down.

The tallest one, the one with the moon face, burst out laughing, exposing a crooked
front tooth. He shot his friend a glance.

“Can you believe this shit, man?” A strand of saliva glistened from the dude’s mouth,
as if he were some drooling monster. “This little mothafucka tryna be ballsy!” This
statement seemed to amuse the other guy quite a bit for their laughter got harder,
more intense, with their mouths gaping open as if a true blue comedian were in their
midst, rattling off his best material. “Look, don’t try to be a damn hero. You lucky
I’m not askin’ for them damn shoes!” Two sets of hungry eyes seized his brand spanking
new Jordans, then the moon-faced boy suddenly turned serious, his eyes becoming beady
as he narrowed them on Hassani, not flinching or backing down.

Daddy told me not to wear these…damn!

Hassani’s gut filled with bubbling regret and the anxiety in his throat burned going
down. He swallowed hard, seeing without a shadow of a doubt that the possibilities
of him getting his butt kicked were more than just a notion.

“Now, we saw you pull up in that fuckin’ pimped out ride, that silver Lamborghini.
The plates said California… We
know
you got some money, little surfboard riding mothafucka, ’Sup Duuuuude,” he mocked,
laughing garishly. “…So why don’t you just share the wealth, huh? Don’t be stingy.
Give us some of that west coast moolah!”

“Yeah, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the other one chimed in. “You
gonna be late for class, so hurry up.”

What would Daddy do?

“What are you talkin’ about? Dat’s my Daddy stuff! Do I look old enough to drive a
Lamborghini to you? I ain’t got no money!”

“Oh, so we got a wise guy, I see… Stop lyin’! I ain’t playin’ with you. Now give it
up before I beat yo’ ass!”

“I’m not lying. I got just enough for lunch, that’s it. Now get outta my way!” For
a split second, he looked around the place, considering the thought of calling for
assistance. Not an adult stood in sight, though, and from the looks of things, the
other children either didn’t care about what was happening to him, or didn’t want
to get involved. He peered back over at the classroom…so close, yet so far away.

If I scream for help from the teacher, everyone will think I’m some punk!

Hassani tried once again to push his way past, but they were much too much for him.
Before he knew it, he was flying backwards like a Frisbee, landing on his spine.