The Meltdown (14 page)

“Good read?” he asks, pointing to the novel in my hand. I forgot all about the main reason I’m here.

“Yes. It’s okay,” I say, flipping through the barely touched text. “I’m a little tired of reading about black women from white folks’ perspectives, though,” I say, obviously impressing my new neighbor. He takes out his laptop and headphones, ready to get his work on, too.

“I felt the same way when I read it for my American literature class last quarter. The second book about the mermaid was the same way, but what can you say? At least we can’t forget where we are and whose country we’re living in.”

Damn, who is this brotha, and where can I find more like him?

“My sentiments exactly,” I say, smiling as big as all outside and temporarily forgetting about my boyfriend, who’s probably flying over an ocean by now. It’s just an innocent conversation with a little subtle flirting and nothing more.

“My name’s Keenan,” he says, extending his right hand, and I return the polite gesture. “And you might be?”

“Jayd,” I say, blushing at the smile in his eyes. He is too cute to be single and so am I. But we can chat it up—no guilt necessary.

“Well, it’s certainly nice to meet an intelligent black woman around here, Jayd.”

Me, a woman? Really? I wonder how old he thinks I am. I’m going to hold off on telling him I’m barely seventeen until after the wedding in my imagination.

“Thank you, Keenan. It’s refreshing to meet you, too.”

Before we can get better acquainted, my phone vibrates in
my purse. I take out the pink cell and reluctantly answer Nigel’s call.

“Jayd, what up?” Nigel asks. “Hey, can you hook me up with some braids when you get here? I want to look like the baller I am tonight.” Nigel’s more excited about the party than the actual graduates. I know he misses his alma mater.

“Whatever, fool. I got you,” I say in a low voice, smiling at my silly friend. It’s been nice hanging out with Nigel during our cotillion rehearsals, especially since we can’t stand the rest of the participants. Having him in the play was cool, too. I almost forgot how good it is hanging with Nigel without Mickey always in his lap. Like Chance, Nigel was my boy first, and even if I’m not their girlfriends or a dude, I’m still the best homie my boys could ask for, if I do say so myself. And they’ve always got my best interest at heart. “You know I raised my rates, right?” I say, looking at Keenan, who’s absorbed in the computer screen in front of him. He’s working on a Mac, so I know he’s got cheddar.

“Girl, please. You know I got you right back. Holla at your boy,” Nigel says, ending the quick call. I have to get a move on if I’m going to do my own hair and Nigel’s braids. He usually likes to rock his afro out, but I guess he wants to change his style up a bit for his old homies at Westingle High.

“What was that all about?” Keenan asks, all up in my business like he’s my man.

Why are dudes so nosy? “I don’t think we know each other well enough to keep tabs on one another’s phone calls, do we?” Keenan smiles at my sass, but I’m serious. I can’t have my folks that curious about my associations.

“Not yet, but we will soon,” he says, sipping his coffee.

I love a confident man. “Well, it was nice talking to you,” I say, reluctantly rising from the comfortable chair with my book. I’ve been here for two hours and am still not ready to go, but duty calls and so do my friends.

“Likewise,” Keenan says. “I hope we run into each other again soon.” He extends his hand, and I take it into mine, holding it one second too long. I hope I run into Keenan again sooner than later. Just because my man is traveling doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the company of an intelligent companion. And it doesn’t hurt if he’s fine, too. All I can say is that I’m thankful for the quick intellectual session. Jeremy’s soft lips and fresh scent aren’t the only things I miss about my man. His mind has always been his most attractive quality, and that’s true for all of the dudes I’ve liked—exclud-ing KJ. And from the brief interaction Keenan and I just shared, so far so good.

O
nce I returned to my mom’s apartment, I gave my head a much-needed wash and conditioning with my new mango-honey hair products. I’m still perfecting the combination, but I like the early results. Even Nigel’s neglected ebony hair’s shining because of the new blend.

Mickey’s in rare form this afternoon, getting ready for the party tonight like it’s all about her. I guess since Nigel’s mom chose me to be in the cotillion and Nigel to be my partner, Mickey’s taking this opportunity to firmly cement her place in Nigel’s life as his one and only girl. So there’s no confusion, Mickey even made Nigel buy her a fake diamond to pass off as an engagement ring. My mom says that promise rings are bad luck, but I’m not going to bother Mickey with my logic, not that she’d listen anyway.

I’m putting the finishing touches on Nigel’s braids, giving him exactly seventeen to match his football number. I think it’s sweet that South Bay gave him the same number he wore at Westingle, even if it did belong to another player. Fortunately the other player was on junior varsity and understood the significance of a senior varsity player maintaining his lucky number at the time of his transfer.

“I love it, girl,” Nigel says, looking at his reflection in the hand mirror. “You’ve got mad skills, Jayd.”

Mickey can’t help but slit her heavily shadowed eyes at me. “She ain’t got nothing until she can hook up my hair,” Mickey says, slicking down the edges of her extensions. The gold and brown weave is loosely braided all over her head, giving me a headache just thinking about dealing with all of that shit.

“I told you, Mickey. I’m all natural with my skills,” I say, taking out the last sample of braid-sheen spray, putting the finishing touches on Nigel’s do. Next to the business cards I’m working on, a satisfied customer is the best advertisement there is.

“I gotta change into my fresh gear to match my clean braids. Thank you, girl.” Nigel hands me a fifty-dollar bill and smiles, knowing it’s double my usual friends’ rate. A simple cornrow is forty dollars plus tip for my regular clients. But for my boys and my girl, Shawntrese, I charge only twenty dollars, but they usually give me twenty-five for a job well done.

Mickey, eyeing the generous exchange, gets red at her man’s appreciation for my excellent work. “How the hell are you going to pay Jayd fifty dollars to do a twenty-dollar job when you didn’t even want to spend that much on my ring?” Mickey asks, waving her nonengagement ring in the air. It’s a nice knockoff, but she’s right. It couldn’t have cost more than Nigel’s hair, and we all know Nigel can afford it, but I’m staying out of this one. Something else is obviously going on here, and it’s between Mickey and Nigel.

“Because I can,” Nigel says. “And Jayd deserves it. She didn’t have to fit me into her work schedule on such short notice, and I know she was already tired from braiding all day, but she did it anyway.” Nigel takes his outfit off the hanger on the
back of the door. “When you work, you get paid. It’s that simple.”

Mickey looks at Nigel like she wants to kill him; obviously he’s hit a sore spot. They’ve been arguing about money lately, and I’m with Nigel: Mickey needs to get her ass a job, especially now that she’s got another person to be responsible for and not depend solely on the county for relief, although it is a necessary supplement.

“So, what are you saying?” Mickey asks, becoming overly emotional. “That I don’t deserve a nice ring? That I don’t work for mine? Because I do.” Mickey places her hands on her hips. Nigel rolls his eyes at his girl’s customary outburst. “And don’t act like you don’t like the way I work it, because that’s not what you said last night or this morning.”

“Okay, that was way too much information,” I say, packing up my hair tools in the black bag, ready to leave this uncomfortable scene and join the rest of our friends in the living room next door. We’re in the den because the baby’s taking a nap in here. Mickey has to drop Nickey off in Compton before meeting us back here to go to the party in downtown Los Angeles. They’ve been here all day, and I’m sure Nigel’s feeling a bit smothered by his instant family.

“I agree,” Nigel says, irritated by Mickey’s crassness. “Damn, Mickey. Some shit’s just between us—know what I’m saying?” Nigel leaves the room, slamming the door and waking Nickey. I pick up my goddaughter and kiss her chubby cheeks in an attempt to calm her fussing.

“Damn him for waking her up,” Mickey says. “All that baby does is shit, cry, eat, and sleep.”

“Here, Mickey. I thought this might help,” I say, passing the medium-sized vial to her. “It’s a tincture for new moms my grandmother helped me make just for you.”

“Does a new apartment and a nanny pop out?” Mickey asks, looking at the blue vile suspiciously.

“No, but it will help with your emotions, uncomfortable digestive issues, and milk production.”

“Damn, Jayd. You make me sound like a factory cow. I’m a girl, not a machine,” Mickey says, plumping her larger-than-usual breasts in her revealing top.

“I didn’t mean it like that, but you are producing for two now. Mama says the ingredients in this tincture will make you feel a whole lot better, and it’ll pass on to Nickey. She needs her nutrients, too.”

Mickey looks at the bottle and sucks her teeth before putting it down on the bed where Nickey’s lying down on her baby blanket.

“Mickey, be careful. Nickey could get into this,” I say, moving the bottle away from the curious baby girl.

“I thought you said it was good for her, too. She might as well get it like that because I’m not taking that shit.” Mickey continues her primping.

“Why do you have to be so rude, Mickey? Damn, I’m just trying to help you adjust to your new role.”

“I’m not taking on a new role, Jayd. Now that the baby’s out, I’m going back to the old me,” Mickey says, picking up a crying Nickey and walking over to the diaper bag hanging on the back of the door.

“You’re only feeding her formula?” I ask when Mickey takes a bottle out of the bag, surprised that Mickey’s not breast-feeding anymore. Last week she had enough milk to feed a couple of babies. “What happened?”

“What happened is that I realized my breasts and my body are finally mine again, and I’m over it. Similac works just as good, and it’s free through the county. It’s a win-win situation,” Mickey says, vigorously shaking the bottle. My goddaughter looks at me, her brown eyes wiser than her six weeks of age. If I were her mother, I’d do it differently. But
this is out of my hands. Ultimately it’s Mickey’s responsibility, and I have to stay out of this decision.

“Okay, Mickey. I’ve tried to be the best homegirl I can be to you, but you’re not making it easy, as usual.” I take Nickey and feed her the thick concoction.

“Whatever, Jayd. This ain’t got shit to do with you. Why do you care?”

I stare into Mickey’s brown eyes, automatically jumping into her mind and reliving the memory of her labor where I took over for her while she rested. That pain was so intense it made me question having babies of my own. If I weren’t a virgin, that experience would have made me close my legs for good.

“I thought I was dreaming when I fell asleep during Nickey’s birth,” Mickey says, her eyes turning from a curious look to an angry glare. “How dare you invade my mind like that!”

“Mickey, do you really think I wanted to experience your labor pains for you, for real?” Finished with Nickey’s evening meal, I put the empty bottle down and place Nickey on my shoulder to burp. Mickey looks at us like she wants to smack us both. Why does she have to be so damned evil sometimes?

“I don’t know what to think, but I know that it’s obvious you want my life. You’re trying your best to take Nigel from me and be his baby mama. But this is my life, Jayd. Get your own.”

Oh, no, this heffa didn’t go off on me for trying to help her after all that I’ve done for her. What a wench.

“I was just trying to help,” I say, tired of defending myself. I place Nickey belly down on the futon while her mama slips out of her tight jeans and into a short skirt, completing the ho look she’s going for.

“Mickey, are you ready to go?” Nigel asks, interrupting us.
“We have to leave here in an hour, so you’d better get Nickey home.” Nigel steps into the den and eyes Mickey’s sexy outfit. His reaction mirrors my own, much to his girlfriend’s disappointment.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Mickey asks, looking at her man in the mirror. She barely looks away from her own image to catch Nigel’s glare. At least I’m not the only one who thinks Mickey should slow her roll. After all, she is a new mom, and showing all her goods may not be the best idea. Even if Westingle isn’t our school, we’re still going to be under the watchful eye of teachers and parents who know Nigel and Rah, and more importantly, they know Nigel’s parents. If it gets back to Mrs. Esop that Nigel showed up to Westingle’s grad night with a tramp on his arm, it might not be good for our boy.

“The same thing that’s wrong with your eyes if you think you’re going anywhere with me like that,” Nigel says, looking around the room for something to drape over his girlfriend.

“You’re tripping. I look good, man,” Mickey says, running her fingers through her loosely curled gold-streaked hair. Has Mickey forgotten Nigel’s ex-girlfriend Tasha will probably be there? And where there’s Tasha, there’s also her best friend, Trish—another one of Rah’s former chicks. She’s calmed down a bit since I put a little something on Trish to make her back up off Rah for his own sake. But Trish continues to linger around, using the fact that her older brother is Rah’s major supplier to keep associating with him even if Rah’s told her in no uncertain terms that he’s no longer interested in her plain ass.

“Baby, I didn’t say that you don’t look sexy as hell. It’s just a bit much for a high school party, don’t you think?” Nigel asks, approaching Mickey from behind as he places his letter-man jacket from South Bay around her shoulders. He’s sporting his other one from Westingle out of respect to his
former team. I know he misses attending school with his Westchester and Inglewood homies, like Rah. Although Nigel’s made new friends at South Bay and having me there has helped, it’s not the same as kicking it with his crew on a daily basis.