Up at the College (31 page)

Curtis hopped out and came around to help Yvonne out of the truck. She gave him her hand and swung one leg out of the door.

“Ooooh, baby, where did you get those stockings?”

Yvonne didn’t say a word. Just smiled and got out of the truck. Sometimes a comment wasn’t necessary when a simple smile would
do.

Curtis clicked the alarm and grabbed Yvonne’s hand. Yvonne’s first response was to pull her hand from his, but he held on
to it.

“I don’t have cooties, you know.”

“I know,” Yvonne said softly.

“Then why do you have so much trouble letting me hold your hand?”

“Uh … well, I’m not used to the feeling,” Yvonne said before she could stop herself.

“What feeling?” Curtis asked, smiling down into her eyes.

“Your hand around mine.”

“And you have to get used to that because?”

Yvonne searched for a better answer than the real one, which was,
because I can feel the touch of the palm of your hand in the center of my heart.

Rather than come up with a goofy lie to try and save face, she decided not to give Curtis an answer. Instead she squeezed
his large hand with her own, looked up into his eyes, and smiled. This time it was Curtis who was at a loss for words. He
felt that smile traveling from his chest to the pit of his stomach, and on down to the tips of his toes.

“Come on, girl. Let’s find Rochelle’s table. And then I want to make sure that none of Bay Bay’s Kids are here tonight. I
gave the team specific instructions to stay home and get some rest.”

“Bay … who?”

“The team. You teach those children, Yvonne. You know they are Bay Bay’s Kids.”

“Oh … you mean ‘Bébé’s Kids,’ as in ‘We don’t die …’”

“ … We multiply,” Curtis finished with her, laughing, and then he looked down at his date and asked, “say Bay Bay again.”

“Bébé.”

“Spell it.”

“B-e-b-e.”

“But why not b-a-y-b-a-y?”

“Because that’s how it’s spelled in the Robin Harris joke and in the movie
Bébé’s Kids
,” Yvonne told him. “You said it kinda slow-like. But it’s faster than the way you pronounced it, Curtis.”

“I hear ya, baby” was all Curtis said. This had to be the silliest, most unnecessary, and yet most heartwarming conversation
he’d had with a woman in a long time. His father had once told him that the right woman was the one you could have a meaningful
conversation with over something that was trivial at best.

Rochelle, followed by Maurice, met them at the door. They nudged each other and smiled. Yvonne and Curtis looked like they
were going together. Rochelle couldn’t wait for Darrell and Sundress, who were here tonight lobbying for those fancy faculty
positions they were licking their chops over, to see her sister. That Bettina was wearing the ugliest black Ultrasuede A-line
sundress with spaghetti straps and a white silk shirt underneath. Her ensemble couldn’t hold a melted-down candle to Yvonne’s
outfit. Rochelle was just thankful that Bettina had the good sense not to wear white opaque stockings with her black suede
flats.

“Cuz, Cuz,” Maurice hollered across the room as if he were calling her from across the parking lot.

Yvonne smiled. Their family was notorious for hollering at folks, heedless of how loud they sounded to others.

“What up, Cuz,” Maurice said, and then stepped back to get a better look at Yvonne. “Dang, Cuz. You tryin’ to catch you a
man at this reception?”

Curtis cleared his throat and pulled back his suit jacket to reveal that sharp vest he was wearing. He said, “The suit works
’cause Cuz just caught the big catch of the day.”

Yvonne looked up at Curtis and said, “Oh no, baby boy. You are the one who was bestowed the honor of escorting this rare treasure
to the reception tonight.”

Rochelle and Maurice looked at each other as if to say,
Awww, so it’s like that.

Curtis got close to Yvonne, leaned down, and whispered in her ear, “You dang skippy I got the treasure tonight, baby.” He
slipped his arm around her waist and continued, “And you know something, sweet thang? I can’t wait to explore the entire package,
slowly and with great pleasure one day.”

Yvonne was about to do her customary schoolgirl blush. But she sucked that blush back up to where it came from and got close
to Curtis, inhaling a second because he smelled so good.

“You know you are too grown for your own good. But I got something for you, Coach Parker.”

“Oh … you got something for me, Miss Yvonne,” he said, grinning and sucking on his tooth. “You think you can handle all
of this?”

He opened his arms and stood with his feet apart.

“Brang it” was all Yvonne said and headed over to the food table, knowing that Curtis was watching as she gave him an eyeful
of her sashaying that big, round booty across the room.

Curtis started after her, eyes glued to that booty. Rochelle tapped his arm and pointed to their table.

“We are over there at the fun table with Obadiah, Lena, Denzelle, Trina, Lamont, Theresa, James, and Vanessa and dem. The
only problem is that we are just a few tables too close to those jokers over there.”

Rochelle nodded in the direction of the president’s table, where Darrell and Bettina were sitting with Sam and Grace Redmond,
Gilead and his wife, Delores, and Regina Young, along with Jethro Winters and his wife, Bailey Catherine.

Darrell saw Rochelle pointing at their table like she was telling folks they were sitting in the quarantined section. He was
really trying not to stare over there, but couldn’t help it. He wanted to make sure that his eyes were not playing tricks
on him when he saw Yvonne looking like a million dollars,
and
that she was with a man. And his ex-wife was not with just any old man—she was with the head coach of the school’s basketball
team—a high-profile man, one high on the food chain as far as the sisters were concerned.

Try as he might, Darrell had a hard time keeping his eyes from darting back and forth from his ex-wife’s chic and sexy suit
to his current wife’s black-and-white uniform with those ugly shoes. He didn’t know why she thought that a flat was the shoe
of choice for her big, wide, and flat feet.

Dr. Darrell Copeland was not the only one at his table eyeballing Yvonne. Jethro Winters thought he was going to lose it if
he didn’t find a moment away from Bailey’s eagle eyes to ask Sam Redmond the age-old player’s question, “
Who
is that?”

Under normal circumstances, Yvonne looked good enough to Gilead Jackson to make him want to hit on her. But his dislike for
that little chocolate version of Polly Pocket was so intense that Gilead wouldn’t have laid a finger on Yvonne if she had
jumped him naked in the hotel’s cloakroom. And that was saying a whole lot because Gilead was an old pro when it came to ho’in’
around.

Regina Young saw Polly Pocket walk in with Curtis, looking fabulous—which set her teeth on edge and put her in a horrible
mood. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she was sitting at this couple’s table without a man on her arm. Even worse, she had
to sit next to that boring-tailed Delores Jackson. Regina could not stand Gilead’s wife, and wished she could just haul off
and slap that woman before going upstairs and getting in bed with her man. Now, that would make this torturous evening worthwhile.

She reached under the table, bent on rubbing her hand on Gilead’s knee while his wife sat there running her mouth about what
kind of grass seeds she was considering putting on their lawn. Plus, it gave her something to do to keep from falling asleep.
Gilead’s wife took a deep breath and then launched into part two of her monologue—this time on aerating the lawn and getting
it ready for the seeds.

Regina yawned as her right hand connected with what she thought was Gilead’s knee. But it didn’t feel like Gilead’s knee.
Gilead had very big bones and joints. This knee was thicker and meatier, and the material on the pants leg was luxurious to
the touch. Regina glanced to her right and almost swore out loud when it dawned on her that Gilead was next to her left hand.

All of a sudden a strong and well-manicured hand covered Regina’s under the table. She blushed and tried not to squirm when
that hand began to misbehave something terrible. Gilead glanced over at her in the middle of his wife’s describing in excruciating
detail how exhilarating it was to plow through hard and fallow ground, preparing the soil for the new seed, and gave her the
“what’s wrong with you?” look.

Regina shrugged, as if to say, “Nothing,” while Jethro Winters turned up the heat on her and began to play footsie with her
fingers. Jethro knew that Regina had been reaching for Gilead’s knee, and it did his reprobate mind and heart some good to
intercept that pass. Regina Young was a fine-looking sister, with all of the physical attributes he appreciated in a woman.
She was tall like Bailey, and had long, thick hair, a full mouth, sexy eyes, and a mind like a steel trap. She was the first
woman he’d run into in a long time, since Charmayne Robinson, who set his blood to boiling. And the girl had better be glad
that his wife was at this table, or else he would have given her a reason to slide right under it.

Regina tried to pull her hand from under that table and found it held in a vise that was not going to yield anytime soon.
So she opted to relax and enjoy this game of cat and mouse between her and Jethro Winters. Maybe it was time to get a change
of scenery and hook up with a new man. While she definitely preferred chocolate, she was always down for a little vanilla
extract in her life when the need arose. And there was no better way to pimp-slap a black man than to hang on the arm of a
white one—especially when the white man was one of the richest and most sought-after players on the market.

What did it matter to her that Jethro was married? Regina wasn’t trying to up and marry anybody anytime soon. She only wanted
a good-looking and wealthy man who would make it worthwhile to be with him. And Jethro Winters definitely fit the bill. If
Regina couldn’t have the man she really wanted, then hooking up with the best man she could get was a smart move.

Once Jethro was satisfied that Regina was his for the taking, he relaxed his grip on her hand and paid some attention to Bailey.
He had to stifle the grin that came when he had been smooth and slick. Last thing he needed was for Bailey to get an inkling
that a new other woman was about to be interviewed for the job. He’d been monogamous for the past eight months. And while
it had been real, as the brothers would put it, he needed something to jump-start his engine.

Jethro’s doctor had suggested that he quit running around with so many women for a while, and then proceeded to write him
out a prescription for Cialis to help with some of the problems he’d been experiencing lately. Jethro had just known he was
dying of some advanced form of prostate cancer when he drooped worse than somebody with the dropsy disease in the middle of
an illicit, late-night, for-old-times’-sake tryst with Patty Harmon.

But thankfully he was just run down and a lifetime of whoring around was finally catching up with him. Some rest and a steady
diet of two fine women would do the job. Bailey always kept his fire going. And this Regina would ignite that pilot light
for him. He could tell from just looking at the girl that she was a high-quality freak, and better medicine than any Cialis
pill could possibly be.

Plus, nothing got him going more than playing games with folks, especially black men he didn’t like. And knocking boots with
Gilead Jackson’s backdoor woman—a woman with all kinds of knowledge about the workings of this university—could keep Jethro
going without the need for Cialis for months on end. Jethro eyed Bailey carefully. When he was satisfied that she was content
with one of her favorite activities—people watching—he reached down and sneaked one more squeeze of Regina’s hand. He was
glad that the cold weather was rolling in with these two women to keep him warm.

Bettina had been thoroughly pissed when Yvonne walked in with that good-looking man. And even worse, the girl looked so doggone
good herself. That was the worst feeling—when the ex-wife, whose marriage you plotted and schemed to destroy, stepped up somewhere
looking ten times better than you,
and
with a new man.

Bettina had spent many a sleepless night plotting and scheming to get Darrell to leave Yvonne. And on one or two occasions
she’d actually felt sorry for Yvonne because Darrell chose her over his own wife. Now she wondered if Yvonne was the one to
be envied. The girl looked so good and happy it made Bettina wonder if she’d actually done Yvonne a solid.

Bettina had not had any fun since Darrell whisked her off to southeast Asia to be married in an ancient temple by a monk who
gave her an eerie feeling that he had killed quite a few Americans during the Vietnam War. What Bettina didn’t know while
she was lying awake scheming and plotting Yvonne’s demise was that Darrell was pretty boring, and didn’t like to do a lot
of stuff black folks their age enjoyed doing.

The boy wasn’t heavily into sports. And in fact, the only reason he was at this reception tonight was to hobnob with the powers
that be to get the job, salary, and perks he wanted. He didn’t go to dances. And he acted as if he hated old school music.
If Bettina had to listen to one more folk performer from the region of never-never land, she was going to bust a cap in somebody.

Darrell used to complain to Bettina that one of the reasons he could no longer stand his wife was that Yvonne had simple tastes
and did not appreciate music that was noncommercial and true art. He was incensed that the girl hated the music of the Brahmin
Folk Shamans. But he would have had a hissy fit if he discovered that not only did Bettina hate the Brahmin Folk Shamans,
with that lead singer who sounded like Chewbacca from
Star Wars
, she detested Darrell’s other favorite group, the Cambodian Monks Chorale.

Why couldn’t an African-American just listen to something worthy of being played on Durham’s Foxy 107? Why did she have to
listen to the Cambodian Monks Chorale sing a song in a language she did not know, and with melodies that brought new meaning
to the term avant-garde? All a black girl from Shreveport, Louisiana, wanted to do was hear herself some Al Green, Luther,
Chaka, the Queen, James Brown, Prince, and the late great Gerald Levert. Could a sister just hear some Charlie Wilson at the
end of the day?