Boaz Brown (16 page)

“Hi, Miss Gallahan. What’s all this talk about a handsome man?” I asked casually.

“That engineer from Brown-Cooper. He’s a dream. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the body of a god. Absolutely gorgeous.” She smiled. Her flaming red hair framed her face in perfect little innocent ringlets.

“Well, what are you doing in here? It’s your conference period—get out there and go learn about the wonderful world of mechanical engineering,” I teased her.

She blew a puff of air that made the ringlet on her forehead flutter. “Like he’d really want
me.”

“Don’t knock yourself.” I shook my head. “There is no reason on earth why he wouldn’t want
you.”
I truly didn’t see anything wrong with Miss Gallahan. She was just as cute as the next white woman in line. And it turned out that there were several.

The women’s restroom looked like backstage at a cheerleaders’ competition: hairspray clouding up the room, perfume clashing, and not an inch to spare in the mirror. I said a quick “Good morning” and then rushed into an empty stall. A few of them joked about all the eligible men present in the building, but the engineer was obviously the catch of the day.

“He is so gorgeous,” I heard one of them say. “I could drink his bathwater.” The other teachers in the restroom laughed with playful shock.

“He’s probably gay,” someone said. “Men
that
gorgeous are
always
gay.”

See, Lord, this is why I don’t get involved with white women. All this “oh-my-gaw!”

It never failed—every time I tried to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with a white woman, I could not relate. The stuff that happens to us every day is just life-altering for them. So your husband got a ticket? So your son didn’t get into the college of his dreams? So you didn’t get the mortgage? And? Life goes on—but not to them. They think everything is supposed to handed to them on a silver platter. Maybe because it usually is; who knows? This business of a whole bunch of ‘em crowded up around a mirror to meet one man is just another example of the kind of stuff I can’t get involved with.

I left the restroom, striding confidently into the main foyer of the building. One foot in front of the other, shoulders thrown back like a runway model. My shoes hit the floor with the distinctive pattern of a woman taking sure steps: no dragging of the heels, no short skips. There was too much at stake.

It didn’t take long before I saw this man that they were all making such a big fuss about. As he busily rearranged the brochures at his table, I noticed that there was a picture of him clasping hands with an older black man. He
was
the Brown of Brown-Cooper Engineering. It was Cooper who was black.

As I got closer to the Brown-Cooper display, I found myself giving this man his props. Okay, he was up there with the best of the white men. He was action-movie fine. Muscles, nice tan, wavy hair.
He aught.
Then I got a whiff of his cologne. Okay, I had to give it to him—he had it going on, for a white man. To my surprise, I felt my stomach tighten.

“Miss Smith?” he asked, extending his hand.

“Yes,” I said, shaking his smooth hand.
Never worked a hard day in his thirty-something years.

“I’m Stelson Brown. We talked the other day. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said.

“Same here,” I said before he released my hand. “Looks like you’re just about finished setting up. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, no, thanks.” He smiled again. My eyes caught the little tattoo on his upper arm. A small blue lion with a banner underneath bearing the initials
S.A.B. What kind of mess is that?
I didn’t want him to know that I was looking at it, so I willed myself to stop staring and start talking.

“Well,” I continued, trying to remain strictly professional, “the students should be down to visit the exhibits in about another ten minutes. Be sure to let either myself or Miss Jan, my secretary, know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Miss Smith,” he answered. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

I moseyed on down the aisle of vendors and continued greeting the businessmen and women who were setting up their kiosks and booths. The displays and handouts were colorful and intriguing, sure to keep the interest of the students—though none of the other representatives were as cordial as Mr. Brown.

Later in the morning, Miss Gallahan came to the exhibit with her class. “See what I mean?” she asked, referring to Mr. Brown.

“You were right.” I played it down. “He is attractive.”

She whispered, “Look at how everyone is just throwing themselves at him.” Though the students were busy visiting every booth and stocking up on freebies, most of the teachers were clustered at or near Brown-Cooper. Fresh makeup, hair released from ponytail holders and clips. It was ridiculous.

I would have been embarrassed, except for the fact that Mr. Brown was so wrapped up in talking to the kids that he wasn’t paying much attention to his admirers. I got the feeling he was used to women flocking around him. Maybe it was in the way he smiled at the teachers casually but engaged himself in meaningful conversation with the students. I was impressed with the way he handled himself.

At a quarter till twelve, the exhibit was officially over. Presenters packed their materials as the cafeteria lunch shifts began. I returned to my office to call personnel regarding a long-term substitute for a teacher who would soon be out on maternity leave.

Just as I was about to make the call, my phone rang once, and then I heard Miss Jan’s voice through my phone’s speaker. “Miss Smith, Mr. Brown would like to have a word with you.”

“Oh, okay. Send him in.”

He knocked politely as he entered. “Hello.”

“Well, how did it go?” I looked up from my paperwork, tapping my pen on my desk.

“It was great,” he said, “I really enjoyed myself with these kids, and I owe it all to you. I’d like to take you to lunch.”

I stopped tapping my pen. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m asking you out to lunch.”

Did this white man just ask me out to lunch?
“Um. Oh.”

“I mean, if it’s okay.” He waited for my answer, shifting his weight from one side to the other.

My first thought was to turn him down and let this little white man go on his merry way. I might even let him down easy—tell him that I’ll take a rain check. But something caught my eye in the window just beyond him. There, in a little huddle, was a small congregation of white women “casually” waiting near the exit doors for their handsome Mr. Brown to walk by in hopes that one of them might actually get to talk to him personally. Even Ms. Ash- ton had herself out there on display.

And then it hit me—this was the chance of a lifetime. I had the opportunity, for once, to show white women what it feels like to have one of your most eligible bachelors snatched off the market right before your very eyes. Then maybe they’d tell two friends. And so on and so on and so on, until
we
got
our
men back. Well, that was a long shot, but it would certainly feel good.

A stealthy grin spread across my face. “I’d love to, Mr. Brown.”

You couldn’t beat me slinging my coat on to walk out that door with him. “Miss Jan, Mr. Brown and I are going out to lunch.”

Her mouth dropped. “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

The look on her face was priceless. We waltzed past her and on to the main entrance, where Mr. Brown’s newly formed fan club was all smiles until they saw me by his side. My long, proud strides made my hair bounce up and down like somebody on a shampoo commercial. The whole scene went by in slow motion. Elation at his presence. Confusion at mine. Disappointment that Mr. Brown was obviously in my company.

“Thanks for inviting me to lunch, Mr. Brown. I’m starved,” I said aloud.

Mr. Brown, oblivious to the drama going on around him, replied, “You’re welcome. And please—call me Stelson.”

I turned my head just in time to give Ms. Ashton a mouthful of smiling teeth. Unfortunately, that smile also extended to Miss Gallahan. I did feel a little sorry for her— she was a nice woman who was on the lookout for a decent white man. Earlier that morning, I’d encouraged her to approach Mr. Brown, and here I was leaving the building with him. But it didn’t really matter—I didn’t want him. She could have him back later.

“Oh, you can call me LaShondra,” I said casually. Once outside the building, I suggested that we go in separate cars so that he could get back to his business before too long.

“That’s fine,” he agreed. “I’ll follow you.”

I hopped into my Honda and waited for him to pull up behind me near the exit. Stelson followed me in a white Ford pickup bearing his company’s logo, and we were on our way to Chester’s Bar and Grill.

At the restaurant, the lunch crowd was in full swing, and we were told that we’d have to wait a few minutes to be seated. Stelson gestured toward an empty bench, and we sat waiting for our table. Having already achieved the desired effect I wanted with the teachers on campus, my business with Stelson was officially over as far as I was concerned. Okay, I knew it was wrong to use him in my vengeful plot against white women.
Forgive me, Lord.

An older white man with white hair and a ranch-style mustache came into the restaurant next and put his name on the waiting list. “Dunley,” I heard him say. He took off his hat, revealing a bald crown with a few lonesome strands of hair combed over the otherwise smooth dome. Then he looked around for a place to sit. He approached the bench where Stelson and I were seated, and commenced squeezing in between us.

“Excuse me.” Stelson stopped him. “We’re here together.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The man hopped up and apologized again. “I just assumed…”

Stelson took in a deep breath and seemed to be daring the man to say
one thing
out of line. “You’re welcome to sit
beside
us.” Stelson slid close to me and offered the empty space created by our close quarters. But the man refused, still offering his apologies. He found a corner and stood.

“Brown,” one of the waitresses called.

On the way to our table, I felt a sensation in my body that felt like attraction. I was a little upset with my body for betraying me, conjuring up this uncomfortable feeling that would be going absolutely nowhere quick with this white man. I convinced myself that the attraction was universal— a boy-meets-girl thing.

I ordered sweet tea, and Stelson ordered a Coke. We took the next few minutes to peruse the menu. I knew that menu backward and forward, but I didn’t have anything to say to Stelson. When the waitress returned with our drinks, we placed the orders for our food. She took up the menus, and there we were. Me and this white man, Stelson. The incident with “Dunley” was just another reminder that I was in the wrong place with the wrong person.

“So’, LaShondra,” he began the conversation, “do you enjoy being a principal?”

“Very much so. And you—do you enjoy engineering?”

“Yes, but I think I might have caught the teaching bug today.” He laughed.

“Well, if you ever decide to change fields, there will always be a place for you,” I assured him.

The women next to us were whispering and glancing our way. The younger woman, a brunette dressed in casual shopping clothes, pointed her pinky finger at Stelson. It was done so carelessly that it was obviously intentional.

“I was so glad you guys called and asked me to be a part of the career fair. I had my secretary reschedule a few appointments so I could make it. The students were great— nothing like what I read about in the papers.”

I smiled. “You know, Mr. Brown, it’s a well-kept secret that children aren’t much different today than when we were children. They just want to have fun. Problem is, most adults have conveniently forgotten what it’s like to be a kid.”

“It’s easy to block the rough years out,” he agreed.

A black couple on their way to being seated looked us over twice as they passed. The man, short and chubby with a clean-shaven head and a sharp goatee, looked mostly at me—as if to ask,
why?
And the woman, short and chubby to match, gave me that I-ain’t-mad-at-you look.