Boaz Brown (18 page)

“Please . . .“ I waved my hand. “If they haven’t seen us dancin’ by now, they have other, more pertinent childhood issues that need to be resolved.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone on the second- floor balcony move. It was Mr. Butler. He’d obviously been watching the celebration but hadn’t come to participate. Mrs. Harmon saw him, too.

“Don’t look now,” she said.

“I already saw him,” I snickered. “He’ll get over it. Nobody said anything when all those teachers got sloppy drunk at his birthday party last year. They did a whole lot more than just the bump!”

“Ooh! You need to quit!” She smiled.

“Thanks for bringing the kids to sing to me,” I told her again. “You have really blessed me today.”

“Any time, my sister!”

I truly liked Mrs. Harmon. Her natural Afro and earth- tone makeup complemented her down-to-earth, genuinely good attitude. She was dedicated to her work and her students. I never knew that a music teacher could squeeze standardized test material into her curriculum, but she did. I wished that I could spend more time with Mrs. Harmon, but her life was far too busy. She was a newlywed, new to Texas, and they had a brand-new baby. Somehow, she still gave those kids her all. I was glad to have her on our staff.

When we interviewed for new teachers in the spring, I tried to snatch up as many black teachers as possible. Mr. Butler didn’t seem too happy about that. Yes, I know I have to try to pick the best person for the job, but when you’re hiring new teachers, you don’t know who’s good and who’s not. Grades and certificates don’t tell you who can actually convey his or her knowledge while managing the classroom. With the teacher turnover rate as high as it was in our district and across the state, I figured it couldn’t do any harm to give a brother or a sister a chance. Maybe I was right; maybe I was wrong—I didn’t give it much thought.

I took Miss Jan up on her offer to treat me to Chinese food for lunch. She ordered, and we spent the lunch hour in my office talking about my thirty-first birthday. Though everyone referred to my secretary as “Miss Jan,” she had been married for more than twenty years. She was forty- five and didn’t look a day over thirty-eight. “I hope I look as good as you when I get forty-five,” I often told her. I could be nice to Miss Jan—when I wanted to.

“Well, if it weren’t for your business suits, I’d think you were one of the kids,” she said. “You’re gonna look great at forty-five.”

The residue of my morning worship was still on me, so I made an effort to squeeze in a little casual witnessing during the lunch hour, telling Miss Jan how thankful I was that God had blessed me with such a rich, full life.

She sat quietly, smiled, and nodded her head as she always did. Her brown hair was interrupted here and there by strands of gold and red: her highlights caught the glare from the overhead illumination perfectly. The telltale signs of aging were in their infancy: thinning lips, crow’s-feet near her eyes. Her slightly tanned skin was just the slightest bit loose on her arms and neck. Were it not for her clothing, I would have given her the thumbs-up for presentation. But the one-piece clown suits and ruffled collars gave her away. Miss Jan was stuck in the eighties from the neck down.

I stuffed my mouth with food, allowing Miss Jan the opportunity to say something.

“Your life is so great,” she said, looking down. “You’ve got everything already, and you’re not even forty.”

“Hey,” I said to her, “your life looks pretty good to me, too. You’ve got two great teenage girls, your husband adores you, and you only work because you’d be bored at home.”

“Well . . .“ she smiled, still looking down. “I’d trade places with you in a minute. I mean, my life is more than halfway over, and I really haven’t done anything with it, you know? Let me ask you: how did you know what you were supposed to be doing? And how do you get past the fear of failure and just go out and do things? I’ve seen you do so much stuff here—things that people had been
saying
they were going to do but never got done. You just came in and did it without ever looking back. It’s like—you’re so amazing.”

Her eyes were big with awe, and I knew that she meant well, but I was a little agitated. What did she think I was
supposed
to be doing? Sitting up somewhere on welfare with five kids and five different babies’ daddies? But I wouldn’t go there. Instead of telling her what I wasn’t, I’d tell her Who is.

“Well,” I said, slowly, “the key, Miss Jan, is in a
real
relationship with God. When I gave Him full control, He also assumed full responsibility for me. After all, I am His child. Whatever success I have, whatever trial I have, whatever comes my way, God gets the glory out of it.”

“Wow!” She smiled again. “I hope my girls grow up to be as strong in their faith as you are. You know, Christina asks about you all the time.”

Little did Miss Jan know, she’d just twisted my stomach in knots and caused the Spirit’s warning bells to go off. I took another huge bite of sweet-and-sour chicken and washed it down with remorse. I had taken something as simple as a compliment and turned it into a racial incident
that quickly
in my head. Regardless of the root of Miss Jan’s comment, there was no malice in her accolades.
Quit trippin’, Shondra. Get a grip.

Mr. Butler called an after-school faculty meeting to discuss end-of-semester disciplinary issues that had been simmering on campus. Afterward, he asked to see me. I met him in his office and immediately sensed that he was up to no good. He closed the door behind me and took a seat.

“There is still the matter of the Donovan girl and your disciplinary strategies, Miss Smith,” he said in long-drawn-out words.

“Is there something I should know, Mr. Butler?”

“They have contacted the board, and I’m sure the board will be getting in touch with you in turn.” He was close to smiling.

“I’ve been in contact with my legal advisers,” I said. He wanted to know more, but I wasn’t about to lay all my cards on the table. I walked out of there as if I had a full house—whatever that is.

Miss Jan was still at her desk long past four o’clock. “Working late today, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. . .“ She smiled and faced me. “I decided to stay and finish up some things. Christina’s got a late basketball practice today. I thought I might as well hang out here instead of going all the way home and have to get back out again to pick her up.

“By the way, Stelson Brown called for you.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Brown. From the career fair.”

“Oh, did he say what he wanted?” I took the yellow message slip from her.

She batted her eyelashes. “Obviously, he wants to talk to you, missy.”

“Just take a message the next time he calls,” I said.

Miss Jan was never good at following directions. When Stelson dropped by the next day, she led him right to my office, with very little notice.

“Miss Smith, hi! How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Brown. And you?” I shook his hand at the door to my office. He looked different underneath the bright lights of my office. He hadn’t been in the sun lately; that was for sure. But even though his skin was about the business of returning to its natural shade, he was still handsome.

“Great.”

“How can I help you?”

“Well, I was doing some work in this area, and I decided to stop by and ask. . . . I was wondering if we could get together again.”

I invited him into the office and closed the door quietly to save him the embarrassment. “Mr. Brown, I . . . I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”  “Would
it
be too much to ask why?” he probed gently.

I put my head down and hung my hand on the back of my neck.
To be truthful or to be rude?
I at least owed him an honest answer. “Mr. Brown, I don’t know what you’re going to make of this. I think that you’re a nice, friendly person, and this is all very flattering, but I’m attracted to African-American men.”

“Exclusively?”

“Pretty much.”

“Hmm.” Stelson took the liberty of seating himself in the hot seat. He motioned for me to sit down across from him.

You got your nerve!
“No, thanks. I’ll stand.”

“You see, I’m only seeking a certain kind of woman. She’s got to be strong. . . secure . . . positive. And a woman of God,” he said. “I, too, have discriminating tastes.”

I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. A charged silence hung between us. He watched me as I fidgeted between being annoyed and intrigued—his confident aura was magnetic.
Reality check, Shondra! White men with money think they have the power to push other people around.

“Mr. Brown, this isn’t going anywhere.” I walked toward the door.

“LaShondra”—I was startled to hear him speak my name—”can you give a
brother
a
chance?”

I laughed at him, sitting there in his khakis and heavily starched button-down polo shirt and looking like white America’s poster child. I couldn’t believe those words had come from his mouth. “You are
not
a
brother!”

“If I’m not mistaken, I
am
your brother—in Christ. Doesn’t that count for something?” He stood and approached me at the door.

“Who taught you that ‘give a brother a chance’ line?” I grinned against my will.

“You’re not the only black person I know, Miss Smith.”

“Look, you’re not earning any brownie points with me by trying to act black, okay?” I shook my head. He was closer to me than he should have been, but I traded my personal space for the pleasant drift of his cologne.

“I’m not trying to earn points with you. I just want you to realize you don’t
know
me until you
know
me.” His voice deepened with sincerity.

“Are you a serial killer?”

“No.

“A stalker?”

“No. I don’t have time to stalk people. In fact, I barely have time to be here now.” He shook his arm and looked down at his wristwatch. “So what do you say, Miss Smith— dinner Saturday?”

I raised one eyebrow and crossed my arms. “Dinner. Saturday. I’ll call you. Leave your number with my secretary.”

“I’d rather leave it with you.”

When I got home, I took a few minutes to eat a snack, unwind, and catch my breath before getting ready for singles Bible study at Peaches’ church.

Peaches arrived at my house ten minutes after six in her usual rush, honking her horn to rush me despite her lateness. I grabbed my purse and my book bag, setting the alarm before I walked out. Peaches was bouncing around in the car, flailing her thin arms to something with a fast, heavy beat. You would never have guessed that she was one of the youngest high-powered executives at Northcomp by day.

When we got to the church, we sent Eric on to the children’s class. Peaches and I walked down the east hall and greeted our classmates in the bi-weekly singles fellowship/Bible study. Our desks were small, obviously meant for school-age children. But we suffered through the downsized furniture for our teacher, Brother Johnson’s, priceless wisdom.

Brother Johnson was in his late forties and recently married for the first time. And even though he’d considered turning the singles class
over to another teacher due to his change in status, we’d successfully begged him to stay and help us on to the other side.

“I’ll be so glad when I can stop coming here,” Peaches teased me as we took our seats. “I’m ready to graduate to the couples’ ministry. I want to know what they be talkin’ ‘bout in there.”

“Peaches, be quiet,” I shushed her.

Brother Johnson led us in prayer and then asked us to pull out our notes and Bibles.

“Your homework was to describe your ideal mate and list some attributes you would especially like to have in your future spouse. I also asked you to spare no details. Whether your desire is biblically-based or not, I want you to let us know exactly what you’re looking for. Tell the truth and shame the devil,” he said.