Boaz Brown (21 page)

“I can second that,” I agreed with him.

He still had that excited and happy expression on his face.

“What? Why are you looking like that?” I asked him.

“Looking like what?”

“Looking all happy.”

“I’m happy to finally meet someone who understands where I’m coming from. Someone who knows what it means to take communion, to let the Spirit of God lead you, to be set apart from the world. All the stuff that you and I were both raised believing.” He beamed as though he’d found a long-lost friend.

“Stelson, you don’t understand.” I tried to brace him for my less-than-joyful interpretation of this slice of history. “You can be happy about it, but I’m not. I don’t see anything exciting or happy about finding out that my people and your people used to get along but stopped getting along because of race. That is no comfort to me.”

“We’re all God’s people, LaShondra. There are billions of Christians who are divided for unexplainable reasons. I do know, however, that it was never God’s will for his children to be split up. No parent would ever want that for their children. You and I both know that God isn’t about division. He’s about unity. We were chosen long before 1918.”

“I know you’re right, Stelson. But maybe it’s easier for you to disregard the particulars when you weren’t the one on the short end of the stick, you know? And I don’t mean you, I mean your people.”

“You
are my people, LaShondra,” he said forcefully. “Every last church that’s divided up is my people because the church is the body of Christ.”

It took a second to accept that fact. That truth. The same truth Minister Jackson preached about only days before. I’d known, that day at Chester’s, Stelson was my brother. I’d known all along that there was something about him drawing. Perhaps it was the whole truth: part of him was part of me.

My mind was running in circles. I felt a tug-of-war going on inside of me, an internal conflict pitting everything I thought I knew about myself against an emerging image of who this child of God (aka LaShondra Smith) truly was.
This is too hard, Lord.

I sat back and took in the restaurant again. Despite the noise level, I’d heard every word Stelson said. More important, I’d felt them. For the first time, I saw the flecks of black in his otherwise crystal clear blue eyes, the outline around them. I noticed the slope of his nose—steady and steep. His lips were not quite pink, not quite peach, but something in between.

“And what goes on in a typical week for you?” I changed the subject.

“Meetings, meetings, and more meetings at work. Every other Saturday I volunteer for the Saturday Night Live program at our church. Um, what else? I read, I work out, I pray, I study the Word, I go to church. I sleep. And all of that in no particular order,” he joked.

“Sounds like a pretty busy life.”

“Busy but not full. There’s more to life than working hard but having no one to share success with,” he said with no particular expression.

Relieved that he was not making any premature hints about a relationship, I agreed with him. “I understand. I mean, I love being single. I do my own thing without having to consult with anybody else’s schedule. If I don’t want to clean up today, I don’t clean up.”

He nodded, “I know what you mean. Coming home to peace and quiet after a long day’s work does have its rewards. But then again, so would coming home to a foot massage.”

“Ooh, that sounds good,” I agreed. “I don’t know, Stelson. I think that by the time I meet the right person, I might be too set in my own ways, you know? I can’t wake up in the morning, pour a bowl of cereal, and discover all the milk is gone because somebody else in the house drank the last drop and didn’t tell me. That kind of thing would irritate me.”

“More than the irritating comments from family members—‘Why aren’t you married yet?’ and ‘When am I gonna have my grandkids?’”

“Your family, too!” I gasped.

“Oh, yes. My mother especially. She lives in Louisiana, but she tries her best to keep close tabs on me. I have no doubt that seeing me married is at the top of her prayer list.”

“I didn’t think many men had the same kind of pressure. I mean, it’s obvious that women have external pressures, but the fact of the matter is, our biological time clocks tick much faster than men’s. We can’t wait until we’re fifty to make a move.”

“Well, who says you’ve got to have kids?”

“Nobody.” I rested my elbows on the table and laced my fingers together under my chin.

Stelson leaned in to listen more closely.

“I mean, I’m not one of those who absolutely has to have kids. But it would be nice, granted that I had a husband to raise them with—which brings us back to square one.”

In the parking lot, Stelson walked me to my car and saw me in safely. I lowered my window.

“Thanks, Stelson. I really enjoyed this place.”

“Thanks for joining me.” He smiled, his hand on the hood of my car. “LaShondra, would you mind if I had your phone number? I really enjoyed your company, and I’d like to talk more some time.”

After the great time we’d had at the restaurant, the question seemed almost silly. And, come to think of it, maybe the game I was playing with Stelson could be classified as a little silly, too. White as he was, he’d gone through the entire evening without setting off any of those internal alarms—you know, when a guy says or does something on a first date and you immediately know that he is
not
the one? “Sure, Stelson. I think I’d like that, too.”

When I got home from our date, I jumped onto the Internet. I believed what Stelson had told me about our church, but I wanted to read it for myself. Our denominational websites didn’t list much about the split, but I did find that the doctrines were similar. A more detailed search of several historical and theological research engines yielded the confirmation that I needed. My church and Stelson’s church had indeed been united almost a hundred years earlier. We’d been divided by the work of the enemy.

Chapter 10

I
had already asked Momma if I could go to the freshman dance with Reginald, but she said that she and Daddy had to meet him first. “Do you want me to invite him over?” I’d asked.

“No, I don’t want him over here. Invite him to church.” Her eyes got real big and she nodded down toward me. “If he can’t come to church, he ain’t worth a quarter.”

I thought to myself “Daddy don’t have to go to church, and you married him.” I could think whatever I wanted to, but I knew better than to say it.

“What’s his name?” Daddy wanted to know.

“Reginald Devereaux.”

“Reginald what?” He jerked his head back.

“Devereaux, Daddy. It’s French.”

“Ain’t that something—a tough black name like Reginald mixed up with a soft-sounding French name. What’s he look like?” he asked.

“He looks black, Daddy.” I shook my head. I’d wondered, even then, what
Reginald’s complexion
had to do with anything. I thought the question at hand was whether or not I could go.

I followed Momma’s orders and asked Reginald to come to church. He wasn’t actually my boyfriend, but we were “talking,” as we used to call it. I knew his cousin, Renita, a mixed girl in my Spanish class. I’d seen his picture in her photo album and asked about him. Since then, Reginald and I had been passing notes via Renita. I’d also sneak on the phone to call him from a friend’s house, or from the living room if I happened to be home alone. Despite the fact that I was not supposed to be talking on the phone to boys, I managed to carry out a very active social life with both sexes.

Momma was impressed with Reginald Devereaux. He’d introduced himself politely after church and then asked her and Daddy if he could take me to his school’s freshman dance. Both his parents had come to church for the occasion as well, and I was thankful they both looked as black as Reginald did. My parents finally gave us the green light to attend the dance.

His parents drove us to the dance and dropped us off, telling us they’d be back at eleven to pick us up. We both let out a sigh of relief when they drove off.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Reginald whispered in my ear as we walked through the gymnasium doors. His breath tickled my ears when he talked, and sent a tingle down my spine.

We danced throughout most of the night, touching innocently yet purposely. His smooth, light skin bronzed just enough to bring out the unmistakable African heritage in him. I’d wondered before if he was black enough for me. Not just in terms of his complexion, but by his persona. I hadn’t really seen him except in pictures and that one time at church. There, on the dance floor, he put my anxieties to rest. He could prep, he could cabbage patch, and he could Reebok. Yes, he was my kind of black boy.

The DJ announced the last song at around ten-forty-five. “Everybody grab somebody. This is the last dance. Make it count!” Reginald and I had taken a break to get chips and punch, but we quickly took a place on the dance floor.

Reginald pulled me close, and we danced to Atlantic Star’s
“For Always.”
He put his cheek against mine and kissed me. I closed my eyes.
Ooh, please don’t try to kiss me on the lips because I don’t know how to kiss.

I was terrified and excited all at once. Reginald’s mouth moved toward my lips. Slowly. Until finally, they landed on top of mine. I was prepared for the little pecks, no problem. I’d practiced those on my stuffed animals. But when his lips parted and his tongue probed my lips for an opening, I squeezed my lips together even tighter.

He pulled back. “What’s the matter?”

“I.
. .
I’ve never done this,” I admitted. “What—French kiss?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s easy,” he said. “Just close your eyes and open your mouth a little.”

I was so relieved by the fact that he didn’t bust out laughing. I did as he said—closed my eyes and opened my mouth a little. And Reginald Devereaux gave me my first real kiss. It tasted like Doritos and Hawaiian Punch, but it felt like fire.

* * * * *

My cell phone rang, and Peaches’ number flashed across the blue screen. “Hey, girl, what’s up?”

“Do you want to go on a double date with me and Quinn tonight? He’s got a cousin in from out of town.”

“Who’s Quinn?”

“Alias Brother Robertson.”

“Oh, it’s
Quinn
now?”

“Don’t start.”

“Do you know anything about this cousin?” I asked.

“Not much. I know he’s from Oklahoma. Just down here on a little vacation.”

“Oh, brother.” I rolled my eyes. “You know what that means.”

“What?” she tried to act like she didn’t know.

“Either he
just
broke up with somebody or he
just
lost his job. Somethin’ ain’t right. He’s too old to be going to visit a cousin.”

“Well, do you have something better to do tonight?”

“I was just on my way to Chili’s to get me a salad— which might be preferable to whatever mess you and Quinn’s cousin have in store for me.”

“Whatever, girl. At least this way you don’t have to pay for your own food. Be at my place at eight so we can ride to Quinn’s apartment together.”

I made a U-turn and went back home. I threw on a striped sweater with frayed denim jeans and a pair of brown leather boots with heels perfect for sitting. Unlike Peaches, I had to be comfortable in whatever I wore. She, on the other hand, was a slave to fashion. I know for a fact that her rhinestone belt buckle
had
to hurt when she bent down to pick up her purse. But she straightened herself up, pushed it back into place, and took it in stride.