Boaz Brown (23 page)

Hands were popping up faster than I could help anyone. “Yes, you must have the same denominator before you can add or subtract fractions”, “Reread that last section—the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 did a lot to hasten the Civil War”, “Every complete sentence has a subject and a predicate. Here, I’ll circle the ones that you need to look at again.” I was here, I was there, and my brain was everywhere.

And then, suddenly, the voices in the classroom quieted down to silence. My back was to the door, but I felt the tap on my shoulder. “LaShondra.”

I turned to greet a familiar voice. “Hi.” My heart raced and stopped, all at once.
What is Stelson doing here?

“I’m here to help with the tutoring. I don’t know how good I am with English, but I’m really good at math and science.” He smiled and set his briefcase in a corner.

“Okay.” I was dumbfounded. “Okay.”

I faced the students and nervously introduced Stelson. “This is Brother Brown. He’s here tonight to help with tutoring. Let’s see, now, those of you who need help with math or science, please move to these tables on the right. You’ll be working with Brother Brown. Everyone else move over to the left with me.”

The students were eager to divide up into smaller groups and get more individualized attention. I felt a sense of relief and wariness all at once.
What does he want from me?
My tutoring burden had been cut in half, but at what cost?

I watched Stelson with a suspicious eye, kept an ear open for what he was saying and how he said it. He was right in there, elbow deep, with the kids, explaining things to them, showing them how to work out the solutions. He gave them encouragement to keep trying, praised them when they got the correct answers, and led them to figure out their own mistakes when they’d gotten an incorrect answer. He was a natural teacher.

Stelson moved around the table with sure, confident steps. His deep voice soothed the students’ anxieties and softened when he wanted their complete attention, so they had to give listen closely. I watched his arms reach across the table. I suddenly wondered what they would feel like around my waist.
Help, Lord.

“Sister Smith!” one of the students called my name.

“Yes?” It occurred to me that I’d heard her, but I wasn’t listening.

“I ain’t mad at you, ‘cause he
is
tha bomb,” DeAundra giggled. “But right now I need a little help here with this comprehension question.”

“Okay, DeAundra, I’m here.” I tried not to smile, but she
was
right about Stelson.

Together, Stelson and I served every student who came that evening. When the music started playing in the sanctuary, the students gathered their books and thanked us for the help. One of the students led us in prayer before, thanking God for the work I had been doing for them and also thanking God for Brother Brown’s help. Then the students headed back into the sanctuary. Stelson stayed behind to help me straighten up the classroom.

“Wow!” He took a deep breath. “Tutoring is nonstop action.”

“I know,” I said, putting the last chair back in place. “And thank you so much for coming to help. How did you know?”

“I heard you talking about the need for help the other day, and I decided to come lend a hand.” He shrugged.

“Thank you, Stelson. I really appreciate the help, and I’m sure the kids did, too.”

We picked up our things and walked down the corridors leading to the main entrance of the sanctuary. I stopped just shy of the main doors. “Well, thanks again for coming. You truly blessed me tonight.”

“Oh.” He caught on to my farewell motions. “I was planning to stay for church service.”

“Oh, okay.”

He raised an arm toward the sanctuary doors. “After you.”

For a moment, I’d forgotten what color Stelson was. In the classroom, he’d looked like an angel to me. But when I opened that main door and walked down the center aisle with Stelson Brown by my side, there was no mistaking his color. Heads turned; necks craned and almost broke trying to get a good look at him and figure out if the lack of space between us indicated that we had actually walked into church together. Their notions were confirmed when we sat down together and passed a smile.

I wanted to stand up and defend him—or myself—to the congregation. To explain that we knew each other only casually, that he had come to help with the tutoring program. I also wanted to tell them that he was raised in the Assemblies of God and already knew what we believed. He wasn’t some white guy off the streets who was doing some research project on African-American religion.

Furthermore, I certainly had enough sense not to fool around with some white man who might only be trying to use me the way they’d always used black women.
But why do I need to tell them all that?

After the sermon, which I hardly paid attention to, Deacon Brower gave the benediction. I followed Stelson out of the sanctuary. He pushed the swinging door open and allowed me to pass before him.

“Hi, Sister Smith!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around. It was Shannon—Emily’s mom. I hadn’t noticed her during the service. “Hello.”

“Hey, who’s your guest?” She put her hand on Stelson’s arm, too.

“This is Stelson Brown. Stelson, this is Shannon.”

“Stelson Brown of Brown-Cooper! We did business with you all a few years ago. I know your name from the contracts.” She grabbed his hand with both of hers and shook so hard that her bangs fell from behind her ears.

“It’s a pleasure to finally be able to put a face with the name.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Shannon.”

“Sister Smith”—Shannon looked at me eagerly—”why don’t we all get together some time? Me, you, Stelson, and Paul.”

I don’t think so.
“Hmmm…” I smiled like I didn’t understand English.

“Here…” She reached into her purse, pulled out a business card, and pressed it into my palm. “Call me. I think we’d have a great time.”

“Thanks,” I said.

And then she winked at me.
What’s that supposed to mean? Like we’re in some secret interracial dating sorority?
“Bye. Don’t you let her forget to call me, Stelson!”

Stelson had that same I-speak-no-English look on his face. Outside in the parking lot, he asked me if I knew Shannon well.

“No, not at all.”

“She’s certainly very friendly.”

“Too friendly,” I said under my breath.

Chapter 11

Testing time was always especially difficult on me when I taught school. It was always an all-week affair: getting the kids pumped up and mellowed out at the same time, making sure I’d signed all the oaths and sharpened enough pencils, fretting about how to hold the kids hostage until testing time concluded

My principal that year, Mr. Wright, had a campus-wide movie planned for the afternoon so the kids would have a chance to wind down and relax following the state assessment.

The film was a boring piece of historical fiction set in the early nineteenth century, about a boy and dog—a wannabe
Old Yeller,
if you ask me. We’d instructed the kids to remain quiet while we collected the testing materials and awaited dismissal instructions.

Ms. Logan, one of my team teachers from down the hall, called to check on me. “Hey, Miss Smith, how’s it going in your room?”

“Okay, I guess. I think I’m more restless than the kids are.”

“Aren’t you watching the movie?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh, I think this movie is so awesome. I would have
loved
to live back then. I mean, you didn’t have all the modern conveniences that we have today, but I can just imagine that things were so much simpler and less stressful, don’t you?”

“Miss Logan, if
I
was alive back then, I would have been a slave.” I put a touch of humor in my tone, but only because I had to work with her again next year.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she sincerely apologized. “I guess I just forgot. I am
so
sorry.”

Must be nice to be able to forget.

* * * * *

My foot dangled over the edge of the bed as I scoured the newspaper for interesting articles and worthwhile stories. With cereal bowl in hand, I carefully leaned over the headlines and read the usual: somebody done somebody wrong, somebody was on the loose, somebody was suing for whatever.

Nonetheless, my joy was intact. I went to my prayer closet for peace and direction. After praying and meditating, I revisited the Scriptures pertaining to prejudice. The passages kept calling me, as though they needed my care. “Lord, whatever You want me to know from these Scriptures, I pray that Your Spirit will reveal it to me so I can do Your will. Thank You for speaking to me so clearly and for chastising those You love. I love You, Father.”

Just as I prepared to leave the room, my phone rang, and I wondered who in their right mind would be calling me before noon on a Saturday. I rushed to answer it before whoever-this-is could get off the line.

“Hi, LaShondra. It’s Stelson.”

“Well, good morning, Mr. Brown.”

He laughed. “Good morning to you, too, Miss Smith. How are you?”

“Fine.” I flirted right along with him. “And how are you?”

“Fine as well. I was calling to invite you to church and dinner tonight. We have what we call Saturday Night Live at our church every other weekend. The youth department hosts
it, trying
to keep kids off the streets. I go whenever I can to help out.”

“Yeah, you told me a little about it the other night,” I recalled.

“I’ve signed up to serve hot dogs tonight, but we could go somewhere else afterward. Are you
free?”

“Yes, I think I can do that.”

“And may I pick you up?” he asked with a hint of hope.

“Sure . . .“ I let the word out slowly.

My lazy morning came to an abrupt end with the formation of evening plans. I had to stop by the cleaner’s, do some grocery shopping, get my nails filled, oil changed, and get myself ready to go before six.

I hopped out of bed and threw on a pair of sweats with sneakers. My curls had completely fallen, but the wave left in my hair was enough to make it through the night. Besides, walk-in at my beauty shop was synonymous with live-in—you could expect to live an entire day in the beauty shop without an appointment.

No, the present state of my hair would have to do.
Unless I wash it and blow-dry it out, then
flip
it up with the blow brush... Why am I even worrying about this?
After all, it was only Stelson.

Momma called and asked if I was going to come by for dinner Sunday. “Yes, Momma. You know I am.”

“Why don’t you come on over here tonight? We can make the sweet potatoes for tomorrow.”

“I can’t tonight.” I let the words glide casually across my tongue. “I’ve made some plans.”

“Oh, really? Where you going?”

Do I really have to answer this?
“Momma, I’m going out to a church program.” She waited for further explanation, but I was in no hurry to give her one.

“All right,” she sighed. “All I’m tryin’ to do is look out for you. I’m your momma and that’s my job.” It must be nice to be able to pull rank like that at a moment’s notice.