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Authors: Kelli London

Boyfriend Season (19 page)

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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23
DYNASTY
M
eretricious. Adjective. Mehr-ih-trish-uhs. Falsely attractive; gaudy. In a sentence: City's girlfriend's meretricious style and idea of grace would horrify any fashionista or refined person.
Dynasty smirked, sitting at her desk. She looked over at City, who was on the phone conducting a business transaction with some overseas garment manufacturers. They weren't ready for the big time yet, but were preparing for it.
“A smart person should map out their journey so they can be prepared,” he'd said, and it'd made sense. She wondered now if that's what he'd done. Was that the reason he'd chosen her to help him, because he saw that she was young, naive, and hungry, and would follow him around like a lost dog? Loudly, she flipped through the dictionary, hoping the slightest sound would interrupt him. She didn't want his day to go smoothly. He'd disrupted her peace by revealing he was with Meka
after
he'd kissed her, and she couldn't think straight since.
Metaphor. Noun. Meht-uh-for
.
Figure of speech used in an imaginative way to compare two different things.
She threw him a snarled look.
In a sentence: The
metaphor
“City's charm is an ocean of troubles that a young girl can drown in” suggests City's charm is misleading and dangerous, and too vast for a young girl to survive.
He knocked on the desk to get her attention, then winked and gave her thumbs-up. It seemed that everything was going well—for him.
La-di-da and big deal,
she thought, diving back into her precious book.
The next word hit her with a vengeance, made the truth sink in deeper, and it hurt. It was her wrapped up in nine letters.
“
Malleable
,” she said aloud, trying to directly interrupt him. Flipping the pages hadn't bothered him at all, so she had to step up her game and her volume. “
Malleable. Adjective
,” she read in a loud, deliberately slow voice, careful to enunciate the word. “Mah
-lee-uh-buhl or
mal-
yuh-buhl. Capable of being shaped.
”
City looked over at her with a questioning look on his face. He shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands while he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder.
What are you doing?
he mouthed, then held his finger up to his mouth, shushing Dynasty.
She cranked up the decibel, and spoke at the top of her lungs. “
Malleable
. Used in a sentence: Dynasty was the most
malleable
of naïve girls; City discovered she could be formed into anything he wanted her to be—business partner and even a kissing cousin, whom he was not really related to.” She slammed shut the dictionary, then threw it on the desk.
“Yo, Dynasty,” he said, quickly hanging up the phone. “What's your problem? What's got your panties in a twist?”
Now she was upset. Not the type of angry that Rufus or Lipstick or Aunt Maybelline caused, but downright mad—as in the true definition of mad: insane.
“You.” She stood and pointed at him, and wished the tip of her finger could shoot fire. “You have my panties in a twist. You played with my feelings, blew up my world until I thought I was flying high, then you shot me down. Made me fall face first—in love with you, then in the footsteps of Meka.”
“What?” The expression on his face was incredulous, like he had no idea what she was talking about. “What I do? And you love me?”
She hadn't realized she'd just said the
L
word until it came from his mouth.
“All that time I thought you liked me. You said it. You showed it. You even asked me to go to New York, and I thought you wanted me to meet your mom.
And
you got us tickets for Trill's party.”
“But I told you we were fam,” said City as he walked over to her, then put his hands on her shoulders. “I told you Meka was my people . . . that I was going to introduce my
people
to my mom, and asked if you wanted to come, too, because you're fam. Fam means family, people means my girl. I guess you don't use that expression down here.”
Dynasty looked deep into his eyes. “Then why did you kiss me?”
He turned his face to the side, and pretended to look out the window. Dynasty snatched away from him, and walked to the other side of the room.
“I didn't mean to mislead you, Dynasty. I didn't. I just saw so much of me in you so I wanted to help you because two years ago, when I was your age, no one helped me. I was wrong for kissing—”
“Kissing? Who was kissing? Us?” Meka burst in, sashayed over to City and pecked him on the cheek. She turned to Dynasty. “Or was it that guy you were with at the hospital?” She smiled. “I can tell he really likes you.”
Dynasty held her breath for a second to compose herself. What she and City had was business, just business. So that's what it'd be from now on, she decided, pasting a
meretricious
smile on her face.
“No, Meka. Me and Rufus are friends—we're not dating or involved. Just real, one-hundred-percent friends. And kissing a friend would be as gross as kissing a relative. Wouldn't you agree, City?”
Meka shrugged. “Well, that's too bad. So who are you bringing to the party?”
“Party? You mean Trill's party?”
Meka nodded. City's face fell.
“Yes. Didn't you see that we gave you two tickets? One for you and one for a date. And I think I have just the outfit for you to wear. Wait until you see what me and City are wearing.”
24
PATIENCE
Z
ion sat next to her in the family room on the plush suede sectional that was as deep as a mattress. Like two toddlers, their feet hung off of the cushions, unable to touch the floor. He'd come to her rescue without hesitation, and Patience was grateful, albeit ashamed. He'd warned her against Trill's womanizing ways, and she didn't want to believe him. A hollow slurping assaulted her eardrums, and she elbowed him. His extra-large milkshake—he'd assured her getting milkshakes would make her feel better—was gone, nothing but foam, and his mouth was still on the straw, pulling away on it as if more would magically appear.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked Patience, while reaching for one of the many remote controls that lay between them on the sofa.
She looked at him. How could she answer no and yes at the same time and mean both? Yes, she was feeling a bit better knowing she wasn't a fool anymore and being able to decide if she wanted to be a part of Trill's trio—him, her and Damage. But she was also pretty down because she'd really liked Trill. She didn't want to rub it in Zion's face although he already knew.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, Patience. I'm here for you . . . and not because I'm happy that you called me to catch you.”
“But he didn't drop me, so how can you catch me?” she asked, remembering his comment about his being there to catch her if Trill ever dropped her.
Zion scooted closer to her, but still stayed back a respectable distance. “That's the funny thing about it all. Proof that God works miracles. I prayed for a friend . . .”
Patience shot him a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look.
“Okay. I prayed for a girlfriend like you. Someone who was strong, in the church, and someone who'd be smart enough to jump out of a bad situation and not wait to be dropped from one.”
“You just think we'll look good in matching prom gear—your words, remember?”
Zion began to laugh, then held up his hand, signaling Patience to wait for a moment. He pointed to the TV and pressed the volume on the remote.
“Look . . .”
Patience bounced up and down in her seat. “Your new video. Wow! Isn't it time for hip-hop now? You've crossed over, Zion. Crossed over to mainstream without compromising your values.” She liked that. She loved that he was rooted and secure in his religious values and beliefs. She admired him for sticking to the music he wanted to sing, though she enjoyed singing secular. “I'm proud of you.”
Zion reached over and grabbed her hand. She squeezed his.
“Hey! What are you two doing watching that worldly mess in my house? Don't you understand whose home you're in, young man? I thought you'd be a better example for my daughter!” Bishop boomed in his deep, condescending voice from the archway.
Zion jumped.
Patience hung her head.
Bishop laughed.
“I'm just kidding,” he teased, shocking Patience. She'd never heard her father joke about worldly music or his daughters having male company over without being chaperoned. In fact, she couldn't think of him ever joking about anything. “I know you're one of the good guys. Glad to have you over, Zion.” He turned his head toward the television, then walked over and sat on the edge of the sectional. “That's your new song. Good work. Good work, son. We need more youth like you in the church.”
Patience watched in awe as Bishop and Zion exchanged small talk. She was sure the man in front of her wasn't her father, he couldn't have been. He'd kicked off his shoes, sat back and crossed his legs, and began nodding his head to a few rap videos.
“Who are you?” she finally asked her dad, making sure to mask her question as a joke. “Bishop doesn't allow us to listen to this type of music,” she explained to Zion.
“But that doesn't mean I don't listen to it,” he admitted, shocking her again. He looked at Patience and smiled. “How do you think I keep up with what's going on in the world? You ever wonder how I incorporate rap lyrics and rappers' and singers' names into my sermons? Well, I keep up. Must stay young if I want to reach the young. Isn't that right, son?”
Zion nodded; then his eyes stretched.
Trill was on the television talking about his upcoming album, and Patience was about to run for her life. She closed her eyes, then covered her ears, but she couldn't block the truth. Right there, in front of Bishop, was a picture of Patience and Trill splashed across the screen—the same picture that had been circulating since the award show.
A reporter spoke. “It seems that this unknown girl won't be unknown for long. She was once suspected of being Trill's girlfriend, but now sources have confirmed that they recorded a song together. Here's a sample Trill's record company was nice enough to let us air.”
Bishop stopped breathing. Patience held her breath. Zion jumped up, shouting, “Yes, Lord! You gave her a voice, and she's using it the way You see fit.”
Patience didn't know what to do. She was scared. But in seconds her mood switched. It changed as soon as a new picture was splashed across the screen. One of Trill and Damage, his reported real girlfriend. They were spotted together kissing in the airport last night. It seems they'd snuck away for an overnight getaway.
“I'm hurt, Patience,” Bishop admitted. “I'm hurt and ashamed. How can I lead a church if I can't lead my family?”
Zion interrupted. “Did you hear the lyrics, Bishop? Did you really listen? Patience was ministering, asking God to save us and not let the streets be our master.”
Bishop's eyes went from Zion to Patience. “Is that true, Patience?”
She nodded.
Bishop laughed and clapped, jumped up and down, and became human in front of her eyes. Finally he stopped, held out his arms and spread them wide.
“Yes! Yes! I always prayed that you'd sing again. I may not like the rap stuff on that song, but anyone who's ministering on whatever kind of song has my approval and backing.” He beckoned her with his hands. “Come give Daddy a hug.”
He'd never called himself that, and it moved Patience. Scooting off the sofa, she made her way to Bishop and got lost in his huge arms like she did when she was a little girl. In the warmth of his embrace, she felt confident and daring.
“So does that mean I can go to the party—Trill's party—with Zion? They're going to play that song there, and I need to be there to show my support . . . and maybe minister to one or two of them. Trill's soon-to-be sister-in-law used to go to our church, and she's asked me to work on a few songs with her.”
“No,” Zion answered for Bishop. “You can't go to the party with me . . . not unless you promise to accompany me to the January award show I've been practicing for—maybe accompany me on stage, and we can do a full Christian remake to you and Trill's rap song. And you have to be my prom date.”
Bishop held Patience back at arm's length. “I think this young man's on to something. And I'm almost sure he's talking about the Stellar Awards. You've been on the Black Star Power red carpet, now you need to even that out for the Lord.”
25
SANTANA
T
he red carpet felt good under her five-inch stilettos. She smiled bright, snuggled next to Gulliver, as cameras flashed and limousines pulled up with various celebrities and other important people exiting from them. They were called stars as they made their way into the high-security country club that Trill's brother had rented for the evening. And that's exactly what she felt like: someone important who walked alongside a person worthy of her.
Gulliver fidgeted with his clothes, making sure his shirt was straight and his pants were just so.
“Why did you bring me again?” he asked Santana for the fifth time that night.
“Because you're important to me, Gulliver. And I didn't think anyone else would look good with this dress,” she teased, swirling in her backless beaded gown that was exceptionally light despite all the beadwork.
“And because you think I match this, too,” he asked, running his fingers through her short hair.
She'd ditched her weave, her makeup, and her hoodness for the evening, and even she had to admit she felt better being natural. Studying had also improved her selfimage. She'd noticed it the first time she'd been able to have a conversation without ain'ts and the sassiness—ghettoness—she was known for around the way.
“This way.” Gulliver ushered her through the crowd, and found them a seat.
He looked good. Really cute. When she'd gone shopping, she picked him up an outfit, too. A nice soft-blue brushed linen that looked suede. It was top of the line like his attitude and intelligence. She'd kept in mind how smart he was when she decided to dress him, and knew she had to match the clothes with the guy.
“So this is a date? A real date?”
A waiter stopped at their table, filled their goblets with water, and told them dinner would be served as soon as the guest of honor arrived and a speech was given.
“Do you want it to be a
date
date? Don't you think I need to complete Gulliver's Finishing School first?” she teased and flirted at the same time, puckering her lips a little more than necessary when enunciating her words. “Aren't you too advanced for me, college boy?”
His expression was charming when he looked at her. “You've schooled me, too. Kinda taught me what I want in a girl.”
Now it was Santana's turn to correct him. “Kinda?”
Gulliver laughed.
Santana spotted Meka walking on the other side of the room. “One sec, okay? I see Meka and her boyfriend over there, and I don't want to be ghetto and yell across the room.” She stood. “
But
if you need to know now whether this is a date or not, I don't mind if you don't.”
She couldn't find Meka anywhere. Santana was sure she was navigating through the crowd the correct way but, somehow, Meka and City had disappeared. She snapped her fingers. If she and her BFF were anything alike, she knew she was touching up her makeup in the ladies' room. She looked around the party for signs of a restroom. A dull green glow caught her eye a few feet to her left, and she worked her way through the partygoers to reach it. Before she could turn down the corridor, someone grabbed her. Instinct told her to swing. His voice stopped her.
“Are you my birthday surprise, lil momma?” Trill asked.
Santana almost jumped out of her skin. He was her alltime favorite, and much cuter in person than she could've imagined.
He grabbed her hand, pulled her down the corridor, and out of a hidden exit. “Come with me. Don't worry, you're in good hands.”
Like a fool, she followed him. She didn't know where she was going, and didn't care. Being in the presence of such celebrity and fineness, she couldn't help herself, nor did she want to.
“This way,” he advised. “Duck, lil momma.”
She ducked down into the limousine, careful not to hit her head on her way in—that would've been too embarrassing for her to handle.
“So . . .” she clasped her hands, trying to be as ladylike as she could to hold back the groupie in her. “Happy Birthday!”
Trill smiled. “Thanks. What's your name, lil momma?”
“Santana.”
He nodded. “I like that. Like Carlos Santana? One of the best musicians on the planet?”
She nodded. “Yes, like him.”
“So can I call you sometime?” Trill asked, looking at his watch. “I hate to be late for my own party, but I had to talk to you. Had to.”
Santana smiled. Sure, he could call her. Anytime. Then her mind switched back to Gulliver, the good guy who she was definitely falling for and had been nice enough to accompany her to the party, and feed her brain and confidence. But she couldn't resist Trill.
“Take my number,” she told him, wondering if she'd ever get over her attraction to bad boys with swagger. She wasn't yet accustomed to her new life. Yes, she liked her school, was falling for Gulliver, and was even considering keeping her natural look. But she had to question what she really wanted now. Who the real Santana was—the Santana minus boosting, the hood, and Pharaoh. As she sat there getting ready to exchange numbers with Trill, she changed her mind. She wasn't Santana from the block anymore who could blame bad choices on others or her surroundings. She was Santana who'd learned to love herself and know her worth. She was above a groupie, had higher standards than gold-diggers and half-dressed hoochies—and she was no longer those girls. She was a mature responsible teen; one who knew whom and what she wanted: Gulliver, and to educate and better herself. “You know what, I think I'll pass. Sorry.”
She made her way back into the party to Gully, the cute college boy who was helping to change her life, her opinion and what she found attractive in a guy. She'd had it all together, and if she ever had a doubt in her mind while talking to Trill, Gulliver erased it when he stepped up and greeted her with a kiss.
BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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