Deal With It (3 page)

Vance

Basketball
practice was different today. As we scrimmaged with the junior varsity team, our nerves were on edge because somebody had said there was a scout in the bleachers, checking out our practice. He was the same dude that I’d spotted at our homecoming game, and then again, at our game against Forest Hill two Fridays before. He wore the Grambling team colors—a gold cap with a black
G
in the center of it and a black-and-gold polo underneath a blazer.

He sat in the bleachers, his legs propped up, crossed and resting on the bleacher in front of him. Relaxed and leaning back on his elbows, he didn’t even flinch when I hit my famous three-pointer. And I tried not to even look his way as I jogged backward down the court to post up for defense. The next time I took the ball down court, I caught the guy pulling a pen and a small notepad out of the pocket of his blazer, writing some notes and then stuffing the pen and pad back into his pocket. I knew then that he was definitely a scout. And pretty soon he quietly eased out of the doors of the gym,
like Clark Kent did when he was about to change into Superman. Smooth.

I wasn’t sure if he was interested in me, but I was definitely interested in a free ride at Grambling State University. It wasn’t my father’s school choice for me, but it was definitely mine. He wanted me to be a Duke man like him. I wanted to explore my options, check out some of the historically black colleges, like FAMU, Howard University or Grambling State. Some of dad’s old college buddies were now professors at Duke. And his ex-roommate was one of the head basketball coaches. He’d been watching my game since I was in middle school, and had already promised me a free ride, with all the perks. But attending a school where all of Daddy’s buddies were my professors and basketball coaches meant twenty-four-hour surveillance, and I wasn’t having that. But I wasn’t sure how I was going to break the news to Dad that I had my eye on Grambling.

When I mentioned it before, he’d said, “Now why in the world would you even consider that little country school in Louisiana? You gotta think bigger than that, son! Grambling’s too small for you.”

“I haven’t settled on Duke yet, Dad,” I’d said to him at the beginning of basketball season. “I’m exploring my options.”

He hadn’t been happy with that comment. He’d frowned, raised the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
up to his nose and begun reading. He was done talking to me, and I felt dismissed. I never brought the conversation up again. Instead, I continued to give my game the best I could, and hoped for other offers.

I tried to keep my focus on school and on my game, but it was hard to focus when girls were constantly jocking you. They showed up at practice, they lingered after the games, they called your house at ungodly hours of the night and they stalked you at school. There was nowhere to turn, even when you told them that you had a girlfriend. That only made them want you more,
which made my current girlfriend, Tameka, want to fight the entire female population.

Tameka had been my girl since the beginning of basketball season. We had chorus together during the first semester, and since she was on the dance team, we would see each other after school a lot. I never really paid much attention to her until she asked me for a piece of gum one day.

“You got some gum?” she’d asked, a pair of leotards hugging her hips as we both sat in the bleachers.

“I got Trident.” I smiled.

“Trident?” She frowned. “You ain’t got no Bubblicious or Bubble Yum?”

“No. I chew Trident. It’s sugar free. Better for your teeth,” I told her as I pulled the package out of my pocket. “You want one or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll take one. It’s better than nothing.” She pulled a piece of Trident out of the package and popped it into her mouth. “Thanks.”

“You’re a pretty good dancer. I saw you out there practicing earlier,” I told her. “You been dancing long?”

“Forever,” she said. “What about you? Can you dance?”

“I can get down a little bit.” I’d smiled. She had my attention immediately, and I wasn’t sure why. I guessed it was her straightforward attitude, or maybe it was the way she wore those leotards. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s a party on Saturday night at this teen club on Jonesboro Road. You going?”

I hadn’t been to a party in a long time. After all, I was a busy man—basketball, school and working part-time in my father’s dental practice left me little time for extracurricular activities.

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but if you’re going…yeah, I’ll probably go.” I blushed as she pulled a piece of lint from my
eyebrow and brushed her fingertips across my face. She was so natural with me. I felt comfortable with this girl.

I wanted to ask her what the name and complete address of the club were, and what time the party would start. I wanted to ask what I should wear, but I decided that questions like that would make me seem silly—like I was uncool or didn’t know my way around a high school party.

“Cool.” She smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you there.” She threw her gym bag across her shoulder, left the bleachers and headed for the door. I knew then that she would be my girl.

That was four months ago, and we’d been like Elmer’s glue and construction paper ever since. Stuck. That is, until the new girl at school, Darla Union, walked into my American history class. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had cute little dimples and a set of crystal-white teeth, which my father would appreciate, and she wore her hair in long curls and reminded me of Alicia Keys. She wore jeans that were glued to her hips and a top that clung to her vanilla skin. She even looked like she worked out at the gym, because her arms were a little muscular, like Angela Bassett’s were in Tyler Perry’s movie
Meet the Browns.

She stared as she took a seat at the desk next to mine. I stared, too, because I was mesmerized by her beauty.

“You got an extra pencil?” she whispered, opening her American history book to the page that Mr. Harris was teaching from.

“Yeah.” I handed her the worn-down, chewed-up number-two pencil that I’d picked up at my father’s dental office.

She looked at the pencil as if it had cooties, twirled it around and read the black letters on it: Armstrong Dental—Smile Brighter! “Thanks.” She smiled when she caught me watching.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Darla. What’s yours?” She smiled that smile again.

“Vance.” I stuck my chest out. “Vance Armstrong.” I was sure that she’d heard my name before. After all, everybody in our
student body knew me. I was a superstar—the LeBron James of Carver High School. Surely she’d heard all the hype.

“Nice to meet you, Vance Armstrong.”

That was it.

At that point she took a nosedive into her American history book and never returned. She was one of the few people who actually took notes during Mr. Harris’s lecture. Maybe it was because she was brand-new, but she listened intently to his monotone voice, which normally put everyone else to sleep. Darla seemed carefree and so sure of herself. She was nothing like the other girls I knew; they were all so needy and shallow. Not Darla. She didn’t even care that I was sitting there, staring at her, as she ferociously recorded every syllable that Mr. Harris spoke.

There was no doubt in my mind—I wanted to know her better. But having a girlfriend definitely made that tricky. The problem was, I happened to actually like my girlfriend, unlike some of my friends on the team, who dated girls for one reason and one reason only. Tameka was smart, funny and had a nice body, too. I enjoyed talking to her on the phone until the wee hours of the morning—even on school nights. And she definitely knew her way around a dance floor and could skate her behind off—backward, too. Not to mention her pops was a music producer. I was just waiting for my opportunity to free-style for him since the first time Tameka told me what he did for a living. She’d promised to tell him about my lyrics. And I knew that once he heard me flow, he’d talk to his people, and I’d be on my way to a multimillion-dollar contract. After that, I wouldn’t even need a full ride to college. I wouldn’t even need to go to college, as a matter of fact. My parents would be disappointed, but they’d get over it after I started throwing cash their way. Mom could get that two-story mini mansion in Buckhead that she’d been eyeballing since they’d posted a For Sale sign in the front yard.

When I was smaller, she would wake up at the crack of dawn
on Saturday mornings. She would scour the garage sales in the areas where rich people lived, like Buckhead. My father was a dentist who made good money. Mom was an attorney who made a nice salary, too, yet she still shopped at garage sales. What was the point in buying other people’s junk when you had good junk of your own? I never understood that.

“We’re not moving to Buckhead,” my dad kept telling her. “We’re staying right here in College Park. Keep our money in this community.”

That was the end of that. My father had a way of putting his foot down, and nobody asked any questions once he did. He was often unfair with his reasoning and usually responded with, “Because I said so.” And because he said so, it was so. It was like that when we discussed my future and college plans. In his mind, I was destined to be a Duke man. He’d graduated from Duke and went on to become a dentist. Therefore, it was in the stars that I graduate from Duke and become a dentist. There weren’t any other options, not according to Dad. Most days it depressed me to think about it, so I tried not to.

Marcus Carter threw me a pass, and I headed down court. With the scout from Grambling gone, I could relax a little bit. As I took a shot from the three-point line and the ball hit the backboard and popped off of the rim, I thought, life can be so bittersweet sometimes.

After practice I waited for Tameka to get changed and meet me out front. Most nights I drove her home, and sometimes we stopped at McDonald’s and grabbed a burger. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights, because I was exhausted. I hoped that my mother had prepared something good for dinner, like my favorite, chicken tortilla soup, or my second favorite, spaghetti with meatballs. It was cold enough for a meal like that, and I needed something to stick to my ribs. I zipped my coat up and braced for the cold. Tameka came rushing toward me, her jacket
wide open, her gym bag flung across her shoulder, with a sock hanging out of it, and her shoes untied.

“What’s up with you?”

“I almost had a fight in the locker room,” she said.

“What?” I was shocked.

“This girl Darla was in there talking trash!” she exclaimed. “I don’t even know why she was in our locker room. She’s not even on the dance team.”

The minute she said Darla’s name, I didn’t hear anything else she said. I immediately visualized those jeans Darla wore in my American history class, and that smile. I couldn’t imagine her in a catfight with my girlfriend.

“Let’s go before I have to hurt somebody.” Tameka pushed the glass doors open, and a cool breeze rushed inside.

She walked briskly toward the parking lot, and once she made it to my car, she stood there, with her arms folded, until I hit the locks. She hopped into the passenger seat, snapped her seat belt on and folded her arms across her chest again. “I can’t stand girls like that. They think they’re so tough when they’re with their girls. But I bet if I had her in a corner by herself, she wouldn’t have been talking all that trash.”

Tameka ranted the whole way home, and I wondered if Darla was somewhere ranting to her boyfriend, too. Did she even have a boyfriend? And if she did, what would he be like? I wondered if I was her type, or if she even liked athletes. She probably liked nerdy dudes who competed on the debate team or something.

The smell of chicken tortilla soup filled the house as I stepped inside, dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor. I would know that smell anywhere.

“Uh-uh. Take that on upstairs to your room,” Mom said, referring to my backpack.

I kissed her cheek as she poured hot water into a mug for tea.

“Hey, Ma,” I said.

“How was practice?” she asked.

“Usual,” I said, even though it was everything but usual. I changed the subject. “How did it go in court this morning?”

“Pretty good. The guy got off with probation and community service, so that was a victory for me.”

My mom was a great attorney. When I was a little boy and she wasn’t able to get a babysitter, she’d drag me along to the courthouse, and I’d sit in the back of the room and watch her work her magic. Even back then, I knew she was good, defensive and sharp. Whatever they brought her way, she had a comeback for it. She would wear the prosecution down and end with a victory every time. I was proud of her. Admired her. I had decided long ago that I wanted to be an attorney just like my mother. My father wanted me to be a dentist, but the truth was, I’d already fallen in love with the law. I liked just watching how cool the judge was, sitting up there on the bench with his black robe on and a gavel in his hand. He had the power to change lives, to send people to prison, if that was what he chose to do. And he could determine how long they stayed in prison, too—three years, twenty years, life. Whatever he wanted to do, the power was in his hands. He just looked so cool, in control. I wanted to be an attorney and then eventually become a judge.

Mom would always encourage me. “You can be whatever you want to be, baby,” she’d say. “And you don’t even have to decide today. You can decide later. Right now, you just keep your grades up and stay focused. Your future is in your hands.”