Fly on the Wall (8 page)

“Don't act like that,” he said. “Are you gonna be all right?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“All right.”

I opened the door and without looking over at him, I asked, “Would you like to come in?” He answered me by turning off the engine. Craig followed me into the house and then into the kitchen. “So,” he took a deep breath, “how was your date?”

I turned on the coffeepot and pretended not to hear him. “Coffee?”

“Caffeinated?”

“Decaf.”

“Yeah, I'll take a cup.” He continued with caution and walked toward me. “Did someone put their hands on you tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did somebody hit you or something? Were you in a fight?”

“No, I wasn't in a fight, but I think I might be feeling a little better had I kicked somebody's ass.” I rested two mugs down on the counter. “Excuse me for a few minutes. I'm gonna jump in the shower.”

“How would you like it?” he asked in reference to my coffee.

“Don't you remember anything about me?” I walked away. “I'll fix it myself.” Once in my bedroom, I hurried into the shower. As I waited patiently for the “just right” temperature, I smiled when I thought about the Doran incident and whispered to myself, “I'm on
Candid Camera
, right?” Doran had called another
man
“baby.” Standing below the water and thinking of the way things went down was funnier than it was when I was smack dab in the midst of it.

As the warm water cascaded down my body, the serene setting made me wonder how long it'd take before I was granted my wish . . . another man. Sometimes I felt that I was expecting too much, so right there in the shower, I modified the qualities that Mr. Right Now should possess. I missed having access to love on a steady basis.

“Lord, I don't care if he doesn't have a car, the best-looking body, or perfectly aligned teeth,” I said. “I'll drive him to work. Yes, he must have a job. I'll enroll him into the gym and we can workout together, and after we're married, he can use my dental coverage to straighten things out . . . I just want a man, any man.” Like TLC, I wasn't too proud to beg. “Please . . . damn.”

“Two teaspoons of sugar, no cream, right?” Craig's voice startled me. Through the frosted, fogged-up shower glass I saw him approaching. “Am I right?” He held out the mug.

The coffee situation wasn't serious enough for him to track me down while in the shower and he knew it. “You're right.”

“You like it strong.” He slid the door open a few inches and passed the mug to me. “I remembered.”

I blushed. “Thank you.” I turned my back to the water and allowed it to skate down my backside as I sipped from the warm cup. Through the glass, I watched Craig not leave the bathroom. He dropped the lid on the toilet seat and got comfortable. We didn't speak as he rubbed his head a few times with his left hand and brought the mug to his mouth over and over with his right hand until it was empty.

“So, what happened tonight?” he asked as he placed the mug on the ground.

“Nothing much.” I couldn't decide whether to give Doran the bad name around school that he deserved.

He stood to his feet. “You think I'm stupid, Paige?”

“Yeah.” I giggled.

From behind the frostiness of the glass, I witnessed him tugging on and then removing his shirt. I had ample time to protest, but instead I took a deep breath. The caramel brownness of his chest still called out to me, maybe because my name was written on it. Two weeks before our wedding, Craig went into a love-induced binge and had
Paige
tattooed above his left peck. Every time I saw the tattoo, I got giddy. Why? One, because every other woman to ever come after me
had
to have asked the question, “Who's Paige?” Two, because he could've had my name covered by a picture of a basketball or a tiger like he promised he'd do when I informed him of the divorce. Three, I knew that it was close to his heart, not just on the surface, but also within.

“Didn't you have a date tonight?” He stepped toward the glass.

“Yes,” I answered.

“What did this guy do? It's not every night that I get a call from you crying and asking for my help.”

“First of all, I wasn't crying.”

“Whateva.” He cut me off. “What did he do?”

“He didn't do anything to me. Things just didn't go right.” I sighed. “But what does?” I was watching his every move and longing for him to make the right ones.

“You didn't answer my questions,” he said and pulled on the drawstring to his gym shorts. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” By the time the words left my mouth, he was completely disrobed, and I found myself more excited than I ever was when we were together. As he walked closer, I fought to contain myself.

“Stop bullshitting me, Paige.” Craig giggled and stepped into the shower. The only way to avoid the inevitable was for me to liquefy and swirl down the drain.

We stood before each other, naked. “Let me ask you a few questions,” he said and took the cup away from my hand, resting it on the side of the tub. “Did he do this?” He pulled me toward him and my lips found their familiar resting place on his. Craig's tongue made mine surrender. I gave into him like an alcoholic to whiskey . . . I was a falling-down, slurring, wet mess for him after just one kiss.

His slippery hands slid to my breasts and teased my nipples, flickering excitedly over them and slightly pinching them as they stiffened. Then he squeezed them as gently but as firmly as he would a cantaloupe in the produce section.

“Did he do this?” I was already too consumed, too believing that he was my husband again, and too wanting more. “Answer me, Paige,” he said with my nipple between his lips. “Did he do this?”

“No,” I said as he backed me up under the water like my hairstyle didn't matter. “No, he didn't do that.”

“You sure?” His suction got more intense.

“Positive.” I closed my eyes and quivered as his hands trekked down my stomach, my navel, and then slithered between my mute lower lips. “Did he touch my shit?” he asked as he parted
his shit
and slowly rubbed my clit.

“No.” I slowly opened my legs to allow him easier access.

He kissed me. “You sure he didn't rub on my shit?”

I was breathing like an unprepared marathon runner. “If he did, I would still be there.”

He rubbed me hard and his finger dipped into me, but slid back out. “Is that right?” My comment made him angry. “You're with me. So, what does that mean?”

“Oh, oh, oh,” I trembled and moaned.

“What does it mean, baby?” he asked.

“Shh,” I said without opening my eyes. He wasn't going to make me read too much into this.

“Have you thought about me?”

“Shh,” I shushed him again. “Not now.”

My silencing him turned the beauty into a beast. He quickly spun me around and positioned himself behind me, pressing my breasts against the shower door. “Have you thought about me?” he asked again as he inserted his finger.

“No,” I lied with a smile.

“Liar.” He grinded what he knew I thought of often against me. “Do you miss this dick?”

“No.” My mouth said one thing, but the circular rotation of my lower body said another. “I can get that anywhere.”

He laughed. “You think so?”

“Yep.”

“Yeah, but you can get damn good dick from me.” He propped my legs open, one on the railing of the tub, and rubbed what he thought I couldn't find elsewhere up against my glossy lower lips. As he applied a condom, he spoke. “If you could get this somewhere else, then you'd still be with him.”

From the back, he guided and positioned himself, then slid into me. My inner walls were like his Memory Foam mattress; his throbbing thickness fell right back into all the nooks and crannies that he once knew. The shape of things would always be configured to him.

“Until you find better, this pussy is still mine.” He smacked me on my bottom. “You hear me?”

“Yes.” Talk about being submissive. I'd pick cotton and call him Massa right now if he asked me to. “Yes, yes, oh shit, yes.” He took me higher than marijuana ever did.

“This pussy will always be mine.” The wet clapping noise that our bodies made had a rhythm that was too complex for even Jay-Z to rap to. “When was the last time?” he asked.

I wanted to make up something, but I knew that telling him the truth would make the sex even better, if possible. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” I groaned as my eyes squeezed tighter to accept his forceful hardness. “Oh, oh, yes . . . you.”

“Been saving it for me?” He put both his hands under my arms and folded them back toward him, harnessing me like a rollercoaster safety guard . . . and oh, yes, I was in for a bumpy ride.

“That's right. You keep this pussy nice and tight for me.” He squeezed me and ran into me with the power and wildness of a runaway train. “This is still my motherfuckin' pussy.” I was his passenger, and without a seatbelt, my conductor had me wailing, screaming, and crying out for more, more, and more until our journey was complete. He placed my internally bruised body between the sheets of my bed and lay beside me.

When the sun came up and the DSS was officially done, I retreated to the same torture I put myself through each time. “Damn,” I said under my breath. I was full of regret as I moved Craig's hand from my side and looked into his sleeping face. “Why?” He was the giver of diseases, lover of many, more than likely somebody's man . . . and no longer mine.

“D
amn, man. Did you fart?” Before Will could answer, I let the windows down in the car.

“Sorry, dawg.” Will laughed. “I thought it was going to be a mystery one.”

I covered my nose. “Damn, man!” It smelled like two gorillas shit in the trunk. “Are you sick or something?” We were on our way to West Dade for the first dance of the school year.

“I'm not sick, just a little nervous.”

“Nervous about what, shitting up yourself?” I joked.

Will brushed me off. “I'm nervous about dancing with Myron's sister.”

“Jessica?” I asked in shock.

He took a deep breath. “Yeah, Jessica.”

I frowned. “Are you for real?” I looked at him like he had just said that he wanted to dance with a dude.

“Yeah,” he answered anxiously. “Why?”

“Why?” I chuckled. “She looks just like Myron.”

“Don't hate.” He rubbed his palms together. “She's cute, cool, and down for whateva.”

“Whateva?” I couldn't help it. “She looks like whateva.”

Will was proud. “Don't hate, congratulate.”

“Hate?” I looked over at him. “Never that, playboy, never over her.”

“Keep it real.” Will was serious. “I heard you tried talking to her before.”

“Yeah, in third grade,” I said.

“All I know is that you better not try that shit tonight.” Will checked himself out in the pull-down mirror.

“That was third grade, dickhead.” I laughed. “Everybody was cute in third grade.”

“Well, I better not see you talking to her,” he said. “You're known for that.”

“I can't talk to her,” I continued. “'cause Chewbacca don't speak English.”

He laughed, but stopped quickly when he realized who the joke was on. “Ah, man, that was foul.”

“That was a three-pointer right there, baby.” I pretended to be shooting a ball. “Nuthin' but net.”

“So, who are you after tonight?”

It didn't take me long to figure it out. “A chick in one of my classes.”

“Who?”

I took a deep breath. “Angela Porter.”

“
The cheerleader
Angela Porter?”

“Yep,” I said with the confidence of a warrior.

Will, as pessimistic as a fallen soldier, said, “Man, you can't get her.”

Those were fighting words. “What?”

“You
can't
get her,” he reiterated and stressed his negativity.

Since we met, I'd been trying to school Will on the game. Pursuing a woman was just like playing basketball, which was why I could have a different one every day. However, Will sucked at basketball. Therefore, he spent a lot of time home alone on the Internet, sending instant messages to strangers.

“It's just like B-ball. You have to want it, feel it, taste it, and then conquer it. First of all, practice makes perfect or damn irresistibly close to excellence.” I told him that he could practice anywhere. “Turn the sidewalk into a battlefield, smile, compliment, and be polite, but quick on your feet. Third, even when you're not playing the game or sitting on the bench, you still have to look like a player. Fourth, get your name out there. Be known for something, even if it's something bad. Women like well-known men. Finally, when it's game time, focus on winning, and be the last man standing, because he's the only man that matters.

“Angela is the ball and I'm the player. I'm in control . . . She'll move at my command.”

“I don't even know what all of the fuss is about her.” He was less than enthusiastic. “She's
all right
.”

“All right?” I turned into the already crowded school parking lot. “Man, Angela Porter is the fuckin' bomb.”

“She's just another popular girl, which isn't my cup of tea.”

“Why, because she doesn't have AOL?” I joked.

“No,” he said. “Because she's in my homeroom and so is her man.”

“Her man?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is her man?”

“Johnny Taft.”

“White Boy Johnny?”

“White Boy Johnny is tappin' that big, brown ass.”

“What the—?” I was disappointed. “Damn.”

“So who is Plan B?” he asked.

I parked the car. “I don't have one.”

Will teased. “Well, you could always dance with your baby momma.” He never knew how to be serious.

“Fuck you, Will.” It had been two weeks since I learned Trese's news. She and I spoke shortly a few times, but never got into any real baby talk. She informed me that her decision was to keep the kid, and to keep her mother from calling mine, I promised to help her in any way that I could. I didn't know when or how I would ever tell my mother; I just didn't want Trese's ghetto-ass mother to do it for me.

“That's serious shit. That's why I don't tell you anything.”

“Whateva.” He waved me off. “Jessica is serious to me, and you were talking all that shit. You can't get mad now.”

“This is different, though,” I argued.

“Anyway,” he said, “is ya baby momma gonna be here or not?”

“Fuck you, man.” I knew that it was all in good fun, but Will was getting under my skin. “I hope the hell not.”

“I don't know about Trese, but Angie will be here. I heard her talking about it in class, but she's coming with Johnnie.” He continued, “What class do you have Angie in anyway?”

“Ms. Patrick's.” Her name brought a smile to my face and a warm feeling to every limb attached to me. Since school started a month ago, I'd had detention with her six times. I wasn't complaining because it didn't feel like I was locked up or being punished. It wasn't just me, though. I could see it written all over her face that Ms. Patrick enjoyed my hour-long stay just as much as I did.

At first I thought nothing of her abandoning her desk to sit in a chair next to me, our lengthy conversations, and her flirtatious body language, but one day when another student had to stay, she flipped the script. She sat behind her desk, never cracked a smile, assigned us work from the textbook, and after that, never said another word to either of us. At the end of our sixty minutes, I was still gathering my books when the other guy turned in his work and left. As soon as the door slammed, she sighed and smiled at me.

“Don't smile at me now. You had a brotha feeling like he was in Alcatraz two minutes ago,” I joked.

“If people see you getting special privileges, they'll expect the same thing.”

“Yeah, but
book
work?” I complained.

“Bookwork never killed anyone.” I watched the sides of her mouth turn upward.

“Well, I'll never be late again.”

“Good. I was beginning to think that you do it on purpose.” She was kidding, but she didn't know how right she was.

“Well, after this, I think I'll stop the supposed purpose tardiness.” I laughed.

“Come on, Theo.” She stood up and pressed out her skirt. “Everybody can't know that you're the teacher's pet.”

“When did I become your pet?” I didn't need to ask. It all happened the morning we ran into each other at Dunkin' Donuts and I heard her order a large mocha cappuccino. The next day, I took the liberty of ordering one for her, which meant I couldn't afford what I originally went there for. Still, it was well worth it just to see how much she appreciated my effort and also to smell her freshly applied perfume before it was broken down by the terrible odor of the school by sixth period. So, at least two mornings a week I visited her classroom to deliver her mocha fix.

“You became the teacher's pet when you became my favorite student.” She was still standing behind her desk.

“Your favorite student?” I laughed in my uncomfortable chair. “If I'm your favorite, then how come I get C's on almost everything?”

“I said that you're my
favorite,
not my best student.”

“Okay, you have a point,” I agreed. “Well, define the word
favorite
.”

She thought for a while then started walking toward me. “Something that is liked or preferred over others.”

“So, I guess you're my favorite teacher.”

“You guess?” she asked.

“Yeah, on days when you don't assign homework.”

She asked, “What is your definition of the word
favorite
?”

“Something that is desired.” I challenged her stare and watched her go from friendly to unsure if she should be having such a conversation with me.

“Desired?” She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Yeah, desired.” I stood up and grabbed my bag. “It's basically the same thing that you just said. When you like something or prefer something, it is to desire it.”

“Okay,” she spoke slowly, “but I don't think
desire
is the appropriate word.”

“Does it frighten you?”

“No.” She looked away from me.

“Did I offend you?”

It almost looked like she was flattered. “No.”

“So, why isn't it appropriate then?” I wanted to know.

“Well, desire is just a very strong word to use to describe . . . what . . .” She couldn't find the right words.

I whispered, “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No,” she answered quickly and fumbled over her words. “No, I'm glad, I'm happy that I'm . . .” She paused. “Happy to be considered your favorite . . .”

“So, you feel the same way?” I interrupted her.

“What way?”

“Nothing.” I tried to remain upbeat and continued to smile through what I felt was rejection. Maybe it was her age that made me feel more like a man than like her eighteen-year-old high school student. “Don't worry about it.”

She was flustered. “I just don't know if our meanings are the same.”

“I think they are,” I said.

“Desire is in a whole different realm.” She tried to correct me. “What I meant is to desire me would mean something outside of me being your teacher.” The classroom fell awkwardly silent.

“I do.” I did think of her outside of school, and it wasn't always an image of her in front of a chalkboard or with a book in her hand.

“Huh?” She had no facial expression.

I reconfirmed what I had just said. “I think about you.” I knew the difference between a woman being friendly and a woman flirting with me. “So, you've never thought of me outside of this classroom?”

“Of course.” I was happy with her response until she kept talking. “I have to check your papers, don't I?”

Damn, that was a blow, but I wasn't giving up. “So, when do you want me here again?” I started for the door.

“Excuse me!”

“Don't act like that,” I joked. “You know your days aren't complete if we don't have our little gatherings.”

“You
really
think that I don't have anything better to do with my time?”

“Yeah.” I turned back toward her. “It doesn't get any better than me.”

She looked me up and down slowly with a smile. “Somehow I believe that.”

Though they were uttered quickly, softly, and were encoded, her words offered hope. I felt like something was accomplished and established between us. And as though she thought that I might have some doubt about what she meant, the next day when she passed back our essays, on the second page of my paper was a fuchsia Post-It note that read:

That was a week ago. I'd voluntarily detained myself a few times since then. Coach Johnson was so upset about me being late to practices that he wanted to have a talk with her to lighten up on me, but what he didn't know was that it was me who needed to ease up on her.

Because of the dance, there was no basketball practice today, but I was still purposely late to class. However, another student strolled in two minutes after me, which meant that he'd have to stay too. He fucked up my plan. So, when the bell rang, I raced home, took a shower, and hung out at Will's house until it was time to leave. I was excited about the dance. I needed something or someone to get my mind out of a place it never should've ventured to.

When I opened the door to the dark and crowded gymnasium, the music poured into me like Coca-Cola. While Jamie Foxx and Twista told me what I needed to get things up and popping, I checked out the scenery . . . tight jeans, mini skirts, one-arm shirts, tops with no sleeves.

“Looks like this will be worth the five dollars.” I smiled at Will, who was already tiptoeing and panning the room for Jessica.

“Yo, I see her. Let me go holla real quick.”

I waited against the wall for almost thirty minutes, and Will didn't come back
real quick.
He never came back.

I turned down a few girls who wanted to dance and promised them that I wasn't shooting them down. I put it off on being hurt during practice. Of course I wanted to put my hands on some booty and get a quick squeeze before one of the chaperones noticed. However, when you're as tall as I am, you've got to know how to move because all eyes will be on you. I could get away with slow songs or the cha-cha or electric slide, but until Usher taught me a few moves, I wouldn't even pretend that I was an expert at anything other than basketball.

The DJ had to be old because right after that new song by Missy Elliot, he mixed in “My Prerogative” by Bobby Brown. Everyone on the floor stood still and looked at each other like, “What the—?” If my mom was there she'd be jamming, but this wasn't a party for the class of nineteen eighty-nuthin'.