Game On (12 page)

17

SAMANTHA

 

“O
kay, guys,” the dance teacher, Ms. Doris Sinclair, said to the young ladies in her advanced dance class. “It's extremely important that we nail this dance routine. That's why I'm going to rehearse your butts off until Christmas Eve.” A hip-hop dance program titled “Snowflakes in Wonderland” had been set for December twenty-fourth. “No matter how difficult these combinations are in this routine, we have to be flawless, people.”

Ms. Sinclair was in her mid-fifties, with a dark complexion and closely cropped hair. Her grill wasn't all that, but what the dance teacher lacked in the beauty department, her muscular physique made up for. She was barefoot and wearing red and gray school colors in the form of a gray T-shirt and red spandex shorts.

The girls were spent from the workout. There were a few with the heel of their right foot resting on wall-mounted ballet barres, stretching hamstrings, while others sat around performing various muscle-stretching techniques as they listened to the teacher.

Ms. Sinclair said, “It's essential that you guys put everything into the performance. I have a surprise guest from Juilliard.”

“So what you're saying, Ms. Sinclair,” said a thick honey, with her weave wrapped up into a ponytail, “not only is this choreography hard to do, and we only have a little under three months to get the bugs out, but instead of being with our families, we will be spending our Christmas Eve dancing onstage in front of an audience.”

Ms. Sinclair said, “Debbie, we go through this every rehearsal. Sweetie, this performance will be sixty percent of your final grade. It's simple: You don't show up, you don't pass my class.”

“I guess she told you,” said a tall, slender girl. “Besides, I didn't qualify what I just saw from you as dancing. You'll come out better by recording a video clip of you twerking that big butt and uploading it on to social media. At least that way, you'll get some cheap ‘like' button love.”

Ms. Sinclair didn't go for any foolishness in her class. The students giggled a little bit, but looked to peep her position. The smile across her face was a rare moment. She never laughed, but the slender chick's joke was just too funny.

“Dawn,” said Debbie, “you got your nerves—those big feet of yours. I don't know if you dancing or stompin' out a forest fire.”

The teacher even laughed at Debbie's joke. She seemed to be in good spirits.

“Okay, settle down, you two,” said Ms. Sinclair. “Listen, people, you are my advanced class—you're seniors. That means, ladies, that you are to act professional and stand as role models to my underclassmen.” Ms. Sinclair smiled at Debbie. “And not twerking on Facebook or Instagram.”

The girls chuckled.

Even with sweat trickling down her face and breasts, causing the bone-colored cami underneath her royal blue tank top to cling to her soft, sticky skin, Samantha was a treasure chest of phenomenal gems. Her hair was matted to the sides of her face by perspiration and the exhausted, beat-down look was due largely to the fact they'd been going hard ever since her last class.

“Well, ladies,” said the teacher, “we had a really good session. Let's keep up the good work. Class dismissed.”

While the rest of the girls retreated to retrieve their belongings, Debbie looked like she couldn't wait to gossip. She strode over to Samantha and Jennifer Haywood.

“So the blue girl came back to school today,” she said, snickering. “Don't think I could ever come back after getting my entire head spray-painted.”

“You know you're foul,” said Jennifer. “Where is the sensitivity?”

Debbie said, “What are you talking about? I was only telling you what everybody else is calling her.”

Samantha stepped in. “If everybody else drank raw sewage out of an eight-ounce spring water bottle I guess you'd do the same.”

“What are y'all tripping for?” Debbie asked. “Why y'all being so serious? The junk was funny. As far as I'm concerned, she's just a dumb freshman.”

“That
dumb
freshman has a name, and it's
Dakota
,” Samantha said, with a bit of attitude.

“Whatever, Samantha,” Debbie said dismissively.

Samantha and Jennifer couldn't do anything but shake their heads.

Samantha walked across the highly polished floors over to an oversize monogram Gucci tote bag. She drew out a bath towel and bottled water.

Jennifer asked, “Anything from Xavier yet?”

The sadness in Samantha's eyes was clearly noticeable. “Nothing yet. I keep my head up and wish for the best. X is tough. If anybody can pull through something like this, I know he can.”

Jennifer said, “Oh, I knew it was something I wanted to tell you, girl.” She took a moment to get her thoughts together. “Why is Tracy going around school making your business her business?”

Samantha dabbed at her brow with the towel. “What is her problem now?”

“She's all over the building, telling anybody with a set of ears that you'd be a fool not to lock down Sean Desmond. She's also saying that she thinks that you are still hung up on Xavier. And if you don't get your head out of your butt, you're going to end up losing him to somebody that's willing to do everything that you won't.”

Samantha twisted the top off her bottle and took a sip. She said, unfazed, “To somebody like her?”

“Exactly, girl.”

“You know what they call that, don't you?” Jennifer started laughing before Samantha could even get the word out.

“You are so silly. What are we going to do with her?”

“We're going to let her be her. Jen, we've been sisters since I arrived here in my sophomore year. I love you like I love Tracy. The thing about friends is that we have to love them for who they are.”

Jennifer offered a sneaky grin. “Even if that friend is triflin', huh?”

Samantha laughed. “Yup.”

Jennifer fell out laughing. “You don't have any sense. By the way, what are you getting into tomorrow night?”

Samantha said, “The Tigers are playing game four tomorrow against Oakland. Why don't you come with me?”

“Chick, you know I give two farts in the wind about baseball. I only went with you to the restaurant last weekend when they lost to show support for my girl and her new boo-thang.”

“Peep you. Ain't you fancy—
new boo-thang.
”

“And listen to you—‘ain't.' Since when did Ms. High Society Good Grammar start kicking it like that?”

Tears were flowing down Samantha's cheeks, she was laughing so hard. “Stop it, you little bougie heffa.”

“I believe we both are. The only difference between us is that I'm more lower-class
bougie
with it than you. My daddy doesn't own half of the city like yours does.”

“Stop it. Your father makes a decent living as a foreman at Ford. You need to quit.”

“Back to you and your new boo-thang.”

Samantha thought about it for a second. Just the sound of “new boo-thang” didn't vibe well with her. But the stress that her father was putting on her about having somebody like Sean was unbearable. Samantha didn't want any of her father's drama. So she went along with it, just to shut his mouth. Her old dude was pushy and apparently trying to drive her into the arms of someone she could never love like she did Xavier. And she didn't know if she still loved him like that—who was she trying to fool? Xavier still owned major real estate in her heart.

“Sean is a
good
friend. He's not my
boo-thang
.”

“You know I'm just playing, right?”

“Anyway, Oakland is up two to one on Detroit. In if they lose tonight, series over, and if you think Sean was trippin' when his team lost the first game, sista-girl, boyfriend's mood will probably be pretty foul.”

“So will this be a repeat of last weekend, you know, when your boy was tryna find his ego at the bottom of a bottle of Patrón?”

“Lawd, I hope not. You want to tag along?”

Jennifer made a stink face. “And have to deal with those Ozzie and Cash vermin—uh-uh, no way.”

“Girl, come on. Don't leave me hanging.”

“You got Tracy.” Jennifer couldn't even say that with a straight face.

Samantha pursed her lips and folded her arms. “Do you want me to beg you?”

“Yeah. Can you?”

“We'll be through to pick you up around seven. Sean's plane should be in by then. Have your butt on the sidewalk in front of your home.”

Jennifer cracked a mischievous grin. “You bossing me around? I ain't your slave!”

Samantha chuckled. “Just be there, okay?”

Samantha put a finger up to her temple. “Oh. I knew there was something I forgot to tell you, girl. In August I auditioned for Juilliard.”

Jennifer smiled at her girlfriend. “And?”

Samantha could barely maintain her excitement. “They are considering me for a scholarship!”

Jennifer leaped in the air and hugged her girl with genuine joy. “I'm so happy for you, girl!”

Samantha broke the embrace and put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh. I haven't told a soul except my parents. So keep this a secret.”

Jennifer giggled. “Cross my heart,” she said, dragging a finger over her heart.

18

SAMANTHA

 

S
ean Desmond's big-money Orchard Lake bachelor pad sat beside an enormous body of water. At seven thousand square feet, the thing looked like something on the cover of one of those magazines that showcase ritzy cribs. Huge foyer, chandeliers, large great room, a kitchen with stainless steel appliances, a master bedroom the size of a small lunchroom, with his-and-her sinks and a pretty decent-sized Jacuzzi tub in the master bath. The walls of the long corridor to the bedrooms were decorated with memorabilia. Sean's high school and college jerseys hung in shiny glass frames. There was a very spacious deck off the back of the house overlooking the lake, where an expensive covered speedboat and pontoon were docked down by the water's edge. The deck was accessed from the dining area. A crowd of at least thirty people wandered in and out of the sliding glass doors. The music was high and the voices of those partying carried clear on out into the dark night.

“You would think that the Detroit Tigers won the game last night and were headed to the divisional finals how these fools are up in this place partying,” Samantha said to Jennifer as the two sat at Monterey Bay bar-height chairs and table tops around an exquisite fire pit that dressed their surroundings in an amber glow. Some sat at identical tables, kicking game, while others stood peering out over a fiberglass railing into the dark lake.

Jennifer said, “Sean is taking it pretty hard.”

“Well, it was
his
wild throw to first base that scored an Oakland Athletics player home from third at a critical time in the ninth inning that cost them their season. So, yeah, the brotha's trippin'.”

“By the way, where is he? Shouldn't you be wherever he is to make sure that Mr. Super Rookie's not doing something stupid, like drinking his liver cripple?”

“Girl, he's up in his bedroom. Said he didn't want to be disturbed. Besides, he's with his homeboy Cash.”

“That's exactly the reason you should have your little butt in there. Cash and that ghoul Ozzie are bad influences. Those two bums don't know how to say no to him.”

“I can't really blame the poor thing from hiding out. Media has been all up in a brotha's stuff. All the sports shows have been dissecting the play and coming to the conclusion and saying that the rookie just couldn't handle the bright lights on the big stage.”

Jennifer looked around. “Where is the garden tool?”

Samantha couldn't do anything but laugh. “Girl, you need to quit. Tracy ran off with that fool Ozzie somewhere around here.”

“Like I said, a garden tool.”

They were laughing until Sean burst through the door—wild, red eyes—staggering from side to side and whaling away with a golf club at anything in his vicinity. People ducked and got out of his way as he continued to swing the club. The music was instantly turned down and screaming could be heard.

CRASH
echoed the glass of the sliding door as Sean slammed the head of the club into it. The deranged look on his grill was enough to make a few girls scream, while most watched in horror as Sean ran up on some cat dressed in a Detroit Tigers home jersey and matching ball cap and started flexing.

“Take that Tigers crap off!” Sean screamed at the dude, taking swipes at him. The guy was quick, though. He managed to avoid getting his wig split and ran through the door, glass crunching underneath his feet.

“Dawg, what are you doing?” Ozzie yelled at Sean, tackling him to the floor while Cash yanked the club out of his hands.

Sean struggled with Ozzie, yelling and slurring his words, “G-g-g-get the hell off me, m-m-man!”

“Calm down,” Ozzie demanded.

Sean started sobbing. “I lost the damn game for us. We should be playing Boston in the championship, but I blew it. Do you know how it makes me feel?”

Jennifer leaned in and whispered to Samantha, “I seriously think that your boy might need Alcoholics Anonymous.”

Unbelievably, Sean heard her. And just when Ozzie thought that he had calmed his homeboy down, the Detroit Tigers rookie exploded.

“Is that what you think?!” Sean screamed in Jennifer's direction. There was no amount of muscle that could hold him. From somewhere deep inside, he gathered the strength to flick Ozzie off like the boy was a cockroach. He ran over to Jennifer and got in her face. “You think I'm a drunk?! Is that it?”

Jennifer looked at Sean with fear in her eyes, trembling.

When Samantha saw her girlfriend all but fainting, she jumped into action. There was no fear in her as she shoved him out of Jennifer's face. “She has a point. You have had too much to drink, Sean.”

He threw up his hands and backed away, smiling foolishly. “Oh. My bad. That's funny. Did my mother suddenly die and leave you as my surrogate?”

“That's not funny,” Samantha said.

It was strange to see Ozzie stepping forward and trying to be the voice of reason. “She's right, my dude. You are seriously on the nut, my ninja. You lost the game and you hurt—I feel you. But there's always next year.”

Sean looked around in amazement. “I can't believe this. Anybody else wanna tell this millionaire what to do and how to do it—huh, tell me—anybody?”

It was so dark out that nobody could accurately pinpoint from which direction the dry, sarcastic reply came.

“Yeah, buddy, just in case you weren't paying attention when you purchased your home, there are other millionaires around here that are trying to have a peaceful evening,” said a short, chubby-faced white man, standing on the ground just below, dressed in a blue cardigan sweater, tan Dockers, and blue-and-white boat shoes.

The guests stood idly by, wondering if the white man's remarks would be enough to push Sean over the edge and end up with a clip of the two of them posted on TMZ's website with the Detroit Tigers rookie's mitts around the dude's throat.

Sean made some kind of an irritated drunk face. “Who are you? Oh, you must have watched Vince Vaughn and Ben Stiller in the movie
The Watch
and thought you could do it too, huh?”

The white man laughed sarcastically. “No, I'm Stanley Genesis from next door, and my wife and I are trying to have a romantic dinner. And we would like it if you could keep it down a little, please.”

“What did you say your name was?” asked Sean.

“Stanley—”

“It doesn't matter what your name is, because”—Sean slowly spun around with his hands in the air—“I own all of this here. And you,
Stanley,
are trespassing. So what I would like for you to do,
Stanley,
is get off my property, now!”

Samantha thought that Stanley would turn and flee because of Sean's forcefulness. But instead, he did the opposite.

Stanley retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and started recording the back-and-forth with Sean. “Pal, I get that you are upset because the ball that you launched over the first baseman's head cost the Tigers the ball game. I sympathize with you. But carrying on like this isn't going to make that play not happen.”

Sean became enraged. “If you don't take that camera out of my face, the next scene is gonna be me putting my foot up your—”

“Sean,” Samantha said, “do you really have to go there?”

“Smart lady,” Stanley said, now filming Samantha. “I respect you, Sean Desmond, and all that your greatness will do for our town. However, this display of bad behavior isn't tolerated out here on this side. The police chief is a poker buddy of mine, and I would hate to have to call him on a big-time celebrity like yourself.”

Sean pointed down at Stanley. “I'm giving you five to get your white self off my property.”

“And you, Mr. Desmond, I'm giving your black behind five to stop all of this silliness.”

Sean looked around at his boys, like he needed some type of confirmation. “No, this fool didn't—did he just say what I think he said?”

“I believe you dropped the first racial slur,” said Stanley, still recording the entire exchange. “What? Are you going to get mad at the whole city because you choked”—he giggled—“no pun intended, but you choked and literally and figuratively dropped the ball.”

Sean started cursing. Overdosing on pure adrenaline, he made for the deck steps with the sole purpose of shoving Stanley's phone where the sun didn't shine. This time Ozzie and Cash rushed him before he could get to the first step.

Ozzie said to Stanley, “Fam, get ghost and be up out of here.” He and Cash struggled with a raging Sean.

Stanley said, still filming, “You and the
homeboys
keep the music and the noise down and I won't send this footage to TMZ.” After he spoke his piece, Stanley stopped filming and disappeared into the night.

Ozzie and Cash started dragging a cursing Sean toward the door, and before they could get over the threshold, Ozzie called out to Samantha, “We gon' need your assistance, breezy.”

Samantha gave Jennifer that “uh-oh” look before following behind as the two boys continued to drag Sean, kicking, screaming, and offering up obscenities like it was his native language. Tracy had emerged from wherever she was, straightening up her clothes. Samantha looked at her and merely shook her head.

Upstairs in the master bedroom, they slammed the rookie on the right side of his California king.

Ozzie told him, “Stay up here and calm down while I go next door and try to smooth things over with the dude Stanley.”

Sean went to say something, but the doors closed on his words. Ozzie and Cash were gone and Samantha was left standing there, not having the slightest idea what to do. First off, this wasn't where she wanted to be. Behind closed bedroom doors with a liquored-up hothead. She felt uncomfortable, but before she could say anything, Sean's eyes started looking cartoonish, like they were about to bulge from his head. He heaved. His jaws puffed out and he slammed a hand over his mouth and broke for the bathroom.

Samantha followed, covering her mouth, as she watched him bury his face deep in the toilet and puke his guts out. The boy wrapped his arms around the toilet bowl and violently heaved, blowing chunks.

“Sean, are you all right?” Samantha asked.

He looked up with bloodshot eyes and took a deep breath. “I've seen better days,” he said.

“Are you about done?”

“Yeah. I think so. Can't face my teammates, though.”

“Sean, you have to work on you for now and understand that everybody makes mistakes.” Samantha moved to his side, stooped down, placed his left arm around her neck, and helped him to his feet. “Phew. You need mouthwash and a shower—pronto!”

“You know you still in love with this superstar.”

The statement stopped Samantha in her tracks. She had to straighten him out. “Sean, we're friends. That's all. We've been that since we were kids.”

“
Friends
, huh?” He removed his arm from around her neck, smiling.

Samantha nervously smiled. “Just friends.”

The action was so fast and quick that it seemed so surreal to Samantha that Sean had both of his hands around her throat. The look on his face was pure madness.

His face was so close to hers that Samantha could smell the raw vomit on his breath when he spoke.

“I think it would be wise for you to get this through your pretty head: Samantha, you are mine,” he said. “And if you ever forget about it, Ozzie and Cash will pay a visit to your house. Need I say more?” With that he shoved his vomit-smelling tongue in her mouth and forced a kiss.

Samantha fought until he broke the connection. Hot tears fell from her eyes.

“And don't even think about telling anybody about what I said, or Ozzie and Cash will visit your folks. And don't bother telling your little ghetto friend Xavier about this. Not unless you want to go to a funeral.” His smile was so malicious that it carried the promise of the threat. “Do you hear me?” Sean forcefully asked, dropping his hands around her shoulders and shaking her.

Samantha hesitantly shook her head. Xavier would've never put his hands on her. It was this moment when she truly admitted to herself how much she missed him. Where was he? Why wasn't he here to rescue her? Tears slid down her cheeks.

Sean said, pointing downward, “I'm not gonna keep waiting for that.” The diabolical smile said it all. “Now get back down to the party, while I clean myself up.”

The moment he released her, Samantha ran out of the bedroom and closed the door. She had her back against a hallway wall and was trying desperately to stop the tears and trying to spit the foul taste of bile out of her mouth. Had Sean just threatened her parents? How could he? Her folks had known the boy since he was a toddler. She had seen this sort of thing play out ugly on the news, an obsession that quickly turned violent and ended with death and grief.

But what could she do? Samantha was totally alone. Not even Jennifer could know anything about this. It would probably put her in danger too. Her soul ached while the water continued to fall. God forbid if something was to happen to her mother and father. She wouldn't be able to go on. As the tears rolled, the one question remained on her mind: Where was her Xavier?