Hotlanta (14 page)

“You're not scared, are you?” Jermaine asked Lauren as he filled a glass with ice and stuck it under the rush of water coming out of the kitchen-sink tap.

“Uh, first of all, don't insult the kid like that—ain't nobody skerd of your friends,” Lauren giggled as she reached around Jermaine's waist for the water glass.

Of course, she was lying; the evil looks she got from that girl the time she met Jermaine's friends at the mall were not lost on her, and it was crystal he was afraid to bring her around them, too, because over the past few weeks during their clandestine love affair, he avoided meeting her in his neighborhood at all costs. They'd always show up somewhere neutral, where people were too preoccupied with their own doings to pay too much attention to theirs—Piedmont Park in the
middle of Atlanta, where they strolled hand-in-hand and rolled down the expansive hills set against the silvery Atlanta skyline; the Georgia Aquarium, where mothers pushed their strollers past the smooching couple as they shared a kiss in front of the dancing beluga whales; Fat Matt's, where they licked the barbeque sauce off their fingers with abandon—without a care in the world who was looking, because there was no reason for anyone either of them knew to be in any of those places. They liked it that way; that anonymity gave them the opportunity to show each other who they really were, without being forced to color in the lines that their friends, their families, and even they had created for themselves. But this playing with his friends plan? Extra.

“I'm just saying, why we gotta go to a pool hall and hang out with your friends when we can stay here and enjoy some quality alone-time?”

Jermaine turned around slowly so that the front of his body was pressed directly against hers. Lauren could feel his breath on her cheek. “Because when my moms gets home in a half hour, we won't be alone and it certainly won't be enjoyable,” Jermaine said, leaning down to kiss her lips.

“Well, if I had the choice between meeting your mother or your friends, I'd go with your mom. I mean, I don't exactly have on the proper gaming attire,” Lauren said, looking down at her tight metallic V-neck BCBG sweater, Earl Jean pencil skirt, and black patent-leather Bottega Veneta peep-toe
pumps. Clearly, she was reaching. “And why you hiding me from your mother, anyway? What?—I'm not good enough to meet her?”

Jermaine kicked his game into high gear; he knew that the next few words out of his mouth had to be convincing enough to get Lauren out of the house
now,
because it was only a matter of time before his mother came back from the parole office with Rodney, and there was no way he could have the daughter of Altimus Duke standing in the middle of the living room when they arrived. After all, Rodney had made it clear that if Jermaine didn't tell her, he would.

And that Jermaine wasn't about to have.

“Look,” he said, kissing Lauren's lips between every few words. “I want you to meet my moms, for real. But she ain't really going to appreciate walking into her house and seeing you sitting in her kitchen, spending what she might misinterpret as quality alone-time with her son while she's not in the house. That would not be a pretty scene, trust.”

Lauren looked into his eyes and smiled. She, of course, could understand the dilemma. It wasn't like she could invite Jermaine over to her house for tea and crumpets, either, not with Altimus and Keisha standing in the foyer. She conjured up an image of her parents opening the double wrought-iron doors, Altimus with his arms folded, Keisha with her lips pursed, zoning in on his sagging pants and white T, ready to frisk him for weapons and send him packing once they
decided he didn't have the right addy and daddy. Especially since the whole Donald-is-gay-thing, which, at first, her parents didn't want to believe—until, that is, Keisha happened upon a letter Donald sent from his new boarding school. It started: “Dear L, My God, I thought I would hate your sister forever for pulling me out the closet, but my ‘punishment' at this all-boys' school has turned into quite the tasty treat. Tell Syd I said thanks!”

Yeah, Keisha wasn't exactly trusting of Lauren's judgment or taste in men these days (though Lauren had done enough fast-talking to make her parents believe she was just as clueless about Donald's sexual status as they were). Anyway, Lauren quickly decided that she should probably stop pushing the “I wanna meet your mom” issue with Jermaine, seeing as there was no way in hell she was going to be hosting her own “meet the parents” soiree anytime soon. He had to remain her secret, for now. And this she wasn't ready to explain to Jermaine. Better to go and be uncomfortable standing around a bunch of thug Negroes for an hour or so than have that conversation. “Fine. Let's go meet your little friends. But don't get there and forget who you came with,” she warned. “You should know that I don't like sharing.”

“Is that right?” Jermaine said, planting another gentle kiss on her lips. “Well, I have no intentions of sharing this right here.” He squeezed Lauren's butt and kissed her again. “That's all me.”

The word “uncomfortable” was a gross understatement of how Lauren felt walking hand-in-hand with Jermaine into The Playground, a small hole-in-the-wall neighborhood haunt nestled between a small independent music store (where in addition to mix tapes and bootleg rap CDs, they sold everything a modern Negro could want: white Ts, sports jerseys, caps, sneakers, and a wide assortment of gold fronts) and a fried-fish joint called Pride, where she and Jermaine waited behind no less than a dozen people to buy a four-dollar basket of crispy fried tilapia piled high on top of three pieces of white bread (the fish made Lauren's mouth water, but she was ticked that she'd have to find a way to get that smell out of her top). Suffice to say that her man's friends didn't exactly roll out the Welcome Wagon when Lauren, freshly introduced by Jermaine as “my girl,” shined her high-wattage grin in their direction, hoping her big butt and friendly smile would be disarming enough for them to treat her like she belonged.

Not so much.

“What up, Pimpin'?” Jermaine said, slapping hands and snapping fingers with a guy he introduced as Don.

“Yeah, man, what's really hood?” Don said, half smiling as he stared Lauren up and down. He looked back at the crowd of his boys and their various ill-dressed chicks who seemingly adored them; they were assembled around the pool table, pretending to be waiting for or watching the game action, but really what they were doing was peeping Lauren.
The pressure made her ears hot; the smell of the fish grease on her hands made her nauseous. She wanted—needed—to make a speedy exit, but then how would she look running through the hood in four-inch heels and a $200 glitter sweater? Her guess was it wouldn't end well.

So she chilled. Or at least tried to.

“Where you been, man? We ain't seen you round in a while,” Don said, his eyes shifting back and forth between Jermaine and Lauren.

“Aw, man, you know—just maintaining, doing my thing,” Jermaine said.

“I can see that, blood. Can definitely see that,” Don said, his eyes strolling slowly up from Lauren's shoes to her eyes.

Lauren tried not to shiver. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a group of boys shooting dice in the far right corner, near the video machines, started hollering, laughing, and slap-snapping each other's hands, presumably over one player's lucky roll. “Um, Jermaine, I'm going to go over to the bar area over there and get some water—you want anything?” she asked quickly.

She heard the girls sucking their teeth and got a mental image of them rolling their eyes behind her back.

“I'll get it for you—you want bottled or tap?” Jermaine asked as she started walking to the bar.

“No, no—it's cool, I'll go get it,” Lauren practically snapped.

“I'll go with her,” one of the girls chimed in, stepping forward. “I'm Brandi.” She said her name sweetly, but the look on her face read something else altogether: bitch. “Come on, leave the boys to their game.”

Lauren tossed a look at Jermaine, who just shrugged. “Take care of my girl,” Jermaine said half-jokingly, his eyes showing his worry. Brandi didn't bother answering him back. Don shoved a pool stick in his hand and motioned Jermaine over to the pool table.

“So,” Brandi said without looking at Lauren. “What's your name again?”

“Uh, Lauren.”

“You have a last name, Lauren?”

“It's um, Duke,” Lauren said, clearing her throat, making it sound like she wasn't really sure if her answer was correct. “Duke,” she said more confidently.

“Stone!” Brandi yelled at a guy standing in the storeroom behind the register. The bass in her voice startled Lauren, who instantly turned her head and looked back for Jermaine. He paid her no nevermind; Jermaine was already knee-deep into his pool game. “Hey, Stone! Let me get a Coke and a bottled water!” She turned to Lauren: “Let's sit here by the door; the vent is over here—it's warmer.”

Lauren looked back at Jermaine again; he waved and went back to his stance over the pool table, taking aim at the yellow-striped ball. Brandi sat on a rickety stool at the bar and
motioned for Lauren to take the stool next to her. Lauren obliged.

Brandi didn't waste any time getting to the matter at hand. “So, you and Jermaine, how'd y'all meet?”

Lauren cleared her throat. “We, um, we met while I was visiting some relatives over here in the West End.”

“You got people livin' around here?” Brandi asked, wrinkling her eyebrows. Stone dropped the Coke and water on the counter and swiped up the three dollars Brandi had left for him.

“Yeah, um, I have an aunt who lives here.”

“I see.”

“He's a really nice guy—how do you know him?”

“Who, Jermaine?” Brandi asked, chuckling. “Oh, we go way back. We grew up here together, even dated for a minute or two.”

Lauren nearly choked on her Crystal Springs.

“What?—you didn't think he had females before you?” Brandi asked coolly as she sipped her soda. “Oh, there've been plenty others. Let's just say that Jermaine is one of the hot boys around here. But it ain't just because of his looks, you know.”

Now just what in the hell was that supposed to mean?
Lauren asked herself (she knew better than to say that out loud). She took another sip of water and kept quiet. Under normal circumstances, on her own turf, she might have had
a few choice words to say, but, most def, she needed to feel this chick out.
Oh, who am I fooling?
Lauren asked herself.
This broad would beat my ass. Let me shut up.

“He used to always go around talking about how he was going to get up out the hood and do some things didn't nobody expect from him,” Brandi continued. “From the looks of things, he sho wasn't lying,” she said, rolling her eyes at Lauren and turning back to her Coke.

“I'm sorry?” Lauren said, swizzing her neck.

“Don't be sorry, honey, Jermaine is a catch,” Brandi snapped. “But I'm just letting you know that there were a lot of girls before you and there will be a lot more after you so don't think you're going to get comfortable on the West End because bitches like you come a dime a—”

Lauren's eyes grew wider with every word that tumbled from Brandi's lips, but when she called her a bitch, it was on.

“Look here, I don't know who you callin' bitch, but I do know you need to watch how you speak to
this
bitch,” Lauren practically growled, getting up from her stool. “I'm not from around here, but you not gonna sit up here and talk to me any ol' kinda way, I know that much…”

Lauren kept going, curses flying every which way from her mouth—words that she wasn't quite sure she could back up but sounded good anyway. Must have, because with every
tidbit that tumbled from her lips, Brandi's eyes grew wider and wider. Lauren wasn't sure if she was reading her nemesis's face right, but she could have sworn on her grandmother's grave that Brandi looked, well, scared. Lauren, all at once surprised and pleased by Brandi's reaction, was ready to go in for the kill—to stand up and stick a finger or two in Brandi's face for emphasis. But just as she raised her hands, she realized that Brandi's fearful eyes weren't focused on her; Brandi was looking past Lauren—over her shoulder and toward the door.

It was exactly at that moment that Lauren felt the chill through her sweater. She turned around to see who was walking in the door, sure that she was about to be hurt by someone presenting himself to rob the club and everyone in it. But what she saw was worse. Much worse. Her eyes settled on Altimus, who was right in the middle of telling somebody off. She considered rubbing her eyes to make sure they weren't playing tricks on her, but she didn't need to: Her stepdad, the epitome of grace, elegance, and composure, was in the hood straight looking like a gangsta all up in some old man's face.

“Look here, mufucka, I ain't gonna say this but one time, so listen good…” Altimus said through his teeth, pushing his fingers into the face of a man who was sitting a few stools away from Lauren. Just as he was about to really lay into the guy, he caught a glimpse of Lauren out of the corner of his
eye. He straightened his shoulders; his eyes, narrowed like slits, locked with his daughter's.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked her through clenched teeth.

Busted. Unsure whether to answer Altimus's question, or ask him one, Lauren settled on stammering. “I-I-,” she started.

“I—I hell. I asked you a question, Lauren. Who you with up in here?” he demanded, looking at Brandi and then the crowd of teenagers gathered in the area around the pool table. A hush fell over the club; not one person in the place so much as blinked. Lauren could hear two things: Altimus's breathing, heavy with anger, and her own heartbeat. Jermaine took a small step forward, but Don put a firm hand on his shoulder, a silent warning not to get in the middle of this mess.