I'm Your Girl (16 page)

“Uh, let me get that door for you,” I say, and I leap toward the door, pulling it back with force.

“Thanks,” she says, walking by me sideways, her back to me. I catch a whiff of some perfume or another and wonder how all her hair fit up under that helmet.

She’s inside now. Say something before she gets away, Dan! “Uh, you here to put in new phone lines?”

That was so lame.

Yes, it was. Sic him, Ty, sic him.

8: Ty

Oh, he’s as smooth as those wrinkled clothes he’s wearing. Here to put in new phone lines? No, I always wear a tool belt and walk around carrying twenty pounds of phone wire. Here’s your “Stupid” sign. What do you think I’m carrying all this line in for?

“No. Actually, I’m just redoing the lines in the office today.”

“Oh,” he says. “All by yourself?”

What, you think a woman can’t do this shit?

“Wow.”

Wow? I do not respond to white men saying “wow,” especially if they don’t have the decency to iron their clothes.

“Uh, makes sense, being kind of a day off for teachers and everything, huh?”

I don’t normally respond to “huh” either, but he did hold the door for me. “Not for me.”

He looks at the line wrapped around my shoulder. “Oh, yeah, right. I, uh, had heard they were changing the lines in the schools. I’m over at Monterey.”

Monterey Elementary? As what? I’ll bet he’s a gym teacher for the slow kids on the short bus. “You teach there?”

He smiles. What’s wrong with that tooth? Looks almost vampire-like. Get that fang capped!

“Yeah, I teach fourth-grade social studies.”

Not a gym teacher? He has sense and a real degree? “You know Kendra Clarke?”

He blinks. “Yes. I teach her.”

I blink. So this is the amazing Mr. Pace I’ve heard so much about. Dan Pace. I thought he was black the way Kendra carried on about him, but I have a lot to teach that child. You can’t have a crush on a man who wears corduroys! “Oh” is all I can think to say.

“Are you coming for a conference today, Mrs. Clarke?”

He thinks I’m Kendra’s mama. Which, I guess, I kind of am, since Kendra’s mama is no good, but for him to assume that I’m anybody’s mama is wrong. But maybe he’s being tricky, trying to get my name by being wrong. I’ll keep him wondering. “I hadn’t planned on it, Mr. Pace.” Just establishing my distance, Mr. Dan. “But it depends on if I can finish this job in time or not.” Hint. Get to pacing, Mr. Pace. I’ve got work to do.

“Oh, yeah, right.” He nods again. I’m not nodding back. “Well, I hope to see you there.”

“I’ll try,” is all I say, knowing good and well I will be there. I have to see what Kendra is so hyped up about. I mean every time I ask her about school, it’s Mr. Pace said this or Mr. Pace did that. I can definitely see why she has a crush on him. He is nice to look at. But I also want to make sure he isn’t some kind of perv, leading little girls on.

After completing the job at the school, I take a short lunch break to go vote and have a quick sandwich. I finish up my workday with two jobs in northeast Roanoke. At four-thirty, I am in my Beamer and on my way home to get ready for the conference.

Before Nancy can curse me again, I see a slender, brown hand knocking on my door. A moment later, Mrs. “Cat Eyes” Clarke walks into the room as a lady should, her front preceding her back—which goes on and on and on. And she is dressed so sharp I’m afraid I’ll be cut. She shows off that ass of hers with some form-fitting black slacks, and her breasts are popping out at me from behind a low-cut, V-neck, charcoal gray sweater. Most women seem to wear sweaters to hide something, but she definitely wants me to see her flat stomach. My hands start to sweat.

“Am I interrupting something?” she says.

10: Ty

That is the ugliest white woman I’ve ever seen. What the hell is that on her neck? Thing looks like an overgrown booger. And Dan is still wearing corduroys for a formal parent-teacher conference?

“Hello, Mrs. Clarke,” Dan says, motioning to a chair in front of his exceptionally clean desk. He has the ability to be neat? I’m almost impressed. “Won’t you be seated?”

I will as soon as that chicken head leaves, and chicken head stomps out of the room. I check the seat for chicken feathers before I sit down.

“You must be very proud of your daughter, Mrs. Clarke. I think Kendra will one day be a lawyer.”

Really? “What makes you say that, Mr. Pace?”

“Um, she has a sharp mind, and she’s great with facts.”

Don’t give me that shit! If she were good with facts, she’d be acing all her classes. “Why is it that she’s making As only in your class?”

He blinks. “I thought she was doing well in all of her classes.”

“She’s doing okay, but she’s making As only in your class. Do you have an explanation for that?”

“Uh, no. Maybe she likes social studies. That’s why I said she’d be a good lawyer. Most lawyers are history majors before going on to law school. Um, what was your major?”

Oh no he didn’t just try to reverse the conversation. If I let him get started, he might be asking me for my sign or something. “I majored in business administration, but this isn’t about me. I’m here for Kendra.”

“As you should be.” He opens a grade book and runs a finger across the page. “Kendra has turned in all her work on time, and her lowest grade is a B on any assignment.” He looks up. “She’s the most consistent student whom I have in any class.” He smiles. “Does she take after you or your husband?”

“She takes after me.”

“I can see that.”

Is he flirting with me? His blue eyes haven’t left mine. He’s flirting. Time to burst his bubble. “So, Mr. Pace, tell me about this crush Kendra has on you.”

He turns red. “What crush?”

“You haven’t noticed?”

He sits back in his chair. “No. Has she said something to you?”

“No, but all I hear about is Mr. Pace. I was a schoolgirl once. I had a few crushes when I was her age, so I know all the signs.” And this man hasn’t noticed any of them. “I’m just letting you know.”

“I’ll, uh, try to be more attentive.” He frowns. “So you think that she’s getting such high marks because she has a crush on me?”

“No, I know Kendra’s intelligent. I just wanted you to be aware of this.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Now what? “I can’t say that I blame her for the crush.” I lick my lips. “But you’re one of the few male teachers she’s ever had.”

Did he just shake his head? And why did he just pull his hands off his desk? “Um, I was expecting
Mr.
Clarke this evening since he, uh, since he filled out the form.”

“Well, he had to work late, and he asked if I would come instead.”

He nods his head. “Um, do you or Mr. Clarke have any concerns about anything?”

“I don’t, but I’m sure if he does, he’ll contact you.” I stand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pace.”

He stands and extends his hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I shake it, and, ooh, it’s sweaty. What’s he nervous about?

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Clarke.”

It was all right. “You, too, Mr. Pace.”

He walks me to the door—such a gentleman—then stands in the doorway as I twist and sashay down the hall. I look back when I get to the end of the hallway. Yeah, he’s still staring, and he isn’t trying to hide it either. I like a bold man. I smile at him and give one more shake before I turn the corner, then head for home.

11: Dan

Oh…damn.

I hope no other parents show up. My hands are dripping, my heart is pounding, and all it took was a long look at some serious ass shaking in the hallway.

So, Kendra has a crush on me. Right. I don’t believe that for a second. It’s Mrs. Clarke who has the crush. Otherwise, why would she walk down the hall that way knowing I was hard staring? And she smiled at me before she left.

I check the clock. If I didn’t have to stay another two hours, I’d be running out to her car right now to see if she’d be willing to share that perfect smile of hers with me tonight all night….

“I’ll bet you never expected this,” Dan says, snuggling closer.

“Not in a million years,” I say. “Not in a million-trillion years.”

The Genealogy of the Sponge

No history of the average white man could be complete without some humorous anecdote about crazy Uncle Phil or the insane Auntie Phyllis. But first, let’s look at some general, random information gleaned from the endless genealogical findings of Arthur’s mother.

Arthur Stephens Jefferson was named for seven consecutive generations of Arthurs on his father’s side, none of whom used their full first names. They were “Art,” “Arturo,” or “Artie,” and one even went by “King.” But our Arthur is simply “Arthur” (though his wife calls him “Artie” when she’s angry), not that he or his friends have no imaginations.

There is only so much you can do with “Arthur.”

“Stephens” was a family name, some thirteen generations old, a name frequently used by its owner for “Steve” or “Stevie” or “Stephen/ Steven.” And “Jefferson” was an old, renowned American name, one associated with greatness—but it was only an association. His genealogically minded mother had pronounced Thomas Jefferson as Arthur’s “fourth cousin twice removed.”

To where? we might wonder, but we won’t.

As a child, Arthur had scoured his mother’s genealogical records looking for his place in the Caucasian pantheon. By most accounts, he was Nordic (his blond hair and love for snow and those little water-filled paperweights with the snow inside), Scotch (his freckles and luve for red, red roses), Irish (his temper softened by nostalgia, warm beer, and sad songs badly sung in bars run by anyone with an O or an Mc in front of his or her name), with a touch of German (his inability to laugh out loud unless ordered to). Yet, he was also descended from the French and English, two entities that had stretched the Hundred Years’ War to 116 because, obviously, neither side could count anything but dead bodies and taxes.

Such a divided man is Arthur Stephens Jefferson. He could never be a hyphenated American. His true hyphenation would never fit on the census form.

Somewhat of a mutt, this Arthur.