Love Me (17 page)

I'm pathetic, and stupid . . .

‘Write it on the blackboard immediately! I want two hundred lines!'

Please ma'am!

‘That's not good enough! You are a stupid boy. Lick the blackboard clean and start again. You are going to have detention every day until you learn to do it right! Lick it,' I say, enjoying myself, ‘clean!'

There's a moment of silence and then the bear says: ‘Goddamn!' He coughs. ‘I think that's a wrap. You better get out the booth before you make me have an accident, ma!'

‘Yuk,' I laugh. ‘That's disgusting.'

‘You know you love me.'

When I get back in the room, Zed is writing in his notebook and doesn't look up.

‘That shit was hilarious!' says Nami. ‘Damn girl!'

‘Thanks.'

Bleak slaps me on the palm. ‘Looks like you're part of the fam now, Little Red.' He grins. ‘You down with High Jinks!'

‘High Jinks?'

‘Yeah, High Jinks is the team. Me, Ms Tsunami over there and another dude you ain't met yet. He was
s'posed
to be here today actually but he's a busy guy.'

‘Jimi Hendrix-type motherfucker,' says Nami, chewing her words like a true New Yorker. ‘Mad talented.'

‘You know what? You should come through Fort Greene park Sunday afternoon.'

‘Why? What's happening?'

‘A cool little outdoors shindig, you know what I mean? I'll be spinning some old-school hip-hop and soul music for man, woman and child. Doing my thing. You know.'

‘Cool . . .'

‘Hey,' says Zed, standing up, ‘you ready to get out of here, Eden?'

‘Um . . .' I've been waiting for those words all day and he says them just when I'm starting to have some fun. Typical. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. If we're finished.'

Bleak looks at Zed. ‘Yeah. We done with the skit. Might need to have Little Red come back here one of these days though, put a hook on one of these joints.'

‘Serious?'

‘Three things I don't kid about, English girl. My food . . .'

‘I can tell, fattie!' laughs Nami.

‘My ganja, and my beats.'

‘Cool . . .'

‘Take my card.'

He whips one out of his back pocket. The print is white on black. His name, cell, and MySpace address.

I go to the loo. Then when I come back I say my goodbyes and we're out.

‘So you don't do gimmicks, huh?' I say when we walk out of the communal doors into the street. It's just as warm outside as it was in the apartment. I look at the starless sky and the people walking up and down about their night-time business.

‘I know you don't think much of my style, but I'm trying to get back to basics.'

‘When did I ever say that?'

‘That interlude you did was funny, though.'

‘Thanks.'

We stop outside a bodega. ‘You want anything?' he says. ‘I'm 'bout to get myself some Zig-Zags.'

‘A Coke, please. And an Almond Joy.'

‘Come get it yourself then.' He seems to have all but healed from the accident. No limp. His swagger is back.

‘Asshole.'

‘Yep.'

It's about a ten-minute walk to the station. We talk about music all the way there, the tracks he did and what he wants to add to them or do differently next time. I don't understand most of what he says. By the time we go
underground I've stopped trying. My mind is consumed with the thought that we're alone again, finally. But it seems to me sometimes like he's locked away from himself, locked away from us. I want to say something but don't know what. Something to destroy the distance.

‘Do you think,' I say, mouth dry as dust, ‘about your dad a lot?'

‘He's gone, Eden,' he says, walking ahead.

‘I know that, but do you think about him often? That's all I'm asking . . . I mean. How do you feel . . .?'

‘I feel like thinking about him,' he glances at me, ‘or
talking
about him is not gonna bring him back.'

We reach the yellow platform and there's a pale teen with body piercings and a man with heavy dreadlocks. It must be thirty degrees and his coat is padded.

‘New York is so crazy,' I say quietly.

‘It is,' says Zed. ‘Here's your train.'

‘My train?'

‘Yeah.'

I turn to look at him. ‘Aren't you coming with me?'

‘I wasn't planning to.'

I step on the train and lean against the doors before they close. I feel so stupid. I try not to look surprised or hurt.

‘But I don't even know how to get back,' I say. ‘Zed, it's almost midnight.'

‘There's a map on the train.'

‘This is New York! I can't believe—'

‘You'll be cool,' he says.

The doors close.

Saint Lucia, August 7

 

It's been so long, Cherry Pepper. So long. I'd forgotten this was home, the intensity of the blue and the green, the palms and the banana trees and the sea. Oh Lord God. I was crying when I stepped off the plane and no one asked if I was OK because each one of them, white and black, young and old, was struck through with awe at the beauty of the landscape. Land like this forgives you when you stand on it. It enfolds you in the scent of growing things. It lives! This land is my mother too, and I've missed her.

I carried Angeline to our village, something like the way she carried me before she knew how deeply I would disappoint her. I showed her the house we lived in all those years ago, and how it's changed.

I feel young, like I have another chance at being twelve, but without the pain. This time I play in the river and the sunshine and eat local bread on the front steps with corned beef and sorrel. I rub coconut oil into my skin until it gleams and this time I am beautiful, just like my older mother, the one that still lives, lush with trees and rain. I swim in the sea and go to the market for spices. I roast breadfruit and share it with my baby cousins. In the evening I sit with strangers in the rum shop and talk about family and music and magic. And I listen to the stories of my great aunt, who's survived the best part of a century.
Butterscotch like Angeline, wrinkled and delicately boned. Even without teeth she smiles. She reminds me how to survive with grace.

Soon,

Aunt K.

I KNEW I
was going to end up here.

The sun is king in Fort Greene park, high and searing. The colours are acid trip-intense. Ice-cream melting into puddles. Children scampering brown-limbed all over the parched grass. Couples and careless knots of friends lay squinting at each other and up into the blue. So many smiles. Barbecue, pollution, trees and flowers scent the air.

In my knapsack I have a bag of tortilla chips and a bottle of fruit punch laced with Jack. I sample a little of each at the gates for strength and Dutch courage because I'm not sure what's more scary to me: if Zed is here – or if he isn't. I've only seen glimpses of him since the studio, and he's always curt and en route somewhere fast.

Maybe Bleak will have forgotten he even asked me to come. People are always saying that Americans are more expansive but less sincere than us Brits. And if he's on the decks he might not be free to socialise. And maybe this isn't even the right place anyway, because house music is on instead of the vintage soul Bleak said he'd be spinning and I can't see him anywhere and let's face it – he'd be a difficult guy to miss.

I sit on the nearest park bench for a little while to orient myself, feeling exposed. The barbecue smell is coming from the far side of the park. I see the stall. Going over there will give me something to do. I don't have to eat; I could just buy it and stand around.

A new song starts and a few people whoop and cheer in their various groups. A girl in a velour playsuit falls into
me dancing, gives a giggly apology but doesn't sound particularly sorry. Not rude. Just not sorry. Barrelling into strangers halfway through doing the ‘running man' or some insane variation thereof shows just what a crazy fun gal she really is. Her friends roll their eyes affectionately. I continue straight on toward the barbecue.

‘Hey, sis,' says the healthily rounded woman serving the food. ‘Chicken? Fish?'

‘Just chicken, please.'

‘You want coleslaw or potato salad?'

‘Coleslaw . . . how much is this?'

‘Five dollars. Pay over there.' She points to a tall, skinny guy at the end of the long table.

‘I got it, Makita.' A familiar voice behind me. ‘Put it on my tab.'

The well-fed woman laughs. ‘Hey, Bleak,' she says.

I turn around and he looks even bigger and blacker than he did before. ‘Oi! There you are!' I say, relieved.

‘Little Red,' he grins, ‘you made it. What's good, ma?'

‘Barbecue. Punk rock. Jack Daniel's.'

He smiles, exposing a mouth full of gold. ‘You're funny. I'm 'bout to jump on the decks, sis . . .'

‘Yeah, no problem. No problem. That's what I thought anyway. I'll just—'

‘. . . so why don't you go over and meet my peeps? They're all sitting under that tree over there, that freaky-looking collection of no-hopers.'

I laugh.

‘Go on over when you got your food and introduce yourself. Tell 'em Bleak sent you.'

‘OK.'

‘Alright. Later.'

‘Thanks,' I say to Makita.

‘You're welcome.' She smiles.

I watch Bleak amble over to the decks about one hundred yards away. He acknowledges several people on the way, stopping to dispense hugs and pounds on the fist. He exchanges greetings with the present DJ, sets up, puts his headphones on and starts digging around in some crates. A few moments later gentle strains of Marvin Gaye are drifting through the park.

Under the tree there is an array of people spread out on a checked tablecloth, some West African print fabric, and a piece of tarp. They're engaged in various conversations, rocking fashions that range from conservative to crazy, wearing their skin in shades milky to blue-black.

I sit carefully on the edge of the group where the conversations seem the least involved, on the tarp.

‘Wow, it is so hot today!' says a girl wearing long micro-braids in her hair and a tongue ring. ‘The air is like pudding.'

‘You are
not
kidding,' says a bald girl with thick lashes. She spies me. ‘Hey.'

‘Hey,' I say, ‘I'm a friend of Bleak's.'

‘Cool,' she smiles, a gap between her two front teeth. ‘What's your name?'

‘Eden.'

‘Nice to meet you, girl. I'm Zahara.'

Then the girl with braids introduces herself. ‘Rosemary.'

‘Hey.'

‘So,' says Zahara, leaning back on the tarp, ‘you're from the UK, right?'

‘Yeah, London actually.'

‘Cool. So you're staying at Bleak's place?'

‘No . . . I just met him this week through a friend.' I try to look bonelessly indolent like they do. ‘Zed? You know him?'

‘Yeah I do . . .'

‘Tall, black guy,' I say unnecessarily, ‘bald head . . .'

‘Yeah.' Zahara yawns.

‘Have you seen him?'

‘Who?'

‘Zed,' I say. I'm reaching for nonchalance. I think I missed, though. ‘My mate.'

‘Yeah, I'm sure I've seen him.' Rosemary reaches over and taps a guy who's lying next to her, staring at the sky. ‘Hey.' The guy lifts his head. ‘Eden's looking for her boyfriend, Zed.'

‘No . . . no . . .!' I say, just around the same time he passes the message to someone else.

‘I'm going over there, anyway,' says a female with long Afro-twists and short shorts as she gets to her feet. ‘If I see him, I'll tell him wifey's missing him. Gotta stick together, huh?' she winks at me.

‘No . . . No! I'm not . . . he uh . . .'I say limply. This is one of those moments where, no matter what I do, I'm going to look like an idiot. She's up and gone before my tired mind can concoct a solution. ‘I didn't say
boy
friend.'

I have a swig of spiked fruit punch. And another. Lie back on the tarp. There's pretty much nothing I can do to make the situation with Zed better anyway. No point panicking. None whatsoever. Concentrate on the clouds. Pretend I am one. Just vapour.

‘So we're dating now?'

Right by my ear. My belly flips. I daren't turn my head.

‘What?' I reply. When in doubt, play dumb. ‘We are?'

‘Melanie said my
girlfriend
Eden was looking for me.'

‘Oh,' I manage an anaemic laugh, ‘that's funny. She must have heard wrong.'

‘Right.'

I can smell his skin. Salt, detergent, cologne, weed.

Stare at the clouds. Be vapour.

‘So what's this?' he says, trying to tug the bottle out of my hand. ‘Fruit punch got you laid out like that?'

‘Yeah . . . no . . .' I almost head-butt him trying to get up. He's laying next to me. His teeth are white, his head gleams, his body is solid in a tank top, long shorts and a pair of Nikes I haven't seen before. His arms are folded under his head. I thought he'd be angry. His contradictions leave me without armour or strategy. ‘I mean it's just juice and I'm not laid out, just catching a breeze. Trying to relax.'

He shakes his head, face unreadable.

‘So these are your friends?' I say.

‘Some of them,' he replies. I look around at all the eclectic people, so colourful and pretty and languid. There are funksters and hippies, rockers and earthy types; all coded by their garments and hairstyles and they are so pleased with themselves. I think that sensible people in London tend to find that embarrassing. British people who
don't
find self-satisfaction embarrassing are usually either obnoxious or dim, which makes this kind of tableau extremely rare back home. I'm refreshed and threatened in equal parts.