Pink & Patent Leather

Pink &

Patent Leather

When the Fall from the Pedestal Isn’t Far Enough

A Novel

Candy Jackson

It had been a long
time, four years to be exact, but I was ready. The night I had been dreaming about was finally here. My life was playing out like a well-rehearsed script, and I had the starring role.

I wanted a life with him.

It was my time; sweet victory was in the air.

I was Sasha Simone Jansen and I had come to win.

Now, as I sat at my vanity poised and proper with my hair done and make-up flawless, I stared at my perfect cocoa complexion and smiled. I had to be the luckiest girl in the world. No, that wasn’t it. I’m a Christian, and we don’t believe in luck.

“
I’m the most blessed girl in the world,” I told my reflection.

From where I sat at my vanity, which was against the far left wall of my blush-colored bedroom, I could see my Christian Dior mini dress on its pink satin-covered hanger. Sitting directly underneath
the dress were my black patent leather four-inch stilettos that had a pink bow adorning the right side of both shoes.

I was happy.

Finally.

I had come a long way from being that little flat-chested, a little bit spoiled brat, lovingly known to my family an
d friends as “Pink.” Pink was the nickname given to me by my oldest brother. After having given birth to three sons, God finally blessed my mother with me—her daughter, and pride and joy. I was my daddy’s heart, and the apple of my brothers’ eyes.

My brot
her started calling me Pink just a few weeks after I was born. He said that Mother dressed me every day in pink just to make sure that everyone knew that I was a girl.

Now, I was a grown girl, with my Bachelor of Arts degree from Spelman, and my high-rise
condominium located in the great metropolis, formerly known as Chocolate City. With my fancy little 525 BMW with custom wheels and personalized tags, I truly was a long way from where I used to be.

Many might think that I am still spoiled, but heck, I had
worked hard in college. I remained a permanent fixture on the Dean’s list each semester, spent every summer abroad, and graduated magna cum laude with a degree in journalism.

Now, I was a young, rising junior editor at Power Play Magazine, where even thou
gh I’d only been there three months, I was on the move. I was flirting, teasing, and proving to my boss that I had beauty, but it was my brains that was going to get me to the top without sleeping with him or any man.

But all of that was my professional li
fe. Now that I had that in order, it was time for me to move to the personal side of the ledger.

Glancing at the brass clock on my nightstand, I saw that I had plenty of time to spare. All of my preparations were in place and I would arrive at the celebrat
ion tonight fashionably late.

As if I had an audience watching me, I sauntered over to my bed in nothing but my bashful colored Le Pearle lace thong and matching demi-bra. When I laid down, I let my thoughts wander to him.

I pictured his reaction when we’d finally come face to face once again tonight. It had been so long since he’d seen me. He was going to be surprised, mesmerized, and hopefully hypnotized with what he saw.

Because now, I was a woman.

For four years, I’d stayed away from not only Grace Tabernacle, but I hadn’t even come close to the city lines of my hometown of Washington, DC. I never saw my friends, and only saw my parents when they came to Atlanta, which was often since my mother was also a Spelman graduate and my father was a third-generation Morehouse man. My parents loved visiting what they called the new Chocolate City and staying at the Ritz Carlton in Buckhead. That gave them easy access to one of their favorite shopping spots, Phipps Plaza right across the street.

But though I did
get to see my parents often, I only saw my brothers at Christmas, which we spent either in Raleigh, Boston, or New York City, which is where each of my brothers lived. Besides my family, though, I saw no one else. I had stayed away from D.C. all because of him. Everything I’d sacrificed, I’d done with him in mind.

I wasn
’t sad about it, though. He had kept me focused. The entire time I was in college I had just one plan—to get good grades and to get in great shape. So when my roommates tried to get me to go club hopping or to take trips to neighboring colleges for some good old-fashioned fun, I always turned them down.

Instead, I spent my time grooming my mind, body and soul. I studied constantly and when I wasn
’t studying, I worked out. I plumped up my ass by doing one hundred squats a day, and then I jogged two miles around campus— twice a day. Doing that just about every day for four years had turned me from a girl into a lean, mean, toned woman.

Then, with the money my parents sent as a weekly allowance
, I took to the neighboring town and patronized the best hair salon, purchasing top-of-the-line conditioners and relaxers that had added nearly fourteen inches to my cinnamon-colored tresses.

From there, I
’d spend hours at the day spa getting silk-wrapped manicures, coconut-oil pedicures, and full body hot rock muscle massages that became second nature to me. I had regular herbal facials, and of course, there was the honey waxing of my arms, legs, and yes, even my kitty.

It had all paid off.

I looked incredible and it was all for Pastor Malik Stroman, the most handsome, smartest, put-together man that I’d ever met.

He
’d changed my life, all those years ago. It was a revelation that had come to me in a single moment, six years before.

I was only sixteen then
, when the “Mothers” of the church were preparing nine of us girls in the ladies lounge for our special ceremony. The women made sure our dresses were pressed, that our shoes glistened, and that every strand of our hair was in place. While the women prepared the other girls, I stood off to the side. I wouldn’t dare let one of them touch me. There was no need, my mother had already made sure that I was perfect.

But, I also stood away from the others because I didn
’t fit in. I had never fit in with the girls I went to school with or sat with in Sunday school. Not that I wanted to. I couldn’t relate to their J. C. Penney dresses, Rack Room shoes, and chit-chatter about the teenage boys in our church. I had nothing in common with any of them.

That wasn
’t my fault. My parents were the ones who’d set me apart from the very beginning. I’d been wearing designer clothes since I could read labels. I’d had weekly visits to the hair salon since I was five, and just a few weeks before for my sixteenth birthday, my mother and father had given me my first brand-new car.

So, there was just no way for me to relate to those girls or for those girls to relate to me.

“Okay, come on now.” Ms. Pearl clapped her hands three times as she motioned for us to gather together in a small circle. “Let’s pray.”

Even though they had placed small pillows on the floor so that we could kneel without messing up our stockings or our dresses, I sat on the settee in the corner of the lounge. My mother ha
d spent three hundred dollars on my dress and not even praying was going to get me anywhere close to the floor.

Each of the Mothers prayed over us and then, they lined us up and led us into the darkened sanctuary that was brightened only by hundreds of f
lickering candles. As we passed through the doors, two of the Deacons stood at the entryway and gave each of us a white rose. But when I’d only taken two steps, my white rose was quickly replaced by a pink one, courtesy of my oldest brother who’d flown in from North Carolina for the occasion.

We marched slowly down the aisle, and even with the dim candle light, I could see that every seat in the church was taken.

The nine of us moved to the altar and when I got to the front, Pastor Malik, who was dressed in a long burgundy robe looked down at me and smiled. I smiled back noticing that he hadn’t seemed to take interest in any of the other girls.

When we all stood in place, our fathers joined us, each man standing behind his daughter.

“Let us join together, and give praise unto The Lord,” Pastor Malik said as he raised his hands in the air.

Then, the choir director played the opening chords and together, the congregation sang, “
Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true...”

I closed my
eyes and swayed as I sang unto God, asking him to prepare me, to lead me not into temptation, and to purify me. This was a song, but it felt like a prayer, and I was so serious about the words and the vow that I was about to take.

When the Minister of Musi
c hit the last chords on the keyboard, praises went up behind me as people shouted, “Hallelujah,” “Praise you, Lord,” and, “Amen!”

It took a couple of minutes for the sanctuary to be quiet once again, and then, Pastor Malik began.

“Saints, please bow your heads.”

I lowered my head until my chin hit my chest.

“Father, for these are your daughters, your children, and they present themselves to you on this day, making the sacrifice of abstinence.”

My eyes were closed, but then, I opened one eye, just a little
, and peeked at the pastor. And for some reason, my heart began to beat just a little bit faster. I watched him as his words poured out.

From the time Pastor Malik had come to this church two years before, I
’d admired him. First, he was young, at least he was young compared to all the old ministers who’d been at Grace Tabernacle before. Pastor Malik was in his twenties, and I’d never met a preacher so young before. His age alone made him cool.

Then, I found out all of his social vital statistics: he was H
arvard-educated, his father was a well-known Bishop in our church district. His mother had been a social advocate, with her primary focus raising awareness and money for a cure for breast cancer.

Of course, all of that impressed me. Until I heard him prea
ch. I had never heard anyone preach like him before. First of all, he kind of sang the message instead of talking. And then, I loved everything that he preached. He talked about God as part of our lives today. He talked about God as if God were living and breathing right now. After listening to Pastor Malik, every week, I felt closer to The Lord. To me, he was a smart and wonderful man of God.

“
These young women, Lord, are promising that they will wait on you, God, to send them a mate before they engage in holy lovemaking.”

When he said,
‘lovemaking,’ my knees got weak. But I was able to hold myself up as Pastor Malik ended his prayer and then stepped in front of the first girl in line. He said a few words to each girl as he took the ring from her father, slipped it onto her finger, then gave her a soft kiss on her cheek.

With each step that Pastor Malik took toward me, my breathing quickened and I began to tremble. By the time he stood in front of me, I could hardly stand.

“Sweet Pink,” Pastor Malik said he looked into my eyes.

I felt like I was being hypnotized.

He took my ring from my father. “You’re growing up to be such a fine young lady. It is wonderful that you’re doing this and I want you to know that God is pleased.” Then, he lifted my hand and instead of placing the ring on my finger, he brought the back of my hand to his lips and gave me a kiss.

I almost fainted as I smelled his minty-breath against my flesh. But, I kept my eyes on his as he spoke.

“True love waits,” he said, as he gently slipped the platinum band with diamond chips onto my finger. “I am proud that you have decided to save yourself for marriage.”

That was when it happened, right then, at that moment, in that instant. It was like I was being washed in
this overwhelming feeling that God had a message for me.

The man of God for you has been chosen!

The voice was so loud, so clear that I wanted to look around to see who had spoken that to me.

And then, the voice came again:
The man of God for you has been chosen. 

In just a few seconds, I had a conversation with God: This man? I asked.

The man of God for you has been chosen.

I guess God felt like He had already made it clear, and all I needed to do was receive the message
—Pastor Malik was the man that God had chosen for me!

My heart was filled with such joy and when Pastor Malik leaned forward to kiss my cheek, I had to tell him what God had told me. My pastor needed to know what had been placed on my heart.

So as he was still bent over, I whispered, “I’m saving myself for you, Malik. This is all for you
.
”

The way his head snapped back and his eyes widened, I could tell that I startled him, surprised him, stunned him. But he was quick; he recovered and played it off. Although, he did lose his smile just a
little bit when he looked at my father and reached to shake his hand.